Kells averted his gaze before speaking again. He hated to force this
task upon Cleve. Joan felt, in the throbbing pain of the moment,
that if she never had another reason to like this bandit, she would
like him for the pity he showed.
"Do you know a miner named Creede?" asked Kells, rapidly.
"A husky chap, short, broad, something like Gulden for shape, only
not so big--fellow with a fierce red beard?" asked Cleve.
"I never saw him," replied Kells. "But Pearce has. How does Cleve's
description fit Creede?"
"He's got his man spotted," answered Pearce.
"All right, that's settled," went on Kells, warming to his subject.
"This fellow Creede wears a heavy belt of gold. Blicky never makes a
mistake. Creede's partner left on yesterday's stage for Bannack.
He'll be gone a few days. Creede is a hard worker-one of the
hardest. Sometimes he goes to sleep at his supper. He's not the
drinking kind. He's slow, thick-headed. The best time for this job
will be early in the evening--just as soon as his lights are out.
Locate the tent. It stands at the head of a little wash and there's
a bleached pine-tree right by the tent. To-morrow night as soon as
it gets dark crawl up this wash--be careful--wait till the right
time--then finish the job quick!"
"How--finish--it?" asked Cleve, hoarsely.
Kells was scintillating now, steely, cold, radiant. He had forgotten
the man before him in the prospect of the gold.
"Creede's cot is on the side of the tent opposite the tree. You
won't have to go inside. Slit the canvas. It's a rotten old tent.
Kill Creede with your knife. ... Get his belt. ... Be bold,
cautious, swift! That's your job. Now what do you say?"
"All right," responded Cleve, somberly, and with a heavy tread he
left the room.
After Jim had gone Joan still watched and listened. She was in
distress over his unfortunate situation, but she had no fear that he
meant to carry out Kells's plan. This was a critical time for Jim,
and therefore for her. She had no idea what Jim could do; all she
thought was what he would not do.
Kells gazed triumphantly at Pearce. "I told you the youngster would
stand by me. I never put him on a job before."
"Reckon I figgered wrong, boss," replied Pearce.
"He looked sick to me, but game," said Handy Oliver. "Kells is
right, Red, an' you've been sore-headed over nothin'!"