Then Cleve's gaze in unmistakable meaning swept over Joan's person. How could her appearance and her appeal be reconciled? One was a lie! And his burning eyes robbed Joan of spirit.
“He forced me to—to wear these,” she faltered. “I'm his prisoner. I'm helpless.”
With catlike agility Cleve leaped backward, so that he faced all the men, and when his hands swept to a level they held gleaming guns. His utter abandon of daring transfixed these bandits in surprise as much as fear. Kells appeared to take most to himself the menace.
“I CRAWL!” he said, huskily. “She speaks the God's truth.... But you can't help matters by killing me. Maybe she'd be worse off!”
He expected this wild boy to break loose, yet his wit directed him to speak the one thing calculated to check Cleve.
“Oh, don't shoot!” moaned Joan.
“You go outside,” ordered Cleve. “Get on a horse and lead another near the door.... Go! I'll take you away from this.”
Both temptation and terror assailed Joan. Surely that venture would mean only death to Jim and worse for her. She thrilled at the thought—at the possibility of escape—at the strange front of this erstwhile nerveless boy. But she had not the courage for what seemed only desperate folly.
“I'll stay,” she whispered. “You go!”
“Hurry, woman!”