“Shore you’re talkin’ religion.  Thet’s where both luck an’ gurls come from,” replied the unlucky gamester.  “Will one of you hawgs pass the whiskey?”

The increased interest with which Kells looked down upon Jim Cleve was not lost upon Joan.  But she had seen enough, and, turning away, she stumbled to the bed and lay there with an ache in her heart.

“Oh,” she whispered to herself, “he is ruined—­ruined—­ruined! ...  God forgive me!” She saw bright, cold stars shining between the logs.  The night wind swept in cold and pure, with the dew of the mountain in it.  She heard the mourn of wolves, the hoot of an owl, the distant cry of a panther, weird and wild.  Yet outside there was a thick and lonely silence.  In that other cabin, from which she was mercifully shut out, there were different sounds, hideous by contrast.  By and by she covered her ears, and at length, weary from thought and sorrow, she drifted into slumber.

Next morning, long after she had awakened, the cabin remained quiet, with no one stirring.  Morning had half gone before Wood knocked and gave her a bucket of water, a basin and towels.  Later he came with her breakfast.  After that she had nothing to do but pace the floor of her two rooms.  One appeared to be only an empty shed, long in disuse.  Her view from both rooms was restricted to the green slope of the gulch up to yellow crags and the sky.  But she would rather have had this to watch than an outlook upon the cabins and the doings of these bandits.

About noon she heard the voice of Kells in low and earnest conversation with someone; she could not, however, understand what was said.  That ceased, and then she heard Kells moving around.  There came a clatter of hoofs as a horse galloped away from the cabin, after which a knock sounded on the wall.

“Joan,” called Kells.  Then the curtain was swept aside and Kells, appearing pale and troubled, stepped into her room.

“What’s the matter?” asked Joan, hurriedly.

“Gulden shot two men this morning.  One’s dead.  The other’s in bad shape, so Red tells me.  I haven’t seen him.”

“Who—­who are they?” faltered Joan.  She could not think of any man except Jim Cleve.

“Dan Small’s the one’s dead.  The other they call Dick.  Never heard his last name.”

“Was it a fight?”

“Of course.  And Gulden picked it.  He’s a quarrelsome man.  Nobody can go against him.  He’s all the time like some men when they’re drunk.  I’m sorry I didn’t bore him last night.  I would have done it if it hadn’t been for Red Pearce.”

Kells seemed gloomy and concentrated on his situation and he talked naturally to Joan, as if she were one to sympathize.  A bandit, then, in the details of his life, the schemes, troubles, friendships, relations, was no different from any other kind of a man.  He was human, and things that might constitute black evil for observers were dear to him, a part of him.  Joan feigned the sympathy she could not feel.