Joan wheeled her horse and rode back up the trail.  The glances of these ruffians seemed to scorch her with the reality of her appearance.  She wore a disguise, but her womanhood was more manifest in it than in her feminine garb.  It attracted the bold glances of these men.  If there were any possible decency among them, this outrageous bandit costume rendered it null.  How could she ever continue to wear it?  Would not something good and sacred within her be sullied by a constant exposure to the effect she had upon these vile border men?  She did not think it could while she loved Jim Cleve; and with thought of him came a mighty throb of her heart to assure her that nothing mattered if only she could save him.

Upon the return trip up the gulch Joan found men in sight leading horses, chopping wood, stretching arms in cabin doors.  Joan avoided riding near them, yet even at a distance she was aware of their gaze.  One rowdy, half hidden by a window, curved hands round his mouth and called, softly, “Hullo, sweetheart!”

Joan was ashamed that she could feel insulted.  She was amazed at the temper which seemed roused in her.  This border had caused her feelings she had never dreamed possible to her.  Avoiding the trail, she headed for the other side of the gulch.  There were clumps of willows along the brook through which she threaded a way, looking for a good place to cross.  The horse snorted for water.  Apparently she was not going to find any better crossing, so she turned the horse into a narrow lane through the willows and, dismounting on a mossy bank, she slipped the bridle so the horse could drink.

Suddenly she became aware that she was not alone.  But she saw no one in front of her or on the other side of her horse.  Then she turned.  Jim Cleve was in the act of rising from his knees.  He had a towel in his hand.  His face was wet.  He stood no more than ten steps from her.

Joan could not have repressed a little cry to save her life.  The surprise was tremendous.  She could not move a finger.  She expected to hear him call her name.

Cleve stared at her.  His face, in the morning light, was as drawn and white as that of a corpse.  Only his eyes seemed alive and they were flames.  A lightning flash of scorn leaped to them.  He only recognized in her a woman, and his scorn was for the creature that bandit garb proclaimed her to be.  A sad and bitter smile crossed his face; and then it was followed by an expression that was a lash upon Joan’s bleeding spirit.  He looked at her shapely person with something of the brazen and evil glance that had been so revolting to her in the eyes of those ruffians.  That was the unexpected—­the impossible—­in connection with Jim Cleve.  How could she stand there under it—­and live?

She jerked at the bridle, and, wading blindly across the brook, she mounted somehow, and rode with blurred sight back to the cabin.  Kells appeared busy with men outside and did not accost her.  She fled to her cabin and barricaded the door.