“Fifty miles of rock and brush, up and down! Without a kick!” he exclaimed, admiringly. “You've got sand, girl!”      

       “Where are we?”      

       “This is Lost Canon. Only a few men know of it. And they are—attached to me. I intend to keep you here.”      

       “How long?” She felt the intensity of his gaze.     

       “Why—as long as—” he replied, slowly, “till I get my ransom.”      

       “What amount will you ask?”      

       “You're worth a hundred thousand in gold right now... Maybe later I might let you go for less.”      

       Joan's keen-wrought perception registered his covert, scarcely veiled implication. He was studying her.     

       “Oh, poor uncle. He'll never, never get so much.”      

       “Sure he will,” replied Kells, bluntly.     

       Then he helped her out of the saddle. She was stiff and awkward, and she let herself slide. Kells handled her gently and like a gentleman, and for Joan the first agonizing moment of her ordeal was past. Her intuition had guided her correctly. Kells might have been and probably was the most depraved of outcast men; but the presence of a girl like her, however it affected him, must also have brought up associations of a time when by family and breeding and habit he had been infinitely different. His action here, just like the ruffian Bill's, was instinctive, beyond his control. Just this slight thing, this frail link that joined Kells to his past and better life, immeasurably inspirited Joan and outlined the difficult game she had to play.     

       “You're a very gallant robber,” she said.     

       He appeared not to hear that or to note it; he was eying her up and down; and he moved closer, perhaps to estimate her height compared to his own.     

       “I didn't know you were so tall. You're above my shoulder.”      

       “Yes, I'm very lanky.”      

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