The snort and tramp of horses roused her, and upon sitting up she saw the men about to pack and saddle again.  Kells had spoken to her only twice so far that day.  She was grateful for his silence, but could not understand it.  He seemed to have a preoccupied air that somehow did not fit the amiableness of his face.  He looked gentle, good-natured; he was soft-spoken; he gave an impression of kindness.  But Joan began to realize that he was not what he seemed.  He had something on his mind.  It was not conscience, nor a burden:  it might be a projection, a plan, an absorbing scheme, a something that gained food with thought.  Joan wondered doubtfully if it were the ransom of gold he expected to get.

Presently, when all was about in readiness for a fresh start, she rose to her feet.  Kells’s bay was not tractable at the moment.  Bill held out Joan’s bridle to her and their hands touched.  The contact was an accident, but it resulted in Bill’s grasping back at her hand.  She jerked it away, scarcely comprehending.  Then all under the brown of his face she saw creep a dark, ruddy tide.  He reached for her then—­put his hand on her breast.  It was an instinctive animal action.  He meant nothing.  She divined that he could not help it.  She had lived with rough men long enough to know he had no motive—­no thought at all.  But at the profanation of such a touch she shrank back, uttering a cry.

At her elbow she heard a quick step and a sharp-drawn breath or hiss.

“Aw, jack!” cried Bill.

Then Kells, in lithe and savage swiftness, came between them.  He swung his gun, hitting Bill full in the face.  The man fell, limp and heavy, and he lay there, with a bloody gash across his brow.  Kells stood over him a moment, slowly lowering the gun.  Joan feared he meant to shoot.

“Oh, don’t—­don’t!” she cried.  “He—­he didn’t hurt me.”

Kells pushed her back.  When he touched her she seemed to feel the shock of an electric current.  His face had not changed, but his eyes were terrible.  On the background of gray were strange, leaping red flecks.

“Take your horse,” he ordered.  “No.  Walk across the brook.  There’s a trail.  Go up the canon.  I’ll come presently.  Don’t run and don’t hide.  It’ll be the worse for you if you do.  Hurry!”

Joan obeyed.  She flashed past the open-jawed Halloway, and, running down to the brook, stepped across from stone to stone.  She found the trail and hurriedly followed it.  She did not look back.  It never occurred to her to hide, to try to get away.  She only obeyed, conscious of some force that dominated her.  Once she heard loud voices, then the shrill neigh of a horse.  The trail swung under the left wall of the canon and ran along the noisy brook.  She thought she heard shots and was startled, but she could not be sure.  She stopped to listen.  Only the babble of swift water and the sough of wind in the spruces greeted her ears.  She went on, beginning to collect her thoughts, to conjecture on the significance of Kells’s behavior.