That stunned him, just as it drew Kells upright, white and watchful.  Cleve seemed long in grasping its significance.  His face was half averted.  Then he turned slowly, all strung, and his hands clutched quiveringly at the air.  No man of coolness and judgment would have addressed him or moved a step in that strained moment.  All expected some such action as had marked his encounter with Luce and Gulden.

Then Cleve’s gaze in unmistakable meaning swept over Joan’s person.  How could her appearance and her appeal be reconciled?  One was a lie!  And his burning eyes robbed Joan of spirit.

“He forced me to—­to wear these,” she faltered.  “I’m his prisoner.  I’m helpless.”

With catlike agility Cleve leaped backward, so that he faced all the men, and when his hands swept to a level they held gleaming guns.  His utter abandon of daring transfixed these bandits in surprise as much as fear.  Kells appeared to take most to himself the menace.

“I crawl!” he said, huskily.  “She speaks the God’s truth. ...  But you can’t help matters by killing me.  Maybe she’d be worse off!”

He expected this wild boy to break loose, yet his wit directed him to speak the one thing calculated to check Cleve.

“Oh, don’t shoot!” moaned Joan.

“You go outside,” ordered Cleve.  “Get on a horse and lead another near the door. ...  Go!  I’ll take you away from this.”

Both temptation and terror assailed Joan.  Surely that venture would mean only death to Jim and worse for her.  She thrilled at the thought—­at the possibility of escape—­at the strange front of this erstwhile nerveless boy.  But she had not the courage for what seemed only desperate folly.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered.  “You go!”

“Hurry, woman!”

“No!  No!”

“Do you want to stay with this bandit?”

“Oh, I must!”

“Then you love him?”

All the fire of Joan’s heart flared up to deny the insult and all her woman’s cunning fought to keep back words that inevitably must lead to revelation.  She drooped, unable to hold up under her shame, yet strong to let him think vilely of her, for his sake.  That way she had a barest chance.

“Get out of my sight!” he ejaculated, thickly.  “I’d have fought for you.”

Again that white, weary scorn radiated from him.  Joan bit her tongue to keep from screaming.  How could she live under this torment?  It was she, Joan Randle, that had earned that scorn, whether he knew her or not.  She shrank back, step by step, almost dazed, sick with a terrible inward, coldness, blinded by scalding tears.  She found her door and stumbled in.

“Kells, I’m what you called me.”  She heard Cleve’s voice, strangely far off.  “There’s no excuse ... unless I’m not just right in my head about women. ...  Overlook my break or don’t—­as you like.  But if you want me I’m ready for your Border Legion!”