About noon she heard the voice of Kells in low and earnest conversation with someone; she could not, however, understand what was said. That ceased, and then she heard Kells moving around. There came a clatter of hoofs as a horse galloped away from the cabin, after which a knock sounded on the wall.
“Joan,” called Kells. Then the curtain was swept aside and Kells, appearing pale and troubled, stepped into her room.
“What's the matter?” asked Joan, hurriedly.
“Gulden shot two men this morning. One's dead. The other's in bad shape, so Red tells me. I haven't seen him.”
“Who—who are they?” faltered Joan. She could not think of any man except Jim Cleve.
“Dan Small's the one's dead. The other they call Dick. Never heard his last name.”
“Was it a fight?”
“Of course. And Gulden picked it. He's a quarrelsome man. Nobody can go against him. He's all the time like some men when they're drunk. I'm sorry I didn't bore him last night. I would have done it if it hadn't been for Red Pearce.”
Kells seemed gloomy and concentrated on his situation and he talked naturally to Joan, as if she were one to sympathize. A bandit, then, in the details of his life, the schemes, troubles, friendships, relations, was no different from any other kind of a man. He was human, and things that might constitute black evil for observers were dear to him, a part of him. Joan feigned the sympathy she could not feel.
“I thought Gulden was your enemy.”