Joan had her part to play.  It was difficult, because she divined Pearce’s curiosity held a trap to catch her in a falsehood.  He knew—­ they all knew she was not Kells’s wife.  But if she were a prisoner she seemed a willing and contented one.  The query that breathed in Pearce’s presence was how was he to reconcile the fact of her submission with what he and his comrades had potently felt as her goodness?

“That doesn’t concern anybody,” replied Joan.

“Reckon not,” said Pearce.  Then he leaned nearer with intense face.  “What I want to know—­is Gulden right?  Did you shoot Kells?”

In the dusk Joan reached back and clasped Kells hand.

For a man as weak and weary as he had been, it was remarkable how quickly a touch awakened him.  He lifted his head.

“Hello!  Who’s that?” he called out, sharply.

Pearce rose guardedly, startled, but not confused.  “It’s only me, boss,” he replied.  “I was about to turn in, an’ I wanted to know how you are—­if I could do anythin’.”

“I’m all right, Red,” replied Kells, coolly.  “Clear out and let me alone.  All of you.”

Pearce moved away with an amiable good-night and joined the others at the camp-fire.  Presently they sought their blankets, leaving Gulden hunching there silent in the gloom.

“Joan, why did you wake me?” whispered Kells.

“Pearce asked me if I shot you,” replied Joan.  “I woke you instead of answering him.”

“He did!” exclaimed Kells under his breath.  Then he laughed.  “Can’t fool that gang.  I guess it doesn’t matter.  Maybe it’d be well if they knew you shot me.”

He appeared thoughtful, and lay there with the fading flare of the fire on his pale face.  But he did not speak again.  Presently he fell asleep.

Joan leaned back, within reach of him, with her head in her saddle, and pulling a blanket up over her, relaxed her limbs to rest.  Sleep seemed the furthest thing from her.  She wondered that she dared to think of it.  The night had grown chilly; the wind was sweeping with low roar through the balsams; the fire burned dull and red.  Joan watched the black, shapeless hulk that she knew to be Gulden.  For a long time he remained motionless.  By and by he moved, approached the fire, stood one moment in the dying ruddy glow, his great breadth and bulk magnified, with all about him vague and shadowy, but the more sinister for that.  The cavernous eyes were only black spaces in that vast face, yet Joan saw them upon her.  He lay down then among the other men and soon his deep and heavy breathing denoted the tranquil slumber of an ox.

For hours through changing shadows and starlight Joan lay awake, while a thousand thoughts besieged her, all centering round that vital and compelling one of Jim Cleve.

Only upon awakening, with the sun in her face, did Joan realize that she had actually slept.