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 its head and over a pass into another canon, and never did she let it be possible for Kells to see her eyes until she knew beyond peradventure of a doubt that they hid the strength and spirit and secret of her soul.

The time came when traveling was so steep and rough that she must think first of her horse and her own safety.  Kells led up over a rock-jumbled spur of range, where she had sometimes to follow on foot.  It seemed miles across that wilderness of stone.  Foxes and wolves trotted over open places, watching stealthily.  All around dark mountain peaks stood up.  The afternoon was far advanced when Kells started to descend again, and he rode a zigzag course on weathered slopes and over brushy benches, down and down into the canons again.

A lonely peak was visible, sunset-flushed against the blue, from the point where Kells finally halted.  That ended the longest ride Joan had ever made in one day.  For miles and miles they had climbed and descended and wound into the mountains.  Joan had scarcely any idea of direction.  She was completely turned around and lost.  This spot was the wildest and most beautiful she had ever seen.  A canon headed here.  It was narrow, low-walled, and luxuriant with grass and wild roses and willow and spruce and balsam.  There were deer standing with long ears erect, motionless, curious, tame as cattle.  There were moving streaks through the long grass, showing the course of smaller animals slipping away.