“Dearest, we're here—this is the parson,” said Jim, like a happy boy. “I—”
“Ssssh!” whispered Joan. “Not so loud.... Listen!”
Kells was holding a rendezvous with members of his Legion. Joan even recognized his hard and somber tone, and the sharp voice of Red Pearce, and the drawl of Handy Oliver.
“All right. I'll be quiet,” responded Cleve, cautiously. “Joan, you're to answer a few questions.”
Then a soft hand touched Joan, and a voice differently keyed from any she had heard on the border addressed her.
“What is your name?” asked the preacher.
Joan told him.
“Can you tell anything about yourself? This young man is—is almost violent. I'm not sure. Still I want to—”
“I can't tell much,” replied Joan, hurriedly. “I'm an honest girl. I'm free to—to marry him. I—I love him!... Oh, I want to help him. We—we are in trouble here. I daren't say how.”
“Are you over eighteen?” “Yes, sir.”