ith both!" he said.

"Shore you're talkin' religion. Thet's where both luck an' gurls come
from," replied the unlucky gamester. "Will one of you hawgs pass the
whiskey?"

The increased interest with which Kells looked down upon Jim Cleve was
not lost upon Joan. But she had seen enough, and, turning away, she
stumbled to the bed and lay there with an ache in her heart.

"Oh," she whispered to herself, "he is ruined--ruined--ruined!... God
forgive me!" She saw bright, cold stars shining between the logs. The
night wind swept in cold and pure, with the dew of the mountain in it.
She heard the mourn of wolves, the hoot of an owl, the distant cry of
a panther, weird and wild. Yet outside there was a thick and lonely
silence. In that other cabin, from which she was mercifully shut out,
there were different sounds, hideous by contrast. By and by she covered
her ears, and at length, weary from thought and sorrow, she drifted into
slumber.

Next morning, long after she had awakened, the cabin remained quiet,
with no one stirring. Morning had half gone before Wood knocked and
gave her a bucket of water, a basin and towels. Later he came with her
breakfast. After that she had nothing to do but pace the floor of her
two rooms. One appeared to be only an empty shed, long in disuse. Her
view from both rooms was restricted to the green slope of the gulch up
to yellow crags and the sky. But she would rather have had this to watch
than an outlook upon the cabins and the doings of these bandits.

About noon she heard the voice of Kells in low and earnest conversation
with someone; she could not, however, understand what was said. That
ceased, and then she heard Kells moving around. There came a clatter
of hoofs as a horse galloped away from the cabin, after which a knock
sounded on the wall.

"Joan," called Kells. Then the curtain was swept aside and Kells,
appearing pale and troubled, stepped into her room.

"What's the matter?" asked Joan, hurriedly.

"Gulden shot two men this morning. One's dead. The other's in bad shape,
so Red tells me. I haven't seen him."

"Who--who are they?" faltered Joan. She could not think of any man
except Jim Cleve.

"Dan Small's the one's dead. The other they call Dick. Never heard his
last name."

"Was it a fight?"

"Of course. And Gulden picked it. He's a quarrelsome man. Nobody can
go against him. He's all the time like some men when they're drunk. I'm
sorry I didn't bore him last night.