e did not know how she
understood him now, but doubt had utterly fled. All was clear, real,
grim, present. Like a child she had been deceived, for no reason she
could see. That talk of ransom was false. Likewise Kells's assertion
that he had parted company with Halloway and Bill because he would not
share the ransom--that, too, was false. The idea of a ransom, in this
light, was now ridiculous. From that first moment Kells had wanted her;
he had tried to persuade Roberts to leave her, and, failing, had killed
him; he had rid himself of the other two men--and now Joan knew she had
heard shots back there. Kells's intention loomed out of all his
dark brooding, and it stood clear now to her, dastardly, worse than
captivity, or torture, or death--the worst fate that could befall a
woman.

The reality of it now was so astounding. True--as true as those stories
she had deemed impossible! Because she and her people and friends had
appeared secure in their mountain camp and happy in their work and
trustful of good, they had scarcely credited the rumors of just such
things as had happened to her. The stage held up by roadagents, a lonely
prospector murdered and robbed, fights in the saloons and on the trails,
and useless pursuit of hardriding men out there on the border, elusive
as Arabs, swift as Apaches--these facts had been terrible enough,
without the dread of worse. The truth of her capture, the meaning of
it, were raw, shocking spurs to Joan Randle's intelligence and courage.
Since she still lived, which was strange indeed in the illuminating
light of her later insight into Kells and his kind, she had to meet him
with all that was catlike and subtle and devilish at the command of a
woman. She had to win him, foil him, kill him--or go to her death. She
was no girl to be dragged into the mountain fastness by a desperado and
made a plaything. Her horror and terror had worked its way deep into
the depths of her and uncovered powers never suspected, never before
required in her scheme of life. She had no longer any fear. She matched
herself against this man. She anticipated him. And she felt like a woman
who had lately been a thoughtless girl, who, in turn, had dreamed
of vague old happenings of a past before she was born, of impossible
adventures in her own future. Hate and wrath and outraged womanhood were
not wholly the secret of Joan Randle's flaming spirit.

4

Joan Randle rode on and on, through the canon, out at