That night she had slept in Dandy Dale’s clothes, except for the boots; and sometimes while turning in restless slumber she had been awakened by rolling on the heavy gun, which she had not removed from the belt.  And at such moments, she had to ponder in the darkness, to realize that she, Joan Randle, lay a captive in a bandit’s camp, dressed in a dead bandit’s garb, and packing his gun—­even while she slept.  It was such an improbable, impossible thing.  Yet the cold feel of the polished gun sent a thrill of certainty through her.

In the morning she at least did not have to suffer the shame of getting into Dandy Dale’s clothes, for she was already in them.  She found a grain of comfort even in that.  When she had put on the mask and sombrero she studied the effect in her little mirror.  And she again decided that no one, not even Jim Cleve, could recognize her in that disguise.  Likewise she gathered courage from the fact that even her best girl friend would have found her figure unfamiliar and striking where once it had been merely tall and slender and strong, ordinarily dressed.  Then how would Jim Cleve ever recognize her?  She remembered her voice that had been called a contralto, low and deep; and how she used to sing the simple songs she knew.  She could not disguise that voice.  But she need not let Jim hear it.  Then there was a return of the idea that he would instinctively recognize her—­ that no disguise could be proof to a lover who had ruined himself for her.  Suddenly she realized how futile all her worry and shame.  Sooner or later she must reveal her identity to Jim Cleve.  Out of all this complexity of emotion Joan divined that what she yearned most for was to spare Cleve the shame consequent upon recognition of her and then the agony he must suffer at a false conception of her presence there.  It was a weakness in her.  When death menaced her lover and the most inconceivably horrible situation yawned for her, still she could only think of her passionate yearning to have him know, all in a flash, that she loved him, that she had followed him in remorse, that she was true to him and would die before being anything else.

And when she left her cabin she was in a mood to force an issue.

Kells was sitting at the table and being served by Bate Wood.

“Hello, Dandy!” he greeted her, in surprise and pleasure.  “This’s early for you.”

Joan returned his greeting and said that she could not sleep all the time.

“You’re coming round.  I’ll bet you hold up a stage before a month is out.”

“Hold up a stage?” echoed Joan.

“Sure.  It’ll be great fun,” replied Kells, with a laugh.  “Here—­sit down and eat with me. ...  Bate, come along lively with breakfast. ...  It’s fine to see you there.  That mask changes you, though.  No one can see how pretty you are. ...  Joan, your admirer, Gulden, has been incapacitated for the present.”

Then in evident satisfaction Kells repeated the story that Joan had heard Red Pearce tell the night before; and in the telling Kells enlarged somewhat upon Jim Cleve.