Part 17 (1/2)
The babel of hoa.r.s.e voices grew louder. Kells appeared, entering the door with Pearce. Jim Cleve came next, and, once the three were inside, the crowd spilled itself after them like angry bees. Kells was talking, Pearce was talking, but their voices were lost. Suddenly Kells vented his temper.
”Shut up--the lot of you!” he yelled, and his power and position might have been measured by the menace he showed.
The gang became suddenly quiet.
”Now--what's up?” demanded Kells.
”Keep your s.h.i.+rt on, boss,” replied Pearce, with good humor. ”There ain't much wrong.... Cleve, here, throwed a gun on Gulden, that's all.”
Kells gave a slight start, barely perceptible, but the intensity of it, and a fleeting tigerish gleam across his face, impressed Joan with the idea that he felt a fiendish joy. Her own heart clamped in a cold amaze.
”Gulden!” Kells's exclamation was likewise a pa.s.sionate query.
”No, he ain't cashed,” replied Pearce. ”You can't kill that bull so easy. But he's shot up some. He's layin' over at Beard's. Reckon you'd better go over an' dress them shots.”
”He can rot before I doctor him,” replied Kells. ”Where's Bate Wood?...
Bate, you can take my kit and go fix Gulden up. And now, Red, what was all the roar about?”
”Reckon that was Gulden's particular pards tryin' to mix it with Cleve an' Cleve tryin' to mix it with them--an' ME in between!... I'm here to say, boss, that I had a time stavin' off a sc.r.a.p.”
During this rapid exchange between Kells and his lieutenant, Jim Cleve sat on the edge of the table, one dusty boot swinging so that his spur jangled, a wisp of a cigarette in his lips. His face was white except where there seemed to be bruises under his eyes. Joan had never seen him look like this. She guessed that he had been drunk--perhaps was still drunk. That utterly abandoned face Joan was so keen to read made her bite her tongue to keep from crying out. Yes, Jim was lost.
”What'd they fight about?” queried Kells.
”Ask Cleve,” replied Pearce. ”Reckon I'd just as lief not talk any more about him.”
Then Kells turned to Cleve and stepped before him. Somehow these two men face to face thrilled Joan to her depths. They presented such contrasts.
Kells was keen, imperious, vital, strong, and complex, with an unmistakable friendly regard for this young outcast. Cleve seemed aloof, detached, indifferent to everything, with a white, weary, reckless scorn. Both men were far above the gaping ruffians around them.
”Cleve, why'd you draw on Gulden?” asked Kells, sharply.
”That's my business,” replied Cleve, slowly, and with his piercing eyes on Kells he blew a long, thin, blue stream of smoke upward.
”Sure.... But I remember what you asked me the other day--about Gulden.
Was that why?”
”Nope,” replied Cleve. ”This was my affair.”
”All right. But I'd like to know. Pearce says you're in bad with Gulden's friends. If I can't make peace between you I'll have to take sides.”
”Kells, I don't need any one on my side,” said Cleve, and he flung the cigarette away.
”Yes, you do,” replied Kells, persuasively. ”Every man on this border needs that. And he's lucky when he gets it.”
”Well, I don't ask for it; I don't want it.”
”That's your own business, too. I'm not insisting or advising.”
Kells's force and ability to control men manifested itself in his speech and att.i.tude. Nothing could have been easier than to rouse the antagonism of Jim Cleve, abnormally responding as he was to the wild conditions of this border environment.
”Then you're not calling my hand?” queried Cleve, with his dark, piercing glance on Kells.