leather and whisky and tobacco.  Joan did not recognize any one there, which fact aided her in a quick recovery of her composure.  Then she found amusement in the absolute sensation she made upon these loungers.  They stared, open-mouthed and motionless.  One old fellow dropped his pipe from bearded lips and did not seem to note the loss.  A dark young man, dissipated and wild-looking, with years of lawlessness stamped upon his face, was the first to move; and he, with awkward gallantry, but with amiable disposition.  Joan wanted to run, yet she forced herself to stand there, apparently unconcerned before this battery of bold and curious eyes.  That, once done, made the rest easier.  She was grateful for the mask.  And with her first low, almost incoherent, words in reply Joan entered upon the second phase of her experience with these bandits.  Naturalness did not come soon, but it did come, and with it her wit and courage.

Used as she had become to the villainous countenances of the border ruffians, she yet upon closer study discovered wilder and more abandoned ones.  Yet despite that, and a brazen, unconcealed admiration, there was not lacking kindliness and sympathy and good nature.  Presently Joan sauntered away, and she went among the tired, shaggy horses and made friends with them.  An occasional rider swung up the trail to dismount before Kells’s cabin, and once two riders rode in, both staring—­all eyes—­at her.  The meaning of her intent alertness dawned upon her then.  Always, whatever she was doing or thinking or saying, behind it all hid the driving watchfulness for Jim Cleve.  And the consciousness of this fixed her mind upon him.  Where was he?  What was he doing?  Was he drunk or gambling or fighting or sleeping?  Was he still honest?  When she did meet him what would happen?  How could she make herself and circumstances known to him before he killed somebody?  A new fear had birth and grew—­Cleve would recognize her in that disguise, mask and all.

She walked up and down for a while, absorbed with this new idea.  Then an unusual commotion among the loungers drew her attention to a group of men on foot surrounding and evidently escorting several horsemen.  Joan recognized Red Pearce and Frenchy, and then, with a start, Jim Cleve.  They were riding up the trail.  Joan’s heart began to pound.  She could not meet Jim; she dared not trust this disguise; all her plans were as if they had never been.  She forgot Kells.  She even forgot her fear of what Cleve might do.  The meeting—­the inevitable recognition—­the pain Jim Cleve must suffer when the fact and apparent significance of her presence there burst upon him, these drove all else from Joan’s mind.  Mask or no mask, she could not face his piercing eyes, and like a little coward she turned to enter the cabin.

Before she got in, however, it was forced upon her that something unusual had roused the loungers.  They had arisen and were interested in the approaching group.  Loud talk dinned in Joan’s ears.  Then she went in the door as Kells stalked by, eyes agleam, without even noticing her.  Once inside her cabin, with the curtain drawn, Joan’s fear gave place to anxiety and curiosity.