University of California Berkeley 
 
 THE PETER AND ROSELL HARVEY 
 
 MEMORIAL FUND 
 
4 
 
 iw ' 
 
 
RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
Each one of them should have ridden* alone to be properly appreciated. 
 To see them together was like watching a flock of eagles. 
 
RIDERS OF THE 
 SILENCES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FREDERICK 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 PRANK TENNEY JOHNSON 
 
 If 
 
 New York 
 THE H. K. FLY COMPANY 
 
 Sheridan Square 
 
COPYRIGHT, I Q20, BY 
 THE H. K. FLY CCMPA.sY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ20, 
 THE MUNSEY CO. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Thunderbolt ..... 9 
 
 II. Irene 19 
 
 III. The Launching of The Bolt 26 
 
 IV. The Corner Plot 34 
 
 V. Hurley 42 
 
 VI. Fear 50 
 
 VII. The Voice in The Storm . . 57 
 
 VIII. Belief 63 
 
 IX. Riders of The Silences ... 72 
 
 X. The Guard 79 
 
 XI. Jack Grows Up 89 
 
 XII. The Burial 98 
 
 XIII. A Tale of The Sledge ... 105 
 
 XIV. McGurk 113 
 
 XV. Gold Hair 120 
 
 XVI. Ennui 127 
 
 XVII. Black Gandil 134 
 
 XVIII. Five Minutes' Silence . . . 142 
 
 XIX. Partners 149 
 
 XX. Full Dress 157 
 
 XXI. The Dance 166 
 
 XXII. The Overtone 173 
 
 XXIII. The Fear of The Living . . . 184 
 
 XXIV. The Luck of The Shipwrecked . 191 
 XXV. Jacqueline Waits 198 
 
XXVI. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 XXXL 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Game of Suppose . . . . 211 
 
 The Trail 218 
 
 A Hint of White 225 
 
 Jack 232 
 
 The Whisper of The Knife . . 239 
 
 Laughter ... ... 247 
 
 A Tale of A Careless Man . . 255 
 
 A Count To Ten 262 
 
 Tiger-Heart 269 
 
 Jack Hears a Small Voice . . 277 
 
 A Voice in The Night . . . 284 
 
 A Man's Death 291 
 
 The Waiting 296 
 
 The Cross Goes Om .... 304 
 
RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE THUNDERBOLT 
 
 IT seemed that Father Anthony gathered all the 
 warmth of the short northern summer and kept it 
 for winter use, for his good nature was an actual 
 physical force. From his ruddy face beamed such 
 an ardent kindliness that people literally reached out 
 towards him as they might extend their hands to- 
 ward a comfortable fire. 
 
 All the labors of his work as an inspector of Jesuit 
 institutions across the length and breadth of Canada 
 could not lessen the flame of the good father's enthu- 
 siasm; his smile was as indefatigable as his critical 
 eyes. The one looked sharply into every corner of 
 a room and every nook and hidden cranny of 
 thoughts and deeds; the other veiled the criticism 
 and soothed the wounds of vanity. 
 
 On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little 
 less keen and somewhat wider, while that smile was 
 fixed rather by habit than inclination. In fact, his 
 expression might be called a frozen kindliness as he 
 looked across the table to Father Victor. 
 
 It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed, 
 
io RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 to outface the rigid piety of Jean Paul Victor. His 
 missionary work had carried him far north, where 
 the cold burns men thin. The eternal frost of the 
 Arctics lay on his hair, and his starved eyes looked 
 out from hollows shadowed with blue. He might 
 have posed for a painting of one of those damned 
 souls whom Dante placed in the frozen circle of the 
 "Inferno." 
 
 It was his own spirit which tortured him the 
 zeal which drove him north land north and north 
 over untracked regions, drove him until his body 
 failed, drove him even now, though his body was 
 crippled. 
 
 A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-con- 
 tempt whipped him on, and the school over which 
 he was master groaned and suffered under his 
 regime, and the disciples caught his spirit and went 
 out like warriors in the name of God to spread the 
 faith. 
 
 He despised them as he despised himself, for he 
 said continually in his heart: "How great is the pur- 
 pose and how little is our labor I" 
 
 Some such thought as that curled his thin lip as 
 he stared across at Father Anthony like a wolf that 
 has not eaten for a fortnight. The good father sus- 
 tained the gaze, but he shivered a little and sighed. 
 There was awe, and pity, and even a touch of hor- 
 ror in his eyes. 
 
 He said gently: "Are there none among all your 
 lads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something 
 more than imperfect machines ?" 
 
 The man of the north drew from a pocket of his 
 
THE THUNDERBOLT n 
 
 robe a letter. His marvelously lean fingers touched 
 it almost with a caress, and when he spoke the 
 softening which could not appear in the rigid fea- 
 tures came into his voice and made it lower and 
 deeper. 
 
 "One," 
 
 Father Anthony started in astonishment, as one 
 might start to hear a divine prophet admit a mistake, 
 but being wise he remained silent, waiting. Jean 
 Paul Victor peered into space. 
 
 "Pierre Ryder. He is like a pleasant summer, 
 and I" he clasped his colorless hands "am frozen 
 frozen to the heart." 
 
 ^ Still Father Anthony waited, but his eyes were 
 like diamonds for brightness. 
 
 "He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, 
 who am silent, have done much; but Pierre sings, 
 and he will do more. I had to fight my first battle 
 to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left 
 me weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre 
 will not fight that battle, for I have trained him." 
 
 He repeated after a pause : "For those who sing 
 forget themselves and their weariness. I, Jean Paul 
 Victor, have never sung." 
 
 He bowed his head, submitting to the judgment 
 of God. 
 
 "This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to 
 him? For two days I have not seen Pierre." 
 
 Father Anthony winced. 
 
 He said : "Do you deny yourself even the pleasure 
 of the lad's company? Alas, Father Victor, you 
 forge your own spurs and goad yourself with your 
 
12 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 own hands. What harm is there in being often with 
 the lad ?" 
 
 The sneer returned to the lips of Jean Paul Vic- 
 tor. 
 
 "The purpose would be lost lost to my eyes and 
 lost to his the purpose for which I have lived and 
 for which he shall live the purpose to which you 
 are dedicated, Gabrielle Antoine Anthony." 
 
 He relented in his fierceness, and continued with 
 the strange gentle note in his voice: "Our love for 
 the young, it is like a vine that climbs through the 
 branches of a strong tree. When the vine is young 
 it may be taken away in safety and both the tree 
 and the vine will live, but if it grows old it will kill 
 the tree when the vine is torn away. 
 
 "I am the strong tree, and Pierre has grown into 
 my heart. It is time that he be torn away. He is 
 almost ready. The work is prepared. He must 
 start forth." 
 
 Even while he announced his purpose the sweat 
 poured out on his forehead. He rose and paced 
 noiselessly up and down the bare room, his black 
 robe catching around the long, bony legs. Father 
 Anthony drew a great breath. At last Jean Paul 
 Victor could speak again. 
 
 "In all the history of our order, there is hardly 
 one man who will go out armed like Pierre Ryder. 
 He is young, he is strong, he is fearless, he is pure 
 of heart and single of mind. He has never tasted 
 wine; he has never looked wrongly on a woman." 
 
 "A prodigy but it is your work." 
 
 "Mine all mine!" 
 
THE THUNDERBOLT 13 
 
 The whole soul of the man stood up in his eyes 
 in a. fierce triumph. 
 
 "Hear how I worked. When I first saw him he 
 was a child, a baby, but he came to me and took 
 one finger of my hand in his small fist and looked up 
 to me. Ah, Gabrielle the smile of an infant goes 
 to the heart swifter than the thrust of a knife! I 
 looked down upon him and thought many things, 
 and I knew that I was chosen to teach the child. 
 There was a voice that spoke in me. You will smile, 
 but even now I think I can hear it." 
 
 "I swear to you that I believe," said Father An- 
 thony, and his voice trembled. 
 
 "Another man would have given Pierre a Bible 
 and a Latin grammar and a cell. I gave him the 
 testament and the grammar; I gave him also the 
 wild north country to say his prayers in and patter 
 his Latin. I taught his mind, but I did not forget 
 his body. 
 
 "He is to go out among wild men. He must have 
 strength of the spirit. He must also have a strength 
 of the body that they will understand and respect. 
 How else can he translate for them the truths of 
 the Holy Spirit? Every day of his life I have made 
 him handle firearms. Other men think, and aim, 
 and, fire; Pierre thinks and shoots, and has forgotten 
 how to miss. 
 
 "He goes among wild men. These lessons must 
 be learned. He is a soldier of God. He can ride 
 a horse standing; he can run a hundred miles in a 
 day behind a dog-team. He can wrestle and fight 
 with his hands, for I have brought skilled men to 
 
14 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 teach him. I have made him a thunderbolt to hurl 
 among the ignorant and the unenlightened; and this 
 is the hand which shall wield it. Ha!" 
 
 A flash of cold fire came for a single instant in his 
 eyes as he stood with upturned face. He changed. 
 
 "Yet he is gentle as a woman. He goes out 
 through the villages and comes back unharmed, and 
 after him come letters from girls and old men and 
 dames. Even strong men come many miles to see 
 him and they write to him. He is known. It is 
 now hardly a six month since he saved a trapper 
 from a bobcat and killed the animal with a knife." 
 
 His heart failed him at the thought, and he mur- 
 mured: "It must have been my prayers which saved 
 him from the teeth and the claws." 
 
 Good Father Anthony rose. 
 
 "You have described a young David. I am 
 eager to see him. Let us go." 
 
 "Wait. Before you go you must know that he 
 does not suspect that he differs from other youths. 
 Women have looked lewdly upon him and written 
 him letters with singing words, but Pierre being of a 
 simple nature, he answers them briefly and com- 
 mends them to God. In fact, the flattery of wo- 
 men he does not understand, and the flattery of 
 men he thinks is mere kindliness. Are you prepared 
 to meet him, father?" 
 
 Father Anthony nodded, and the two went out 
 together. The chill of the open was hardly more 
 than the bitter cold inside the building, but there was 
 a wind that drove the cold through the blood and 
 bones of a man. 
 
THE THUNDERBOLT 15 
 
 They staggered along against it until they came 
 to a small outhouse, long and low. On the sheltered 
 side of it they paused to take breath, and Father 
 Victor explained: "This is his hour in the gymna- 
 sium. To make the body strong required thought 
 and care. Mere riding and running and swinging of 
 the ax will not develop every muscle. So I made 
 this gymnasium, and here Pierre works every day. 
 His teachers of boxing and wrestling have aban- 
 doned him." 
 
 There was almost a smile on the lean face. 
 
 "The last man left with a swollen jaw and limp- 
 ing on one leg." 
 
 Conscience-stricken, he stopped short, crossed 
 himself, and then went on : "So I give him for part- 
 ners men who have committed small sins. Their 
 penance is to stand before Pierre and box each 
 day for a few minutes and then to wrestle against 
 him. They are fierce men, these woodsmen and 
 trappers, and big of body; but little Pierre, they 
 dread him like a whip of fire. One and all, they 
 come to me within a fortnight and beg for an easier 
 penance." 
 
 Here he opened the door, and they slipped inside. 
 The air was warmed by a big stove, and the room 
 for the afternoon was dark lighted by two swing- 
 ing lanterns suspended from the low roof. By that 
 illumination Father Anthony saw two men stripped 
 naked, save for a loin-cloth, and circling each other 
 slowly in the center of a ring which was fenced in 
 with ropes and floored with a padded mat. Cer- 
 
16 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 tainly Father Victor had spared nothing in expense 
 to make the fittings of the gymnasium perfect. 
 
 Of the two wrestlers, one was a veritable giant 
 of a Canuck, swarthy of skin, hairy-chested. His 
 great hands were extended to grasp or to parry 
 his head lowered with a ferocious scowl and across 
 his forehead swayed a tuft of black, shaggy hair. 
 He might have stood for one of those northern bar- 
 barians whom the Romans loved to pit against their 
 native champions in the arena. He was the greater 
 because of the opponent he faced, and it was upon 
 this opponent that the eyes of Father Anthony cen- 
 tered. 
 
 Like Father Victor, he was caught first by the 
 bright hair. It was a dark red, and where the light 
 struck it strongly there were places like fire. Down 
 from this hair the light slipped like running water 
 over a lithe body, slender at the hips, strong- 
 chested, round and smooth of limb, with long 
 muscles everywhere leaping and trembling at every 
 move. 
 
 He, like the big Canuck, circled cautiously about, 
 but the impression he gave was as different from the 
 other as day is from night. His head was carried 
 high; in place of a scowl, he smiled with a sort of 
 boyish eagerness, and a light which was partly ex- 
 ultation and partly mischief sparkled in his eyes. 
 Once or twice the giant caught at the other, but 
 David slipped from under the grip of Goliath easily. 
 It seemed as if his skin were oiled. The big man 
 snarled with anger, and lunged more eagerly at 
 
THE THUNDERBOLT 17 
 
 Pierre. Father Anthony caught the shoulder of 
 his friend. 
 
 "Quick!" he whispered anxiously. "Stop them, 
 for if the black fellow sets his fingers on the boy he 
 will break him like a willow wand, and in the name 
 of God, Jean Paul I" 
 
 For the two, abandoning their feints, suddenly 
 rushed together, and the swarthy arms of the mon- 
 ster slipped around the white body of Pierre. For 
 a moment they whirled, twisting and struggling. 
 
 "Now!" murmured Father Victor; and as if in 
 answer to a command, Pierre slipped down, 
 whipped his hands to a new grip, and the two 
 crashed to the mat, with Pierre above. 
 
 "Open your eyes, Father Anthony. The lad is 
 safe. How Goliath grunts!" 
 
 The boy had not cared to follow his advantage, 
 but rose and danced away, laughing softly. The 
 Canuck floundered up and rushed like a furious bull. 
 His downfall was only the swifter. The impact of 
 the two bodies sounded like hands clapped together, 
 and then Goliath rose into the air, struggling 
 mightily, and pitched with a thud to the mat. 
 
 He writhed there, for the wind was knocked from 
 his body by the fall. At length he struggled to a 
 sitting posture and glared up at the conqueror. The 
 boy reached out a hand to his fallen foe. 
 
 "You would have thrown me that way the first 
 time," he said, "but you let me change grips on you. 
 In another week you will be too much for me, bon 
 
 ami." 
 
 The other accepted the hand after an instant of 
 
1 8 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 hesitation and was dragged to his feet. He stood 
 resting one elbow on the gleaming shoulder of Pierre 
 and looking down into the boy's face with a singular 
 grin. But there was no triumph in the eye of Pierre 
 only a good-natured interest. 
 
 "In another week," answered the giant, "there 
 will not be a sound bone in my body. This very 
 night I shall go to Father Victor. I had rather 
 starve for three days in the forest than stand up 
 to you for three minutes, little brother." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 IRENE 
 
 "You have seen him," murmured the tall priest. 
 "Now let us go back and wait for him. I will leave 
 word." 
 
 He touched one of the two or three men who were 
 watching the athletes, and whispered his message in 
 the other's ear. Then he went back with Father 
 Anthony. 
 
 "You have seen him/' he repeated, when they sat 
 once more in the cheerless room. "Now pro- 
 nounce on him." 
 
 The other answered: "I have seen a wonderful 
 body but the mind, Father Victor?" 
 
 "It is as simple as that of a child his thoughts 
 run as clear as spring water." 
 
 "Ah, but they are swift thoughts. Suppose the 
 spring water gathers up a few stones and rushes on 
 down the side of the mountain. Very soon it is 
 wearing a deeper channel then but a little space, 
 and it is a raging torrent and tears down great trees 
 from its banks and goes shouting and leaping out 
 toward the sea. 
 
 "Suppose a strange thought came in the mind of 
 your Pierre. It would be like the pebbles in the 
 swift-running spring water. He would carry it on, 
 
 19 
 
20 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 rushing. It would tear away the old boundaries of 
 his mind it might wipe out the banks you have set 
 down for him it might tear away the choicest 
 teachings." 
 
 Father Victor sat straight and stiff with stern, 
 set lips. 
 
 He said dryly: "Father Anthony has been much 
 in the world." 
 
 "I speak from the best intention, good father. 
 Look you, now, I have seen that same red hair and 
 those same lighted blue eyes before, and wherever 
 I have seen them has been war and trouble and un- 
 rest. I have seen that same whimsical smile which 
 stirs the heart of a woman and makes a man reach 
 for his revolver. This boy whose mind is so clear 
 arm him with a single wrong thought, with a single 
 doubt of the eternal goodness of God's plans, and 
 he will be a thunderbolt indeed, dear Father, but one 
 which even your strong hand could not control." 
 
 "I have heard you," said the priest; "but you 
 will see. He is coming now." 
 
 There was a knock at the door; then it opened 
 and showed a modest novice in a simple gown of 
 black serge girt at the waist with the flat encircling 
 band. His head was downward; it was not till the 
 blue eyes flashed inquisitively up that Father An- 
 thony recognized Pierre. 
 
 The hard voice of Jean Paul Victor pronounced : 
 "This is that Father Anthony of whom I have 
 spoken." 
 
 The novice slipped to his knees and folded his 
 hands. The two priests exchanged glances, one of 
 
IRENE 21 
 
 triumph and one of wonder, while the plump fingers 
 of Father Anthony poised over that dark red hair, 
 pressed smooth on top where the skull-cap rested, 
 and curling somewhat at the sides. The blessing 
 which he spoke was Latin, and Father Victor looked 
 somewhat anxiously toward his protege till the latter 
 answered in a diction so pure that Cicero himself 
 would have smiled to hear it: 
 
 "Father, I thank thee, and if my mind were as 
 old as thine I might be able to wish blessings as great 
 as these in return." 
 
 "Stand up!" cried Father Anthony. "By Heav- 
 ens, Jean Paul, it is the purest Latin I have heard 
 this twelvemonth." 
 
 And the lad answered: "It must be pure Latin; 
 Father Victor has taught me." 
 
 Gabrielle Anthony stared, and to save him from 
 too obvious confusion the other priest interrupted: 
 
 ("I have a letter for you, my son." 
 And he passed the envelope to Pierre. The latter 
 examined it with interest. 
 
 "The writing sprawls like the knees of a boy of 
 ten. What old man has written to you, Pierre?" 
 
 "No man that I know. This comes from the 
 south. It is marked from the United States." 
 "So far!" exclaimed the tall priest. "Give me 
 the letter, lad." 
 
 But here he caught the whimsical eyes of Father 
 Anthony, and he allowed his outstretched hand to 
 fall. Yet he scowled as he said: "No; keep it and 
 read it, Pierre." 
 
 "I have no great wish to keep it," answered 
 
22 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Pierre, studying anxiously the dark brow of the 
 priest. 
 
 "It is yours. Open it and read." 
 
 The lad obeyed instantly. He shook out the 
 folded paper and moved a little nearer the light. 
 Then he read aloud, as if it had never entered his 
 mind that what was addressed to him might be 
 meant for his eyes alone. And as he read he re- 
 minded Father Anthony of some childish chorister 
 pronouncing words beyond his understanding. The 
 tears came to the eyes of the good father. 
 
 And he said in his heart: "Alas ! I have been too 
 much in the world of men, and now a child can teach 
 me." 
 
 The musical voice of the boy began : 
 
 "Morgantown, 
 
 "R. F. D. No. 4. 
 "SON PIERRE: 
 
 "Here I lie with a chunk of lead from the gun of Bob McGurk 
 resting somewheres in the insides of me, and there ain't no way 
 of doubting that I'm about to go out. Now, I ain't complaining 
 none. I've had my fling. I've eat my meat to order, well done 
 and rare mostly rare. Maybe some folks will be saying that 
 I've got what I've been asking for, and I know that Bob McGurk 
 got me fair and square, shooting from the hip. That don't help 
 me none, lying here with a through ticket to some place that's 
 farther south than Texas." 
 
 Pierre lowered the letter and looked gravely upon 
 Father Victor. 
 
 "There are blasphemies coming. Shall I read 
 on?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He began again, a little spot of red coming into 
 either cheek: 
 
IRENE 23 
 
 "Hell ain't none too bad for me, I know. I ain't whining 
 none. I just lie here and watch the world getting dimmer until 
 I begin to be seeing things out of my past. That shows the 
 devil ain't losing no time with me. But the thing that comes 
 back oftenest and hits me the hardest is the sight of your 
 mother, lying with you in the hollow of her arm and looking 
 up at me and whispering, 'Dad,' just before she went out" 
 
 The hand of the boy fell, and his wide eyes sought 
 the face of Father Victor. The latter was stand- 
 ing. 
 
 "You told me I had no father " 
 
 An imperious arm stretched toward him. 
 
 "Give me the letter." 
 
 He moved to obey, and then checked himself. 
 
 "This is my father's writing, is it not?" 
 
 "No, no I It's a lie, Pierre!" 
 
 But Pierre stood with the letter held behind his 
 back, and the first doubt in his life stood up darkly 
 in his eyes. Father Victor sank slowly back into his 
 chair. All his gaunt frame was trembling. 
 
 "Read on," he commanded. 
 
 And Pierre, white of face, read on : 
 
 "So I got a idea that I had to write to you, Pierre. There 
 ain't nothing I can make up to you, but knowing the truth may 
 help some. Poor kid, you ain't got no father in the eyes of 
 the law, and neither did you have no mother, and there ain't no 
 name that belong* to you by rights." 
 
 Father Anthony veiled his eyes, but the bright 
 starved eyes of Jean Paul Victor stared on at the 
 reader. His voice was lower now, and the lips moved 
 slowly, as though numb with cold: 
 
 "I wn a man in them days, and your mother wat a woman 
 that brought your heart into your throat and set it singing. She 
 
24 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 and me, we were too busy being just plain happy to care much 
 what was right or wrong; so you just sort of happened along, 
 Pierre. Me being so close to hell, I remember her eyes that 
 was blue'r than heaven looking up to me, and her hair, that 
 was copper with gold lights in it, ran down across the white of 
 her shoulder, and even past her side and around you, Pierre, 
 till it seemed like you was lying in a red river. She being about 
 all in, she got hold of my hand and looked up to me with them 
 blue eyes I been talking about, and said 'Dad,' and went out. 
 And I damned near followed her. 
 
 "I buried Irene on the side of the mountain under a big, rough 
 rock, and I didn't carve nothing on the rock. Then I took you, 
 Pierre, and I knew I wasn't no sort of a man to raise up the 
 son of Irene; so I brought you to Father Victor on a winter 
 night and left you in his arms. That was after I'd done my 
 best to raise you and you was just about old enough to chatter 
 a bit. There wasn't nothing else to do. My wife, she went 
 pretty near crazy when I brought you home. And she'd of killed 
 you, Pierre, if I hadn't took you away. 
 
 "You see, I was married before I met Irene. So there ain't 
 no alibi for me. I just acted the hound. But me being so close 
 to hell now, I look back to that time, and somehow I see no 
 wrong in it still. 
 
 "And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for 
 it Here I lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in 
 the corner of the room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, 
 Pierre. They're wolves in the skins of men. They're the right 
 sons of their mother. When I go out they'll grab the coin I've 
 saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot, maybe. 
 
 "Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around 
 that cares, and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going 
 to lie here and have my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So 
 I'm writing to you, Pierre, part to tell you what you ought to 
 know; part because I got a sort of crazy idea that maybe you 
 could get down here to me before I go out. 
 
 "You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you 
 don't try to come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow 
 you all your life, lad, and you'll be seeing her blue eyes and the 
 red-gold of her hair in the dark of the night as I see it now. 
 Me, I'm a hard man, but it breaks my heart, that ghost of Irene. 
 So here I'll lie, waiting for you, Pierre, and lingering out the 
 days with whisky, and fighting the wolf eyes of them there sons 
 
IRENE 25 
 
 of mine. If I weaken If they find they can look me square 
 in the eye they'll finish me quick, and make off with the coin. 
 Pierre, come quick. 
 
 'MARTIN RYDER." 
 
 The hand of Pierre dropped slowly to his side, 
 and the letter fluttered with a crisp rustling to the 
 floor. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE BOLT 
 
 THEN came a voice that startled the two priests, 
 for it seemed that a fourth man had entered the 
 room, so changed was it from the musical voice of 
 Pierre. 
 
 "Father Victor, the roan is a strong horse. May 
 I take him?" 
 
 "Pierre!" and the priest reached out his bony 
 hands. 
 
 But the boy did not seem to notice or to under- 
 stand. 
 
 "It is a long journey, and I will need a strong 
 horse. It must be eight hundred miles to that 
 town." 
 
 "Pierre, what claim has he upon you? What debt 
 have you to repay?" 
 
 And Pierre le Rouge answered: "He loved my 
 mother." 
 
 He raised his face a little higher and smiled upon 
 them. 
 
 "It is a beautiful name, is it not Irene?" 
 
 There was no voice from Jean Paul Victor, so 
 he turned to Father Anthony. 
 
 "It is a charming name, Pierre." 
 
 "I would give my revolver with the pearl handle, 
 
 26 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE BOLT 27 
 
 and my skates, and the engraven knife of old Canole 
 just for one glimpse of her." 
 
 "You are going ?" 
 
 The boy asked in astonishment : "Would you not 
 have me go, Father?" 
 
 And Jean Paul Victor could not meet the sorrow- 
 ful blue eyes. 
 
 He bowed his head and answered: "My child, 
 I would have you go. But promise with your hand 
 in mine that you will come back to me when your 
 father is buried." 
 
 The lean fingers caught the extended hand of 
 Pierre and froze about it. 
 
 "But first I have a second duty in the southland." 
 
 "A second?" 
 
 "You taught me to shoot and to use a knife. Once 
 you said: 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a 
 tooth.' Father Victor, my father was killed by an- 
 other man." 
 
 "Pierre, dear lad, swear to me here on this cross 
 that you will not raise your hands against the mur- 
 derer. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.' ' 
 
 "He must have an instrument for his wrath. He 
 shall work through me in this." 
 
 "Pierre, you blaspheme." 
 
 " 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. 1 ' 
 
 "It was a demon in me that quoted that in your 
 hearing, and not myself." 
 
 "The horse, Father Victor may I have the 
 roan?" 
 
 "Pierre, I command you " 
 
28 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 The light in the blue eyes was as cold and steady 
 as that in the starved eyes of Jean Paul Victor. 
 
 "Hush!" he said calmly. "For the sake of the 
 love that I bear for you, do not command me." 
 
 "Pierre, I have prayed God for you night and 
 morning, and for the sake of those prayers which 
 are dearer than gold in heaven, stay with me !" 
 
 "Dear Father Victor, you also hope for hands 
 that love you to close your eyes at the end." 
 
 And the stern priest dropped his head. He said 
 at last: "I have nothing saving one great and ter- 
 rible treasure which I see was predestined to you. 
 It is the cross of Father Meilan. You have worn 
 it before. You shall wear it hereafter as your 
 
 own." 
 
 He took from his own neck a silver cross sus- 
 pended by a slender silver chain, and the boy, with 
 startled eyes, dropped to his knees and received the 
 gift 
 
 "It has brought good to all who possessed it, but 
 for every good thing that it works for you it will 
 work evil on some other. Great is its blessing and 
 great is its burden. I, alas, know; but you also have 
 heard of its history. Do you accept it, Pierre?" 
 
 "Dear Father, with all my heart." 
 
 The colorless hands touched the dark-red hair, 
 and the prophet eyes of the priest went up. 
 
 "God pardon the sins you shall commit." 
 
 Pierre crushed the hand of Jean Paul Victor 
 against his lips and rushed from the room, while 
 the tall priest, staring down at the fingers which had 
 been kissed, pronounced: 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE BOLT 29 
 
 "It is better that he should commit murder with 
 his hands than to slay in his evil thoughts." 
 
 "Can you resign him like this?" 
 
 "I have forged a thunderbolt. Father Gabrielle r 
 you are a prophet. It is too great for my hand. 
 Listen!" 
 
 And they heard clearly the sharp clang of a 
 horse's hoofs on the hard-packed snow, loud at first, 
 but fading rapidly away. The wind, increasing sud- 
 denly, shook the house furiously about them. 
 
 It was a north wind, and traveled south before 
 the rider of the strong roan. Over a thousand miles 
 of plain and hills it passed, and down into the cattle 
 country of the mountain-desert which the Rockies 
 hem on one side and the tall Sierras on the other. 
 
 It was a trail to try even the endurance of Pierre 
 and the strong roan, but the boy clung to it doggedly. 
 On a trail that led down from the edges of the 
 northern mountain the roan crashed to the ground 
 in a plunging fall, hitting heavily on his knees. He 
 was dead before the boy had freed his feet from the 
 stirrups. 
 
 Pierre threw the saddle over his shoulder and 
 walked eight miles to the nearest ranchhouse, where 
 he spent practically the last cent of his money on an- 
 other horse, and drove on south once more. 
 
 There was little hope in him as day after day 
 slipped past. Only the ghost of a chance remained 
 that Martin Ryder could fight away death for an- 
 other fortnight; yet Pierre had seen many a man 
 from the mountain-desert stave off the end through 
 weeks and weeks of the bitterest suffering. His 
 
30 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 father must be a man of the same hard durable 
 metal, and upon that Pierre staked all his hopes. 
 
 And always he carried the picture of the dying 
 man alone with his two wolf-eyed sons who waited 
 for his eyes to weaken. Whenever he thought of 
 that he touched his horse with the spurs and rode 
 fiercely for a time. They were his flesh and blood, 
 the man, and even the two wolf-eyed sons. 
 
 So he came at last to a gap in the hills and looked 
 down on Morgantown in the hollow, twoscore un- 
 painted houses sprawling along a single street. The 
 snow was everywhere white and pure, and the town 
 was like a stain on the landscape with wisps of smoke 
 rising and trailing across the hilltops. 
 
 Down to the edge of the town he rode, left his 
 cow-pony standing with hanging head outsdde a 
 saloon, strode through the swinging doors, and 
 asked of the bartender the way to the house of Mar- 
 tin Ryder. 
 
 The bartender stopped in his labor of rubbing 
 down the surface of his bar and stared at the black- 
 serge robe of the stranger, with curiosity rather than 
 criticism, for women, madmen, and clergymen have 
 the right-of-way in the mountain-desert. 
 
 He said: "Well, I'll be damned ! askin' your 
 pardon. So old Mart Ryder has come down to this, 
 eh? Partner, you're sure going to have a rough 
 ride getting Mart to heaven. Better send a posse 
 along with him, because some first-class angels are 
 going to get considerable riled when they sight him 
 coming. Ha, ha, ha ! Sure I'll show you the way. 
 Take the northwest road out of town and go five 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE BOLT 31 
 
 miles till you see a broken-backed shack lyin' over to 
 the right. That's Mart Ryder's place." 
 
 Out to the broken-backed shack rode Pierre le 
 Rouge, Pierre the Red, as every one in the north 
 country knew him. His second horse, staunch cow- 
 pony that it was, stumbled on with sagging knees 
 and hanging head, but Pierre rode upright, at ease, 
 for his mind was untired. 
 
 Broken-backed indeed was the house before which 
 he dismounted. The roof sagged from end to end, 
 and the stove pipe chimney leaned at a drunken 
 angle. Nature itself was withered beside that 
 house; before the door stood a great cottonwood, 
 gashed and scarred by lightning, with the limbs al- 
 most entirely stripped away from one side. Under 
 this broken monster Pierre stepped and through the 
 door. Two growls like the snarls of watch-dogs 
 greeted him, and two tall, unshaven men barred his 
 way. 
 
 Behind them, from the bed in the corner, a feeble 
 voice called: "Who's there?" 
 
 "In the name of God," said the boy gravely, for 
 he saw a hollow-eyed specter staring toward him 
 from the bed in the corner, "let me pass! I am his 
 
 son!' 
 
 It was not that which made them give back, but 
 a shrill, faint cry of triumph from the sick man to- 
 ward which they turned. Pierre slipped past 
 them and stood above Martin Ryder. He was 
 wasted beyond belief only the monster hand 
 showed what he had been. 
 
32 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Son?" he queried with yearning and uncer- 
 tainty. 
 
 "Pierre, your son." 
 
 And he slipped to his knees beside the bed. The 
 heavy hand fell upon his hair and stroked it. 
 
 "There ain't no ways of doubting it. It's red silk, 
 like the hair of Irene. Seein' you, boy, it ain't so 
 hard to die. Look up ! So ! Pierre, my son ! Are 
 you seared of me, boy?" 
 
 "I'm not afraid." 
 
 "Not with them eyes you ain't. Now that you're 
 here, pay the coyotes and let 'em go off to gnaw the 
 bones." 
 
 He dragged out a small canvas bag from beneath 
 the blankets and gestured toward the two lurkers 
 in the corner. 
 
 "Take it, and be damned to you!" 
 
 A dirty, yellow hand seized the bag; there was 
 a chortle of exultation, and the two scurried out of 
 the room. 
 
 "Three weeks they've watched an' waited for me 
 to go out, Pierre. Three weeks they've waited an' 
 sneaked up to my bed an' sneaked away agin, seein' 
 my eyes open." 
 
 Looking into their fierce fever brightness, Pierre 
 understood why they had quailed. For the man, 
 though wrecked beyond hope of living, was terrible 
 still. The thick, gray stubble on his face could not 
 hide altogether the hard lines of mouth and jaw, 
 and on the wasted arm the hand was grotesquely 
 huge. It was horror that widened the eyes of Pierre 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE BOLT 33 
 
 as he looked at Martin Ryder; it was a grim hap- 
 piness that made his lips almost smile. 
 
 "You've taken holy orders, lad?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But the black dress?" 
 
 "I'm only a novice. I've sworn no vows.*' 
 
 "And you don't hate me you hold no grudge 
 against me for the sake of your mother, Pierre?" 
 He took the heavy hand. 
 
 "Are you not my father? And my mother was 
 happy with you. For her sake I love you." 
 
 "The good Father Victor. He sent you to me." 
 
 "I came of my own will. He would not have let 
 me go." 
 
 "He he would have kept my flesh and blood 
 away from me?" 
 
 "Do not reproach him. He would have kept me 
 from a sin." 
 
 "Sin? By God, boy, no matter what I've done, 
 is it sin for my son to come to me? What sin?'* 
 
 "The sin of murder!" 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 "I have come to find McGurk." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE CORNER PLOT 
 
 LIKE some old father-bear watching his cub flash 
 teeth against a stalking lynx, half proud and half 
 fearful of such courage, so the dying cattleman 
 looked at his son. Excitement set a high and dan- 
 gerous color in his cheek. His eyes were too bright. 
 
 "Pierre brave boy! Look at me. I ain't no 
 imitation-man, even now, but I ain't a ghost of what 
 I was. There wasn't no man I wouldn't of met fair 
 and square with bare hands or with a gun. Maybe 
 my hands was big, but they were fast on the draw. 
 I've lived all my life with iron on the hip, and my 
 six-gun has seven notches. 
 
 "But McGurk downed me fair and square. There 
 wasn't no murder. I was out for his hide, and he 
 knew it. I done the provokin', an' he jest done the 
 finishin', that was all. It hurts me a lot to say it, 
 but he's a better man than I was. A kid like you, 
 why, he'd jest eat you, Pierre." 
 
 Pierre le Rouge smiled again. He felt a stern 
 and aching pride to be the son of this man. 
 
 "So that's settled," went on Martin Ryder, "an 1 
 a damned good thing it is. Son, you didn't come 
 none too soon. I'm goin' out fast. There ain't 
 enough light left in me so's I can see my own way. 
 
 34 
 
THE CORNER PLOT 35 
 
 Here's all I ask: When I die touch my eyelids soft 
 an' draw 'em shut I've seen the look in a dead 
 man's eyes. Close 'em, and I know I'll go to sleep 
 an' have good dreams. And down in the middle of 
 Morgantown is the buryin'-ground. I've ridden 
 past it a thousand times an' watched a corner plot, 
 where the grass grows quicker than it does any- 
 wheres else in the cemetery. Pierre, I'd die plumb 
 easy if I knew I was goin' to sleep the rest of time 
 in that place.' 1 
 
 "It shall be done." 
 
 "But that corner plot, it would cost a pile, son. 
 And I've no money. I gave what I had to them 
 wolf-eyed boys, Bill an' Bert. Money was what 
 they wanted, an' after I had Irene's son with me, 
 money was the cheapest way of gettin' rid of 'em." 
 
 "I'll buy the plot." 
 
 "Have you got that much money, lad?" 
 
 "Yes," lied Pierre calmly. 
 
 The bright eyes grew dimmer and then fluttered 
 close. Pierre started to his feet, thinking that the 
 end had come. But the voice began again, fainter, 
 slowly : 
 
 "No light left inside of me, but dyin 1 this way 
 is easy. There ain't no wind will blow on me after 
 I'm dead, but I'll be blanketed safe from head to 
 foot in cool, sweet-smellin' sod the kind that has 
 tangles of the roots of grass. There ain't no snow 
 will reach to me where I lie. There ain't no sun 
 will burn down to me. Dyin' like that is jest goin' 
 to sleep." 
 
 After that he said nothing for a time, and the 
 
36 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 late afternoon darkened slowly through the room. 
 
 As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind 
 went back. He did not see the bearded wreck who 
 lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene, with 
 the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burn- 
 ing gold, and a handsome young giant beside her. 
 They rode together on some upland trail at sunset 
 time, sharply framed against the bright sky. Their 
 hands were together; their faces were raised; they 
 laughed, from the midst of their small heaven. 
 
 There was a whisper below him: "Irene!'* 
 
 And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. 
 He groaned, and dropped to his knees. 
 
 "I have come for you," said the whisper, "because 
 the time has come, Irene. We have to ride out to- 
 gether. We have a long ways to go. Are you 
 ready ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Pierre. 
 
 "Thank God ! It's a wonderful night. The stars 
 are asking us out. Quick ! Into your saddle. Now 
 the spurs. So! We are alone and free, with the 
 winds around us, and all that we have been for- 
 gotten behind us. Irene, look up with me !" 
 
 The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a 
 stir in the great, gaunt body he was dead. Pierre 
 drew the eyes reverently shut. There were no tears 
 in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his 
 heart, and a great pain. He straightened and 
 looked about him and found that the room was 
 quite dark. 
 
 So in the dimness Pierre fumbled, by force of 
 habit, at his throat, and found the cross which he 
 
THE CORNER PLOT 37 
 
 wore by a silver chain about his throat. He held it 
 in a great grip and closed his eyes and prayed. 
 When he opened his eyes again it was almost deep 
 night in the room, and Pierre had passed from youth 
 to manhood. Through the gloom nothing stood 
 out distinctly save the white face of the dead man, 
 and from that Pierre looked quickly away. 
 
 One by one he numbered his obligations to Mar- 
 tin Ryder, and first and last he remembered the lie 
 which had soothed his father. The money for that 
 corner plot where the grass grew first in the spring 
 of the year where was he to find it? He fumbled 
 in his pocket and found only a single coin. 
 
 He leaned back against the wall and strove to 
 concentrate on the problem, but his thoughts wan- 
 dered in spite of himself back to the snows of Can- 
 ada, to the letter, to the ride south, the death of the 
 roan, and so on until he reached his entry to that 
 very room. 
 
 Looking backward, he remembered all things 
 much more clearly than when he had actually seen 
 them. For instance, he recalled now that as he 
 walked through the door the two figures which had 
 started up to block his way had left behind them 
 some playing-cards at the corner table. One of 
 these cards had slipped from the edge of the board 
 and flickered slowly to the floor. 
 
 With that memory the thoughts of Pierre le 
 Rouge stopped. The picture of the falling card 
 remained; all else went out in his mind like the 
 snuffing of the candle. Then, as if he heard a roice 
 
38 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 directing him through the utter blackness of the 
 room, he knew what he must do. 
 
 All his wealth was the single half-dollar piece in 
 his pocket, and there was only one way in which that 
 coin could be increased to the sum he would need 
 to buy that corner plot, where the soul of old Mar- 
 tin Ryder could sleep long and deep. 
 
 From his brothers he would get no help. The 
 least memory of those sallow, hungry faces con- 
 vinced him of that. 
 
 There remained the gaming table. In the north 
 country he had watched men sit in a silent circle, 
 smoking, drinking, with the flare of an oil-lamp 
 against deep, seamed faces, and only the slip and 
 whisper of card against card. 
 
 Cold conscience tapped the shoulder of Pierre, 
 remembering the lessons of Father Victor, but a mo- 
 ment later his head went up and his eyes were shin- 
 ing through the dark. After all, the end justified 
 the means. It was typical of him that sorrow sat 
 lightly on him. 
 
 A moment later he was laughing softly as a boy 
 in the midst of a prank, and busily throwing off the 
 robe of serge. Fumbling through the night he lo- 
 cated the shirt and overalls he had seen hanging 
 from a nail on the wall. Into these he slipped, 
 leaned to kiss the chill, damp forehead of the 
 sleeper, and then went out under the open sky. 
 
 The rest had revived the strength of the tough 
 little cow-pony, and he drove on at a gallop toward 
 the twinkling lights of Morgantown. There was 
 a new consciousness about Pierre as if he had 
 
 
THE CORNER PLOT 39 
 
 changed his whole nature with his clothes. The 
 sober sense of duty which had kept him in awe all 
 his life like a lifted finger, was almost gone, and in 
 its place was a joyous freedom. 
 
 For the first time he faintly realized what an 
 existence other than that of a priest might be. Now 
 for a brief moment he could forget the part of the 
 subdued novice and become merely a man with noth- 
 ing about him to distinguish him from other men, 
 nothing to make heads turn at his approach and 
 raise whispers as he passed. 
 
 It was a game, but he rejoiced in it as a girl does 
 in her first masquerade. To-morrow he must be 
 grave and sober-footed and an example to other 
 men; to-night he could frolic as he pleased. The 
 good Father Victor would hear and frown, per- 
 haps, but remembering the purpose for which the 
 thing was done he would forgive. 
 
 So Pierre le Rouge tossed back his head and 
 laughed up to the frosty stars. The loose sleeves 
 and the skirts of the robe no longer entangled his 
 limbs. He threw up his arms and shouted A hill- 
 side caught the sound and echoed it back to him 
 with a wonderful clearness, and up and down the 
 long ravine beat the clatter of the flying hoofs. The 
 whole world shouted and laughed and rode with 
 him on Morgantown. 
 
 If the people in the houses that he passed had 
 known they would have started up from their chairs 
 and taken rifle and horse and after him on the trail. 
 But how could they tell from the passing of those 
 
40 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 ringing hoofs that Pierre, the novice, was dead, and 
 Red Pierre was born? 
 
 So they drowsed on about their comfortable fires, 
 and Pierre drew rein with a jerk before the largest 
 of Morgantown's saloons. With a hand on the 
 swinging doors he paused a breathless moment, 
 thinking, doubting, wondering and a little cold of 
 heart like the boy who stands on the bank of the 
 river to take the first plunge in the spring of the 
 year. He had to set his teeth before he could sum- 
 mon the resolution to throw open the door. It was 
 done; he stepped inside, and stood blinking in the 
 sudden rush of light against his face. 
 
 It was all bewildering at first; the radiance, the 
 blue tangle of smoke, the storm of voices. For Mul- 
 doon's was packed from door to door. Coins rang 
 in a steady chorus along the bar, and the crowd 
 waited three and four deep. 
 
 Some one was singing a rollicking song of the 
 range at one end of the bar, and a chorus of four 
 bellowed a profane parody at the other end. 
 
 The ears of Pierre le Rouge tingled hotly, and 
 he lowered his eyes to the floor. Truly, Father Vic- 
 tor would be very wrath when all this was confessed. 
 Partly to escape this uproar he worked his way to 
 the quieter room at the back of the saloon. 
 
 It was almost as crowded as the bar, but here no 
 one spoke except for an occasional growl. Sudden 
 speaking, and a loud voice, indeed, was hardly safe. 
 Some one cursed at his ill-luck as Pierre entered, and 
 a dozen hands reached for six-guns. In such a place 
 one had to be prepared. 
 
THE CORNER PLOT 41 
 
 Pierre remembered with quick dismay that he was 
 not armed. All his life the straight black gown had 
 been weapon enough to make all men give way be- 
 fore him. Now he carried no borrowed strength 
 upon his shoulders. 
 
 Automatically he slipped his fingers under the 
 breast of his shirt until their tips touched the cold 
 metal of the cross. That gave him stronger cour- 
 age. The joy of the adventure made his blood warm 
 again as he drew out his one coin and looked for a 
 place to start his venture. 
 
 "It is God who governs me/* he said, "and why 
 should I doubt Him ?" 
 
 So he approached the nearest table. On the sur- 
 face of it were marked six squares with chalk, and 
 each with its appropriate number. The man who 
 ran the game stood behind the table and shook three 
 dice. The numbers which turned up paid the gamb- 
 ler. The numbers which failed to show paid the 
 owner of the game. 
 
 His luck had been too strong that night, and now 
 only two men faced him, and both of them lost per- 
 sistently. They had passed the stage of intelligent 
 gaming; they were "bucking" the dice with savage 
 stubbornness. 
 
 Pierre edged closer, shut his eyes, and deposited 
 his coin. When he looked again he saw that he had 
 wagered on the fire. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 HURLEY 
 
 THE dice clattered across the table and were 
 swept up by the hand of the man behind the table 
 before Pierre could note them. Sick at heart, he 
 began to turn away, as he saw that hand reach out 
 and gather in the coins of the other two betters. It 
 went out a third time and laid another fifty-cent 
 piece upon his. The heart of Pierre bounded up to 
 his throat. 
 
 Again the dice rolled, and this time he saw dis- 
 tinctly two fives turn up. Two dollars in silver were 
 dropped upon his, and still he let the money lie. 
 Again, again, and again the dice rolled. And now 
 there were pieces of gold among the silver that cov- 
 ered the square of the five. 
 
 The other two looked askance at him, and the 
 owner of the game growled: "Gimme room for the 
 coins, stranger, will you?" 
 
 Pierre picked up his winnings. In his left hand 
 he held them, and the coins brimmed his cupped 
 palm. With the free hand he placed his new wag- 
 ers. But he lost now. 
 
 "I cannot win forever," thought Pierre, and re- 
 doubled his bets in an effort to regain the lost 
 ground. 
 
 4* 
 
HURLEY 43 
 
 Still his little fortune dwindled, till the sweat came 
 out on his forehead and the blood that had flushed 
 his face ran back and left him pale with dread. And 
 at last there remained only one gold piece. He hesi- 
 tated, holding it poised for the wager, while the 
 owner of the game rattled the dice loudly and looked 
 up at the coin with hungry eyes. 
 
 Once more Pierre closed his eyes and laid his 
 wager, while his empty left hand slipped again in- 
 side his shirt and touched the metal of the cross, 
 and once more when he opened his eyes the hand 
 of the gambler was going out to lay a second coin 
 over his. 
 
 "It is the cross!" thought Pierre, and thrilled 
 mightily. "It is the cross which brings me luck." 
 
 The dice rattled out. He won. Again, and still 
 he won. The gambler wiped his forehead and 
 looked up anxiously. For these were wagers in 
 gold, and the doubling stakes were running high. 
 About Pierre a crowd had grown a dozen cattle- 
 men who watched the growing heap of gold with 
 silent fascination. Then they began to make wagers 
 of their own, and there were faint whispers of 
 wrath and astonishment as the dice clicked out and 
 each time the winnings of Pierre doubled. 
 
 Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left 
 hand as a warning. With his right, very slowly, inch 
 by inch lest any one should suspect him of a gun 
 play, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on 
 the table with the belt of cartridges. 
 
 "Three years she's been on my hip through thick 
 and thin, stranger. Three years she's shot close 
 
44 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 an* true. There ain't a butt in the world that hugs 
 your hand tighter. There ain't a cylinder that spins 
 easier. Shoot? Lad, even a kid like you could be 
 a killer with that six-gun. What will you lay ag'in' 
 it?" 
 
 And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously at 
 the yellow heap of Pierre's money. 
 
 "How much?" said Pierre eagerly. "Is there 
 enough on the table to buy the gun?" 
 
 "Buy?" said the other fiercely. "There ain't 
 enough coin west of the Rockies to buy that gun. 
 D'you think I'm yaller hound enough to sell my six? 
 No, but I'll risk it in a fair bet. There ain't no dis- 
 grace in that; eh, pals?" 
 
 There was a chorus of low grunts of assent. 
 
 "All right," said Pierre. "That pile against the 
 gun." 
 
 "All of it?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 "Look here, kid, if you're tryin' to play a charity 
 game with me " 
 
 "Charity?" 
 
 The direct, frank surprise of that look disarmed 
 the other. He swept up the dice-box, and shook it 
 furiously, while his lips stirred. It was as if he 
 murmured an incantation for success. The dice 
 rolled out, winking in the light, spun over, and the 
 owner of the gun stood with both hands braced 
 against the edge of the table, and stared hopelessly 
 down. 
 
 A moment before his pockets had sagged with a 
 precious weight, and there had been a significant 
 
HURLEY 45 
 
 drag of the belt over his right hip. Now both bur- 
 dens were gone. 
 
 He looked up with a short laugh. 
 
 "I'm dry. Who'll stake me to a drink?" 
 
 Pierre scooped up a dozen pieces of the gold. 
 
 "Here." 
 
 The other drew back. 
 
 "You're very welcome to it. Here's more, if 
 you'll have it." 
 
 "The coin I've lost to you? Take back a gamblin' 
 debt?" 
 
 "Easy there," said one of the men. "Don't you 
 see the kid's green? Here's a five-spot." 
 
 The loser accepted the coin as carelessly as if he 
 were conferring a favor by taking it, cast another 
 scowl in the direction of Pierre, and went out to- 
 ward the bar. Pierre, very hot in the face, pocketed 
 his winnings and belted on the gun. It hung low 
 on his thigh, just in easy gripping distance of his 
 hand, and he fingered the butt with a smile. 
 
 "The kid's feelin' most a man," remarked a sar- 
 castic voice. "Say, kid, why don't you try your 
 luck with Mac Hurley? He's almost through with 
 poor, old Cochrane." 
 
 Following the direction of the pointing finger, 
 Pierre saw one of those mute tragedies of the gamb- 
 ling hall. Cochrane, an old cattleman whose care- 
 fully trimmed, pointed white beard and slender, tnp- 
 ering fingers set him apart from the others in the 
 room, was rather far gone with liquor. He was 
 still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be till the 
 very moment consciousness left him, but his eyes 
 
46 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 were misty, and when he spoke the fine-cut lips 
 moved slowly, as though numbed by cold. 
 
 Beside him stood a tall, black bottle with a little 
 whisky glass to flank it. He made his bets with 
 apparent carelessness, but with a real and deepen- 
 ing gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply 
 as though reckoning his losses, though it seemed to 
 Pierre le Rouge almost like an appeal. 
 
 And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley? 
 There was no color in the man, either body or soul. 
 No emotion could show in those pale, small eyes 
 or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his 
 hands had been cut off he might have seemed some 
 sodden victim of a drug habit, but the hands saved 
 him. 
 
 They seemed to belong to another body beau- 
 tiful, swift, and strong, and grafted by some foul 
 mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very white they 
 were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every 
 motion, continually hovering around the cards with 
 little touches which were almost caresses. 
 
 "It ain't a game," said the man who had first 
 pointed out the group to Pierre, "it's just a 
 slaughter. Cochrane's too far gone to see straight. 
 Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he's 
 crooking the cards!" 
 
 It was Blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was deal- 
 ing. He dealt with one hand, flipping the cards out 
 with a snap of the wrist, the fingers working rapidly 
 over the pack. Now and then he glanced over to 
 the crowd, as if to enjoy their admiration of his 
 skill. He was showing it now, not so much by the 
 
HURLEY 47 
 
 deftness of his cheating as by the openness with 
 which he exposed his tricks. 
 
 As the stranger remarked to Pierre, a child could 
 have discovered that the cards were being dealt at 
 will from the top and the bottom of the pack, but 
 the gambler was enjoying himself by keeping his 
 game just open enough to be apparent to every other 
 man in the room just covert enough to deceive the 
 drink-misted brain of Cochrane. And the pale, swin- 
 ish eyes twinkled as they stared across at the dull 
 sorrow of the old man. There was an ominous 
 sound from Pierre: 
 
 "Do you let a thing like that happen in this coun- 
 try?" he asked fiercely. 
 
 The other turned to him with a sneer. 
 
 "Let it happen? Who'll stop him? Say, partner, 
 you ain't meanin' to say that you don't know who 
 Hurley is?" 
 
 "I don't need telling. I can see." 
 
 "What you can't see means a lot more than what 
 you can. I've been in the same room when Hurley 
 worked his gun once. It wasn't any killin', but it 
 was the prettiest bit of cheatin' I ever seen. But 
 even if Hurley wasn't enough, what about Carl 
 Diaz?" 
 
 He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter 
 was too puzzled to quail, and too stirred by the 
 pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn toward the 
 other. 
 
 "What of Diaz?" 
 
 "Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but 
 
48 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 you ain't that young. D'you mean to say that you 
 ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?" 
 
 It came back to Pierre then, for even into the 
 snow-bound seclusion of the north country the 
 shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could 
 not remember just what they were, but he seemed 
 to recollect grim tales through which that name 
 figured. 
 
 The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen 
 him before, look him over now. They's some says 
 he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk, but, of 
 course, that's stretchin' him out a size too much. 
 What's the matter, kid; youVe met McGurk?" 
 
 "No, but I'm going to." 
 
 "Might even be carried to him, eh feet first?" 
 
 Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder 
 of the other. 
 
 "Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't 
 like it." 
 
 The other reached up to snatch the hand from 
 his shoulder, but he stayed his arm. 
 
 He said after an uncomfortable moment of that 
 silent staring: "Well, partner, there ain't a hell of 
 a lot to get sore over, is there? You don't figure 
 you're a mate for McGurk, do you?" 
 
 He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre 
 moved away from him and returned to the figure 
 of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect model 
 for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had 
 waxed and twirled the end of his black mustache 
 so that it thrust out a little spur on either side of 
 his long face. His habitual expression was a scowl ; 
 
HURLEY 49 
 
 his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fin- 
 gers of his left hand, and his right hand resting on 
 his hip. 
 
 He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, 
 and Pierre's new-found acquaintance explained: 
 "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's 
 some who could down Hurley in a straight gun fight ; 
 maybe there's one or two like McGurk that could 
 down Diaz damn his yellow hide but there ain't 
 no one can buck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. 
 So they play the game together. Hurley works the 
 cards and Diaz covers up the retreat. Can't beat 
 that, can you?" 
 
 Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more 
 inside his shirt until the fingers touched the cross. 
 
 "Nevertheless, that game has to stop." 
 
 "Who'll say, kid, are you stringin' me, or are 
 you drunk? Look me in the eye 1" 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 FEAR 
 
 PIERRE turned and looked calmly upon the other. 
 
 And the man whispered in a sort of awe : "Well, 
 I'D be damned I" 
 
 "Stand aside !" 
 
 The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went 
 straight to the table and said to Cochrane: "Sir, I 
 have come to take you home." 
 
 The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as 
 though waking from a sleep. 
 
 "Stand back from the table!" warned Hurley. 
 
 "By the Lord, have they been missing me? 1 ' quer- 
 ied old Cochrane. 
 
 "You are waited for," answered Pierre le Rouge, 
 "and I've been sent to take you home." 
 
 "If that's the case" 
 
 "It ain't the case. The kid's lying." 
 
 '"Lying?" repeated Cochrane, as if he had never 
 heard the word before, and he peered with clearing 
 eyes toward Pierre. "No, I think this boy has never 
 lied." 
 
 Silence had spread through the place like a vapor. 
 Even the slight sounds in the gaming-room were 
 done now, and one pair after another of eyes swung 
 toward the table of Cochrane and Hurley. The 
 
 50 
 
FEAR 51 
 
 wave of the silence reached to the barroom. No 
 one could have carried the tidings so soon, but the 
 air was surcharged with the consciousness of an im- 
 pending crisis. 
 
 Half a dozen men started to make their way on 
 tiptoe toward the back room. One stood with his 
 whisky glass suspended in mid air, and tilted back 
 his head to listen. In the gaming-room Hurley 
 pushed back his chair and leaned to the left, giving 
 him a free sweep for his right hand. The Mexican 
 smiled with a slow and deep content. 
 
 "Thank you," answered Pierre, u but I ani wait- 
 ing still, sir." 
 
 The left hand of Hurley played impatiently on 
 the table. 
 
 He said: "Of course, if you have enough " 
 
 "I enough?" flared the old aristocrat 
 
 Pierre le Rouge turned fairly upon Hurley. 
 
 "In the name of God," he said calmly, and God 
 on his lips was as gentle as music, "make an end of 
 your game. You're playing for money, but I think 
 this man is playing for his eternal soul." 
 
 The solemn, bookish phraseology came smoothly 
 from his tongue. He knew no other. It drew a 
 murmur of amusement from the room and a snarl 
 from Hurley. 
 
 "Put on skirts, kid, and join the Salvation Army, 
 but don't get yourself messed all up in here. This 
 is my party, and I'm damned particular who I in- 
 vite! Now, run along!" 
 
 The head of Pierre tilted back, and he burst into 
 laughter which troubled even Hurley. 
 
5* RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 The gambler blurted: "What's happening to you, 
 kid?" 
 
 "I've been making a lot of good resolutions, Mr. 
 Hurley, about keeping out of trouble ; but here I am 
 in it up to the neck." 
 
 "No trouble as long as you keep your hand out 
 of another man's game, kid." 
 
 "That's it. I can't see you rob Mr. Cochrane 
 like this. You aren't gambling you're digging 
 gold. The game stops now." 
 
 It was a moment before the crowd realized what 
 was about to happen; they saw it reflected first in 
 the face of Hurley, which suddenly went taut and 
 pale, and then, even as they looked with a smile 
 of curiosity and derision toward Pierre le Rouge, 
 they saw and understood. 
 
 For the moment Pierre said, "The game stops 
 now," the calm which had been with him was gone. 
 It was like the scent of blood to the starved wolf. 
 The last word was scarcely off his tongue when he 
 was crouched with a devil of green fury in his eyes 
 the light struck his hair into a wave of flame his 
 face altered by a dozen ugly years. 
 
 "D'you mean?" whispered Hurley, as if he feared 
 to break the silence with his full voice. 
 
 "Get out of the room." 
 
 And the impulse of Hurley, plainly enough, was 
 to obey the order, and go anywhere to escape from 
 that relentless stare. His glance wavered and 
 flashed around the circle and then back to Red 
 Pierre, for the expectancy and the alertness of all 
 the crowd forced him back. 
 
FEAR 53 
 
 When the leader of the pack springs and fails to 
 kill, the rest of the pack tear him to pieces. Re- 
 membering this, Mac Hurley forced his glance back 
 to Pierre. Moreover, there was a soft voice from 
 behind, and he remembered Diaz. 
 
 All this had taken place in the length of time 
 that it takes a heavy body to totter on the brink 
 of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet after a fall. 
 After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through 
 the room, a pulse of silence, and then three hands 
 shot for their hips Pierre, Diaz, and Hurley. 
 
 No stop-watch could have caught the differing 
 lengths of time which each required for the draw. 
 The muzzle of Hurley's revolver was not clear of 
 the holster the gun of Diaz was nearly at the level 
 when Pierre's weapon exploded at his hip. The 
 bullet cut through the wrist of Hurley. Never again 
 would that slender, supple hand fly over the cards, 
 doing things other than they seemed. He made no 
 effort to escape from the next bullet, but stood look- 
 ing down at his broken wrist; horror for the mo- 
 ment gave him a dignity oddly out of place with 
 his usual appearance. He alone in all the room 
 was moveless. 
 
 The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for 
 the doors at the first shot ; Pierre le Rouge, pitched 
 to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the revolver 
 in either hand spitting lead and fire. 
 
 It was no bullet that downed Pierre but his own 
 cunning. He broke his fall with an outstretched left 
 hand, while the bullets of Diaz pumped into the 
 
54 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 void space which his body had filled a moment 
 before. 
 
 Lying there at ease, he leveled the revolver, grin- 
 ning with the mirthless lust of battle, and fired over 
 the top of the table. The guns dropped from the 
 hands of huge Diaz. He caught at his throat and 
 staggered back the full length of the room, crashing 
 against the wall. When he pitched forward on his 
 face he was dead before he struck the floor. 
 
 Pierre, now Red Pierre, indeed, rose and ran to 
 the fallen man, and, looking at the bulk of the giant, 
 he wondered with a cold heart. He knew before 
 he slipped his hand over the breast of Diaz that 
 this was death. Then he rose again and watched 
 the still fingers which seemed to be gripping at the 
 boards. 
 
 These he saw, and nothing else, and all he heard 
 was the rattling of the wind of winter, wrenching 
 at some loose shingle on the roof, and he knew that 
 he was alone in the world, for he had put out a life. 
 
 He found a strange weight pulling down his right 
 hand, and started when he saw the revolver. He 
 replaced it in the holster automatically, and in so 
 doing touched the barrel and found it warm. 
 
 Then fear came to Pierre, the first real fear of his 
 life. He jerked his head high and looked about 
 him. The room was utterly empty. He tiptoed to 
 the door and found even the long bar deserted, lit- 
 tered with tall bottles and overturned glasses. The 
 cold in his heart increased. A moment before he 
 had been hand in hand with all the mirth in that 
 place. 
 
FEAR 55 
 
 Now the men whose laughter he had repeated 
 with smiles, the men against whose sleeves his el- 
 bow had touched, were further away from him than 
 they had been when all the snow-covered miles from 
 Morgantown to the school of Father Victor had 
 laid between them. They were men who might lose 
 themselves in any crowd, but he was set apart with 
 a brand, even as Hurley and Diaz had been set apart 
 that eventful evening. 
 
 He had killed a man. That fact blotted out the 
 world. He drew his gun again and stole down the 
 length of the bar. Once he stopped and poised the 
 weapon before he realized that the white, fierce face 
 that squinted at him was his own reflection in a 
 mirror. 
 
 Outside the door the free wind caught at his face, 
 and he blessed it in his heart, as if it had been the 
 touch of the hand of a friend. Beyond the long, 
 dark, silent street the moon rose and passed up 
 through the safe, dark spaces of the sky. 
 
 He must move quickly now. The pursuit was 
 not yet organized, but it would begin in a space of 
 minutes. From the group of half a dozen horses 
 which stood before the saloon he selected the best 
 a tall, raw-boned nag with an ugly head. Into the 
 saddle he swung, wondering faintly that the theft 
 of a horse mattered so little to him. His was the 
 greatest sin. All other things mattered nothing. 
 
 Down the long street he galloped. The sharp 
 echoes flew out at him from every unlighted house, 
 but not a human being was in sight. So he swung 
 out onto the long road which wound up through the 
 
56 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 hills, and beside him rode a grim brotherhood, the 
 invisible fellowship of Cain. 
 
 The moon rose higher, brighter, and a grotesque 
 black shadow galloped over the snow beside him. 
 He turned his head sharply to the other side and 
 watched the sweep of white hills which reached back 
 in range after range until they blended with the 
 shadows of night. 
 
 The road faded to a bridle path, and this in turn 
 he lost among the windings of the valley. He was 
 lost from even the traces of men, and yet the fear 
 of men pursued him. Fear, and yet with it there 
 was a thrill of happiness, for every swinging stride 
 of the tall, wild roan carried him deeper into free- 
 dom, the unutterable fierce freedom of the hunted. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE STORM 
 
 ALL life was tame compared with this sudden 
 awakening of Pierre, for his whole being burst into 
 flower, his whole nature opened. He had killed a 
 man. For fear of it he raced the tall roan furiously 
 through the night. 
 
 He had killed a man. For the joy of it his head 
 was high, he shouted a song that went ringing across 
 the blank, white hills. What place was there in Red 
 Pierre for solemn qualms of conscience? Had he 
 not met the first and last test triumphantly? The 
 oldest instinct in creation was satisfied in him. Now 
 he stood ready to say to all the world: Behold, a 
 man! 
 
 Let it be remembered that his early years had 
 been passed in a dull, dun silence, and time had 
 slipped by him with softly padding, uneventful hours. 
 Now, with the rope of restraint snapped, he rode 
 at the world with hands, palm upward, asking for 
 life, and that life which lies under the hills of the 
 mountain-desert heard his question and sent a cold, 
 sharp echo back to answer his lusty singing. 
 
 The first answer, as he plunged on, not knowing 
 where, and not caring, was when the roan reeled 
 suddenly and flung forward to the ground. Even 
 
 57 
 
58 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 that violent stop did not unseat Red Pierre. He 
 jerked up on the reins with a curse and drove in the 
 spurs. Valiantly the horse reared his shoulders up, 
 but when he strove to rise the right foreleg dangled 
 helplessly. He had stepped in some hole and the 
 bone was broken cleanly across. 
 
 The rider slipped from the saddle and stood fac- 
 ing the roan, which pricked its ears forward and 
 struggled once more to regain its feet. The effort 
 was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and 
 felt the rough edges of the splintered bone through 
 the skin. The animal, as if it sensed that the man 
 was trying to do it some good, nosed his shoulder 
 and whinnied softly. 
 
 Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The 
 bullet would do quickly what the cold would accom- 
 plish after lingering hours of torture, yet, facing 
 those pricking ears and the brave trust of the eyes, 
 he was blinded by a mist and could not aim. He 
 had to place the muzzle of the gun against the roan's 
 temple and pull the trigger. When he turned his 
 back he was the only living thing within the white 
 arms of the hills. 
 
 Yet, when the next hill was behind him, he had 
 already forgotten the second life which he put out 
 that night, for regret is the one sorrow which never 
 dodges the footsteps of the hunted. Like all his 
 brotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed for- 
 ward across the mountain-desert with his face turned 
 toward the brave to-morrow. In the evening of his 
 life, if he should live to that time, he would walk 
 and talk with God. 
 
THE VOICE IN THE STORM 59 
 
 Now he had no mind save for the bright day 
 coming. 
 
 He had been riding with the wind and had scarcely 
 noticed its violence in his headlong course. Now 
 he felt it whipping sharply at his back and increas- 
 ing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear, 
 pitilessly clear. It seemed to give vision for the 
 wind and cold to seek him out, and the moon made 
 his following shadow long and black across the 
 snow. 
 
 The wind quickened rapidly to a gale that cut off 
 the surface of the snow and whipped volleys of the 
 small particles level with the surface. It cut the 
 neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his shoul- 
 ders with staggering force like separate blows, 
 twisting him a little from side to side. 
 
 Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it 
 seemed as if the vengeance for Diaz was following 
 the slayer. Once he turned and laughed hard and 
 short in the teeth of the wind, and shook his fist back 
 at Morgantown and all the avenging powers of the 
 law. 
 
 Yet he was glad to turn away from the face of 
 the storm and stride on down-wind. Even traveling 
 with the gale grew more and more impossible. The 
 snowdrifts which the wind picked up and hurried 
 across the hills pressed against Pierre's back like a 
 great, invisible hand, bowing him as if beneath a 
 burden. In the hollows the labor was not so great, 
 but when he approached a summit the gale screamed 
 in his ear and struck him savagely. 
 
 For all his optimism, for all his young, undrained 
 
60 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 strength, a doubt began to grow in the mind of 
 Pierre le Rouge. At length, remembering how that 
 weight of gold came in his pockets, he slipped his 
 left hand into the bosom of his shirt and touched 
 the icy metal of the cross. Almost at once he heard, 
 or thought he heard, a faint, sweet sound of singing. 
 
 The heart of Red Pierre stopped. For he knew 
 the visions which came to men perishing with cold; 
 but he grew calmer again in a moment. This touch 
 of cold was nothing compared with whole months 
 of hard exposure which he had endured in the north- 
 land. It had not the edge. If it were not for the 
 wind it was scarcely a threat to life. Moreover, 
 the singing sounded no more. It had been hardly 
 more than a phrase of music, and it must have been 
 a deceptive murmur of the wind. 
 
 After all, a gale brought wilder deceptions than 
 that. Some men had actually heard voices declaim- 
 ing words in such a wind. He himself had heard 
 them tell their stories. So he leaned forward again 
 and gave his stanch heart to the task. Yet once 
 more he stopped, for this time the singing came 
 clearly, sweetly to him. 
 
 There was no doubt of it now. Of course it was 
 wildly impossible, absurd; but beyond all question 
 he heard the voice of a woman, high and tender, 
 come whistling down the wind. He could almost 
 catch the words. For a little moment he lingered 
 still. Then he turned and fought his way into the 
 strong arms of the storm. 
 
 Every now and then he paused and crouched to 
 the snow. Usually there was only the shriek of the 
 
THE VOICE IN THE STORM 61 
 
 wind in his ears, but a few times the singing came 
 to him and urged him on. If he had allowed the 
 idea of failure to enter his mind, he must have given 
 up the struggle, but failure was a stranger to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 He lowered his head against the storm. Some- 
 times it caught under him and nearly lifted him 
 from his feet. But he clung against the slope of the 
 hill, sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he 
 worked his way to the right, the sound of the sing- 
 ing coming more and more frequently and louder 
 and louder. When he was almost upon the source 
 of the music it ceased abruptly. 
 
 He waited a moment, but no sound came. He 
 struggled forward a few more yards and pitched 
 down exhausted, panting. Still he heard the sing- 
 ing no longer. With a falling heart he rose and re- 
 signed himself to wander on his original course with 
 the wind, but as he started he placed his hand once 
 more against the cross, and it was then that he saw 
 her. 
 
 For he had simply gone past her, and the yelling 
 of the storm had cut off the sound of her voice. 
 Now he saw her lying, a spot of bright color on 
 the snow. He read the story at a glance. As she 
 passed this steep-sided hill the loosely piled snow 
 had slid down and carried with it the dead trunk 
 of a fallen tree. 
 
 Pierre came from behind and stood over her un- 
 noticed. He saw that the oncoming tree, by a 
 strange chance, had knocked down the girl and 
 pinned her legs to the ground. His strength and 
 
62 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 the strength of a dozen men would not be sufficient 
 to release her. This he saw at the first glance, and 
 saw the bright gold of her hair against the snow. 
 Then he dropped on his knees beside her. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BELIEF 
 
 THE girl tossed up her arms in a silent ecstasy, 
 and Pierre caught the small cold hands and saw that 
 she was only a child of twelve or fourteen, lovely 
 as only a child can be, and still more beautiful with 
 the wild storm sweeping over her and the waste of 
 snow around them. 
 
 He crouched lower still, and when he did so the 
 strength of the wind against his face decreased won- 
 derfully, for the sharp angle of the hill's declivity 
 protected them. Seeing him kneel there, helpless 
 with wonder, she cried out with a little wail : "Help 
 me the tree help me !" And, bursting into a pas- 
 sion of sobbing, she tugged her hands from his and 
 covered her face. 
 
 Pierre placed his shoulder under the trunk and 
 lifted till the muscles of his back snapped and 
 cracked. He could not budge the weight; he could 
 not even send a tremor through the mass of wood; 
 He dropped back beside her with a groan. He felt 
 her eyes upon him; she had ceased her sobs, and 
 looked steadily, gravely, into his face. 
 
 It would have been easy for him to meet that look 
 on the morning of this day, but after that night's 
 
 63 
 
64 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 work in Morgantown he had to brace his nerve 
 mightily to withstand it. 
 
 She said: "You can't budge the tree?" 
 
 "Yes in a minute; I will try again." 
 
 "You'll only hurt yourself for nothing. I saw 
 how you strained at it." 
 
 The greatest miracle he had ever seen was her 
 calm. Her eyes were wide and sorrowful indeed, 
 but she was almost smiling up to him. 
 
 After a while he was able to say, in a faint, small 
 voice: "Are you very cold?" 
 
 She answered: "I'm not afraid. But if you stay 
 longer with me, you may freeze. The snow and 
 even the tree help to keep me almost warm ; but you 
 will freeze. Go for help; hurry, and if you can, 
 send it back to me." 
 
 He thought of the long miles back to Morgan- 
 town; no human being could walk that distance 
 against this wind; not even a strong horse could 
 make its way through the storm. If he went on with 
 the wind, how long would it be before he reached a 
 house ? Before him, over range after range of hills, 
 he saw no single sign of a building. If he reached 
 some such place it would be the same story as the 
 trip to Morgantown; men simply could not beat a 
 way against that wind. 
 
 Then a cold hand touched his, and he looked up 
 to find her eyes grave and wide once more, and her 
 lips half smiling, as if she strove to deceive him. 
 
 "There's no chance of bringing help?" 
 
 He merely stared hungrily at her, and the love- 
 liest thing he had ever seen was the play of golden 
 
BELIEF 65 
 
 hair beside her cheek. Her smile went out. She 
 withdrew her hand, but she repeated: 
 
 "I'm not afraid. I'll simply grow numb and then 
 fall asleep. But you go on a'n-d save yourself." 
 
 Seeing him shake his head, she caught his hands 
 again, and so strongly that the chill of her touch 
 filled his veins with an icy fire. 
 
 "I'll be unhappy. You'll make me so unhappy 
 if you stay. Please go." 
 
 He raised the small, white hand and pressed it 
 to his lips. 
 
 She said: "You are crying!" 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "There! I see the tears shining on my hand. 
 What is your name?" 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Pierre? I like that name. Pierre, to make me 
 happy, will you go? Your face is all white and 
 touched with a shadow of blue. It is the cold. Oh, 
 won't you go?" Then she pleaded, finding him ob- 
 durate: "If you won't go for me, then go for your 
 father." 
 
 He raised his head with a sudden laughter, and, 
 raising it, the wind beat into his face fiercely and 
 the particles of snow whipped his skin. 
 
 "Dear Pierre, then for your mother?" 
 
 He bowed his head. 
 
 "Not for all the people who love you and wait 
 for you now by some warm fire some cozy fire, 
 all yellow and bright?" 
 
 He took her hands and with them covered his 
 eyes. 
 
66 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Listen: I have no father; I have no mother." 
 "Pierre! Oh, Pierre, I'm sorry I" 
 "And for the rest of 'em, I've killed a man. The 
 whole world hates me; the whole world's hunting 
 
 me." 
 
 The small hands tugged away. He dared not 
 raise his bowed and miserable head for fear of her 
 eyes. And then the hands came back to him and 
 touched his face. 
 
 She was saying tremulously: "Then he deserved 
 to be killed. There must be men like that almost. 
 And I like you still, Pierre." 
 
 "Really?"' 
 
 "I almost think I like you more because you 
 could kill a man and then stay here for me." 
 
 "If you were a grown-up girl, do you know what 
 I'd say?" 
 
 "Please tell me." 
 
 "That I could love you." 
 
 "Pierre" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My name is Mary Brown." 
 
 He repeated several times: "Mary." 
 
 "And if I were a grown-up girl, do you know 
 what I would answer?" 
 
 "I don't dare guess it." 
 
 "That I could love you, Pierre, if you were a 
 grown-up man." 
 
 "But I am." 
 
 "Not a really one." 
 
 And they both broke into laughter happy laugh- 
 ter that died out before a sound of rushing and of 
 
BELIEF 67 
 
 thunder, as a mass slid swiftly past them, snow and 
 mud and sand and rubble. The wind fell away from 
 them, and when Pierre looked up he saw that a great 
 mass pf tumbled rock and soil loomed above them. 
 
 The landslide had not touched them, by some 
 miracle, but in a moment more it might shake loose 
 again, and all that mass of ton upon ton of stone 
 and loam would overwhelm them. The whole mass 
 quaked and trembled and trembled, and the very 
 hillside shuddered beneath them. 
 
 She looked up and saw the coming ruin; but her 
 cry was for him, not herself. 
 
 "Run, Pierre you can save yourself." 
 
 With that terror threatening him from above, 
 he rose and started to run down the hill. A moan 
 of woe followed him, and he stopped and turned 
 back, and fought his way through the wind until he 
 was beside her once more. 
 
 She was wringing the white, cold hands and 
 weeping: 
 
 "Pierre I couldn't help it but when you left 
 me the whole world went out, and my heart broke. 
 I couldn't help calling out for you; but now I'm 
 strong again, and I won't have you stay. The whole 
 mountain is shaking and falling toward us. Go 
 now, Pierre, and I'll never make a sound to bring 
 you back." 
 
 He said : "Hush ! I've something here which will 
 keep us both safe. Look !" 
 
 He tore from the chain which held it at his throat 
 the little metal cross, and held it high overhead, 
 
68 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 glimmering in the pallid light. She forgot her fear 
 in wonder. 
 
 "I gambled with only one coin to lose, and I came 
 out to-night with hundreds and hundreds of dollars 
 because I had the cross. It is a charm against all 
 danger and against all bad fortune. It has never 
 failed me." 
 
 Over them the piled mass slid closer. The fore- 
 head of Pierre gleamed with sweat, but a strong 
 purpose made him talk on. At least he could take 
 all the foreboding of death from the child, and when 
 the end came it would be swift and wipe them both 
 out at one stroke. She clung to him, eager to be- 
 lieve. 
 
 "I've closed my eyes so that I can believe." 
 
 "It has never failed me. It saved me once when 
 I fought a big bobcat with only a knife. It saved 
 me again when I fought two men. Both of them 
 were famous fighters, but neither of them had the 
 cross. One of them I crippled and the other died. 
 You see, the power of the cross is as great as that. 
 Do you doubt it now, Mary?" 
 
 "Do you believe in it so much really Pierre?" 
 
 Each time there was a little lowering of her voice, 
 a little pause and caress in the tone as she uttered 
 his name, and nothing in all his life had stirred Red 
 Pierre so deeply with happiness and sorrow. 
 
 "Do you believe, Pierre?" she repeated. 
 
 He looked up and saw the shuddering mass of 
 the landslide creeping upon them inch by inch. In 
 another moment it would loose itself with a rush 
 and cover them. 
 
BELIEF 69 
 
 "I believe," he said. 
 
 "If you should live, and I should die " 
 
 "I would throw the cross away." 
 
 "No, you would keep it; and every time it touched 
 cold against your breast you would think of me, 
 Pierre, would you not?" 
 
 "When you reach out to me like that, you sort 
 of take my heart between your hands." 
 
 "And when you look at me like that I feel grown- 
 up and sad and happy both together. But, listen, 
 Pierre, I know why I cannot die now. God means 
 us to be so happy together, doesn't He? Because 
 after we've been together on such a night, how can 
 we ever be apart again?" 
 
 The mass of the landslide toppled right above 
 them. She did not seem to see. 
 
 "Of course we never can be." 
 
 "But we'll be like a brother and sister and some- 
 thing more." 
 
 "And something more, Mary." 
 
 She clapped her hands and laughed. The laugh- 
 ter hurt him more than her sobbing, for as she lay 
 wrapped in her thick furs, even the pale, cold light 
 could not make her pallid. 
 
 The blowing hair was as warm as yellow sunshine 
 to the heart of Pierre le Rouge, and the color of her 
 cheeks was as dear to him as the early flowers of 
 spring in the northland. 
 
 "I'm so happy, Pierre. I was never so happy." 
 
 And he said, with his eyes on the approaching 
 ruin: 
 
70 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "It was your singing that brought me to you. 
 Will you sing again?" 
 
 "I sang because I knew that when I sang the 
 sound would carry farther through the wind than 
 if I called for help. What shall I sing for you now, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "What you sang when I came to you." 
 
 And the light, sweet voice rose easily through 
 the sweep of the wind. She smiled as she sang, and 
 the smile and music were all for Pierre, he knew, 
 and all the pathos of the climax was for him; but 
 through the last stanza of the song the rumble of the 
 approaching death grew louder, and as she ended 
 he threw himself beside her and gathered her into 
 protecting arms. 
 
 She cried: "Pierre! What is it?" 
 
 "I must keep you warm; the snow will eat away 
 your strength." 
 
 "No ; it's more than that. Tell me, Pierre I You 
 don't trust the power of the cross?" 
 
 "Are you afraid?" 
 
 "Oh, no; I'm not afraid, Pierre." 
 
 "If one life would be enough, I'd give mine a thou- 
 sand times. Mary, we are to die." 
 
 A small arm slipped around his neck a cold hand 
 pressed against his cheek. 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The thunder broke above them with a mighty 
 roaring. 
 
 "You have no fear." 
 
 "Mary, if I had died alone I would have dropped 
 
BELIEF 71 
 
 down to hell under my sins; but, with your arm 
 around me, you'll take me with you. Hold me 
 close." 
 
 "With all my heart, Pierre. See Fm not afraid. 
 It is like going to sleep. What wonderful dreams 
 we'll have!" 
 
 And then the black mass of the landslide swept 
 upon them. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 DOWN all the length of the mountain-desert and 
 across its width of rocks and mountains and valleys 
 and stern plateaus there is a saying: "You can tell 
 a man by the horse he rides." For most other im- 
 portant things are apt to go by opposites, which is 
 the usual way in which a man selects his wife. With 
 dogs, for instance a quiet man is apt to want an 
 active dog, and a tractable fellow may keep the most 
 vicious of wolf-dogs. 
 
 But when it comes to a horse, a man's heart 
 speaks for itself, and if he has sufficient knowledge 
 of the king of beasts he will choose a sympathetic 
 mount. A dainty woman loves a neat-stepping sad- 
 dle-horse; a philosopher likes a nodding, stumble- 
 footed nag which will jog all day long and care not 
 a whit whether it goes up dale or down. 
 
 To know the six wild riders who galloped over 
 the white reaches of the mountain-desert this night, 
 certainly their horses should be studied first and 
 the men secondly, for the one explained the other. 
 
 They came in a racing triangle. Even the storm 
 at its height could not daunt such furious riders. At 
 the point of the triangle thundered a mighty black 
 stallion, his muzzle and his broad chest flecked with 
 
RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 73 
 
 white foam, for he stretched his head out and 
 champed at the bit with ears laid flat back, as 
 though even that furious pace gave him no oppor- 
 tunity to use fully his strength. 
 
 He was no cleanly cut beauty, but an ugly headed 
 monster with a savagely hooked Roman nose and 
 small, keen eyes, always red at the corners. A 
 medieval baron in full panoply of plate armor 
 would have chosen such a charger among ten thou- 
 sand steeds, yet the black stallion needed all his 
 strength to uphold the unarmored giant who be- 
 strode him, a savage figure. 
 
 When the broad brim of his hat flapped up against 
 the wind the moonshine caught at shaggy brows, a 
 cruelly arched nose, thin, straight lips, and a for- 
 ward-thrusting jaw. It seemed as if nature had 
 hewn him roughly and designed him for a primitive 
 age where he could fight his way with hands and 
 teeth. 
 
 This was Jim Boone. To his right and a little 
 behind him galloped a riderless horse, a beautiful 
 young animal continually tossing its head and look- 
 ing as if for guidance at the big stallion. 
 
 To the left strode a handsome bay with pricking 
 ears. A mound interfered with his course, and he 
 cleared it in magnificent style that would have 
 brought a cheer from the lips of any English lover 
 of the chase. 
 
 Straight in the saddle sat Dick Wilbur, and he 
 
 * raised his face a little to the wind, smiling faintly 
 
 as if he rejoiced in its fine strength, as handsome as 
 
 the horse he rode, as cleanly cut, as finely bred. The 
 
74 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 moon shone a little brighter on him than on any 
 others of the six stark riders. 
 
 Bud Mansie 'behind, for instance, kept his head 
 slightly to one side and cursed beneath his breath at 
 the storm and set his teeth at the wind. His horse, 
 delicately formed, with long, slender legs, could not 
 have endured that charge against the storm save 
 that it constantly edged behind the leaders and let 
 them break the wind. It carried less weight than 
 any other mount of the six, and its strength was cun- 
 ningly nursed by the rider so that it kept its place, 
 and at the finish it would be as strong as any and 
 swifter, perhaps, for a sudden, short effort, just as 
 Bud Mansie might be numbed through all his nerv- 
 ous, slender body, but never too numb for swift and 
 deadly action. 
 
 On the opposite wing of the flying wedge galloped 
 a dust-colored gray, ragged of mane and tail, and 
 vindictive of eye, like its down-headed rider, who 
 shifted his glance rapidly from side to side and 
 watched the ground closely before his horse as if 
 he were perpetually prepared for danger. 
 
 He distrusted the very ground over which his 
 mount strode. For all this he seemed the least for- 
 midable of all the riders. To see him pass none 
 could have suspected that this was Black Morgan 
 Gandil. 
 
 Last of the crew came two men almost as large 
 as Jim Boone himself, on strong steady-striding 
 horses. They came last in this crew, but among 
 a thousand other long-riders they would have ridden 
 first, either red-faced, good-humored, loud-voiced 
 
RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 75 
 
 Garry Patterson, or Phil Branch, stout-handed, blunt 
 of jaw, who handled men as he had once hammered 
 red iron at the forge. 
 
 Each of them should have ridden alone in order 
 to be properly appreciated. To see them together 
 was like watching a flock of eagles every one of 
 which should have been a solitary lord of the air. 
 But after scanning that lordly train which followed, 
 the more terrible seemed the rider of the great black 
 horse. 
 
 Yet the king was sad, and the reason for his sad- 
 ness was the riderless horse which galloped so freely 
 beside him. His son had ridden that horse when * 
 they set out, and all the way down to the railroad 
 Handsome Hal Boone had kept his mount prancing 
 and curveting and had ridden around and around . 
 tall Dick Wilbur, playing pranks, and had teased 
 his father's black until the big stallion lashed out 
 wildly with furious heels. 
 
 It was the memory of this that kept the grave 
 shadow of a smile on the father's lips for all the 
 sternness of his eyes. He never turned his head, 
 for, looking straight forward, he could conjure up 
 the laughing vision; but when he glanced to the 
 empty saddle he heard once more the last unlucky 
 shot fired from the train as they raced off with their 
 booty, and saw Hal reel in his saddle and pitch for- 
 ward; and how he had tried to check his horse and 
 turn back ; and how big Dick Wilbur, and Patterson, 
 and mighty-handed Phil Branch had forced him to 
 go on and leave that form lying motionless on the 
 snow. 
 
76 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 At that he groaned, and spurred the black, and 
 so the cavalcade rushed faster and faster through 
 the night. 
 
 They came over a sharp ridge and veered to the 
 side just in time, for all the further slope was a mass 
 of treacherous sand and rubble and raw rocks and 
 mud, where a landslide had stripped the hill to the 
 stone. 
 
 As they veered about the ruin and thundered on 
 down to the foot of the hill, Jim Boone threw up 
 his hand for a signal and brought his stallion to a 
 halt on back-braced, sliding legs. 
 
 For a metallic glitter had caught his eye, and then 
 he saw, half covered by the pebbles and dirt, the 
 figure of a man. He must have been struck by the 
 landslide and not overwhelmed by it, but rather 
 carried before it like a stick in a rush of water. At 
 the outermost edge of the wave he lay with the 
 rocks and dirt washed over him. Boone swung from 
 the saddle and lifted Pierre le Rouge. 
 
 The gleam of metal was the cross which his fingers 
 still gripped. Boone examined it with a somewhat 
 superstitious caution, took it from the nerveless fin- 
 gers, and slipped it into a pocket of Pierre's shirt. 
 A small cut on the boy's forehead showed where the 
 stone struck which knocked him senseless, but the 
 cut still bled a small trickle Pierre lived. He 
 even stirred and groaned and opened his eyes, large 
 and deeply blue. 
 
 It was only an instant before they closed, but 
 Boone had seen. He turned with the figure lifted 
 easily in his arms as if Pierre had been a child fallen 
 
RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 77 
 
 asleep by the hearth and now about to be carried 
 off to bed. 
 
 And the outlaw said: "I've lost my boy to-night. 
 This here one was given me by the will of God." 
 
 Black Morgan Gandil reined his horse close by, 
 leaned to peer down, and the shadow of his hat fell 
 across the face of Pierre. 
 
 "There's no good comes of savin' shipwrecked 
 men. Leave him where you found him, Jim. That's 
 my advice. Sidestep a red-headed man. That's 
 what I say." 
 
 The quick-stepping horse of Bud Mansie came 
 near, and the rider wiped his blue, stiff lips, and 
 spoke from the side of his mouth, a prison habit of 
 the line that moves in the lock-step : "Take it from 
 me, Jim, there ain't any place in our crew for a man 
 you've picked up without knowing him beforehand. 
 Let him lay, I say." 
 
 But big Dick Wilbur was already leading up the 
 horse of Hal Boone, and into the saddle Jim Boone 
 swung the inert body of Pierre. The argument was 
 settled, for every man of them knew that nothing 
 could turn Boone back from a thing once begun. 
 Yet there were muttered comments that drew Black 
 Morgan Gandil and Bud Mansie together. 
 
 And Gandil, from the South Seas, growled with 
 averted eyes: 
 
 "This is the most fool stunt the chief has ever 
 pulled." 
 
 "Right, pal," answered Mansie. "You take a 
 snake in out of the cold, and it bites you when it 
 comes to in the warmth; but the chief has started, 
 
78 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 and there ain't nothing that'll make him stop, except 
 maybe God or McGurk." 
 
 And Black Gandil answered with his evil, sudden 
 grin: "Maybe McGurk, but not God." 
 
 They started on again with Garry Patterson and 
 Dick Wilbur riding close on either side of Pierre, 
 supporting his limp body. It delayed the whole 
 gang, for they could not go on faster than a jog- 
 trot. The wind, however, was falling off in vio- 
 lence. Its shrill whistling ceased, at length, and 
 they went on, accompanied only by the harsh crunch- 
 ing of the snow underfoot. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE GUARD 
 
 CONSCIOUSNESS returned to Pierre like the light 
 of the rising moon which breaks dimly through the 
 window and makes all the objects in a room gro- 
 tesquely large and blackly shadowed. Many a time 
 his eyes opened, and he saw nothing, but when he 
 did see and hear it was by vague glimpses. 
 
 He heard the crying crunch of the snow under- 
 foot; he heard the panting and snorting of the 
 horses; he felt the swing and jolt of the saddle be- 
 neath him ; he saw the grim faces of the long-riders, 
 and he said: "The law has taken me." 
 
 Thereafter he let his will lapse, and surrendered 
 to the sleepy numbness which assailed his brain in 
 waves. He was riding without support by this time, 
 but it was an automatic effort. There was no more 
 real life in him than in a dummy figure. It was not 
 the effect of the blow. It was rather the long ex- 
 posure and the over-exertion of nerves and mind 
 and body during the evening and night. He had 
 simply collapsed beneath the strain. 
 
 But an old army man has said: "Give me a soldier 
 of eighteen or twenty. In a single day he may not 
 march quite so far as a more mature man or carry 
 quite so much weight. He will go to sleep each 
 
 79 
 
8o RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 night dead to the world. But in the morning he 
 awakens a new man. He is like a slate from which 
 all the writing has been erased. He is ready for a 
 new day and a new world. Thirty days of cam- 
 paigning leaves him as strong and fresh as ever. 
 
 "Thirty days of campaigning leaves the old sol- 
 dier a wreck. Why? Because as a man grows older 
 he loses the ability to sleep soundly. He carries the 
 nervous strain of one day over to the next. Life is 
 a serious problem to a man over thirty. To a man 
 under thirty it is simply a game. For my part, give 
 me men who can play at war." 
 
 So it was with Pierre le Rouge. He woke with a 
 faint heaviness of head, and stretched himself. 
 There were many sore places, but nothing more. He 
 looked up, and the slant winter sun cut across his 
 face and made a patch of bright yellow on the wall 
 beside him. 
 
 Next he heard a faint humming, and, turning his 
 head, saw a boy of fourteen or perhaps a little more, 
 busily cleaning a rifle in a way that betokened the 
 rnost expert knowledge of the weapon. Pierre him- 
 self knew rifles as a preacher knows his Bible, and as 
 he lay half awake and half asleep he smiled with en- 
 joyment to see the deft fingers move here and there, 
 wiping away the oil. A green hand will spend half 
 a day cleaning a gun, and then do the work imper- 
 fectly; an expert does the job efficiently in ten min- 
 utes. This was an expert. 
 
 Undoubtedly this was a true son of the mountain 
 desert. He wore his old slouch hat even in the 
 house, and his skin was that olive brown which comes 
 
THE GUARD 81 
 
 from many years of exposure to the wind and sun. 
 At the same time there was a peculiar fineness about 
 the boy. His feet were astonishingly small and the 
 hands thin and slender for all their supple strength. 
 And his neck was not bony, as it is in most youths 
 at this gawky age, but smoothly rounded. 
 
 Men grow big of bone and sparse of flesh in the 
 mountain desert. It was the more surprising to 
 Pierre to see this young fellow with the marvelously 
 delicate-cut features. By some freak of nature here 
 was a place where the breed ran to high blood. 
 
 The cleaning completed, the boy tossed the butt 
 of the gun to his shoulder and squinted down the bar- 
 rel. Then he loaded the magazine, weighted the 
 gun deftly at the balance, and dropped the rifle 
 across his knees. 
 
 "Morning," said Pierre le Rouge cheerily, and 
 swung off the bunk to the floor. "How old's the 
 gun?" 
 
 The boy, without the slightest show of excitement, 
 snapped the butt to his shoulder and drew a bead 
 on Pierre's breast. 
 
 "Sit down before you get all heated up," said a 
 musical voice. "There's nobody waiting for you 
 on horseback." 
 
 And Pierre sat down, partly because Western 
 men never argue a point when that little black hole 
 is staring them in the face, partly because he remem- 
 bered with a rush that the last time he had fully 
 possessed his consciousness he had been lying in the 
 snow with the cross gripped hard and the toppling 
 mass of the landslide above him. All that had hap- 
 
82 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 pencd between was blotted from his memory. He 
 fumbled at his throat. The cross was not there. 
 He touched his pockets. 
 
 "Ease your hands away from your hip," said the 
 cold voice of the boy, who had dropped his gun to 
 the ready with a significant finger curled around the 
 trigger, u or I'll drill you clean. 7 * 
 
 Pierre obediently raised his hands to the level of 
 his shoulders. The boy sneered, and a light of in- 
 finite scorn blazed into those great black eyes. 
 
 "This isn't a hold-up," he explained. "Put 'em 
 down again, but watch yourself." 
 
 The sneer varied to a contemptuous smile. 
 
 "I guess you're tame, all right." 
 
 "Point that gun another way, will you, son?" 
 
 The boy started and flushed a little. 
 
 "Don't call me son." 
 
 "Is this a lockup a jail?" 
 
 "This?" 
 
 "What is it, then? The last I remember I was 
 lying in the snow with " 
 
 "I wish to God you'd been let there," said the boy 
 bitterly. 
 
 But Pierre, overwhelmed with the endeavor to 
 recollect, rushed on with his questions and paid no 
 heed to the tone. 
 
 "I had a cross in my hand " 
 
 The scorn of the boy grew to mighty proportions. 
 
 "It's there in the breast-pocket of your shirt." 
 
 Pierre drew out the little cross, and the touch of 
 it against his palm restored whatever of his strength 
 was lacking. Very carefully he attached it to the 
 
THE GUARD 83 
 
 chain about his throat. Then he looked up to the 
 contempt of the boy, and as he did so another mem- 
 ory burst on him and brought him to his feet. The 
 gun went to the boy's shoulders at the same time. 
 
 "When I was found was any one else with me?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 "Must have been buried in the landslide. Half a 
 hill caved in, and the dirt rolled you down to the 
 bottom. Plain luck, that's all, that kept you from 
 going out." 
 
 "Luck?" said Pierre and he laid his hand against 
 his breast where he could feel the outline of the 
 cross. "Yes, I suppose it was luck. And she " 
 
 He sat down slowly and buried his face in his 
 hands. A new tone came in the voice of the boy. 
 His tone was thrillingly gentle as he asked : "Was a 
 woman with you?" But Pierre heard only the tone 
 and not the words. His face was gray when he 
 looked up again, and his voice hard. 
 
 "Tell me as briefly as you can how I come here, 
 ind who picked me up." 
 
 "My father and his men. They passed you lying 
 on the snow. They brought you home." 
 
 "Who is your father?" 
 
 The boy stiffened and his color rose in pride and 
 defiance. 
 
 "My father is Jim Boone." 
 
 Instinctively, while he stared, the right hand of 
 Pierre le Rouge crept toward his hip. 
 
 "Keep your hand steady/ 1 said the boy. U I got a 
 
84 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 nervous trigger-finger. Yeh, dad is pretty well 
 known." 
 
 "You're his son?" 
 
 "I'm Jack Boone." 
 
 "But I've heard tell me, do you look like your 
 father?" 
 
 Jack Boone smiled, strove to frown, and then 
 burst into surprisingly musical laughter. It came 
 in bursts and ripples, and seemed that it would never 
 end. His merriment ended slowly, for he saw the 
 eyes of Pierre stare into blank distance, and knew 
 that the man with the red hair was thinking of the 
 woman whom the landslide had buried. Something 
 that was partially sympathy and partially curiosity 
 altered Jack's expression. 
 
 After all, it was very difficult to remain hostile in 
 front of the steady blue eyes of this stranger. 
 
 Pierre said gravely: "Why am I under guard?" 
 
 Jack was instantly aflame with the old anger. 
 
 "Not because I want you here." 
 
 "Who does?" 
 
 "Dad." 
 
 "Put away your pop-gun and talk sense. I won't 
 try to get away until Jim Boone comes. I only fight 
 men." 
 
 Even the anger and grief of the boy could not 
 keep him from smiling in his peculiarly winning 
 way. 
 
 "Just the same I'll keep the shooting-iron handy. 
 Sit still. A gun don't keep me from talking sense, 
 does it? You're here to take Hal's place. Hal!" 
 
 The little wail told a thousand things, and Pierre, 
 
THE GUARD 85 
 
 shocked out of the thought of his own troubles, 
 waited. 
 
 "My brother, Hal; he's dead; he died last night, 
 and on the way back dad found you and brought 
 you to take Hal's place. Hal's place!" 
 
 The accent showed how impossible it was that 
 Hal's place could be taken by any mortal man. 
 
 "I got orders to keep you here, but if I was to 
 do what I'd like to do, I'd give you the best horse 
 on the place and tell you to clear out. That's me !" 
 
 "Then do it." 
 
 "And face dad afterward?" 
 
 "Tell him I overpowered you. That would be 
 easy; you a slip of a boy, and me a man." 
 
 "Stranger, it goes to show you may have heard of 
 Jim Boone, but you don't anyways know him. When 
 he orders a thing done he wants it done, and he 
 don't care how, and he don't ask questions why. He 
 just raises hell." 
 
 "He really expects to keep me here?" 
 
 "Expects? He will." 
 
 "Going to tie me up?" asked Pierre ironically. 
 
 "Maybe," answered Jack, overlooking the irony. 
 "Maybe he'll just put you on my shoulders to 
 guard." 
 
 He moved the gun significantly. 
 
 "And I can do it." 
 
 "Of course. But he would have to let me go some 
 time." 
 
 "Not till you'd promised to stick by him. I told 
 him that myself, but he said that you're young and 
 that he'd teach you to like this life whether you 
 
86 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 wanted to or not. Me speaking personally, I agree 
 with Black Gandil: This is the worst fool thing that 
 dad has ever done. What do we want with you 
 in Hal's place!' 1 
 
 And a suggestion of a sob came in Jack's voice, 
 though he set his teeth to keep it back. 
 
 u But I've got a thing to do right away to-day; 
 it can't wait. 
 
 "Give dad your word to come back and he'll let 
 you go. He says you're the kind that will keep your 
 word. You see, he found you with a cross in your 
 hand." 
 
 And Jack's lips curled again. 
 
 It was all absurd, too impossible to be real. The 
 only real things were the body of white-handed, yel- 
 low-haired Mary Brown under the tumbled rocks 
 and dirt of the landslide, and the body of Martin 
 Ryder waiting to be placed in that corner plot where 
 the grass grew quicker than all other grass in the 
 spring of the year. 
 
 However, having fallen among madmen, he must 
 use cunning to get away before the outlaw and his 
 men came back from wherever they had gone. 
 Otherwise there would be more bloodshed, more 
 play of guns and hum of lead. 
 
 "Tell me of Hal," he said, and dropped his el- 
 bows on his knees as if he accepted his fate. 
 
 "Don't know you well enough to talk of Hal." 
 
 "I'm sorry." ' 
 
 The boy made a little gesture of apology. 
 
 "I guess that was a low-down mean thing to say. 
 Sure I'll tell you about Hal if I can." 
 
THE GUARD 87 
 
 For his lips trembled at the thought of the dead. 
 
 "Tell me anything you can," said Pierre gently, 
 "because I've got to try to be like him, haven't I?" 
 
 "You could try till rattlers got tame, but it'd take 
 ten like you to make one like Hal. He was dad's 
 own son he was my brother." 
 
 The sob came openly now, and the tears were a 
 bright mist in the boy's eyes. 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Pierre? I suppose I got to learn it" 
 
 "I suppose so." And he edged farther forward, 
 so that he was sitting only on the edge of the bunk. 
 
 ^Please do." And he gathered his feet under 
 him, ready for a spring forward and a grip at the 
 boy's threatening rifle. 
 
 Jack had canted his head a little to one side, smil- 
 ing faintly for the joy of the memory. 
 
 "Did you ever see a horse that was gentle and yet 
 had never been ridden, or his spirit broke, Pierre " 
 
 Here Pierre made his leap swift as some bobcat 
 of the northern woods; his hand whipped out as 
 lightning fast as the striking paw of the lynx, and the 
 gun was jerked from the hands of Jack. Not before 
 the boy clutched at it with a cry of horror, but the 
 force of the pull sent him lurching to the floor and 
 broke his grip. 
 
 He was up in an instant, however, and a knife 
 of ugly length glittered in his hand; as he sprang at 
 Pierre his lips were as white as the teeth over which 
 they snarled. 
 
 Pierre tossed aside the rifle and met the attack 
 
S8 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 bare-handed. Deadly swift was the thrust of the 
 knife, but compared with the motion of Pierre it was 
 as slow as tame things are when they are likened to 
 the wild. 
 
 He caught the knife-bearing hand at the wrist 
 and under his grip the hand loosened its hold and the 
 steel tinkled on the floor. His other arm caught the 
 body of Jack in a mighty vise. 
 
 There was a brief and futile struggle, and a hiss- 
 ing of breath in the silence till the hat tumbled from 
 the head of Jack arfd down over the shoulders 
 streamed a torrent of silken black hair. 
 
 Pierre stepped back. This was the meaning, 
 then, of the strangely small feet and hands and the 
 low music of the voice. It was the body of a girl 
 that he had held, and his arm still tingled from the 
 finger-tips to the shoulder. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 JACK GROWS UP 
 
 IT was not fear nor shame that made the eyes of 
 Jacqueline so wide as she stared past Pierre toward 
 the door. He glanced across his shoulder, and 
 blocking the entrance to the room, literally filling the 
 doorway, was the bulk of Jim Boone. 
 
 "Seems as if I was sort of steppin' in on a little 
 family party," he said. "I'm sure glad you two 
 got acquainted so quick. Jack, how did you and 
 What the hell's your name, lad?" 
 
 "He tricked me, dad, or he would never have 
 got the gun away from me. This this Pierre 
 this beast he got me to talk of Hal till my eyes 
 filled up and I couldn't see. Then he stole " 
 
 "The point," said Jim Boone coldly, "is that he 
 got the gun. Run along, Jack. You ain't so growed 
 up as I was thinkin'. Or hold on maybe you're 
 more grown up. Which is it? Are you turnin' into 
 a woman, Jack?" 
 
 She whirled on Pierre in a white fury. 
 
 "You see? You see what you've done? He'll 
 never trust me again never! Pierre, I hate you. 
 I'll always hate you. And if Hal were here " 
 
 A storm of sobs and tears cut her short, and she 
 
 89 
 
90 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 disappeared through the door. Boone and Pierre 
 stood regarding each other critically. 
 
 The boy spoke first: "You're not as big as I ex- 
 pected." 
 
 "I'm plenty big; but you're older than I thought." 
 
 "Too old for what you want of me. The girl 
 told me what that was." 
 
 "Not too old to be made what I want." 
 
 And his hands passed through a significant gesture 
 of moulding the empty air. The boy met his eye 
 dauntlessly. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that I've a pretty small 
 chance of getting away." 
 
 "Just about none, Pierre. Come here." 
 
 Pierre stepped closer and looked down the hall 
 into another room. There, about a table, sat the 
 five grimmest riders of the mountain desert that he 
 had even seen. They were such men as one could 
 judge at a glance, and Pierre made that instinctive 
 motion for his six-gun. 
 
 "The. girl," Jim Boone was saying, "kept you 
 pretty busy tryin' to make a break, and if she could 
 do anything maybe you'd have a pile of trouble with 
 one of them guardin' you. But if I'd had a good 
 look at you, lad, I'd never have let Jack take the job 
 of guardin' you." 
 
 "Thanks," answered Pierre dryly. 
 
 "You got reason; I can see that. Here's the 
 point, Pierre. I know young men because I can re- 
 member pretty close what I was at your age. I 
 wasn't any ladies' lap dog, at that, but time and 
 
JACK GROWS UP 91 
 
 older men molded me the way I'm going to mold 
 you. Understand?" 
 
 Pierre was nerved for many things, but the last 
 word made him stir. It roused in him a red-tinged 
 desire to get through the forest of black beard at 
 the throat of Boone and dim the glitter of those 
 keen eyes. It brought him also another thought. 
 
 Two great tasks lay before him: the burial of 
 his father and the avenging of him on McGurk. 
 As to the one, he knew it would be childish madness 
 for him to attempt to bury his father in Morgan- 
 town with only his single hand to hold back the pow- 
 ers of the law or the friends of the notorious Diaz 
 and crippled Hurley. 
 
 And for the other, it was even more vain to 
 imagine that through his own unaided power he 
 could strike down a figure of such almost legendary 
 terror as McGurk. The bondage of the gang might 
 be a terrible thing through the future, but the pres- 
 ent need blinded him to what might come. 
 
 He said: "Suppose I stop raising questions or 
 making a fight, but give you my hand and call my- 
 self a member " 
 
 "Of the family? Exactly. If you did that I'd 
 know it was because you were wantin' something, 
 Pierre, eh?" 
 
 "Two things." 
 
 "Lad, I like this way of talk. One two you hit 
 quick like a two-gun man. Well, I'm used to paying 
 high for what I get. What's up?" 
 
 "The first " 
 
92 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Wait Can I help you out by myself, or do you 
 need the gang?" 
 
 "The gang." 
 
 "Then come, and I'll put it up to them. You 
 first. 11 
 
 It was equally courtesy and caution, and Pierre 
 smiled faintly as he went first through the door. He 
 stood in a moment under the eyes of five silent men. 
 
 The booming voice of Jim Boone pronounced: 
 "This is Pierre. He'll be one of us if he can get the 
 gang to do two things. I ask you, will you hear him 
 for me, and then pass on whether or not you try his 
 game?" 
 
 They nodded. There were no greetings to ac- 
 knowledge the introduction. They waited, eyeing 
 the youth with distrust. 
 
 Pierre eyed them in turn, and then he spoke 
 directly to big Dick Wilbur. 
 
 "Here's the first : I want to bury a man in Mor- 
 gantown and I need help to do it." 
 
 Black Gandil snarled: "You heard me, boys; 
 blood to start with. Who's the man you want us 
 to put out?" 
 
 "He's dead my father." 
 
 They came up straight in their chairs like trained 
 actors rising to a stage crisis. The snarl straight- 
 ened on the lips of Black Morgan Gandil. 
 
 "He's lying in his house a few miles out of Mor- 
 gantown. As he died he told me that he wanted 
 to be buried in a corner plot in the Morgantown 
 graveyard. He'd seen the place and counted it for 
 his a good many years because he said the grass 
 
JACK GROWS UP 93 
 
 grew quicker there than any other place, after the 
 
 snow went." 
 
 "A damned good reason," said Garry Patterson. 
 As the idea stuck more deeply into his imagination 
 he smashed his fist down on the table so that the 
 crockery on it danced. U A damned good reason, 
 say I!" 
 
 "Who's your father?" asked Dick Wilbur, who 
 eyed Pierre more critically but with less enmity than 
 the rest. 
 
 "Martin Ryder." 
 
 "A ringer !" cried Bud Mansie, and he leaned for* 
 ward alertly. "You remember what I said, Jim?" 
 
 "Shut up. Pierre, talk soft and talk quick. We 
 all know Mart Ryder had only two sons and you're 
 not either of them." 
 
 The Northener grew stiff and as his face grew 
 pale the red mark where the stone had struck his 
 forehead stood out like a danger signal. 
 
 He said slowly: "I'm his son, but not by the 
 mother of those two." 
 
 "Was he married twice?" 
 
 Pierre was paler still, and there was an uneasy 
 twitching of his right hand which every man under- 
 stood. 
 
 He barely whispered. "No; damn youl" 
 
 But Black Gandil loved evil. 
 
 He said, with a marvelously unpleasant smile: 
 "Then she was " 
 
 The voice of Dick Wilbur cut in like the snapping 
 of a whip: "Shut up, Gandil, you devil 1" 
 
94 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 There were times when not even Boone would 
 cross Wilbur, and this was one of them. 
 
 Pierre went on: "The reason I can't go to Mor- 
 gantown is that I'm not very well liked by some of 
 the men there.'* 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "When my father died there was no money to pay 
 for his burial. I had only a half-dollar piece. I 
 went to the town and gambled and won a great deal. 
 But before I came out I got mixed up with a man 
 called Hurley, a professional gambler." 
 
 "And Diaz?" queried a chorus. 
 
 "Yes. Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz 
 died. I think I'm wanted in Morgantown." 
 
 Out of a little silence came the voice of Black 
 Gandil: "Dick, I'm thankin' you now for cuttin' me 
 so short a minute ago." 
 
 Phil Branch had not spoken, as usual, but now 
 he repeated, with rapt, far-off eyes : " 'Hurley was 
 hurt in the wrist and Diaz died?' Hurley and 
 Diaz ! I played with Hurley, a couple of times." 
 
 "Speakin' personal," said Garry Patterson, his 
 red verging toward purple in excitement, "which I'm 
 ready to go with you down to Morgantown and bury 
 your father." 
 
 "And do it shipshape," added Black Gandil. 
 
 "With all the trimmings," said Bud Mansie, 
 "with all Morgantown joinin' the mournin' volun- 
 tarily under cover of our six-guns." 
 
 "Wait," said Boone. "What's the second re- 
 quest?" 
 
 "That can wait." 
 
JACK GROWS UP 95 
 
 "It's a bigger job than this one?" 
 
 "Lots bigger." 
 
 "And in the mean time?" 
 
 "I'm your man." 
 
 They shook hands. Even Black Gandil rose to 
 take his share in the ceremony all save Bud Man- 
 sie, who had glanced out the window a moment be- 
 fore and then silently left the room. A bottle of 
 whiskey was produced and glasses filled all round. 
 Jim Boone brought in the seventh chair and placed 
 it at the table. They raised their glasses. 
 
 "To the empty chair," said Boone. 
 
 They drank, and for the first time in his life, the 
 liquid fire went down the throat of Pierre. He set 
 down his glass, coughing, and the others laughed 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 "Started down the wrong way?" asked Wilbur. 
 
 "It's beastly stuff; first I ever drank." 
 
 A roar of laughter answered him. 
 
 "Still I got an idea," broke in Jim Boone, "that 
 he's worthy of takin' the seventh chair. Draw it 
 up lad." 
 
 Vaguely it reminded Pierre of a scene in some 
 old play with himself in the role of the hero signing 
 away his soul to the devil, but an interruption kept 
 him from taking the chair. There was a racket at 
 the door a half-sobbing, half-scolding voice, and 
 the laughter of a man; then Bud Mansie appeared 
 carrying Jack in spite of her struggles. He placed 
 her on the floor and held her hands to protect him- 
 self from her fury. 
 
 "I glimpsed her through the window," he ex- 
 
96 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 plained. "She was lining out for the stable and 
 then a minute later I saw her swing a saddle onto 
 what horse d'you think?" 
 
 "Out with it." 
 
 "Jim's big Thunder. Yep, she stuck the saddle 
 on big black Thunder and had a rifle in the holster. 
 I saw there was hell brewing somewhere, so I went 
 out and nabbed her." 
 
 "Jack!" called Jim Boone. "What were you 
 started for?" 
 
 Bud Mansie released her arms and she stood 
 with them stiffening at her sides and her small 
 brown fists clenched. 
 
 "Hal he died, and there was nothing but talk 
 about him nothing done. You got a live man in 
 Hal's place." 
 
 She pointed an accusing finger at Pierre. 
 
 "Maybe he takes his place for you, but he's not 
 my brother I hate him. I went out to get another 
 man to make up for Pierre." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "A dead man. I shoot straight enough for that." 
 
 A very solemn silence spread through the room; 
 for every man was watching in the eyes of the father 
 and daughter the same shining black devil of wrath. 
 
 "Jack, get into your room and don't move out of 
 it till I tell you to. D'you hear?" 
 
 She turned on her heel like a soldier and marched 
 from the room. 
 
 "Jack." 
 
 She stopped in the door but would not turn back, 
 
JACK GROWS UP j 7 
 
 and still the room, watching that little tragedy, was 
 breathless. 
 
 "Jack, don't you love your old dad any more?" 
 
 She whirled and ran to him with outstretched arms 
 and clung to him, sobbing. 
 
 u Oh, dad dear dad," she groaned. "You've 
 broken my heart; youVe broken my heart!" 
 
 The others filed softly out of the room and stood 
 bareheaded under the winter sky. 
 
 Bud Mansie, his meager face transformed with 
 wonder, said: "Fellers, what d'you know about it? 
 Our Jack's grown up." 
 
 And Black Gandil answered: "Look at this Pierre 
 frowning at the ground. It was him that changed 
 her. 11 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE BURIAL 
 
 THE annals of the mountain desert have never 
 been written and can never be written. They are 
 merely a vast mass of fact and tradition and imagin- 
 ing which floats from tongue to tongue from the 
 Rockies to the Sierra Nevadas. A man may be a 
 fact all his life and die only a local celebrity. Then 
 again, he may strike sparks from that imagination 
 which runs riot by camp-fires and at the bars of the 
 crossroads saloons. 
 
 In that case he becomes immortal. It is not that 
 lies are told about him or impossible feats ascribed 
 to him, but every detail about him is seized upon 
 and passed on with a most scrupulous and loving 
 care. 
 
 In due time he will become a tradition. That is, 
 he will be known familiarly at widely separated parts 
 of the range, places which he has never visited. It 
 has happened to a few of the famous characters of 
 the mountain desert that they became traditions be- 
 fore their deaths. It happened to McGurk, of 
 course. It also happened to Red Pierre. 
 
 Oddly enough, the tradition of Red Pierre did 
 not begin with his ride from the school of Father 
 Victor to Morgantown, distant many days of difficult 
 
 98 
 
THE BURIAL 99 
 
 and dangerous travel. Neither did tradition seize 
 on the gun fight that crippled Hurley and "put out" 
 wizard Diaz. These things were unquestionably 
 known to many, but they did not strike the popular 
 imagination. What set men first on fire was the way 
 Pierre le Rouge buried his father "at the point of 
 the gun" in Morgantown. 
 
 That day Boone's men galloped out of the higher 
 mountains down the trail toward Morgantown. 
 They stole a wagon out of a ranch stable on the way 
 and tied two lariats to the tongue. So they towed 
 it, bounding and rattling, over the rough trail to the 
 house where Martin Ryder lay dead. 
 
 His body was placed in state in the body of the 
 wagon, pillowed with everything in the line of cloth 
 which the house could furnish. Thus equipped they 
 went on at a more moderate pace toward Morgan- 
 town. 
 
 What followed it is useless to repeat here. Tra- 
 dition rehearsed every detail of that day's work, and 
 the purpose of this narrative is only to give the de- 
 tails of some of the events which tradition does 
 not know, at least in their entirety. 
 
 They started at one end of Morgantown's street. 
 Pierre guarded the wagon in the center of the street 
 and kept the people under cover of his rifle. The 
 rest of Boone's men cleaned out the houses as they 
 went and sent the occupants piling out to swell the 
 crowd. 
 
 And so they rolled the crowd out of town and to 
 the cemetery, where "volunteers" dug the grave of 
 
ioo RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Martin Ryder wide and deep, and Pierre paid for 
 the corner plot three times over in gold. 
 
 Then a coffin improvised hastily for the occasion 
 out of a packing-box was lowered reverently, also 
 by "volunteer" mourners, and before the first sod 
 fell on the dead, Pierre borrowed a long black cloak 
 from one of the women and wrapped himself in it, 
 in lieu of the robe of the priest, and raised over his 
 head the crucifix of Father Victor that brought 
 good luck, and intoned a service in the purest Cicer- 
 onian Latin, surely, that ever regaled the ears of 
 Morgantown's elect. 
 
 The moment he raised that cross the bull throat 
 of Jim Boone bellowed a command, the poised guns 
 of the gang enforced it, and all the crowd dropped 
 to their knees, leaving the six outlaws scattered about 
 the edges of the mob like sheep dogs around a fold- 
 ing flock, while in the center stood Pierre with white, 
 upturned face and the raised cross. 
 
 So Martin Ryder was buried with "trimmings," 
 and the gang rode back, laughing and shouting, 
 through the town and up into the safety of the 
 mountains. Election day was fast approaching and 
 therefore the rival candidates for sheriff hastily or- 
 ganized posses and made the usual futile pursuit. 
 
 In fact, before the pursuit was well under way, 
 Boone and his men sat at their supper table in the 
 cabin. The seventh chair was filled; all were present 
 except Jack, who sulked in her room. Pierre went 
 to her door and knocked. He carried under his 
 arm a package which he had secured in the General 
 Merchandise Store of Morgantown. 
 
THE BURIAL 101 
 
 "We're all waiting for you at the table," he ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "Just keep on waiting," said the husky roice of 
 Jacqueline. 
 
 "If I leave the table will you come out?" 
 
 She stammered: "Ye n-no!" 
 
 "Yes or no?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" 
 
 And he heard the stamp of her foot and smiled 
 a little. 
 
 "I've brought you a present." 
 
 "I hate your presents !" 
 
 "It's a thing you've wanted for a long time, Jac- 
 queline." 
 
 Only a stubborn silence. 
 
 "I'm putting your door a little ajar." 
 
 "If you dare to come in I'll " 
 
 "And I'm leaving the package right here at the 
 entrance. I'm so sorry, Jacqueline, that you hate 
 
 me." 
 
 And then he walked off down the hall cunning 
 Pierre before she could send her answer like an 
 arrow after him. At the table he arranged an 
 eighth plate and drew up a chair before it. 
 
 "If that's for Jack," remarked Dick Wilbur, 
 "you're wasting your time. I know her and I know 
 her type. She'll never come out to the table to- 
 night nor to-morrow, either. I know!" 
 
 In fact, he knew a good deal too much about girls 
 and women also, did Wilbur, and that was why 
 he rode the long trails of the mountain-desert with 
 Boone and his men. Far south and east in the Ba- 
 
102 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 hamas a great mansion stood vacant because he was 
 gone, and the dust lay thick on the carpets and 
 powdered the curtains and tapestries with a common 
 gray. 
 
 He had built it and furnished it for a woman 
 he loved, and afterward for her sake he had killed 
 a man and fled from a posse and escaped in the 
 steerage of a west-bound ship. Still the law fol- 
 lowed him, and he kept on west and west until he 
 reached the mountain-desert which thinks nothing 
 of swallowing men and their reputations. 
 
 There he was safe, but some day he would see 
 some woman smile, catch the glimmer of some eye, 
 and throw safety away to ride after her. 
 
 It was a weakness, but what made a tragic figure 
 of handsome Dick Wilbur was that he knew his 
 weakness and sat still and let fate walk up and 
 overtake him. 
 
 Yet Pierre le Rouge answered this man of sorrow- 
 ful wisdom: u ln my part of the country men say: 
 'If you would speak of women let money talk for 
 you.'" 
 
 And he placed a gold piece on the table. 
 
 "She will come out to the supper table." 
 
 "She will not," smiled Wilbur, and covered the 
 coin. "Will you take odds?" 
 
 "No charity. Who else will bet?" 
 
 "I," said Jim Boone instantly. "You figure her 
 for an ordinary sulky kid." 
 
 Pierre smiled upon him. 
 
 "There's a cut in my shirt where her knife passed 
 
y THE BURIAL 103 
 
 through; and that's the reason that I'll bet on her 
 
 now." 
 
 The whole table covered his coin, with laughter. 
 
 "We've kept one part of your bargain, Pierre. 
 We've seen your father buried in the corner plot. 
 Now, what's the second part?" 
 
 "I don't know you well enough to ask you that," 
 said Pierre. 
 
 They plied him with suggestions. 
 
 "To rob the Berwin Bank?" 
 
 "Stick up a train?" 
 
 "No. That's nothing." 
 
 "Round up the sheriffs from here to the end of 
 the mountains?" 
 
 "Too easy." 
 
 "Roll all those together," said Pierre, "and you'll 
 begin to get an idea of what I'll ask." 
 
 Then a low voice called from the black throat of 
 the hall "Pierre!" 
 
 The others were silent, but Pierre winked at 
 them, and made great flourish with knife and fork 
 against his plate as if to cover the sound of Jac- 
 queline's voice. 
 
 "Pierre!" she called again. "I've come to thank 
 you." 
 
 He jumped up and turned toward the hall. 
 
 "Do you like it?" 
 
 "It's a wonder!" 
 
 "Then we' re friends?" 
 
 "If you want to be." 
 
 "There's nothing I want more. Then you'll come 
 out and have supper with us, Jack?" 
 
io 4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Pierre" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'm ashamed. I've been acting like a silly kid." 
 
 "But we're waiting for you." 
 
 There was a little pause, and then Jim Boone 
 struck his fist on the table and cursed, for she 
 stepped from the darkness into the flaring light of 
 the room. 
 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A TALE OF THE SLEDGE 
 
 SHE wore a cartridge belt slung jauntily across 
 her hips and from it hung a holster of stiff new 
 leather with the top flap open to show the butt of 
 a man-sized forty-five caliber six-shooter her first 
 gun. Not a man of the gang but had loaned her his 
 guns time and again, but they had never dreamed of 
 giving the child a weapon of her own. 
 
 So they stared at her agape, where she stood with 
 her head back, one slender hand resting on her hip, 
 one hovering about the butt of the gun, as if she 
 challenged them to question her right to be called 
 
 "man." 
 
 It was as if she abandoned all claims to femininity 
 with that single step ; the gun at her side made her 
 seem inches taller and years older. She was no 
 longer a child, but a long-rider who could back any 
 horse on the range and shoot with the best. 
 
 One glance she cast about the room to drink in 
 the amazement of the gang, and then with a pro- 
 found instinct guiding her, she picked out the best 
 critic in the room and said to him with a frown: 
 "Well, Dick, how's it hang?" 
 
 The big man was as flushed as the girl. 
 105 
 
106 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Hangs like a charm," he said, "a charm that '11 
 be apt to make men step about." 
 
 And her father broke in rather hoarsely: "Sit 
 down, girl. Sit down and be one of us. One of 
 us you are by your own choice from this day on. 
 You're neither man nor woman, but a long-rider 
 with every man's hand against you. You've done 
 with any hope of a home or of friends. You're one 
 of us. Poor Jack my girl !" 
 
 "Poor?" she returned. "Not while I can make a 
 quick draw and shoot straight." 
 
 And then she swept the circle of eyes, daring them 
 to take her boast lightly, but they knew her too well, 
 and were all solemnly silent. At this she relented 
 somewhat, and went directly to Pierre, flushing from 
 throat to hair. She held out her hand. 
 
 "Will you shake and call it square?" 
 
 "I sure will," nodded Pierre. 
 
 "And we're pals you and me, like the rest of 
 'em?" 
 
 "We are." 
 
 "Shake again." 
 
 She took the place beside him. 
 
 Garry Patterson was telling how he had said fare- 
 well to a Swedish sweetheart, and the roar of 
 laugher took the eyes away from Jacqueline for a 
 moment. So she leaned to Pierre le Rouge and 
 whispered at his ear: "Pierre you've made me the 
 happiest fellow on the range." 
 
 As the whisky went round after round and the 
 fun waxed higher the two seemed shut away from 
 the others; they were younger, less touched and 
 
A TALE OF THE SLEDGE 107 
 
 marked by life; they listened while the others talked, 
 and now and then exchanged glances of interest or 
 aversion. 
 
 "Listen," she said after a time, "I've heard this 
 story before." 
 
 It was Phil Branch, square-built and square of 
 jaw, who was talking. 
 
 "There's only one thing I can handle better than 
 a gun, and that's a sledge-hammer. A gun is all 
 right in its way, but for work in a crowd, well, give 
 me a hammer and I'll show you a way out." 
 
 Bud Mansie grinned: "Leave me my pair of sixes 
 and you can have all the hammers between here 
 and Central Park in a crowd. There's nothing 
 makes a crowd remember its heels like a pair of 
 barking sixes." 
 
 "Ah, ah!" growled Branch. "But when they've 
 heard bone crunch under the hammer there's noth- 
 ing will hold them." 
 
 "I'd have to see that." 
 
 "Maybe you will, Bud, maybe you will. It was 
 the hammer that started me for the long trail west. 
 I had a big Scotchman in the factory who couldn't 
 learn how to weld. I'd taught him day after day 
 and cursed him and damn near prayed for him. But 
 he somehow wouldn't learn the swine ah, ah !" 
 
 He grew vindictively black at the memory. 
 
 "Every night he wiped out what I'd taught him 
 during the day and the eraser he used was booze. 
 So one fine day I dropped the hammer after watch- 
 in 1 him make a botch on a big bar, and cussed him 
 up one leg and down the other. The Scotchman had 
 
io8 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 a hang-over from the night before and he made a 
 pass at me. It was too much for me just then, for 
 the day was hot and the forge fire had been spitting 
 cinders in my face all morning. So I took him by 
 the throat" 
 
 He reached out and closed his taut fingers slowly. 
 
 "I didn't mean nothin' by it, but after a man has 
 been moldin' iron, flesh is pretty weak stuff. When 
 I let go of Scotchy he dropped on the floor, and 
 while I stood starin' down at him somebody seen 
 what had happened and spread the word. 
 
 "I wasn't none too popular, bein' not much on 
 talk, so the boys got together and pretty soon they 
 come pilin' through the door at me, packin' every- 
 thing from hatchets to crowbars. 
 
 u Lads, I was sorry about Scotchy, but after I 
 glimpsed that gang comin' I wasn't sorry for noth- 
 ing. I felt like singin', though there wasn't no song 
 that could say just what I meant. But I grabbed up 
 the big fourteen-pound hammer and met 'em half- 
 way. 
 
 "The first swing of the hammer it met something 
 hard, but not as hard as iron. The thing crunched 
 with a sound like an egg under a heavy man's heel. 
 And when that crowd, heard it they looked sick. 
 God, how sick they looked! They didn't wait for 
 no second swing, but they beat it hard and fast 
 through the door with me after 'em. They scat- 
 tered, but I kept right on and didn't never really stop 
 till I reached the mountain-desert and you, Jim." 
 
 "Which is a good yarn," said Bud Mansie, "but 
 I can tell you one that '11 cap it. It was " 
 
A TALE OF THE SLEDGE 109 
 
 He stopped short, staring up at the door. Out- 
 side, the wind had kept up a perpetual roaring, and 
 no one noticed the noise of the opening door. Bud 
 Mansie, facing that door, however, turned a queer 
 yellow and sat with his lips parted on the last word. 
 He was not pretty to see. The others turned their 
 heads, and there followed the strangest panic which 
 Pierre had even seen. 
 
 Jim Boone jerked his hand back to his hip, but 
 stayed the motion, half completed, and swung his 
 hands stiffly above his head. Garry Patterson sat 
 with his eyes blinked shut, pale, waiting for death 
 to come. Dick Wilbur rose, tall and stiff, and stood 
 with his hands gripped at his sides, and Black Mor- 
 gan Gandil clutched at the table before him and his 
 keen eyes wandered swiftly about the room, seeking 
 a place for escape. 
 
 There was only one sound, and that was a whis- 
 pering moan of terror from Jacqueline. Only Pierre 
 made no move, yet he felt as he had when the black 
 mass of the landslide loomed above him. 
 
 What he saw in the door was a man of medium 
 size and almost slender build. In spite of the patch 
 of gray hair at either temple he was only somewhere 
 between twenty-five and thirty. But to see him was 
 to forget all details except the strangest face which 
 Pierre had ever seen or would ever look upon in all 
 his career. 
 
 It was pale, with a pallor strange to the ranges; 
 even the lips seemed bloodless, and they curved with 
 a suggestion of a smile that was a nervous habit 
 rather than any sign of mirth. The nerves of the 
 
no RIDE'RS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 left eye were also affected, and the lid dropped and 
 fluttered almost shut, so that he had to carry his 
 head far back in order to see plainly. There was 
 such indomitable pride and scorn in the man that his 
 name came up to the lips of Pierre: "McGurk." 
 
 A surprisingly gentle voice said: "Jim, I'm sorry 
 to drop in on you this way, but I've had some un- 
 pleasant news." 
 
 His words dispelled part of the charm. The 
 hands of big Boone lowered; the others assumed 
 more natural positions, but each, it seemed to Pierre, 
 took particular and almost ostentatious care that 
 their right hands should be always far from the 
 holsters of their guns. 
 
 The stranger went on: u Martin Ryder is finished, 
 as I suppose you know. He left a spawn of two 
 mongrels behind him. I haven't bothered with 
 them, but I'm a little more interested in another son 
 that has cropped up. He's sitting over there in your 
 family party and his name is Pierre. In his own 
 country they call him Pierre le Rouge, which means 
 Red Pierre, in our talk. 
 
 "You know I don't like to be dictatorial, and I've 
 never crossed you in anything before, Jim. Have 
 I?" 
 
 Boone moistened his white lips and answered: 
 "Never," huskily, as if it were a great muscular ef- 
 fort for him to speak. 
 
 "This time I have to break the custom. Boone, 
 this fellow Pierre has to leave the country. Will 
 you see that he goes?" 
 
 The lips of Boone moved and made no sound. 
 
A TALE OF THE SLEDGE in 
 
 He said at length: "McGurk, I'd rather cross 
 the devil than cross you. There's no shame in ad- 
 mitting that. But Fve lost my boy, Hal." 
 
 "Too bad, Jim. I knew Hal; at a distance, of 
 
 course." 
 
 "And Pierre is filling Hal's place in the family." 
 
 "Is that your answer?" 
 
 "McGurk, are you going to pin me down in this?" 
 
 And here Jack whirled and cried: "Dad, you 
 won't let Pierre go!" 
 
 "You see?" pleaded Boone. 
 
 It was uncanny and horrible to see the giant so 
 unnerved before this stranger, but that part of it did 
 not come to Pierre until later. Now he felt a 
 peculiar emptiness of stomach and a certain jumping 
 chill that traveled up and down his spine. More- 
 over, he could not move his eyes from the face of 
 McGurk, and he knew at length that this was fear 
 the first real fear that he had ever known. 
 
 Shame made him hot, but fear made him cold 
 again. He knew that if he rose his knees would 
 buckle under him; that if he drew out his revolver 
 it would slip from his palsied fingers. For the fear 
 of death is a mighty fear, but it is nothing compared 
 with the fear of man. 
 
 "I've asked you a question," said McGurk. 
 "What's your answer?" 
 
 There was a quiver in the black forest of Boone's 
 beard, and if Pierre was cold before, he was sick at 
 heart to see the big man cringe before McGurk. 
 
 He stammered : "Give me time." 
 
 "Good," said McGurk. "I'm afraid I know what 
 
112 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 your answer would be now, but if you take a couple 
 of days you will think things over and come to a 
 reasonable conclusion. I will be at Gaffney's place 
 about fifteen miles from here. You know it? Send 
 your answer there. In the mean time" he stepped 
 forward to the table and poured a small drink of 
 whiskey into a glass and raised it high "here's to 
 the long health and happiness of us all. Drink !" 
 
 There was a hasty pouring of liquor. 
 
 "And you also!" 
 
 Pierre jumped as if he had been struck, and 
 obeyed the order hastily. 
 
 "So," said the master, pleasant again, and Pierre 
 wiped his forehead furtively and stared up with fas- 
 cinated eyes. "An unwilling pledge is better than 
 none at all. To you, gentleman, much happiness; 
 to you, Pierre le Rouge, bon voyage." 
 
 They drank; the master placed his glass on the 
 table again, smiled upon them, and was gone through 
 the door. He turned his back in leaving. There 
 was no fitter way in which he could have expressed 
 his contempt 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MCGURK 
 
 THE mirth died and in its place came a long 
 silence. Jim Boone stared upon Pierre with miser- 
 able eyes, and then rose and left the roomt The 
 others one by one followed his example. Dick Wil- 
 bur in passing dropped his hand on Pierre's shoul- 
 der. Jacqueline was silent. 
 
 As he sat there minute after minute and then 
 hour after hour of the long night Pierre saw the 
 meaning of it. If they sent word that they would 
 not give up Pierre it was war, and war with McGurk 
 had only one ending. If they sent word that Pierre 
 was surrendered the shame would never leave Boone 
 and his men. 
 
 Whatever they did there was ruin for them in 
 the end. All this Pierre conned slowly in his mind, 
 until he was cold. Then he looked up and saw that 
 the lamp had burned out and that the wood in the 
 fireplace was consumed to a few red embers. 
 
 He replenished the fire, and when the yellow 
 flames began to mount he made his resolution and 
 walked slowly up and down the floor with it. For 
 he knew that he must go to meet McGurk. 
 
 The very thought of the man sent the old chill 
 "3 
 
H4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 through his blood, yet he must go and face him and 
 end the thing. 
 
 It came over him with a pang that he was very 
 young; that life was barely a taste in his mouth, 
 whether bitter or sweet he could not tell. He 
 picked a flaming stick from the fire and went before 
 a little round mirror on the wall. 
 
 Back at him stared the face of a boy. He had 
 seen so much of the grim six in the last day that the 
 contrast startled him. They were men, hardened 
 to life and filled with knowledge of it. They were 
 books written full and ready to be ended. But he? 
 He was a blank page with a scribbled word here and 
 there. Nevertheless, he was chosen and he must 
 
 go- 
 Having reached that decision he closed his mind 
 
 on what would happen. There was a vague fear 
 that when he faced McGurk he would be unmanned 
 again and frozen with fear; that his spirit would 
 be broken and he would become a thing too despic- 
 able for a man to kill. 
 
 One thing was certain: if he was to act a man's 
 part and die a man's death he must not stand long 
 before McGurk. It seemed to him then that he 
 would die happy if he had the strength to fire one 
 shot before the end. 
 
 Then he tiptoed from the house and went over 
 the snow to the barn and saddled the horse of Hal 
 Boone. It was already morning, and as he led the 
 horse to the door of the barn a shadow, a faint 
 shadow in that early light, fell across the snow be- 
 fore him. 
 
McGURK 115 
 
 He looked up and saw Jacqueline. She stepped 
 close, and the horse nosed her shoulder affection- 
 ately. 
 
 She said: "Isn't there anything that will keep 
 you from going?" 
 
 "It's just a little ride before breakfast. I'll be 
 back in an hour." 
 
 It was foolish to try to blind her, as he saw by 
 her wan, unchildish smile. 
 
 "Is there no other way, Pierre?" 
 
 "I don't know of any, do you?" 
 
 "You have to leave us, and never come back?" 
 
 "Is he as sure as that, Jack?" 
 
 "Sure? Who?" 
 
 She had not known, after all; she thought that he 
 was merely riding away from the region where Mc- 
 Gurk was king. Now she caught his wrists and 
 shook them. 
 
 "Pierre, you arc not going to face McGurk? 
 Pierre!" 
 
 It was sweet and bitter-sweet that the child should 
 wish him to stay, and it made the heart of Pierre old 
 and stern to look down on her. 
 
 "If you were a man, you would understand. 11 
 
 "I know; because of your father. I do under- 
 stand, but oh, Pierre, it makes me so unhappy so 
 terribly sad, Pierre." 
 
 Inspiration made her catch her breath. 
 
 "Listen! I can shoot as straight as almost any 
 man. We will ride down together. We will go 
 through the doors together me first to take his fire, 
 and you behind to shoot him down." 
 
n6 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "I guess no man can be as brave as a woman, 
 Jack. No; I have to see McGurk alone. He faced 
 my father alone and shot him down. I'll face Mc- 
 Gurk alone and live long enough to put my mark on 
 him." 
 
 "But you don't know him. He can't be hurt. 
 Do you think my father and and Dick Wilbur 
 would fear any man who could be hurt? No, but 
 McGurk has been in a hundred fights and never been 
 touched. There's a charm over him, don't you see?" 
 
 "I'll break the charm, that's all." 
 
 "You're only a boy, Pierre." 
 
 "I, also, carry a charm with me. Good-by." 
 
 He was up in the saddle. 
 
 'Then I'll call dad I'll call them all if you 
 die they shall all follow you. I swear they shall. 
 Pierre!" 
 
 He merely leaned forward and touched the horse 
 with his spurs, but after he had raced the first 
 hundred yards he glanced back. She was running 
 hard for the house, and calling as she went. Pierre 
 cursed and spurred the horse again. 
 
 Yet even if Jim Boone and his men started out 
 after him they could never overtake him. Before 
 they were in their saddles and up with him, he'd be 
 a full three miles out in the hills. Not even black 
 Thunder could make up as much ground as that. 
 
 So all the fifteen miles to Gaffney's place he urged 
 his horse. The excitement of the race kept the 
 thought of McGurk back in his mind. Only once 
 he lost time when he had to pull up beside a buck- 
 board and inquire the way. After that he flew on 
 
McGURK 117 
 
 again. Yet as he clattered up to the door of Gaff- 
 ney's crossroads saloon and swung to the ground he 
 looked back and saw a cluster of horsemen swing 
 around the shoulder of a hill and come tearing after 
 him. Surely his time was short. 
 
 He thrust open the door of the place and called 
 for a drink. The bartender spun the glass down the 
 bar to him. 
 
 "Where's McGurk?" 
 
 The other stopped in the very act of taking out 
 the bottle from the shelf, and his curious glance 
 went over the face of Pierre le Rouge. He decided, 
 apparently, that it was foolish to hold suspicions 
 against so young a man. 
 
 "In that room," and he jerked his hand toward 
 a door. "What do you want with him?" 
 "Got a message for him." 
 
 "Tell it to me, and I'll pass it along." 
 
 Pierre met the eye of the other and smiled faintly. 
 
 "Not this message." 
 
 "Oh," said the other, and then shouted: "Mc- 
 Gurk!" 
 
 Far away came the rush of hoofs over a hard 
 trail. Only a minute more and they would be here; 
 only a minute more and the room would be full of 
 fighting men ready to die with him and for him. 
 Yet Pierre was glad; glad that he could meet the 
 danger alone ; ten minutes from now, if he lived, he 
 could answer certainly one way or the other the 
 greatest of all questions: "Am I a man?" 
 
 Out of the inner room the pleasant voice which 
 he dreaded answered: "What's up?" 
 
n8 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 The barkeeper glanced Pierre le Rouge over 
 again and then answered: "A friend with a mes- 
 sage." 
 
 The door opened and framed McGurk. He did 
 not start, seeing Pierre. 
 
 He said: "None of the rest of them had the guts 
 even to bring me the message, eh?" 
 
 Pierre shrugged his shoulders. It was a mighty 
 effort, but he was able to look his man fairly in the 
 eyes. 
 
 U A11 right, lad. How long is it going to take you 
 to clear out of the country?" 
 
 "That's not the message," answered a voice which 
 Pierre did not recognize as his own. 
 
 "Out with it, then." 
 
 "It's in the leather on my hip." 
 
 And he went for his gun. Even as he started his 
 hand he knew that he was too slow for McGurk, yet 
 the finest split-second watch in the world could not 
 have caught the differing time they needed to get 
 their guns out of the holsters. 
 
 Just a breath before Pierre fired there was a stun- 
 ning blow on his right shoulder and another on his 
 hip. He lurched to the floor, his revolver clattering 
 against the wood as he fell, but falling, he scooped 
 up the gun with his left and twisted. 
 
 That movement made the third shot of McGurk 
 fly wide and Pierre fired from the floor and saw a 
 , spasm of pain contract the face of the outlaw. 
 
 Instantly the door behind him flew open and 
 Boone's men stormed into the room. Once more 
 McGurk fired, but his wound made his aim wide and 
 
McGURK 119 
 
 the bullet merely tore up a splinter beside Pierre's 
 head. A fusillade from Boone and his men an- 
 swered, but the outlaw had leaped back through the 
 door. 
 
 "He's hurt," thundered Boone. "By God, the 
 charm of McGurk is broken. Dick, Bud, Gandil, 
 take the outside of the place. I'll force the door." 
 
 Wilbur and the other two raced through the door 
 and raised a shout at once, and then there was a 
 rattle of shots. Big Patterson leaned over Pierre. 
 
 He said in an awe-stricken voice: "Lad, it's a 
 great work that you've done for all of us, if you've 
 drawn the blood from McGurk." 
 
 "His left shoulder," said Pierre, and smiled in 
 spite of his pain. 
 
 "And you, lad?" 
 
 "I'm going to live; I've got to finish the job. 
 Who's that beside you? There's a mist over my 
 eyes." 
 
 "It's Jack. She outrode us all." 
 
 Then the mist closed over the eyes of Pierre and 
 his senses went out in the dark. 
 
 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 GOLD HAIR 
 
 THOSE who are curious about the period which 
 followed during which the title "Le Rouge" was for- 
 gotten and he became known only as "Red" Pierre 
 through all the mountain-desert, can hear the tales 
 of his doing from the analists of the ranges. This 
 story has to do only with his struggle with McGurk, 
 and must end where that struggle ended. 
 
 The gap of six years which occurs here is due to 
 the fact that during that period McGurk vanished 
 from the mountain-desert. He died away from the 
 eyes of men and in their minds he became that tra- 
 dition which lives still so vividly, the tradition of the 
 pale face, the sneering, bloodless lips, and the hand 
 which never failed. 
 
 During this lapse of time there were many who 
 claimed that he had ridden off into some lonely 
 haunt and died of the wound which he received from 
 Pierre's bullet. A great majority, however, would 
 never accept such a story, and even when the six 
 years had rolled by they still shook their heads and 
 "had their doubt on the matter" like Wouier Van 
 Twitter of immortal memory. 
 
 They awaited his return just as certain stanch .old 
 Britons await the second coming of Arthur from the 
 
 I2O 
 
GOLD HAIR i2i 
 
 island of Avalon. In the mean time the terror of 
 his name passed on to him who had broken the 
 "charm" of McGurk. 
 
 Not all that grim significance passed on to "Red" 
 Pierre, indeed, because he never impressed the public 
 imagination as did the terrible ruthlessness of Mc- 
 Gurk. At that he did enough to keep tongues wag- 
 ging. 
 
 Cattlemen loved to tell those familiar exploits of 
 the "two sheriffs," or that "thousand-mile pursuit of 
 Canby," with its half-tragic, half-humorous conclu- 
 sion, or the "Sacking of Two Rivers," or the "three- 
 cornered battle" against Rodriguez and Blond. 
 
 But men could not forget that in all his work there 
 rode behind Red Pierre six dauntless warriors of the 
 mountain-desert, while McGurk had been always a 
 single hand against the world, a veritable lone wolf. 
 
 Whatever kept him away through those six years, 
 the memory of the wound he received at Gaffney's 
 place never left McGurk, and now he was coming 
 back with a single great purpose in his mind, and in 
 his heart a consuming hatred for Pierre and all the 
 other of Boone's men. 
 
 Certainly if he had sensed the second coming of 
 McGurk, Pierre would not have ridden so jauntily 
 through the hills this day, or whistled so carelessly, 
 or swept the hills with such a complacent, lordly 
 eye. A man of mark cannot bear himself too 
 modestly, and Pierre, from boots to high-peaked, 
 broad-brimmed sombrero, was the last word in ele- 
 gance for a rider of the mountain-desert. 
 
 Even his mount seemed to sense the pride of his 
 
122 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 master. It was a cream-colored mustang, not one 
 of the lump-headed, bony-hipped species common to 
 the ranges, but one of those rare reversions to the 
 Spanish thoroughbreds from which the Western 
 cow-pony is descended. The mare was not over- 
 large, but the broad hips and generous expanse of 
 chest were hints, and only hints, of her strength and 
 endurance. There was the speed of the blooded 
 racer in her and the tirelessness of the mustang. 
 
 Now, down the rocky, half broken trail she picked 
 her way as daintily as any debutante tiptoeing down 
 a great stairway to the ballroom. Life had been 
 easy for Mary since that thousand-mile struggle to 
 overtake Canby, and now her sides were sleek from 
 good feeding and some casual twenty miles a day, 
 which was no more to her than a canter through the 
 park is to the city horse. 
 
 The eye which had been so red-stained and fierce 
 during the long ride after Canby was now bright 
 and gentle. At every turn she pricked her small 
 sharp ears as if she expected home and friends on 
 the other side of the curve. And now and again she 
 tossed her head and glanced back at the master for 
 a moment and then whinnied across some echoing ra- 
 vine. 
 
 It was Mary's way of showing happiness, and 
 her master's acknowledgment was to run his gloved 
 left hand up through her mane and with his ungloved 
 right, that tanned and agile hand, pat her shoulder 
 lightly. 
 
 Passing to the end of the down-grade, they 
 reached a slight upward incline, and the mare, as 
 
GOLD HAIR 123 
 
 if she had come to familiar ground, broke into a 
 gallop, a matchless, swinging stride. Swerving to 
 right and to left among the great boulders, like a 
 football player running a broken field, she increased 
 the gallop to a racing pace. 
 
 That twisting course would have shaken an or- 
 dinary horseman to the toes, but Pierre, swaying 
 easily in the saddle, dropped the reins into the crook 
 of his left arm and rolled a cigarette in spite of the 
 motion and the wind. It was a little feat, but it 
 would have drawn applause from a circus crowd. 
 
 He spoke to the mare while he lighted a match 
 and she dropped to an easy canter, the pace which 
 she could maintain from dawn to dark, eating up 
 the gray miles of the mountain and the desert, and 
 it was then that Red Pierre heard a gay voice singing 
 in the distance. 
 
 His attitude changed at once. He caught a 
 shorter grip on the reins and swung forward a little 
 in the saddle, while his right hand touched the butt 
 of the revolver in its holster and made sure that it 
 was loose; for to those who hunt and are hunted 
 every human voice in the mountain-desert is an 
 ominous token. 
 
 The mare, sensing the change of her master 
 through that weird telegraphy which passed down 
 the taut bridle reins, held her head high and flat- 
 tened her short ears against her neck. 
 
 The song and the singer drew closer, and the 
 vigilence of Pierre ceased as he heard a mellow 
 barytone ring out: 
 
124 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "They call me poor, yet I am rich 
 
 ki the touch of her golden hair, 
 My heart is. filled like a miser's hands 
 
 With the red-gold of her hair. 
 The sky I ride beneath all day 
 
 Is the blue of her dear eyes; 
 The only heaven I desire 
 
 Is the blue of her dear eyes." 
 
 And here Dick Wilbur rode about the shoulder 
 of a hill, broke off his song at the sight of Pierre le 
 Rouge, and shouted a welcome. They came to- 
 gether and continued their journey side by side. The 
 half-dozen years had hardly altered the blond, hand- 
 some face of Wilbur, and now, with the gladness of 
 his singing still flushing his face, he seemed hardly 
 more than a boy younger, in fact, than Red Pierre, 
 into whose eyes there came now and then a grave 
 sternness. 
 
 "After hearing that song," said Pierre smiling, 
 "I feel as if I'd listened to a portrait." 
 
 "Right !" said Wilbur, with unabated enthusiasm. 
 "It's the bare and unadorned truth, Prince Pierre. 
 My fine Galahad, if you came within eye-shot of her 
 there'd be a small-sized hell raised." 
 
 "No. I'm immune there, you know." 
 
 "Nonsense. The beauty of a really lovely 
 woman is like a fine perfume. It strikes right to a 
 man's heart; there's no possibility of resistance. I 
 know. You, Pierre, act like a man already in love 
 or a boy who has never known a woman. Which 
 is it, Pierre?" 
 
 The other made a familiaf gesture with those 
 
GOLD HAIR 125 
 
 who knew him, a touching of his left hand against 
 his throat where the cross lay. 
 
 He said: "I suppose it seems like that to you." 
 
 "Like what? Dodging me, eh? Well, I never 
 press the point, but I'd give the worth of your horse, 
 Pierre, to see you and Mary together." 
 
 Red Pierre started, and then frowned. 
 
 "Irritates you a little, eh? Well, a woman is like 
 a spur to most men." 
 
 He added, with a momentary gloom: "God 
 knows, I bear the marks of 'em." 
 
 He raised his head, as if he looked up in response 
 to his thought. 
 
 "But there's a difference with this girl. I've 
 named the quality of her before a fragrance, you 
 know, that disarms a man, and like a fragrance 
 there's just a touch of melancholy about her and an 
 appeal that follows after you when she's gone." 
 
 Pierre looked to his friend with some alarm, for 
 there was a saying among the followers of Boone 
 that a woman would be the downfall of big Dick 
 Wilbur again, as a woman had been his downfall 
 before. The difference would be that this fall must 
 be his last. 
 
 And Wilbur went on: "She's Eastern, Pierre, and 
 out here visiting the daughter of old Barnes who 
 owns about a thousand miles of range, you know. 
 How long will she be here? That's the question 
 I'm trying to answer for her. I met her riding over 
 the hills she was galloping along a ridge, and she 
 rode her way right into my heart. Well, I'm a fool, 
 
iz6 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 of course, but about this girl I can't be wrong. To- 
 night I'm taking her to a masquerade." 
 
 He pulled his horse to a full stop. 
 
 "Pierre, you have to come with me." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ENNUI 
 
 PIERRE stared at his companion with almost open- 
 mouthed astonishment. 
 
 "I? A dance?" 
 
 And then his head tilted back and he laughed. 
 
 "My good times, Dick, come out of the hills and 
 the sky-line, and the gallop of Mary. But as for 
 women, they bore me, Dick." 
 
 "Even Jack?" 
 
 "She's more man than woman." 
 
 It was the turn of Wilbur to laugh, and he re- 
 sponded uproariously until Pierre frowned and 
 flushed a little. 
 
 "When I see you out here on your horse with 
 your rifle in the boot and your six-gun swinging low 
 in the scabbard, and riding the fastest bit of horse- 
 flesh on the ranges," explained Wilbur, "I get to 
 thinking that you're pretty much king of the moun- 
 tains; but in certain respects, Pierre, you're a child. 
 I^a, ha, ha ! a regular infant." 
 
 Pierre stirred uneasily in his saddle. A man 
 must be well over thirty before he can withstand 
 ridicule. 
 
 He said dryly: "I've an idea that I know Jack 
 about as well as the next man." 
 
 "Let it drop," said Wilbur, sober again, for he 
 127 
 
128 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 shared with all of Boone's crew a deep-rooted un- 
 willingness to press Red Pierre beyond a certain 
 point. "The one subject I won't quarrel about is 
 Jack, God bless her." 
 
 "She's the best pal," said Pierre soberly, "and 
 the nearest to a man I've ever met." 
 
 "Nearest to a man?" queried Wilbur, and smiled, 
 but so furtively that even the sharp eye of Red 
 Pierre did not perceive the mockery. He went on : 
 "But the dance, what of that? It's a masquerade. 
 There'd be no fear of being recognized." 
 
 Pierre was silent a moment more. Then he said : 
 "This girl what did you call her?" 
 
 "Mary." 
 
 "And about her hair I think you said it was 
 black?" 
 
 "Golden, Pierre." 
 
 "Mary, and golden hair," mused Red Pierre. "I 
 think I'll go to that dance." 
 
 "With Jack? She dances wonderfully, you 
 know." 
 
 "Well with Jack." 
 
 So they reached a tumbled ranch-house squeezed 
 between two hills so that it was sheltered from the 
 storms of the winter but held all the heat of the 
 summer. 
 
 Once it had been a goodly building, the home of 
 some cattle-king. But bad times had come. 
 
 A bullet in a saloon brawl put an end to the cattle- 
 king, and now his home was a wreck of its former 
 glory. The northern wing shelved down to the 
 ground as if the building were kneeling to the power 
 
ENNUI 129 
 
 of the wind, and the southern portion of the house, 
 though still erect, seemed tottering and rotten 
 throughout and holding together until at a final 
 blow the whole structure would crumple at once. 
 
 To the stables, hardly less ruinous than the big 
 house, Pierre and Wilbur took their horses, and a 
 series of whinnies greeted them from the stalls. To 
 look down that line of magnificent heads raised 
 above the partitions of the stalls was like glancing 
 into the stud of some crowned head who made hunt- 
 ing and racing his chief end in life, for these were 
 animals worthy of the sport of kings. 
 
 They were chosen each from among literal hun- 
 dreds and thousands, and they were cared for far 
 more tenderly than the masters cared for them- 
 selves. There was a reason in it, for upon their 
 speed and endurance depended the life of the out- 
 law. Moreover, the policy of Jim Boone was one 
 of actual "long riding." 
 
 Here he had come to a pause for a few days to 
 recuperate his horses and his men. To-morrow, 
 perhaps, he would be on the spur again and sweep- 
 ing off to a distant point in the mountain desert to 
 strike and be gone again before the rangers knew 
 well that he had been there. Very rarely did one 
 settler have another neighbor at a distance of less 
 than two hundred miles. It meant arduous and con- 
 tinual riding, and a horse with any defect was worse 
 than useless because the speed of the gang had to 
 be the speed of the slowest horse in the lot. 
 
 It was some time before the two long riders had 
 completed the grooming of their horses and had 
 
130 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 gone down the hill and into the house. In the larg- 
 est habitable room they found a fire fed with rotten 
 timbers from the wrecked portion of the building, 
 and scattered through the room a sullen and de- 
 jected group: Mansie, Branch, Jim Boone, and 
 Black Morgan Gandil. 
 
 At a glance it was easy to detect their malady; it 
 was the horrible ennui which comes to men who are 
 always surrounded by one set of faces. If a man 
 is happily married he may bear with his wife and his 
 children constantly through long stretches of time, 
 but the glamour of life lies in the varying personali- 
 ties which a man glimpses in passing, but never 
 knows. 
 
 This was a rare crew. Every man of them was 
 marked for courage and stamina and wild daring. 
 Yet even so in their passive moments they hated 
 each other with a hate that passed the understanding 
 of common men. 
 
 Through seven years they had held together, 
 through fair weather and foul, and now each knew 
 from the other's expression the words that were 
 about to be spoken, and each knew that the other 
 was reading him, and loathing what he read. 
 
 So they were apt to relapse into long silences un- 
 less Jack was with them, for being a woman her 
 variety was infinite, or Pierre le Rouge, whom all 
 except Black Gandil loved and petted, and feared. 
 
 They were a battered crowd. Wind and hard 
 weather and a thousand suns had marked them, and 
 the hand of man had branded them. Here and there 
 was a touch of gray in their hair, and about the 
 
ENNUI 131 
 
 mouth of each were lines which in such silent mo- 
 ments as this one gave an expression of infinite and 
 wistful yearning. 
 
 "What's up? What's wrong?" asked Wilbur 
 from the door, but since no answer was deigned he 
 said no more. 
 
 But Pierre, like a charmed man who dares to 
 walk among lions, strolled easily through the room, 
 and looked into the face of big Boone, who smiled 
 faintly up to him, and Black Gandil, who scowled 
 doubly dark, and Bud Mansie, who shifted uneasily 
 in his chair and then nodded, and finally to Branch. 
 He dropped a hand on the massive shoulder of the 
 blacksmith. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 Branch let himself droop back into his chair. 
 His big, dull, colorless eyes stared up to his friend. 
 
 "I dunno, lad. I'm just weary with the sort of 
 tired that you can't help by sleepin'. Understand?" 
 
 Pierre nodded, slowly, because he sympathized. 
 "And the trouble?" 
 
 Branch stared about as if searching for a reason. 
 
 "Jack's up-stairs sulking; Patterson hasn't come 
 home yet." 
 
 And Black Gandil, who heard all things, said 
 without looking up: "A man that saves a ship- 
 wrecked fellow, he gets bad luck for thanks." 
 
 Pierre turned a considering eye on him, and Gan- 
 dil scowled back. 
 
 "YouVe been croaking for six years, Morgan, 
 about the bad luck that would come to Jim from 
 
i 3 2 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 saving me out of the snow. It's never happened, 
 has it?" 
 
 Gandil, snarling from one side of his mouth, an- 
 swered: "Where's Patterson?" 
 
 "Am I responsible if the blockhead has got drunk 
 some place?" 
 
 "Patterson doesn't get drunk not that way. 
 And he knows that we were to start again to-day." 
 
 "There ain't no doubt of that," commented 
 Branch. 
 
 "It's the straight dope. Paterson keeps his 
 dates," said Bud Mansie. 
 
 The booming bass of Jim Boone broke in : "Shut 
 up, the whole gang of you. We've had luck for the 
 six years Pierre has been with us. Who calls him 
 a Jonah?" 
 
 And Black Gandil answered: "I do. I've sailed 
 the seas. I know bad luck when I see it." 
 
 "You've been seeing it for six years." 
 
 "The worst storms come on a voyage that starts 
 with fair weather. Patterson? He's gone; he ain't 
 just delayed; he's gone." 
 
 It was not the first of these gloomy prophecies 
 which Gandil had made, but each time a heavy 
 gloom broke over Red Pierre. For when he summed 
 up the good fortune which the cross of Father Vic- 
 tor had brought him, he found that he had gained 
 a father, and lost him at their first meeting; and 
 he had won money on that night of the gambling, 
 but it had cost the life of another man almost at 
 once. The horse which carried him away from the 
 vengeance in Morgantown had died on the way and 
 
ENNUI 133 
 
 he had been saved from the landslide, but the girl 
 had perished. 
 
 He had driven McGurk from the ranges, and 
 where would the penalty fall on those who were near 
 and dear to him? In a superstitious horror he had 
 asked himself the question a thousand times, and 
 finally he could hardly bear to look into the ominous, 
 brooding eyes of Black Gandil. It was as if the man 
 had a certain and evil knowledge of the future. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 BLACK GANDIL 
 
 THE knowledge of the torment he was inflicting 
 made the eye of Black Gandil bright with triumph. 
 
 He continued, and now every man in the room 
 was sitting up, alert, with gloomy eyes fixed upon 
 Pierre: "Patterson is the first, but he ain't the last. 
 He's just the start. Who's next?" He looked 
 slowly around. 
 
 "Is it you, Bud, or you, Phil, or you, Jim, or 
 maybe me?" 
 
 And Pierre said: "What makes you think you 
 know that trouble's coming, Morgan?" 
 
 "Because my blood runs cold in me when I look 
 at you." 
 
 Red Pierre grew rigid and straightened in a way 
 they knew. 
 
 "Damn you, Gandil, I've borne with you and your 
 croaking too long, d'ye hear? Too long, and I'll 
 hear no more of it, understand?" 
 
 "Why not? You'll hear from me every time I 
 sight you in the offing. You c'n lay to that!" 
 
 The others were tense, ready to spring for cover, 
 but Boone reared up his great figure. 
 
 "Don't answer him, Pierre. You, Gandil, shut 
 your face or I'll break ye in two." 
 
 134 
 
BLACK GANDIL 135 
 
 The fierce eyes of Pierre le Rouge never wavered 
 from his victim, but he answered: "Keep out of this. 
 This is my party. I'll tell you why you'll stop gib- 
 bering, Gandil." 
 
 He made a pace forward and every man shrank 
 a little away from him. 
 
 "Because the cold in your blood is part hate and 
 more fear, Black Gandil." 
 
 The eyes of Gandil glared back for an instant. 
 With all his soul he yearned for the courage to pull 
 his gun, but his arm was numb; he could not move 
 it, and his eyes wavered and fell. 
 
 The shaggy gray head of Jim Boone fell likewise, 
 and he was murmuring to his savage old heart: 
 "The good days are over. They'll never rest till 
 one of 'em is dead, and then the rest will take sides 
 and we'll have gun-plays at night. Seven years, 
 and then to break up !" 
 
 Dick Wilbur, as usual, was the pacifier. He strode 
 across the room, and the sharp sound of his heels 
 on the creaking floor broke the tension. He said 
 softly to Pierre : "You've raised hell enough. Now 
 let's go up and get Jack down here to undo what 
 you've just finished. Besides, you've got to ask her 
 for that dance, eh?' 1 
 
 The glance of Pierre still lingered on Gandil as 
 he turned and followed Wilbur up the complaining 
 stairs to the one habitable room in the second story 
 of the house. It was set aside for the use of Jac- 
 queline. 
 
 At the door Wilbur said : "Shrug your shoulders 
 back; you look as if you were going to jump at some- 
 
136 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 thing. And wipe the wolf-look off your face. After 
 all, Jack's a girl, not a gun-fighter." 
 
 Then he knocked and opened the door. 
 
 She lay face down on her bunk, her head turned 
 from them and toward the wall. Slender and supple 
 and strong, it was still only the size of her boots and 
 her hands that would make one look at her twice 
 and then guess that this was a woman, for she was 
 dressed, from trousers even to the bright bandanna 
 knotted around her throat, like any prosperous 
 range rider. 
 
 Now, to be sure, the thick coils of black hair told 
 her sex, but when the broad-brimmed sombrero was 
 pulled well down on her head, when the cartridge- 
 belt and the six-gun were slung about her waist, and 
 most of all when she spurred her mount recklessly 
 across the hills, no one could have suspected that this 
 was not some graceful boy born and bred in the 
 mountain-desert, wilful as a young mountain-lion, 
 and as dangerous. 
 
 "Sleepy?" called Wilbur. 
 
 She waited a moment and then queried with ex- 
 aggerated impudence: "Well?" 
 
 Ennui unspeakable was in that drawling mono- 
 tone. 
 
 "Brace up; I've got news for you." 
 
 Her hand moved and all the graceful body, but 
 it was only with a yawn. What need was there to 
 speak? She wished to be alone. 
 
 "And I've brought Pierre along to tell you about 
 
 it." 
 
 "Ohl" 
 
BLACK GANDIL 137 
 
 And she sat bolt upright with shining eyes. In- 
 stantly she remembered to yawn again, but her glance 
 smiled on them above her hand. 
 
 She apologized. "Awfully sleepy, Dick." 
 
 But he was not deceived. He said: "There's a 
 dance down near the Barnes place, and Pierre wants 
 you to go with him." 
 
 Back tilted her head, and her throat stirred as if 
 she were singing. 
 
 "Pierre! A dance?" 
 
 He explained: "Dick's lost his head over a girl 
 with yellow hair, and he wants me to go down and 
 see her. He thought you might want to go along." 
 
 Her face changed like the moon when a cloud 
 blows across it. Before she answered she slipped 
 down on the bunk again, pillowed her head leisurely 
 on her arm, and answered with another slow, in- 
 solent yawn : "Thanks ! I'm staying home to-night. 1 ' 
 
 Wilbur glared his rage covertly at Pierre, but the 
 latter was blandly unconscious that he had made 
 any faux pas. 
 
 He said carelessly: "Too bad. It might be in- 
 teresting, Jack?" 
 
 At his voice she looked up a sharp and graceful 
 toss of the head. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The girl with the yellow hair." 
 
 "Then go ahead and see her. I won't keep you. 
 You don't mind if I go on sleeping? Sit down and 
 be at home." 
 
 With this she calmly turned her back again and 
 seemed thoroughly disposed to carry out her word. 
 
138 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Red Pierre flushed a little, watching her, and he 
 spoke his anger outright : "You're acting like a sulky 
 kid, Jack, not like a man." 
 
 It was a habit of his to forget that she was a 
 woman. Without turning her head she answered: 
 "Do you want to know why?" 
 
 "You're like a cat showing your claws. Go on I 
 Tell me what the reason is." 
 
 "Because I get tired of you." 
 
 In all his life he had never been so scorned. He 
 did not see the covert grin of Wilbur in the back- 
 ground. He blurted : "Tired ?" 
 
 "Awfully. You don't mind me being frank, do 
 you, Pierre?" 
 
 He could only stammer: "Sometimes I wish to 
 God you were a man, Jack!" 
 
 "You don't often remember that I'm a woman." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 She was silent, but there was a perceptible tremor 
 in the graceful body. 
 
 He repeated: "Do you mean that I'm rude or 
 rough with you, Jacqueline?" 
 
 Still the silence, but Wilbur was grinning broader 
 than ever. "Answer me !" 
 
 She started up and faced him, her face convulsed 
 with rage. 
 
 "What do you want me to say? Yes, you are 
 rude I hate you and your lot. Go away from me ; 
 I don't want you ; I hate you all." 
 
 And she would have said more, but furious sobs 
 swelled her throat and she could not speak, but 
 dropped, face down, on the bunk and gripped the 
 
BLACK GANDIL 139 
 
 blankets in each hard-set hand. Over her Pierre 
 leaned, utterly bewildered, found nothing that he 
 could say, and then turned and strode, frowning, 
 from the room. Wilbur hastened after him and 
 caught him just as the door was closing. 
 
 "Come back," he pleaded. "This is the best 
 game I've ever seen. Come back, Pierre! You've 
 made a wonderful start." 
 
 Pierre le Rouge shook off the detaining hand and 
 glared up at Wilbur. 
 
 "Don't try irony, Dick. I feel like murder. 
 Think of it ! All this time she's been hating me ; and 
 now it's making her weep; think of it Jack 
 weeping!" 
 
 "Why, you're a child, Pierre. Go back and take 
 her in your arms and tell her you're going to make 
 her go to the dance." 
 
 "Take her in my arms? She'd stab me, there's 
 that much of the devil in her. Don't grin at me 
 and keep chuckling like an utter ass. What's up, 
 Dick?" 
 
 "Don't you see? No, you don't, but it's so plain 
 that a baby of three years could understand. She's 
 in love with you." 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 "With Red Pierre." 
 
 "You can't make a joke out of Jack with me. 
 You ought to know that." 
 
 'Pierre, I'd as soon make a joke out of a wild- 
 
 cat." 
 
 "Grinning still? Wilbur, I'm taking more from 
 you than I would from any man on the ranges." 
 
140 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "I know you are, and that's why I'm stringing 
 this out because I'm going to have a laugh ha, ha, 
 ha! the rest of my life ha, ha, ha, ha! when- 
 ever I think of this ha, ha, ha, ha, ha I" 
 
 The burst of merriment left him speechless, and 
 Pierre, glowering, his right hand twitching danger- 
 ously close to that holster at his hip. He sobered, 
 and said: "Go in and talk to her and prove that 
 I'm right." 
 
 "Ask Jack if she loves me? Why, I'd as soon 
 ask any man the same question." 
 
 The big long rider was instantly curious. 
 
 "Has she never appealed to you as a woman, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "How could she? I've watched her ride; I've 
 watched her use her gun; I've slept rolled in the 
 same blankets with her, back to back; I've walked 
 and talked and traveled with her as if she were my 
 kid brother." 
 
 Wilbur nodded, as if the miracle were being 
 slowly unfolded before his eyes. 
 
 "And you've never noticed anything different 
 about her? Never watched a little lift and grace 
 in her walk that no man could ever have; never 
 heard her laugh in a voice that no man could ever 
 imitate; never seen her color change just because 
 you, Pierre, came near or went far away from her?" 
 
 "Because of me?" asked the bewildered Pierre. 
 
 "You fool, you! Why, lad, I've been kept 
 amused by you two for a whole evening, watching 
 her play for your attention, saving her best smiles 
 for you, keeping her best attitudes for you, and let- 
 
BLACK GANDIL 141 
 
 ting all the richness of her voice go out for a 
 block a stone. Gad, the thing still doesn't seem 
 possible I Pierre, one instant of that girl would give 
 romance to a man's whole life." 
 
 "This girl? This Jack of ours?" 
 
 u He hasn't seen it! Why, if I hadn't seen years 
 ago that she had tied her hands and turned her heart 
 over to you, I'd have been down on my knees to her 
 a thousand times, begging her for a smile, a shadow 
 of a hope." 
 
 "If I didn't know you, Dick, I'd say that you were 
 partly drunk and partly a fool." 
 
 "Here's a hundred a cold hundred that I'm 
 right. I'll make it a thousand, if you dare." 
 
 "Dare what?" 
 
 "Ask her to marry you." 
 
 "Marry me?" 
 
 "Damn it all well, then whatever you like. 
 But I say that if you go back into that room and sit 
 still and merely look at her, she'll be in your arms 
 within five minutes." 
 
 "I hate to take charity, but a bet is a bet. That 
 hundred is in my pocket already. It's a go I" 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 "But what will be your proof, Dick, whether I 
 win or lose?" 
 
 "Your face, blockhead, when you come out of 
 the room." 
 
 Upon this Pierre pondered a moment, and then 
 turned toward the door. He set his hand on the 
 knob, faltered, and finally set his teeth and entered 
 the room. 
 
 J 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 FIVE MINUTES' SILENCE 
 
 SHE lay as he had left her, except that her face 
 was now pillowed in her arms, and the long sobs 
 kept her body quivering. Awe and curiosity swept 
 over Pierre, looking down at her, but chiefly a puz- 
 zled grief such as a strong man feels when a friend 
 is in trouble. He came closer and laid a hand on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 She turned far enough to strike his hand away 
 and instantly rescumed her former position, though 
 the sobs were softer. This childish anger irritated 
 him. He was about to storm out of the room when 
 the thought of the hundred dollars stopped him. 
 It was not that he hoped to win the money, for dol- 
 lars rolled easily into his hands and out again, but 
 the bet had been made, and it was his pride that he 
 would play out his part of it. It seemed unsports- 
 manlike to leave without some effort. 
 
 The effort which he finally made was that sug- 
 gested by Wilbur. He folded his arms and stood 
 silent, waiting, and ready to judge the time as nearly 
 as he could until the five minutes should have 
 elapsed. He was so busy computing the minutes 
 that it was with a start that he noticed some time 
 
 142 
 
 , 
 
FIVE MINUTES' SILENCE 143 
 
 later that the weeping had ceased. She lay quiet 
 Her hand was dabbing furtively at her face for a 
 purpose which Pierre could not surmise. 
 
 At last a broken voice murmured: "Pierre!" 
 
 He would not speak, but something in the voice 
 made his anger go. After a little it came, and louder 
 this time: "Pierre?" 
 
 He did not stir. 
 
 She whirled and sat on the edge of the bunk, cry- 
 ing: "Pierre!" with a note of fright. Then she 
 flushed richly. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you were gone. I thought 
 Pierre I was afraid I mean I hoped " 
 
 She could not go on. 
 
 And still he persisted in that silence, his arms 
 folded, the keen blue eyes considering her as if from 
 a great distance. 
 
 She explained: "I was afraid Pierre! Why 
 don't you speak? Tell me, are you angry?" 
 
 And she sprang up and made a pace toward him. 
 She had never seemed so little manlike, so wholly 
 womanly. For the thick coils of hair were loosed 
 on her head, and the black hair framed a face 
 stained, flushed, with eyes that were like a great 
 black, bottomless well of sorrow and wistfulness. 
 And the hand which stretched toward him, palm up, 
 was a symbol of everything new and strange that 
 he found in her. 
 
 He had seen it balled to a small, angry fist, brown 
 and dangerous; he had seen it gripping the butt of 
 a revolver, ready for the draw; he had seen it tug- 
 ging at the reins and holding a racing horse in check 
 
i 4 4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 with an ease which a man would envy; but never 
 before had he seen it turned palm up, to his knowl- 
 edge; and now, because he could not speak to her, 
 according to his plan, he studied her thoroughly for 
 the first time. 
 
 Slender and marvelously made was that hand. 
 The whole woman was in it, finely fashioned, deli- 
 cate, made for beauty, not for use. It was all he 
 could do to keep from exclaiming. 
 
 She made a quick step toward him, eager, un- 
 certain : 
 
 "Pierre, I thought you had left me that you 
 were gone, and angry." 
 
 The hearts of men are tinder; something caught 
 on fire in Pierre, but still he would say nothing. He 
 was beginning to feel t cruel pleasure in his victory, 
 but it was not without a deep sense of danger. 
 
 She had laid aside her six-gun, but she had not 
 abandoned it She had laid aside her anger, but she 
 could resume it again as swiftly ts she could take 
 up her revolver. 
 
 He exulted in the touch of victory, but it was as 
 a man who rides a horse that paces docilely beneath 
 him but may plunge into a fury of bucking in a mo- 
 ment. She was closer very close, and somehow 
 he knew that at his pleasure he could make her smile 
 or tremble by speaking. Yet he would not speak. 
 The five minutes were not yet up. 
 
 She cried with a little burst of rage : "Pierre, you 
 are making a game of me I" 
 
 But seeing that he did not change she altered 
 swiftly and caught his hand in both of hers. She 
 
FIVE MINUTES' SILENCE 145 
 
 spoke the name which she always used when she 
 was greatly moved. 
 
 "Ah, Pierre le Rouge, what have I done?" 
 
 His silence tempted her on like the smile of the 
 sphinx. 
 
 And suddenly she was inside his arms, though 
 how she separated them he could not tell, and cry- 
 ing: "Pierre, I am unhappy. Help me, Pierre!" 
 
 It was true, then, and Wilbur had won his bet. 
 But how could it have happened? He took the arms 
 that encircled his neck and brought them slowly 
 down, and watched her curiously. Something was 
 expected of him, but what it was he could not tell, 
 for women were as strange to him as the wild sea 
 is strange to the Arab. 
 
 He hunted his mind, and then : "One of the boys 
 has angered you, Jack?" 
 
 And she said, because she could think of no way 
 to cover the confusion which came to her after the 
 outbreak: "Yes." 
 
 He dropped her arms and strode a pace or two 
 up and down the room. 
 
 "Gandil?" 
 
 "N-no!" 
 
 "You're lying. It was Gandil." 
 
 And he made straight for the door. 
 
 She ran after him and flung herself between him 
 and the door. Clearly, as if it were a painted pic- 
 ture, she saw him facing Gandil saw their hands 
 leap for the guns saw Gandil pitch face forward 
 on the floor writhe all his limbs and then lie still. 
 "Pierre for God's sake!" 
 
146 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Her terror convinced him partially, and the furor 
 went back from his eyes as a light goes back in a 
 long, dark hall. 
 
 "On your honor, Jack, it's not Gandil?" 
 
 "On my honor." 
 
 "But some one has broken you up." 
 
 "No, I" 
 
 "Don't lie. Why, even while you look at me your 
 color changes. You're pale one minute and red the 
 next. Some one has crossed you, Jack. And who- 
 ever crosses you crosses me, by God! Out with his 
 name! Is it Branch?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then it's big Patterson." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I have it! Mansie! There's always something 
 of the sneak about him that I never liked." 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "It is ! He came up to you and whispered some 
 dog's remark for you to hear. Damn him I never 
 trusted Mansie!" 
 
 He pushed her away from the door and set his 
 hand on the knob, but he could not keep her back. 
 She was upon him again and twisted between him 
 and the entrance to the room. 
 
 "Pierre, upon my honor, it was none of these 
 
 men." 
 
 He could not help but believe. 
 "Only Wilbur is left. Jack, I'd rather raise my 
 hand against myself than to harm Dick, but if " 
 "I'll never tell you who it was. Don't you see? 
 
FIVE MINUTES' SILENCE 147 
 
 It would be like a murder in cold blood if I were 
 to send you after him." 
 
 "But he's here he's one of us, this man who's 
 bothered you." 
 
 She could not help but answer: "Yes." 
 
 He scowled down at the floor. 
 
 "You would never be able to guess who it is. 
 Give it up. After all I can live through it I 
 guess." 
 
 "It's something that has saddened you. Do you 
 know, we've been so much together that I can al- 
 most read your mind, in a way. Why are you 
 smiling?" 
 
 "I wish that you could read it Pierre at 
 times." 
 
 He took her face between his hands and frowned 
 down into her eyes. At his touch she grew very pale 
 and trembled as if a wind were striking against her. 
 
 "You see, you've been so near to me, and so dear 
 to me all these years, Jack, that you're like a sister, 
 almost." 
 
 "And you to me, Pierre." 
 
 "But different nearer even than a sister." 
 
 "So much nearer!" 
 
 "It's queer, isn't it? But you can't forget this 
 trouble you've had. The tears come up in your eyes 
 again. Tell me his name, Jack, and the dog " 
 
 She said: "Only let me go. Take your hands 
 away, Pierre." 
 
 He obeyed her, deeply worried, and she stood 
 for a moment with a hand pressed over her eyes, 
 swaying. He had never seen her like this; he was 
 
i 4 S RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Hkc a pilot striving to steer his ship through an un- 
 fathomable fog. Following what had become an 
 instinct with him, he raised his left hand and touched 
 the crosa beneath his throat. And inspiration came 
 to him. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 PARTNERS 
 
 "WHETHER you want to or not, Jack, we'll go <: 
 this dance to-night." 
 
 Jacqueline's hand fell away from her eye. She 
 seemed suddenly glad again. 
 
 "Do you want to take me, Pierre?" 
 
 He explained: "Of course. Besides, we have to 
 keep an eye on Wilbur. This girl with the yellow 
 hair" 
 
 She had altered swiftly again. There was no un- 
 derstanding her or following her moods this day. 
 He decided to disregard them, as he had often done 
 before. 
 
 "Black Gandil swears that I'm bringing bad luck 
 to the boys at last. Patterson has disappeared; Wil- 
 bur has lost his head about a girl. We've got to 
 save Dick." 
 
 He knew that she was fond of Wilbur, but she 
 showed no enthusiasm now. 
 
 "Let him go his own way. He's big enough to 
 take care of himself." 
 
 "But it's common talk, Jack, that the end of Wil- 
 bur will come through a woman. It was that that 
 sent him on the long trail, you know. And thi* girl 
 with the yellow hair " 
 
 H9 
 
150 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Why do you harp on her?" 
 
 "Harp on her?" 
 
 "Every other word nothing but yellow hair. 
 I'm sick of it. I know the kind faded corn color 
 dyed, probably. Pierre, you are all blind, and you 
 most of all." 
 
 This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the 
 consideration of it from his mind. 
 
 "And for clothes, Jack?" 
 
 They were both dumb. It had been years since 
 she had worn the clothes of a woman. She had 
 danced with the men of her father's gang many a 
 time while some one whistled or played on a mouth- 
 organ, and there was the time they rode into Beulah 
 Ferry and held up the dance-hall, and Jim Boone 
 and Mansie lined up the crowd with their hands held 
 high above their heads while the sweating musicians 
 played fast and furious and Jack and Pierre danced 
 down the center of the hall. 
 
 She had danced many a time, but never in the 
 clothes of a woman; so they stared, mutely puzzled. 
 
 A thought came first to Jacqueline. It obliterated 
 even the memory of the yellow-haired girl and set 
 her eyes dancing. She stepped close and murmured 
 her suggestion in -the ear of Pierre. Whatever it 
 was, it made his jaw set hard and brought grave 
 lines into his face. 
 
 She stepped back, asking: "Well?" 
 
 "We'll do it. What a little demon you are, Jack!" 
 
 "Then we'll have to start now. There's barely 
 time. 
 
 They ran from the room together, and as they 
 
PARTNERS 151 
 
 passed through the room below Wilbur called after 
 them: "The dance?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Wait and go with me." 
 
 "We ride in a roundabout way." 
 
 They were through the door as Pierre called back, 
 and a moment later the hoofs of their horses scat- 
 tered the gravel down the hillside. Jacqueline rode 
 a black stallion sired by her father's mighty Thun- 
 der, who had grown old but still could do the work 
 of three ordinary horses in carrying the great bulk 
 of his master. The son of Thunder was little like 
 his sire, but a slender-limbed racer, graceful, nerv- 
 ous, eager. A clumsy rider would have ruined the 
 horse in a single day's hard work among the trails 
 of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline, fairly read- 
 ing the mind of the black, nursed his strength when 
 it was needed and let him run free and swift when 
 the ground before him was level. 
 
 Now she picked her course dexterously down the 
 hillside with the cream-colored mare of Pierre fol- 
 lowing half a length behind. 
 
 After the first down-pitch of ground was covered 
 they passed into difficult terrain, and for half an 
 hour went at a jog trot, winding in and out among 
 the rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the 
 hills. 
 
 Here the ground opened up again, and they roved 
 on at a free gallop, the black always half a length 
 in front. In all the length of the mountain-desert 
 there was no other picture which could compare with 
 
152 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 these two in their youth and their pride and their 
 fearlessness. 
 
 They rode alert, high-headed like their horses, 
 and there was about them a suggestion of the pa- 
 tience which carries a man endlessly after one pur- 
 pose, and a suggestion of the eagerness, too, which 
 makes him strike swift and hard and surely when 
 the time for action comes. 
 
 Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch 
 of a mile or more, Jack eased the grip on the reins, 
 and the black responded with a sudden lengthening 
 of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed 
 back flat while he fairly flew over the ground. 
 
 Nothing could match that speed. The strong 
 mare fell to the rear, fighting gamely, but beaten 
 by that effort of the stallion. 
 
 Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, 
 laughing her triumph. Pierre smiled grimly in re- 
 sponse and leaned forward, shifting his weight more 
 over the withers of Mary. He spoke to her, and 
 one of her pricking ears fell back as if to listen to 
 his voice. He spoke again and the other ear fell 
 back, her neck straightened, she gave her whole 
 heart to her work. 
 
 First she held the stallion even, then she began to 
 gain. That was the meaning of those round, strong 
 hips, and the breadth of the chest. She needed a 
 half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and 
 now the black came back to her with every leap. 
 
 The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned 
 the girl. One more glance she cast in apprehension 
 OTCT her shoulder, and then brought her spurs into 
 
PARTNERS 153 
 
 play again and again. Still the rush of hoofs behind 
 her grew louder and louder, and now there was a 
 panting at her side and the head of cream-colored 
 Mary drew up and past. 
 
 She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger 
 and slowed up her mount with a sharp pull on the 
 reins. It needed only a word from Pierre and his 
 mare drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head 
 a little toward the black as if she called for some 
 recognition of her superiority. 
 
 "It's always this way," cried Jack, and jerked at 
 the reins with a childish impotence of anger. "I 
 beat you for the first quarter of a mile and then this 
 fool of a horse Pm going to give him away." 
 
 "The black," said Pierre, assuming an air of 
 quiet and superior knowing which always aggravated 
 her most, "is a good second-rate cayuse when some 
 one who knows horses is in the saddle. I'd give 
 you fifty for him on the strength of his looks and 
 keep him for a decoration." 
 
 She could only glare her speechless rage for a 
 moment. Then she changed swiftly and threw out 
 her hands in a little gesture >of surrender. 
 
 "After all, what difference does it make? Your 
 Mary can beat him in a long run or a short one, but 
 it's your horse, Pierre, and that takes the sting away. 
 If it were any one else's I'd well, I'd shoot either 
 the horse or the rider. But my partner's horse is 
 my horse, you know." 
 
 She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back 
 from the mountainside to the canon that dropped 
 on their right: 
 
154 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "My partner's horse is my horse, bunky 
 From his fetlock to the bucking-strap, 
 From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap 
 
 My oartner's horse is my horse, bunky. 
 
 "My partner's gun is my gun, bunky 
 
 From the chamber to the trigger-guard; 
 
 And the butt like a friend's hand gripping hard 
 My partner's gun is my gun, bunky. 
 
 "My partner's heart is my heart, bunky 
 And like matched horses galloping well, 
 They will beat together through heaven and bell 
 
 My partner's heart is my heart, bunky." 
 
 He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took 
 her hand with a strong grip. 
 
 "Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather 
 walk with you, I'd rather talk with you, I'd rather 
 ride with you, I'd rather fight for you. Jack, you're 
 the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamest 
 sport." 
 
 "Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I sup- 
 pose that I am." 
 
 He did not hear the low voice, for he was look- 
 ing out over the canon and whistling the refrain of 
 her song happily. A few moments later they swung 
 out onto the very crest of the range. 
 
 On all sides the hills dropped away through the 
 gloom of the evening, brown near by, but falling 
 off through a faint blue haze and growing blue-black 
 with the distance. A sharp wind, chill with the 
 coming of night, cut at them. Not a hundred feet 
 overhead shot a low-winging hawk back from his 
 
PARTNERS 155 
 
 day's hunting and rising only high enough to clear 
 the range and then plunge down toward his nest. 
 
 Like the hawks they peered down from their 
 point of vantage into the profound gloom of the 
 valley below. They shaded their eyes and studied 
 it with a singular interest for long moments, patient, 
 silent, quiet as the hawk when he steadies himself 
 in leisurely circles high in the heart of heaven and 
 fixes his eyes surely on his prey far, far below then 
 folds his wings and shoots suddenly down, a veritable 
 bolt from the blue. 
 
 So these two marauders stared until she raised a 
 hand slowly and then pointed down. He followed 
 the direction she indicated, and there, through the 
 haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights. 
 
 He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll 
 have a devil of a ride to get there." 
 
 And like the swooping hawk they started down 
 the slope. It was precipitous in many places, but 
 Pierre kept almost at a gallop, making the mare take 
 the slopes often crouched back on her haunches with 
 forefeet braced forward, and sliding many yards 
 at a time. 
 
 In between the boulders he darted, twisting here 
 and there, and always erect and jaunty in the saddle, 
 swaying easily with every movement of Mary. Not 
 far behind him came the girl. Fine rider that she 
 was, she could not hope to compete with such match- 
 less horsemanship where man and horse were only 
 one piece of strong brawn and muscle, one daring 
 spirit. Many a time the chances seemed too desper- 
 ate to her, but she followed blindly where he led, 
 
1 56 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 setting her teeth at each succeeding venture, and 
 coming out safe every time, until they swung out 
 at last through a screen of brush and onto the level 
 floor of the valley. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 FULL DRESS 
 
 IN the heart of that valley two roads crossed. 
 Many a year before a man with some imagination 
 and illimitable faith was moved by the crossing of 
 those roads to build a general merchandise store. 
 
 Time justified his faith, in a small way, and now 
 McGuire's store was famed for leagues and leagues 
 about, for he dared to take chances with all manner 
 of novelties, and the curious, when their pocketbooks 
 were full, went to McGuire's to find inspiration. 
 
 Business was dull this night, however; there was 
 not a single patron at the bar, and the store itself 
 was empty, so he went to put out the big gasoline 
 lamp which hung from the ceiling in the center of 
 the room, and was on the ladder, reaching high 
 above his head, when a singular chill caught him in 
 the center of his plump back and radiated from that 
 spot in all directions, freezing his blood. He swal- 
 lowed the lump in his throat and with his arms still 
 stretched toward the lamp he turned his head and 
 glanced behind. 
 
 Two men stood watching him from a position 
 just inside the door. How they had come there he 
 could never guess, for the floor creaked at the light- 
 est step. Nevertheless, these fantoms had appeared 
 
 157 
 
15* RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 silently, and now they must be dealt with. He 
 turned on the ladder to face them, and still he kept 
 the arms automatically above his head while he de- 
 scended to the floor. 
 
 However, on a closer examination, these two did 
 not seem particularly formidable. They were both 
 quite young, one with dark-red hair and a some- 
 what overbright eye; the other was hardly more 
 than a boy, very slender, delicately made, the sort 
 of handsome young scoundrel whom women cannot 
 resist. 
 
 Having made these observations McGuire ven- 
 tured to lower his arms by jerks; nothing happened; 
 he was safe. So he vented his feelings by scowling 
 on the strangers. 
 
 "Well," he snapped, "what's up? Too late for 
 business. I'm closin' up." 
 
 The two quite disregarded him. Their eyes were 
 wandering calmly about the place, and now they 
 rested on the pride of McGuire's store. The figure 
 of a man in evening clothes, complete from shoes to 
 gloves and silk hat, stood beside a girl of wax love- 
 liness. She wore a low-cut gown of dark green, and 
 over her shimmering, cold white shoulders was 
 draped a scarf of dull gold. Above, a sign said: 
 "You only get married once; why don't you do it 
 up right?" 
 
 "That," said the taller stranger, "ought to do 
 very nicely for us, eh?" 
 
 And the younger replied in a curiously light, pleas- 
 ant voice : "Just what we want. But how'll I get 
 away with all that fluffy stuff, eh?" 
 
FULL DRESS 159 
 
 The elder explained : "We're going to a bit of a 
 dance and we'll take those evening clothes." 
 
 The heart of McGuire beat faster and his little 
 eyes took in the strangers again from head to foot. 
 
 "They ain't for sale," he said. "They's just sam- 
 ples. But right over here " 
 
 "This isn't a question of selling," said the red- 
 headed man. "We've come to accept a little dona- 
 tion, McGuire." 
 
 The storekeeper grew purple and white in patches. 
 Still there was no show of violence, no display of 
 guns; he moved his hand toward his own weapon, 
 and still the strangers merely smiled quietly on him. 
 He decided that he had misunderstood, and went 
 on: "Over here I got a line of goods that you'll 
 like. Just step up and " 
 
 The younger man, frowning now, replied: "We 
 don't want to see any more of your junk. The 
 clothes on the models suit us all right. Slip J em off, 
 McGuire." 
 
 "But " began McGuire and then stopped. 
 
 His first suspicion returned with redoubled force; 
 above all, that head of dark red hair made him 
 thoughtful. He finished hoarsely: "What the hell's 
 this?" 
 
 "Why," smiled the taller man, "youVe never done 
 much in the interests of charity, and now's a good 
 time for you to start. Hurry up, McGuire; we're 
 late already!" 
 
 There was a snarl from the storekeeper, and he 
 went for his gun, but something in the peculiarly 
 steady eyes of the two made him stop with his fingers 
 
i6o RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 frozen hard around the butt. A mighty sickness 
 overwhelmed McGuire, and before his eyes there 
 swam a dark mist. 
 
 He whispered: "You're Red Pierre?" 
 
 "The clothes, 1 * repeated Pierre sternly, u on the 
 jump, McGuire." 
 
 And with a jump McGuire obeyed. His hands 
 trembled so that he could hardly remove the scarf 
 from the shoulders of the model, but afterward fear 
 made his fingers supple. He lifted up the green 
 gown; white, filmy clothes showed underneath. 
 
 There came a sharp cry from Jack: "Turn away, 
 Pierre; turn quick and don't dare to look. I'll take 
 care of McGuire." 
 
 And Pierre le Rouge turned, grinning. When 
 she told him that he could look again, he found her 
 with a bright spot of color in either cheek, and her 
 eyes avoided his. It thrilled Pierre, and yet it 
 troubled him, for she seemed changed, all at once, 
 less of a comrade, and strangely aloof. McGuire 
 was doing up the clothes in two bundles. 
 
 Jacqueline took one of them and Pierre the other 
 under his left arm ; with his right hand he drew out 
 some yellow coins. 
 
 "I didn't buy these clothes because I didn't have 
 the time to dicker with you, McGuire. I've heard 
 you talk prices before, you know. But here's what 
 the clothes are worth to us." 
 
 And into the quaking hands of McGuire he poured 
 a chinking stream of gold pieces. 
 
 Relief, amazement, and a very wholesome fear 
 struggled in the face of McGuire as he saw himself 
 
FULL DRESS r6i 
 
 threefold overpaid. At that little yellow heap he 
 remained staring, unheeding the sound of the retreat- 
 ing outlaws. At it he still stared with fascinated 
 eyes while the door banged and the clatter of gallop- 
 ing hoofs began. 
 
 "It ain't possible," he said at last, "thieves hare 
 begun to pay." 
 
 His eyes sought the ceiling. 
 
 "So that's Red Pierre?" said McGuire. 
 
 As for Pierre and Jacqueline, they were instantly 
 safe in the black heart of the mountains. Many a 
 mile of hard riding lay before them, however, and 
 already the dance must be nearly ready to begin in 
 the Crittenden schoolhouse. There was no road, 
 not even a trail that they could follow. They had 
 never even seen the Crittenden schoolhouse; they 
 knew its location only by vague descriptions. 
 
 But they had ridden a thousand times in places 
 far more bewildering and less known to them. Like 
 all true denizens of the mountain-desert, they had 
 a sense of direction as uncanny as that of an Eskimo. 
 Now they struck off confidently through the dark and 
 trailed up and down through the mountains until 
 they reached a hollow in the center of which shone 
 a group of dim lights. It was the schoolhouse near 
 the Barnes place, the scene of the dance. 
 
 So they turned back behind the hills and in the 
 covert of a group of cottonwoods they kindled two 
 more little fires, shading them on three sides with 
 rocks and leaving them open for the sake of light on 
 the fourth. 
 
 They worked busily for a time, without a word 
 
1 62 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 spoken by either of them. The only sound was the 
 rustling of Jacqueline's stolen silks and the purling 
 of a small stream of water near them, some meager 
 spring. 
 
 But presently: "P-P-Pierre, I'm f -freezing." 
 
 He himself was numbed by the chill air and paused 
 in the task of thrusting a leg into the trousers, which 
 persisted in tangling and twisting under his foot. 
 
 "So'm I. It's c-c-cold as the d-d-d-devil." 
 
 "And these th-things aren't any thicker than 
 spider webs." 
 
 "Wait. I'll build you a great big fire.' 
 
 And he scooped up a number of dead twigs. 
 
 "P-P-Pierre ! D-d-d-don't you d-d-dare c-come in 
 s-sight of m-me." 
 
 "D-d-damn it! I don't want to see you." 
 
 "P-Pierre! Aren't you ash-sh-sh-shamed to talk 
 like that?" 
 
 "Jack, this damned collar won't button." 
 
 "K-k-eep t-t-t-trying." 
 
 "Come help me." 
 
 "Pierre ! How can I come dressed like th-th-this?" 
 
 "I'm n-n-not going to the dance." 
 
 "P-P-P-Pierre!" 
 
 "I'm not." 
 
 "Then I am." 
 
 "W-w-w-without me?" 
 
 "Y-y-yes." 
 
 "Jack, you're a flirt." 
 
 "I hate you, Pierre!" 
 
 "Thank G-G-G-God! The collar's on." 
 
 "I can't tie this th-th-thing." 
 
FULL DRESS 163 
 
 "I'll come help you. 11 
 
 "N-n-n-no!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "The thing that g-g-goes around me." 
 
 "C-c-c-corset?" 
 
 A silence. 
 
 "Pierre!" 
 
 "W-well?" 
 
 "It's t-t-tieoT 1 
 
 "But this damned tie isn't!" 
 
 "I'll do it for you." 
 
 And then: "N-n-no. Go b-b-b-back!" 
 
 He fixed the eye-glass on his nose and laughed at 
 the thought of himself. 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I've got the dress on. 11 
 
 "Then I can come?" 
 
 He was warm enough now, with the suit on and 
 even the tie knotted, after a fashion. 
 
 "No. I st-t-till feel just n-n-n-naked, Pierre." 
 
 "Is there something missing?" 
 
 "Yes. Around the shoulders." 
 
 "Take the scarf." 
 
 There was an interlude of more rustling, then: 
 "P-P-Pierre." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I wish I had a m-m-m-mirror." 
 
 "Jack, are you vain?" 
 
 A cry of delight answered him. He threw cau- 
 tion to the winds and advanced on her. He found 
 her kneeling above a pool of water fed by the soft 
 
1 64 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 sliding little stream from the spring. With one hand 
 she held a burning twig by way of a torch, and with 
 the other she patted her hair into shape and finally 
 thrust the comb into the glittering, heavy coils. 
 
 She started, as if she felt his presence without 
 looking, and knelt with body erect. 
 
 "P-P-Pierre!" 
 
 "Ye*?" 
 
 "C-c-c-close your eyes." 
 
 He obeyed. 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 She stood with the torch high overhead, and he 
 saw a beauty so glorious that he closed his eyes in- 
 voluntarily and still he saw the vision in the dull- 
 green gown, with the scarf of old gold about her 
 shoulders and the skin peering out here and there, 
 dazzling white. And there were two lights, the 
 barbaric red of the jewels in her hair, and the black 
 shimmer of her eyes. He drew back a step more. 
 It was a picture to be looked at from a distance. 
 
 She ran to him with a cry of dismay: 
 
 "Pierre, what's wrong with me?" 
 
 His arms went round her of their own accord. It 
 was the only place they could go. And all this fra- 
 grant, marvelous beauty was held in the circle of 
 his will. 
 
 "It isn't that, but you're so wonderful, Jack, so 
 glorious, that I hardly know you. You're like a 
 different person." 
 
 He felt the warm body trembling, and the thought 
 that it was not entirely from the cold set his heart 
 beating like a trip-hammer. What he felt was so 
 
FULL DRESS 165 
 
 strange to him that he stepped back in a vague alarm, 
 and then laughed. She stood with a half whimsical, 
 half expectant smile. 
 
 "Jack, how am I to risk you in the arms of all the 
 strangers in that dance?" 
 
 The light of Alexander when he dreamed of new- 
 worlds to conquer came into those wide black eyes. 
 
 "It's late. Listen!" 
 
 She cupped a hand at her ear and leaned to listen. 
 Up from the hollow below them came a faint strain 
 of music, a very light sound that was drowned a mo- 
 ment later by the solemn rushing of the wind through 
 the great trees above them. 
 
 They looked up of one accord. 
 
 "Pierre, what was that?" 
 
 "Nothing; the wind in the branches, that's all." 
 
 "It was a hushing sound. It was like it was like 
 a warning, almost." 
 
 But he was already turning away, and the fol- 
 lowed him hastily. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE DANCE 
 
 JACQUELINE could never back a horse in that 
 gown, or even sit sidewise in the saddle without 
 hopelessly crumpling it, so they walked to the school- 
 house. It was a slow progress, for she had to step 
 lightly and carefully for fear of the slippers. He 
 took her bare arm and helped her ; he would never 
 have thought of it under ordinary conditions, but 
 since she had put on this gown she was greatly 
 changed to him, no longer the wild, free rider of 
 the mountain-desert, but a defenseless, strangely 
 weak being. Her strength was now something other 
 than the skill to ride hard and shoot straight and 
 quick. 
 
 Greatest wonder of all, she accepted the new re- 
 lation tacitly, and leaned more and more weight on 
 his hand, and even looked up and laughed with pleas- 
 ure when he almost lifted her over a muddy runlet. 
 It was all new, very strange, and, oddly enough, not 
 unpleasant. Each was viewing the other from such 
 an altered point that neither spoke. 
 
 So they came to the schoolhouse in this silence, 
 and reached the long line of buggies, buckboards, 
 and, most of all, saddled horses. They flooded the 
 horse-shed where the school children stabled their 
 
 1 66 
 
THE DANCE 167 
 
 mounts in the winter weather. They were tethered 
 to the posts of the fence ; they were grouped about 
 the trees. 
 
 It was a prodigious gathering, and a great affair 
 for the mountain-desert. They knew this even be- 
 fore they had set foot within the building. 
 
 They stopped here and adjusted their masks care- 
 fully. They were made from a strip of black lining 
 which Jack had torn from one of the coats in the 
 trunk which lay far back in the hills. 
 
 Those masks had to be tied firmly and well, for 
 some jester might try to pull away that of Pierre, 
 and if his face were seen, it would be death a 
 slaughter without defense, for he had not been able 
 to conceal his big Colt in these tight-fitting clothes. 
 Even as it was, there was peril from the moment 
 that the lights within should shine on that head of 
 dark-red hair. 
 
 As for Jack, there was little fear that she would 
 be recognized. She was strange even to Pierre 
 every time he looked down at her, for she had 
 ceased to be Jack and had become very definitely 
 "Jacqueline." But the masks were on; the scarf 
 adjusted about the throat and bare, shivering shoul- 
 ders of Jack, and they stood arm in arm before the 
 door out of which streamed the voices and the music. 
 
 "Are you ready ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Pierre if they should find us out " 
 
 "Never in a thousand years. Are you ready?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 But she was trembling so, either from fear, or ex- 
 
i6S RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 citement, or both, that he had to take a firm hold 
 on her arm and almost carry her up the steps, shove 
 the door open, and force her in. 
 
 A hundred eyes were instantly upon them, prac- 
 tised, suspicious eyes, accustomed to search into all 
 things and take nothing for granted; eyes of men 
 who, when a rap came at their door, looked to see 
 whether or not the shadow of the stranger fell full 
 in the center of the crack beneath the door. If it 
 fell to one side the man might be an enemy, and 
 therefore they would stand at one side of the room, 
 their hands upon the butt of the si^c-gun, and shout: 
 "Come in." Such was the battery of glances from 
 the men, and the color of Pierre altered, paled. 
 
 He knew some of those faces, for those who hunt 
 and are hunted never forget the least gestures of 
 their enemies. There was a mighty temptation to 
 turn back even then, but he set his teeth and forced 
 himself to stand calmly, adjust the absurd eye-glass 
 on his nose, and stare about the room. 
 
 The chuckle which replied to this maneuver freed 
 him for the moment. Suspicion was lulled. More- 
 over, the red-jeweled hair of Jacqueline and her 
 lighted eyes called all attention almost immediately 
 upon her. She shifted the golden scarf the white 
 arms and breast flashed in the light a gasp re- 
 sponded. There would be talk to-morrow; there 
 were whispers even now. 
 
 It was not the main hall that they stood in, for 
 this school, having been built by an aspiring com- 
 munity, contained two rooms; this smaller room, 
 icd by the little ones of the school, was now con- 
 
THE DANCE 169 
 
 verted into a hat-and-cloak room, and here also were 
 a dozen baskets and boxes filled with comforters 
 and blankets. 
 
 It was because of what lay in those baskets that 
 the men and the women walked and talked softly in 
 this room. They were wary lest they should arouse 
 a sound which not even the loudest music could quite 
 drown a sound which makes all women sit up 
 straight and sniff like hunted animals at bay, and 
 makes all men frown and glance about for places 
 of refuge. 
 
 Now and then some girl came panting and flushed 
 from the dance-hall within and tiptoed to one of 
 these baskets, and raised an edge of a blanket and 
 looked down at the contents with a singular smile. 
 Pierre hung up his hat, removed his gloves slowly, 
 nerving himself to endure the sharp glances, and 
 opened the door for Jacqueline. 
 
 If she had held back tremulously before, some- 
 thing she had seen in the eyes of ., those in the first 
 room, something in the whisper and murmur which 
 rose the moment she started to leave, gave her cour- 
 age. She stepped into the dance-hall like a queen 
 going forth to address devoted subjects. 
 
 The second ordeal was easier than the first. 
 There were many times more people in that crowded 
 room, but each was intent upon his own pleasure. 
 A wave of warmth and light swept upon them, and 
 a blare of music, and a stir and hum of voices, and 
 here and there the sweet sound of a happy girl's 
 laughter. They raised their heads, these two wild 
 
170 RIDERS 6F THE SILENCES 
 
 rangers of the mountain-desert, and breathed deep 
 of the fantastic scene. 
 
 It was marvelous, indeed, that so much gay life 
 could exist within the arms of those gaunt, naked 
 hills beyond the windows. There was no attempt 
 at beauty in the costumes of the masqueraders. 
 Here and there some girl achieved a novel and pleas- 
 ing effect; but on the whole they strove for cheaper 
 and more stirring things in the line of the grotesque. 
 
 Here passed a youth wearing a beard made from 
 the stiff, red bristles of the tail of a sorrel horse. 
 Another wore a bear's head cunningly stuffed, the 
 grinning teeth flashing over his head and the skin 
 draped over his shoulders. A third disfigured him- 
 self horribly by painting after the fashion of an In- 
 dian on the war-path, with crimson streaks down his 
 forehead and red and black across his cheeks. 
 
 But not more than a third of all the assembly 
 made any effort to masquerade, beyond the use of 
 the simple black mask across the upper part of the 
 face. The rest of the men and women contented 
 themselves with wearing the very finest clothes they 
 could afford to buy, and there was through the air 
 a scent of the general merchandise store which not 
 even a liberal use of cheap perfume and all the drifts 
 of pale-blue cigarette smoke could quite overcome. 
 
 As for the music, it was furnished by two very 
 old men, relics of the days when there were contests 
 in fiddling; a stout fellow of middle age, with cheeks 
 swelled almost to bursting as he thundered out 
 terrific blasts on a slide trombone; a youth who 
 
THE DANCE 171 
 
 rattled two sticks on an overturned dish-pan in lieu 
 of a drum, and a cornetist of real skill. 
 
 In an interlude, before very long, he would amuse 
 with a solo, including all sorts of runs and whistling 
 notes, and be a source of talk for many a month 
 to come. 
 
 There were hard faces in the crowd, most of 
 them, of men who had set their teeth against hard 
 weather and hard men, and fought their way 
 through, not to happiness, but to existence, so that 
 fighting had become their pleasure. 
 
 Now they relaxed their eternal vigilance, their 
 eternal suspicion. Another phase of their nature 
 weakened. Some of them were smiling and laugh- 
 ing for the first time in months, perhaps, of bitter 
 labor and loneliness on the range. With the gates 
 of good-nature opened, a veritable flood of gaiety 
 burst out. It glittered in their eyes, it rose to their 
 lips in a wild laughter. They seemed to be dancing 
 more furiously fast in order to forget the life which 
 they had left, and to which they must return. 
 
 And through all the cheapness there was a great 
 note of poetry as well; but one caught this only by 
 a sense of intuition, or by remembering that these 
 were the conquerors of the bitter nature of the moun- 
 tain-desert There was beauty here, the beauty of 
 strength in the men and a brown loveliness in the 
 girls; just as in the music, the blatancy of the rat- 
 tling dish-pan and the blaring trombone were more 
 than balanced by the real skill of the violinists, who 
 kept a high, sweet, singing tone through all the 
 clamor. 
 
1 72 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 One could close his ears to the rest of the noise, 
 if he strove to do so, and hear nothing but that har- 
 monious moaning of the strings, steady and clear, 
 like the aspirations of a man divorced from the facts 
 of his weakness and his crudeness in practical life. 
 
 And Pierre le Rouge and Jacqueline? They 
 stood aghast for a moment when that crash of noise 
 broke around them; but they came from a life where 
 there was nothing of beauty except the lonely 
 strength of the mountains and the appalling silences 
 of the stars that roll above the desert. Almost at 
 once they caught the overtone of human joyousness, 
 and they turned with strange smiles to each other, 
 and it was "Pierre?" "Jack?" Then a nod, and she 
 was in his arms, and they glided into the dance. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE OVERTONE 
 
 WHEN a crowd gathers in the street, there rises 
 a babel of voices, a confused and pointless clamor, 
 no matter what the purpose of the gathering, until 
 some man who can think as well as shout begins to 
 speak. Then the crowd murmurs a moment, and 
 after a few seconds composes itself to listen. 
 
 So it was with the noise in the hall when Pierre 
 and Jacqueline began to dance. First there were 
 smiles of derision and envy around them, but after 
 a moment a little hush came where they moved, and 
 then men began to note the smile of the girl and 
 the whiteness of that round throat, and the grace 
 of the bare, tapering arms. 
 
 So a whisper went around the room, and there 
 began a craning of necks and an exchange of nods. 
 All that crowd became in a moment no more than 
 the chorus which fills the background of the stage 
 when the principals step out from the wings. 
 
 They could not help but dance well, for they had 
 youth and grace and strength, and the glances of 
 applause and envy were like wine to quicken their 
 blood, while above all they caught the overtone of 
 the singing violins, and danced by that alone. The 
 music ended with a long flourish just as they whirled 
 
 173 
 
174 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 to a stop in a corner of the room. At once an eddy 
 of men started toward them. 
 
 "Who shall it be?" smiled Pierre. "With whom 
 do you want to dance? It's your triumph, Jack." 
 
 She was alight and alive with the victory, and her 
 eyes roved over the crowd. 
 
 "The big man with the tawny hair." 
 
 "But he's making right past us." 
 
 "No; he'll turn and come back." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 For answer she glanced up and laughed, and he 
 realized with a singular sense of loneliness that she 
 knew many things which were beyond his ken. Some 
 one touched his arm, and a voice, many voices, beset 
 him: 
 
 "How's the chances for a dance with the girl, 
 partner?" 
 
 "My name's McCormack. Riley? Glad to know 
 you. I've got a flask on the hip, Riley; what's the 
 chance of making a trade on this next dance?" 
 
 "How do we swap partners? Mine is the rangy 
 girl with the red topknot. Not much on looks, Bill, 
 but a cayuse don't cover ground on his looks. 
 Dance? Say, Bill, she'll rock you to sleep!" 
 
 "This dance is already booked," Pierre answered, 
 and kept his eyes on the tall man with the scarred 
 face and the resolute jaw. He wondered pro- 
 foundly why Jacqueline had chosen such a partner. 
 
 At least she had prophesied correctly, for the big 
 man turned toward them just as he seemed about 
 to head for another part of the hall. The crowd 
 gave way before him, not that he shouldered them 
 
THE OVERTONE 175 
 
 aside, but they seemed to feel the coming of his 
 shadow before him, and separated as they would 
 have done before the shadow of a falling tree. 
 
 In another moment Pierre found himself looking 
 up to the giant. No mask could disguise him, 
 neither cover that long, twisting mark of white down 
 his cheek, nor hide the square set of the jaw, nor 
 dim the keen steady eyes. Upon him there was 
 written at large : "This is a man." 
 
 And there came to Pierre an exceedingly great 
 uneasiness in his right hand, and a twitching of the 
 fingers low down on his thigh where the familiar 
 holster should have hung. His left hand rose, fol- 
 lowing the old instinct, and touched beneath his 
 throat where the cold cross lay. 
 
 He was saying easily: "This is your dance, isn't 
 
 it? 1 
 
 "Right, Bud," answered the big man in a mellow 
 voice as great as his size. "Sorry I can't swap part- 
 ners with you, but I hunt alone." 
 
 An overwhelming desire to get a distance between 
 himself and this huge unknown came to Pierre. 
 
 He said: "There goes the music. You're off." 
 
 And the other, moving toward Jack, leaned down 
 a little and murmured at the ear of the outlaw: 
 "Thanks, Pierre." 
 
 Then he was gone, and Jacqueline was laughing 
 over his shoulder back to Pierre. 
 
 Through his daze and through the rising clamor 
 of the music, a voice said beside him: "You look 
 sort of sick, dude. Who's your friend?" 
 
 "Don't you know him?" asked Pierre. 
 
176 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "No more than I do you; but I've ridden the 
 range for ten years around here, and I know that 
 he's new to these parts. If I'd ever glimpsed him 
 before, I'd remember him. He'd be a bad man in 
 a mix, eh?" 
 
 And Pierre answered with devout earnestness: 
 "He would." 
 
 "But where 'd you buy those duds, pal? Hey, 
 look! Here's what I've been waiting for the 
 Barneses and the girl that's visitin' 'em from the 
 East." 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 The Barnes group was passing through the door, 
 and last came the unmistakable form of Dick Wilbur, 
 masked, but not masked enough to hide his familiar 
 smile or cover the well-known sound of his laughter 
 as it drifted to Pierre across the hall, and on his arm 
 was a girl in an evening dress of blue, with a small, 
 black mask across her eyes, and deep-golden hair. 
 
 Pausing before she swung into the dance with 
 Wilbur, she made a gesture with the white arm, 
 and looked up laughing to big, handsome Dick. 
 Pierre trembled, and his heart beat once and 
 stopped. 
 
 As he watched, the song which Dick had sung 
 came like a monotonous, religious chant within him : 
 
 They call me poor, yet I am rich 
 In the touch of her golden hair; 
 
 My heart is filled like a raiser's hamh 
 With the red-gold of her hair. 
 
THE OVERTONE 177 
 
 The only sky I ride beneath 
 
 Is the dear blue of her eyes, 
 The only heaven I desire 
 
 Is the blue of her dear eyes. 
 
 But even the memory of the song died in him 
 while he watched her dance, and saw the lights and 
 shadows flit across the smooth shoulders; and when. 
 he saw the hands of Wilbur about her, a red rage 
 came up in him. 
 
 Dick in passing, marked that stare above the 
 heads of the crowd, and frowned with trouble. The 
 hungry eyes of Pierre followed them as they circled 
 the hall again; and this time Wilbur, perhaps fear- 
 ing that something had gone wrong with Pierre, 
 steered close to the edge of the dancing crowd and 
 looked inquisitively across. 
 
 He leaned and spoke to the girl, and she turned 
 her head, smiling, to Pierre. Then the smile went 
 out, and even despite the mask, he saw that her eyes 
 had widened. The heart of Pierre grew thunderous 
 with music. She had stopped and slipped from the 
 arm of Wilbur, and came step by step slowly toward 
 him like one walking in her sleep. 
 
 There, by the edge of the dancers, with the noise 
 of the music and the laughter and the shuffling feet 
 to cover them, they met. The hands she held to him 
 were cold and trembling. He only knew that they 
 were marvelously soft, and that they faltered and 
 closed strongly about his own. 
 
 "Is it you?" 
 
 "It is I." 
 
178 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 That was all; and then the shadow of Wilbur 
 loomed above them. 
 
 "What's this? Do you know each other? It 
 isn't possible ! Pierre, are you playing a game with 
 me?" 
 
 But under the glance of Pierre he fell back a step, 
 and reached for the gun which was not there. They 
 were alone once more. 
 
 "Mary Mary Brown!" 
 
 "Pierre!" 
 
 "But you are dead!" 
 
 "No, no ! But you Pierre " 
 
 "It was a miracle the cross that saved me." 
 
 "Where can we go?" 
 
 "Outside." 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Hold my arm close so I'll know it isn't just 
 dreaming. And go quickly!" 
 
 "They are staring at us the fools as if they 
 were trying to understand." 
 
 "We'll be followed?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Do you need a wrap?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But it is cold outside, and your shoulders are 
 bare." 
 
 "Then take that cloak. But quickly, Pierre, be- 
 fore we're followed." 
 
 He drew it about her; he led her through the 
 door; it clicked shut; they were alone with the sweet, 
 frosty air about them. She tore away the mask, 
 
THE OVERTONE 179 
 
 and her beauty struck him like the moon when it 
 drops suddenly through a mist of clouds. 
 
 "And yours, Pierre?" 
 
 "Not here." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because there are people. Hurry. Now here, 
 with just the trees around us " 
 
 And he tore off the mask. 
 
 The white, cold moon shone over them, slipping 
 down between the dark tops of the trees, and the 
 wind stirred slowly through the branches with a 
 faint, hushing sound, as if once more a warning 
 were coming to Pierre this night. He looked up, 
 his left hand at the cross. 
 
 "Look down. You are afraid of something, 
 Pierre. What is it?" 
 
 "With your arms around my neck, there's nothing 
 in the world I fear. Mary, I loved you all this 
 time." 
 
 "Pierre and I " 
 
 "But you have grown so tall so strange I can 
 hardly feel " 
 
 "And you so stern and old." 
 
 "I never dreamed I could love anything more 
 than the little girl who lay in the snow, and died 
 there that night." 
 
 "And I never dreamed I could smile at any man 
 except the boy who lay by me that night. And he 
 died." 
 
 "What miracle saved you?" 
 
 She said : "It was wonderful, and yet very simple. 
 You remember how the tree crushed me down into 
 
1 80 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 the snow? Well, when the landslide moved, it car- 
 ried the tree before it; the weight of the trunk was 
 lifted from me. Perhaps it was a rock that struck 
 me over the head then, for I lost consciousness. The 
 slide didn't bury me, but the rush carried me before 
 it like a stick before a wave, you see. 
 
 "When I woke I was almost completely covered 
 with a blanket of debris, but I could move my arms, 
 and managed to prop myself up in a sitting posture. 
 It was there that my father and his searching party 
 found me; he had been combing that district all 
 night. They carried me back, terribly bruised, but 
 without even a bone broken. It was a miracle that 
 I escaped, and the miracle must have been worked 
 by your cross; do you remember?" 
 
 He shuddered and threw a hand up before his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Dearest " 
 
 "It's nothing but the cross for every good for- 
 tune it has brought me, it has brought bad luck to 
 others." 
 
 "Hush, Pierre. Put your arms around me. I 
 am all yours all. You must not think of the 
 trouble or the cross." 
 
 He obeyed and drew her close to him, and the 
 warm slender body gave to him and lay close against 
 his; and her head went back, and the curve of her 
 soft lips was close to his. He kissed her, reverently, 
 and then, with passion, the lips, the eyes, the throat, 
 that quivered as if she were singing. 
 
 "Pierre, I have said good night to you every time 
 before I went to sleep all these years." 
 
THE OVERTONE 181 
 
 'And IVc looked for you in the face of every 
 
 woman." 
 
 "And I used to think that a still, small voice an- 
 swered me out of the night." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, there was a voice; for I've loved 
 you so hard that it must have been like a hand at 
 yoiy shoulder tapping, and asking you to remember 
 me. Mary, you are crying." 
 
 "I'm so happy; I can't help it. It's as if as if 
 Pierre " 
 
 "Dear, my dear." 
 
 "Hold me closer. I want to feel your strength 
 around me, so that I know I can never lose you 
 again." 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Tell me again that you love me." 
 
 "I love you." 
 
 "I love you, Pierre." 
 
 Then the wind spoke for them, using the trees 
 for a harp above them. She looked up to him, and 
 saw the nodding branches above his head, and higher 
 still, the cold and changeless radiance of the stars. 
 He bent back her head and stared so grimly down 
 Into her eyes that her smile ceased tremulously. 
 
 "Mary, what is the perfume?" 
 
 "None, except the scent of the pines and the 
 sweet, cold air of the night, Pierre." 
 
 "There is something more. It's as if the wind 
 had taken all the fragrance from a thousand miles 
 of wild flowers, and brought them blended and faint 
 and sweeter than anything else in the world It is 
 
1 82 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 you, Mary, you are so beautiful. How many men 
 have told you that you are beautiful?" 
 
 "None have told me ; at least I've listened to them 
 with only half my heart." 
 
 "What have they told you?" 
 
 "Nothing, except words about eyes and lips, and 
 things like that." 
 
 "And your hair?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, they never forget that." 
 
 "Then there is nothing left for me to say, except 
 that God made you so that I could love you with all 
 my heart. And while I hold you here and hunt for 
 things to say, my mind goes rushing out to great 
 things the sea, the mountains, the wind, the cold, 
 quiet, beautiful stars. But you are unhappy to hear 
 me. Look I The big tears come one by one in 
 your eyes, and roll down your face." 
 
 "I'm so happy, Pierre, that I cannot help but be 
 sad a little." 
 
 "But never after this. We will always be happy." 
 
 "Always and always." 
 
 "Mary, I have ridden all day over a burning hot 
 desert and come under the mountains at night and 
 looked up, and I've seen the white, pure snow with 
 the blue of the sky behind it. You are like that 
 to me. But you will be cold out here; I musn't go 
 on saying nothings like this." 
 
 "I love it, Pierre. I won't have you stop." 
 
 "Sit here on this stump now, I'll sit at your 
 feet." 
 
 "No, beside me, please, Pierre." 
 
 "I will not move. Give me your hands. Now, 
 
THE OVERTONE 183 
 
 when I look up your face is framed by a tree-top 
 that goes nodding from one side to the other, and 
 I look up at your eyes and past them at the stars 
 until I know that our love is like them, and free as 
 the wind. Mary, my dearest, your cold hand that 
 I kiss is more to me than oceans of silver, or moun- 
 tains of gold." 
 
 "Now, if we could both die, this would never 
 end. But it will never end in spite of to-morrow, 
 will it? You will go back home with me." 
 
 u Go home with you?" 
 
 "Take my hand again. Pierre, what has hap- 
 pened? What have I done? What have I said?" 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE FEAR OF THE LIVING 
 
 BUT he only stared gravely up to her with such 
 a sorrow that her heart went cold. 
 
 "Nothing but I've remembered." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "It's the cross. It brings luck and bad fortune 
 together. Mary, I'll throw it away, now and then 
 no, it makes no difference. We are done for." 
 
 "Pierre!" 
 
 "Don't you see, Mary, or are you still blind as 
 I was ever since I saw you tonight? It's all in that 
 name Pierre." 
 
 "There nothing in it, Pierre, that I don't love." 
 
 He rose, and she with him. His head was bowed 
 as if with the weight of the doom which he fore- 
 saw. 
 
 "You have heard of the wild men of the moun- 
 tains, and the long-riders?" 
 
 He knew that she nodded, though she could not 
 speak. 
 
 "I am Red Pierre." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Yet he had the courage to raise his head and 
 watch her shrink with horror. It was only an in- 
 
 184 
 
THE FEAR OF THE LIVING 185 
 
 stant. Then she was beside him again, and one 
 arm around him, while she turned her head and 
 glanced fearfully back at the lighted schoolhouse. 
 The faint music mocked them. 
 
 "And you dared to come to the dance? We must 
 go. Look, there are horses ! We'll ride off into the 
 mountains, and they'll never find us we'll " 
 
 "Hush! One day's riding would kill you riding 
 as I ride." 
 
 "I'm strong very strong, and the love of you, 
 Pierre, will give me more strength. But quickly, for 
 if they knew you, every man in that place would 
 come armed and ready to kill. I know, for I've 
 heard them talk. Tell me, are one-half of all the 
 terrible things they say " 
 
 "They are true, I guess." 
 
 "I won't think of them. Whatever you've done, 
 it was not you, but some devil that forced you on. 
 Pierre, I love you more than ever. Will you go 
 East with me, and home? We will lose ourselves in 
 New York. The millions of the crowd will hide 
 
 us." 
 
 "Mary, there are some men from whom even 
 the night can't hide me. If they were blind their 
 hate would give them eyes to find me." 
 
 "Pierre, you are not turning away from me 
 Pierre!" 
 
 "God help me." 
 
 "He will. There's some ghost of a chance for 
 u. Will you take that chance and come with me?" 
 
 He thought of many things, but what he answered 
 was :"1 will." 
 
1 86 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Then let's go at once. The railroad " 
 
 "Not that way. No one in that house suspects 
 me now. We'll go back and put on our masks 
 again, and hush, what's there?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "There is a man s step. 
 
 And she, seeing the look on his face, covered her 
 eyes in nameless horror. When she looked up a 
 great form was looming through the dark, and then 
 the voice of Wilbur came, hard and cold. 
 
 "IVe looked everywhere for you. Miss Brown, 
 they are anxious about you in the schoolhouse. Will 
 you go back?" 
 
 "No I " 
 
 But Pierre commanded: "Go back." 
 
 So she turned, and he ordered again: 4< I think 
 our friend has something to say to me. You can 
 find your way easily. To-morrow " 
 
 "To-morrow, Pierre?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I shall be waiting." 
 
 With what a voice she said it! And thea she was 
 gone. 
 
 He turned quietly to big Dick Wilbur, on whose 
 contorted face the moonlight fell. 
 
 "Say it, Dick, and have it out in cursing me, if 
 that '11 help." 
 
 The big man stood with his hands gripped hard 
 behind him, fighting for self-control. 
 
 "Pierre, I've cared for you more than I've cared 
 for any other man. I've thought of you like a kid 
 brother. Now tell me that you haven't done this 
 
THE FEAR OF THE LIVING 187 
 
 thing, and I'll believe you rather than my senses. 
 Tell me you haven't come like a thief in the night 
 and stolen the girl I love away from me; tell 
 
 m *__" 
 
 "If you keep on like that, you'll end by jumping 
 at my throat. Hold yourself, Dick." 
 
 "I will if you'll tell me that you haven't " 
 
 "I love her, Dick." 
 
 "Damn you! And she?" 
 
 "She'll forget me; God knows I hope she'll far- 
 get me." 
 
 "I brought two guns with me. Here they are." 
 
 He held out the weapons. 
 
 "Take your choice." 
 
 "Does it have to be this way?" 
 
 "If you'd rather have me shoot YOU down in cold 
 blood?" 
 
 "I suppose this is as good a way as any." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing. Give me a gun." 
 
 "Here. This is ten paces. Are you ready?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Pierre. God forgive you for what you've done. 
 She liked me, I know. If it weren't for you, I 
 would have won her and a chance for real life again 
 but now damn you!" 
 
 "I'll count to ten, slowly and evenly. When I 
 reach ten we fire?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'll trust you not to beat the count, Dick." 
 
 "And I you. Start." 
 
1 88 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 He counted quietly, evenly: "One, two, three, 
 four, five six, seven, eight, nine ten." 
 
 The gun jerked up in the hand of Wilbur, but he 
 stayed the movement with his finger pressing still 
 upon the trigger. The hand of Pierre had not 
 moved. 
 
 He cried: "By God, Pierre, what do you mean?" 
 
 There was no answer. He strode across the in- 
 tervening space dropped his gun, and caught the 
 other by the shoulders. Out of the nerveless fingers 
 of Pierre the revolver slipped and crushed a dead 
 twig on the ground, and a pair of lifeless eyes stared 
 up to Dick Wilbur. 
 
 "In the name of God, Pierre, what has happened 
 to you?" 
 
 "Dick, why didn't you fire?" 
 
 "Fire? Murder you?" 
 
 "You shoot straight I know it would have 
 been over quickly." 
 
 "What is it, boy? You look dead there's no 
 color in your face, no light in your eyes, even your 
 voice is dead. I know it isn't fear. What is it?" 
 
 "You're wrong. It's fear." 
 
 "Fear and Red Pierre. The two don't mate." 
 
 "Fear of living, Dick." 
 
 "So that's it? God help you. Pierre, forgive 
 me. I should have known that you had met her 
 before, but I was mad, and didn't know what I was 
 doing, couldn't think." 
 
 "It's over and forgotten. I have to go back and 
 get Jack. Will you ride home with us?" 
 
THE FEAR OF THE LIVING 18; 
 
 "Jack? She's not in the hall. She left shortly 
 after you went, and she means some deviltry. 
 There's a jealous fiend in that girl. I watched her 
 eyes when they followed you and Mary from the 
 hall." 
 
 "Then we'll ride back alone." 
 
 "Not I. Carry the word to Jim that I'm through 
 with the game. I'm going to wash some of the 
 grime off my conscience and try to make myself fit 
 to speak to this girl again." 
 
 "It's the cross," said Pierre. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing. The bad luck has come to poor old 
 Jim at last, because he saved me out of the snow. 
 Patterson has gone, and now you, and perhaps Jack 
 well, this is good-by, Dick?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Their hands met, a long, strong grip. 
 
 "You forgive me, Dick?" 
 
 "With all my heart, old fellow." 
 
 "I'll try to wish you luck. Stay close to her. Live 
 clean for her sake and worship her like a saint. Per- 
 haps you'll win her." 
 
 "I'll do what one man can." 
 
 "But if you succeed, ride out of the mountain- 
 desert with her never let me hear of it." 
 
 "I don't understand. Will you tell me what's be- 
 tween you, Pierre? You've some sort of claim on 
 her. What is it?" 
 
 "I've said good-by. Only one thing more. Nerer 
 mention my name to her." 
 
190 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 So he turned and walked out into the moonlight 
 in the immaculate dress-suit and big Wilbur stared 
 after him until he disappeared beyond the shoulder 
 of a hill 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE LUCK OF THE SHIPWRECKED 
 
 IT was early morning before Pierre reached the 
 refuge of Boone's gang, but there was still a light 
 through the window of the large room, and he en- 
 tered to find Boone, Mansie, and Gandil grouped 
 about tht fire, all ominously silent, all ominously 
 wakeful. They looked up to him and big Jim nodded 
 his gray head. Otherwise there was no greeting. 
 
 From a shadowy corner Jacqueline rose and went 
 toward the door. He crossed quickly and barred 
 the way. 
 
 "What is it, Jack?" 
 
 "Get out of the way." 
 
 "Not till you tell me what's wrong." 
 
 A veritable devil of fury came blazing in her eyes, 
 and her hand twitched nervously back to her hip 
 where the dark holster hung. She said in a voice 
 that shook with anger: "Don't try your bluff on me. 
 I ain't no shorthorn, Pierre le Rouge." 
 
 He stepped aside, frowning. 
 
 "To-morrow I'll argue the point with you, Jack." 
 
 She turned at the door and snapped back: "You? 
 You ain't fast enough on the draw to argue with 
 me!" 
 
 And she was gone. He turned to face the mock- 
 
 191 
 
192 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 ing smile of Black Gandil and a rapid volley of ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "Where's Patterson ?" 
 
 "No more idea than vou have." 
 
 "And Branch ?" 
 
 "What's become of Branch? Hasn't he re- 
 turned?" 
 
 "No. And Dick Wilbur?" 
 
 "Boys, he's done with this life and I'm glad of 
 it. He's starting on a new track." 
 
 "After a woman?" sneered Bud Mansie. 
 
 "Shut up, Bud," broke in Boone, and then slowly 
 to Pierre: "Patterson is gone for two days now. 
 You ought to know what that means. Branch ought 
 to have returned from looking for him, and Branch 
 is still out. Wilbur is gone. Out of seven we're 
 only four left. Who's next?" 
 
 He stared gloomily from face to face, and Gandil 
 snarled: "A fellow who saves a shipwrecked man " 
 
 "Damn you, keep still, Gandil." 
 
 "Don't damn me, Pierre le Rouge, but damn the 
 luck you've brought to Jim Boone." 
 
 "Jim, do you chalk all this up against me?" 
 
 "I, lad? No, no! But it's queer. Patterson's 
 done for; there's no doubt of that. Good-natured 
 Garry Patterson. God, boy, how we'll miss him! 
 And Branch seems to have gone the same way. If 
 neither of them show up before morning we can 
 cross 'em off the list. Now Wilbur has gone and 
 Jack has ridden home looking like a small-sized thun- 
 der storm, and now you come with a white face and 
 a blank eye. What hell is trailin' us, Pierre, what 
 
THE LUCK OF THE SHIPWRECKED 193 
 
 hell is in store for us. YouVe seen something, and 
 we want to know what it is.'* 
 
 "A ghost, Jim, that's all. Just a ghost." 
 
 Bud Mansie said softly: "There's only one ghost 
 that could make you look like this. Was it McGurk, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 Boone commanded: u No more of that, Bud. 
 Boy's we're going to turn in, and to-morrow we'll 
 climb the hills looking for the two we've lost. But 
 there's something or some one after us. Lads, I'm 
 thinking our good days are over. The seven of us 
 have been too many for a small posse and too fast 
 for a big one, but the seven are down to four. The 
 good days are over." 
 
 And the three answered in a solemn chorus: u Thc 
 good days are over." 
 
 All eyes fixed on Pierre, and his glance was 
 settled on the floor. 
 
 The morning brought them no better cheer, for 
 Jack, whose singing generally wakened them, was 
 not to be coaxed into speech, and when Pierre en- 
 tered the room she rose and left the breakfast-table. 
 The sad eyes of Jim Boone followed her and then 
 turned to Pierre. No explanation was forthcoming, 
 and he asked for none. The old fatalist had ac- 
 cepted the worst, and now he waited for doom to 
 descend. 
 
 They took their horses after breakfast and rode 
 out to search the hills, for it was quite possible that 
 an accident had crippled at least one of the two lost 
 men, either Patterson or Branch. Not a gully within 
 
194 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 miles was left unsearched, but toward evening they 
 rode back, one by one, with no tidings. 
 
 One by one they rode up, and whistled to an- 
 nounce their coming, and then rode on to the stable 
 to unsaddle their horses. About the supper table 
 all gathered with the exception of Bud Mansie. So 
 they waited the meal and each from time to time 
 stole a glance at the fifth plate where Bud should sit. 
 
 It was Jack who finally stirred herself from her 
 dumb gloom to take up that fifth and carry it out 
 of the room. It was as if she had announced the 
 death of Mansie. 
 
 After that, they ate what they could and then went 
 back around the fire. The evening waned, but it 
 brought no sign of any of the missing three. The 
 wood burned low in the fire. The first to break the 
 long silence was Jim Boone, with "Who brings in the 
 wood?" 
 
 And Black Gandil answered: "We'll match, eh?" 
 
 In an outburst of energy the day before he dis- 
 appeared Garry Patterson had chopped up some 
 wood and left a pile of it at the corner of the house. 
 It was a very little thing to bring in an armful of 
 that wood, but long-riders do not love work, and 
 now they started the matching seriously. The odd 
 man was out, and Pierre went out on the first toss 
 of the coins. 
 
 "You see," said Gandil. "Bad luck to every one 
 but himself." 
 
 At the next throw Jacqueline was the lucky one, 
 and her father afterward. Gandil rose and 
 stretched himself leisurely, yet as he sauntered to- 
 
THE LUCK OF THE SHIPWRECKED 195 
 
 ward the door his backward glance at Pierre was 
 black indeed. He glanced curiously toward Jack 
 who looked away sharply and then turned his eyes 
 to her father. 
 
 The latter was considering him with a gloomy, 
 foreboding stare and considering over and over 
 again, as Pierre le Rouge well knew, the prophecy 
 of Black Morgan Gandil. 
 
 He fell in turn into a solemn brooding, and many 
 a picture out of the past came up beside him and 
 stood near till he could almost feel its presence. He 
 was roused by the creaking of the floor beneath the 
 ponderous step of Jim Boone, who flung the door 
 open and shouted: "Oh, Morgan.*' 
 
 In the silence he turned and stared back at Pierre. 
 
 "What's up with Gandil ?" 
 
 u God knows, not I." 
 
 Pierre rose and ran from the room and around 
 the side of the building. There by the woodpile lay 
 the prostrate body. It was a mere limp weight 
 when he turned and raised it in his arms. So he 
 walked back into the house carrying all that was 
 left of Black Morgan Gandil, and placed his burden 
 on a bunk at the side of the room. 
 
 There had been no outcry from either Jim Boone 
 or his daughter, but they came quickly to him, and 
 Jacqueline pressed her ear over the heart of the hurt 
 man. 
 
 She said: "He's still alive, but nearly gone. 
 Where's the wound?" 
 
 They found it when they drew off his coat a 
 small cut high on the right breast, and another lower 
 
196 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 and more to the left. Either of them would been 
 fatal, and about each the flesh was discolored where 
 the hilt of the knife or the fist of the striker had 
 driven home the blade. 
 
 They stood back and made no hopeless effort to 
 save him. It was uncanny that Black Morgan Gan- 
 dil, after all of his battles, should die without a strug- 
 gle in this way. And it had been no cowardly attack 
 from the rear. Both wounds were in the front. A 
 hope came to them when his color increased at one 
 time, but it was for only a moment; it went out 
 again as if some one were erasing paint from his 
 cheeks. 
 
 But just as they were about to turn away his body 
 stirred with a slight convulsion, the eyes opened 
 wide, and he strove to speak. A red froth came on 
 his lips. He made another desperate effort, and 
 twisting himself onto one elbow pointed a rigid arm 
 at Pierre. He gasped: "McGurk God!" and 
 dropped. He was dead before his head touched the 
 blanket. 
 
 It was Jacqueline who closed the staring eyes, for 
 the two men were frozen where they stood. They 
 had heard the story of Patterson and Branch and 
 Mansie in one word from the lips of the dying man. 
 
 McGurk was back. McGurk was prowling about 
 the last of the gang of Boone, and the lone wolf 
 had pulled down four of the band one by one on suc- 
 cessive days. Only two remained, and these two 
 looked at one another with a common thought. 
 
 "The lights 1" cried Jacqueline, turning from the 
 
THE LUCK OF THE SHIPWRECKED 197 
 
 body of Gandil. "He can shoot us down through 
 the windows at his leisure." 
 
 "But he won't," said her father. "I've lived too 
 long with the name of McGurk in my ears not to 
 know the man. He'll never kill by stealth, but 
 openly and man to man. I know him, damn him. 
 He'll wait till he meets us alone, and then we'll finish 
 as poor Gandil, there, or Patterson and Branch and 
 Bud Mansie, all of them fallen somewhere in the 
 mountains with the buzzards left to bury 'em. That's 
 how we'll finish with McGurk on our trail. And 
 you Gandil was right it's you that's brought him 
 on us. A shipwrecked man by God, Gandil was 
 right!" 
 
 His right hand froze on the butt of his gun and 
 his face convulsed with impotent rage, for he knew, 
 as both the others knew, that long before that gun 
 was clear of the holster the bullet from Pierre's 
 gun would be on its way. But Pierre threw his arms 
 wide, and standing so, his shadow made a black cross 
 on the wall behind him. He even smiled to tempt 
 the big man further. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 JACQUELINE WAIT8 
 
 JACQUELINE ran between and caught the hand of 
 her father, crying: 
 
 "Are you going to finish the work of McGurk 
 before he has a chance to start it? He hunted the 
 rest down one by one. Dad, if you put out Pierre 
 what is left? Can you face that devil alone?" 
 
 And the old man groaned: "But it's his luck that's 
 ruined me. It's his damned luck which has broken 
 up the finest fellowship that ever mocked at law on 
 the ranges. Oh, Jack, the heart in me's broken. I 
 wish to God that I lay where Gandil lies. What's 
 the use of fighting any longer? No man can stand 
 up against McGurk!" 
 
 And the cold which had come in the blood of 
 Pierre agreed with him. He was a slayer of men, 
 but McGurk was a devil incarnate. His father had 
 died at the hand of this lone rider; it was fitting, it 
 was fate that he himself should die in the same way. 
 The girl looked from face to face, and sensed their 
 despondency. It seemed that their fear gave her the 
 greater courage. Her face flushed as she stood glar- 
 ing her scorn. 
 
 "The yellow streak took a long time in showin', 
 but it's in you, all right, Pierre le Rouge." 
 
 198 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 199 
 
 "YouVc hated me ever since the dance, Jack. 
 Why?" 
 
 "Because I knew you were yellow like this!" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders like one who gives up 
 the fight against a woman, and seeing it, she changed 
 suddenly and made a gesture with both hands to- 
 ward him, a sudden gesture filled with grace and a 
 queer tenderness. 
 
 She said: "Pierre, have you forgotten that when 
 you were only a boy you stood up to McGurk and 
 drew blood from him? Are you afraid of him 
 now?" 
 
 "I'll take my chance with any man but Mc- 
 Gurk" 
 
 "He has no cross to bring him luck." 
 
 "Aye, and he has no friends for that luck to ruin. 
 Look at Gandil, Jack, and then speak to me of the 
 
 cross." 
 
 "Pierre, that first time you met you almost beat 
 him to the draw. Oh, if I were a man, I'd Pierre, 
 it was to get McGurk that you rode out to the range. 
 You've been here six years, and McGurk is still alive, 
 and now you're ready to run from his shadow." 
 
 "Run?" he said hotly. "I swear to God that as 
 I stand here I've no fear of death and no hope for 
 the life ahead." 
 
 She sneered : "You're white while you say it. Your 
 will may be brave, but your blood's a coward, Pierre. 
 It deserts you." 
 
 "Jack, you deviW 
 
 "Aye, you can threaten me safely. But if McGurk 
 were here " 
 
200 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Let him come." 
 
 "Pierre!" 
 
 "I mean it." 
 
 "Then give me one promise." 
 
 "A thousand of "em." 
 
 "Let me hunt him with you." 
 
 He stared at her with a mute wonder. She had 
 never been so beautiful. 
 
 "Jack, what a heart you have ! If you were a man 
 we could rule the mountains, you and I." 
 
 "Even as I am, what prevents us, Pierre?" 
 
 And looking at her he forgot the sorrow which 
 had been his ever since he looked up to the face 
 framed with red-gold hair and the dark tree behind 
 and the cold stars steady above it. It would come 
 to him again, but now it was gone, and he mur- 
 mured, smiling: "I wonder?" 
 
 They made their plans that night, sitting all three 
 together. It was better to go out and hunt the 
 hunter than to wait there and be tracked down. 
 Jack, for she insisted on it, would ride out with 
 Pierre the next morning and hunt through the hills 
 for the hiding-place of McGurk. 
 
 Some covert he must have, so as to be near his 
 victims. Nothing else could explain the ease with 
 which he kept on their track. They would take the 
 trail, and Jim Boone, no longer agile enough to be 
 effective on the trail, would guard the house' and 
 the body of Gandil in it. 
 
 There was little danger that even McGurk would 
 try to rush a hostile house, but they took no chances. 
 The guns of Jim Boone were given a thorough over- 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 201 
 
 hauling, and he wore as usual at his belt the heavy- 
 handled hunting knife, a deadly weapon in a hand- 
 to-hand fight. Thus equipped, they left him and 
 took the trail. 
 
 They had not ridden a hundred yards when a 
 whistle followed them, the familiar whistle of the 
 gang. They reined short and saw big Dick Wilbur 
 riding his bay after them, but at some distance he 
 halted and shouted: "Pierre!" 
 
 "He's come back to us !" cried Jack. 
 
 "No. It's only some message." 
 
 "Do you know?" 
 
 "Yes. Stay here. This is for me alone." 
 
 And he rode back to Wilbur, who swung his horse 
 close alongside. However hard he had followed in 
 the pursuit of happiness and the golden hair of 
 Mary Brown, his face was drawn with lines of age 
 and his eyes circled with shadows. 
 
 He said: "I've kept close on her trail, Pierre, and 
 the nearest she has come to kindness has been to 
 send me back with a message to you." 
 
 He laughed without mirth, and the sound stopped 
 abruptly. 
 
 "This is the message in her own words: *I love 
 him, Dick, and there's nothing in the world for me 
 without him. Bring him back to me. I don't care 
 how; but bring him back.' So tell Jack to ride the 
 trail alone to-day and go back with me. I give her 
 up, not freely, but because I know there's no hope 
 for me." 
 
 But Pierre answered: "Wherever I've gone 
 there's been luck for me and hell for every one 
 
202 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 around me. I lived with a priest, Dick, and left him 
 when I was nearly old enough to begin repaying his 
 care. I came South and found a father and lost him 
 the same day. I gambled for money with which to 
 bury him, and a man died that night and another 
 was hurt. I escaped from the town by riding a horse 
 to death. I was nearly killed in a landslide, and now 
 the men who saved me from that are done for. 
 
 "It's all one story, the same over and over. Can 
 I carry a fortune like that back to her? Dick, it 
 would haunt me by day and by night. She would 
 be the next. I know it as I know that Fm sitting 
 in the saddle here. That's my answer. Carry it 
 back to her." 
 
 U I won't lie and tell you Fm sorry, because Fm 
 a fool and still have a ghost of a hope, but this will 
 be hard news to tell her, and Fd rather give five 
 years of life than face the look that will come in 
 her eyes." 
 
 "I know it, Dick." 
 
 "But this is final?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Then good-bye again, and God bless you, 
 Pierre." 
 
 "And you, old fellow." 
 
 They swerved their horses in opposite directions 
 and galloped apart. 
 
 "It was nothing," said Pierre to Jack, when he 
 came up with her and drew his horse down to a trot. 
 But he knew that she had read his mind, and for an 
 hour they could not look each other in the face. 
 
 But all day through the mazes of canon and hill 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 203 
 
 and rolling ground they searched patiently. There 
 was no cranny in the rocks too small for them to 
 reconnoiter with caution. There was no group of 
 trees they did not examine. 
 
 Yet it was not strange that they failed. In the 
 space of every square mile there were a hundred 
 hiding-places which might have served McGurk. 
 It would have taken a month to comb the country. 
 They had only a day, and left the result to chance, 
 but chance failed them. When the shadows com- 
 menced to swing across the gullies they turned back 
 and rode with downward heads, silent. 
 
 One hill lay between them and the old ranch-house 
 which had been the headquarters for their gang so 
 many days, when they saw a faint drift of smoke 
 across the sky not a thin column of smoke such as 
 rises from a chimney, but a broad stream of pale 
 mist, as if a dozen chimneys were spouting wood- 
 smoke at once. 
 
 They exchanged glances and spurred their horses 
 up the last slope. As always in a short spurt, the 
 long-legged black of Jacqueline out-distanced the 
 cream-colored mare, and it was she who first topped 
 the rise of land. The girl whirled in her saddle with 
 raised arm, screamed back at Pierre, and rode on at 
 a still more furious pace. 
 
 What he saw when he reached a corresponding 
 position was the ranch-house wreathed in smoke, and 
 through all the lower windows was the red dance of 
 flames. Before him fled Jacqueline with all the 
 speed of the black. He loosened the reins, spoke to 
 the mare, and she responded with a mighty rush. 
 
204 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Even that tearing pace could not quite take him up 
 to the girl, but he flung himself from the saddle and 
 was at her side when she ran across the smoking 
 veranda and wrenched at the front door. 
 
 The whole frame gave back at her, and as Pierre 
 snatched her to one side the doorway fell crashing 
 on the porch, while a mighty volume of smoke burst 
 out at them like a puff from the pit. 
 
 They stood sputtering, coughing, and choking, and 
 when they could look again they saw a solid wall of 
 red flame, thick, impenetrable, shuddering with the 
 breath of the wind. 
 
 While they stared a stronger breath of that wind 
 tore the wall of flames apart, driving it back in a 
 raging tide to either side. The fire had circled the 
 walls of the entire room, but it had scarcely en- 
 croached on the center, and there, seated at the table, 
 was Boone. 
 
 He had scarcely changed from the position in 
 which they last saw him, save that he was fallen 
 somewhat deeper in the chair, his head resting 
 against the top of the back. He greeted them, 
 through that infernal furnace, with laughter, and 
 wide, steady eyes. At least it seemed laughter, for 
 the mouth was agape and the lips grinned back, but 
 there was no sound from the lips and no light in 
 the fixed eyes. 
 
 Laughter indeed it was, but it was the laughter 
 of death, as if the soul of the man, in dying, recog- 
 nized its natural wild element and had burst into 
 convulsive mirth. So he sat there, untouched as yet 
 by the wide river of fire, chuckling at his destiny. 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 205 
 
 The wall of fire closed across the doorway again 
 and the work of red ruin went on with a crashing 
 of timbers from the upper part of the building. 
 
 As that living wall shut solidly, Jacqueline leaped 
 forward, shouting, like a man, words of hope and 
 rescue ; Pierre caught her barely in time a precari- 
 ous grasp on the wrist from which she nearly 
 wrenched herself free and gained the entrance to 
 the fire. But the jerk threw her off balance for the 
 least fraction of an instant, and the next moment she 
 was safe in his arms. 
 
 Safe? He might as well have held a wildcat, or 
 captured with his bare hands a wild eagle, strong 
 of talon and beak. She tore and raged in a wild 
 fury. 
 
 "Pierre, coward, devil !" 
 
 "Steady, Jack !" 
 
 "Are you going to let him die?" 
 
 "Don't you see? He's already dead." 
 
 "You lie. You only fear the fire !" 
 
 "I tell you, McGurk has been here before us." 
 
 Her arm was freed by a twisting effort and she 
 beat him furiously across the face. One blow dut 
 his lip and a steady trickle of hot blood left a taste 
 of salt in his mouth. 
 
 "You young fiend 1" he cried, and grasped both 
 her wrists with a crushing force. 
 
 She leaned and gnashed at his hands, but he 
 whirled her about and held her from behind, impo- 
 tent, raging still. 
 
 "A hundred McGurks could never have killed 
 him!" 
 
206 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 There was a sharp explosion from the midst of 
 the fire. 
 
 "See ! He's fighting against his death!" 
 
 "No! No!" It's only the falling of a timber!" 
 
 Yet with a panic at his heart he knew that it was 
 the sharp crack of a firearm. 
 
 "Liar again! Pierre, for God's sake, do some- 
 thing for him. Father! He's fighting for his life!" 
 
 Another and another explosion from the midst 
 of the fire. He understood then. 
 
 "The flames have reached his guns. That's all, 
 Jack. Don't you see? We'd be throwing ourselves 
 away to run into those flames." 
 
 Realization came to her at last. A heavy weight 
 slumped down suddenly over his arms. He held 
 her easily, lightly. Her head had tilted back, and 
 the red flare of the fire beat across her face and 
 throat. The roar of the flames shut out all other 
 thought of the world and cast a wide inferno of light 
 around them. 
 
 Higher and higher rose the fires, and the wind 
 cut off great fragments and hurried them off into the 
 night, blowing them, it seemed, straight up against 
 the piled thunder of the clouds. Then the roof 
 sagged, swayed, and fell crashing, while a vast cloud 
 of sparks and livid fires shot up a hundred feet into 
 the air. It was as if the soul of old Boone had de- 
 parted in that final flare. 
 
 It started the girl into sudden life, surprising 
 Pierre, so that she managed to wrench herself free 
 and ran from him. He sprang after her with a 
 shout, fearing that in her hysteria she might fling 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 207 
 
 herself into the fire, but that was not her purpose. 
 Straight to the black horse she ran, swung into the 
 saddle with the ease of a man, and rode furiously 
 off through the falling of the night. 
 
 He watched her with a curious closing of loneli- 
 ness like a hand about his heart. He had failed, 
 and because of that failure even Jacqueline was leav- 
 ing him. It was strange, for since the loss of the 
 girl of the yellow hair and those deep blue eyes, he 
 had never dreamed that another thing in life could 
 pain him. 
 
 So at length he mounted the mare again and rode 
 slowly down the hill and out toward the distant 
 ranges, trotting mile after mile with downward head, 
 not caring even if McGurk should cross him, for 
 surely this was the final end of the world to Pierre 
 le Rouge. 
 
 About midnight he halted at last, for the uneasy 
 sway of the mare showed that she was nearly dead 
 on her feet with weariness. He found a convenient 
 place for a camp, built his fire, and wrapped his 
 blanket about him without thinking of food. 
 
 He never knew how long he sat there, for his 
 thoughts circled the world and back again and found 
 all a prospect of desert before him and behind, until 
 a sound, a vague sound out of the night startled him 
 into alertness. He slipped from beside the fire and 
 into the shadow of a steep rock, watching with eyes 
 that almost pierced the dark on all sides. 
 
 And there he saw her creeping up on the outskirts 
 of the firelight, prone on her hands and knees, drag- 
 ging herself up like a young wildcat hunting prey; 
 
208 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 it was the glimmer of her eyes that he caught first 
 through the gloom. A cold thought came to him 
 that she had returned with her gun ready. 
 
 Inch by inch she came closer, and now he was 
 aware of her restless glances probing on all sides of 
 the camp-fire. Silence only the crackling of a 
 pitchy stick. And then he heard a muffled sound, 
 soft, soft as the beating of a heart in the night, and 
 regularly pulsing. It hurt him infinitely, and he 
 called gently: "Jack, why are you weeping?" 
 
 She started up with her fingers twisted at the butt 
 of her gun. 
 
 "It's a lie," called a tremulous voice. "Why 
 should I weep?" 
 
 And then she ran to him. 
 
 "Oh, Pierre, I thought you were gone!" 
 
 That silence which came between them was thick 
 with understanding greater than speech. He said 
 at last: 
 
 "I've made my plan. I am going straight for the 
 higher mountains and try to shake McGurk off my 
 trail. There's one chance in ten I may succeed, and 
 if I do then I'll wait for my chance and come down 
 on him, for sooner or later we have to fight this out 
 to the end." 
 
 "I know a place he could never find," said Jacque- 
 line. "The old cabin in the gulley between the Twin 
 Bears. We'll start for it to-night." 
 
 "Not we," he answered. "Jack, here's the end 
 of our riding together." 
 
 She frowned with puzzled wonder. 
 
 He explained: "One man is stronger than a 
 
JACQUELINE WAITS 209 
 
 dozen. That's the strength of McGurk that he 
 rides alone. He's finished your father's men. 
 There's only Wilbur left, and Wilbur will go next 
 then me!" 
 
 She stretched her hands to him. She seemed to 
 be pleading for her very life. 
 
 "But if he finds us and has to fight us both I 
 shoot as straight as a man, Pierre!" 
 
 "Straighter than most. And you're a better pal 
 than any I've ever ridden with. But I must go 
 alone. It's only a lone wolf that will ever bring 
 down McGurk. Think how he's rounded us up like 
 a herd of cattle and brought us down one by one." 
 
 "By getting each man alone and killing him from 
 behind." 
 
 "From the front, Jack. No, he's fought square 
 with each one. The wounds of Black Gandil were 
 all in front, and when McGurk and I meet it's going 
 to be face to face." 
 
 Her tone changed, softened: "But what of me, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "You have to leave this life. Go down to the city, 
 Jack. Live like a woman ; marry some lucky fellow ; 
 be happy." 
 
 "Can you leave me so easily?" 
 
 "No, it's hard, devilish hard to part with a pal 
 like you, Jack; but all the rest of my life I've got 
 hard things to face, partner." 
 
 "Partner!" she repeated with an indescribable em- 
 phasis. "Pierre, I can't leave you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I'm afraid to go. Let me stay!" 
 
210 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 He said gloomily: "No good will come of it." 
 
 "I'll never trouble you never !" 
 
 "No, the bad luck comes on the people who are 
 with me, but never on me. It's struck them all down, 
 one by one ; your turn is next, Jack. If I could leave 
 the cross behind " 
 
 He covered his face, and groaned: "But I don't 
 dare; I don't dare! I have to face McGurk. Jack, 
 I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. I'm afraid 
 of McGurk, afraid of that damned white face, that 
 lowered, fluttering eyelid, that sneering mouth. 
 Without the cross to bring me luck, how could I meet 
 him? But while I keep the cross there's ruin and 
 hell without end for every one with me." 
 
 She was white and shaking. She said: "I'm not 
 afraid. I've one friend left; there's nothing else to 
 care for." 
 
 "So it's to be this way, Jack?" 
 
 "This way, and no other." 
 
 "Partner, I'm glad. My God, Jack, what a man 
 you would have made I" 
 
 Their hands met and clung together, and her head 
 had drooped, perhaps in acquiescence. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A GAME OF SUPPOSE 
 
 DICK WILBUR, telling Mary how Pierre had cut 
 himself adrift, did not even pretend to sorrow, and 
 she listened to him with her eyes fixed steadily on 
 his own. As a matter of fact, she had shown neither 
 hope nor excitement from the moment he came back 
 to her and started to tell his message. But if she 
 showed neither hope nor excitement for herself, 
 surely she gave Dick still fewer grounds for any op- 
 timistic foresights. 
 
 So he finished gloomily: "And as far as I can make 
 out, Pierre is right. There's some rotten bad luck 
 that follows him. It may not be the cross I don't 
 suppose you believe in superstition like that, Miss 
 Brown?" 
 
 She said: "It saved my life." 
 
 "The cross?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then Pierre you mean you met before the 
 dance you mean " 
 
 He was stammering so that he couldn't finish his 
 thoughts, and she broke in: "If he will not come to 
 me, then I must go to him." 
 
 "Follow Pierre le Rouge?" queried Wilbur. 
 "Miss Brown, you're an optimist. But that's be- 
 
2i2 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 cause youVe never seen him ride. I consider it a 
 good day's work to start out with him and keep 
 within sight till night, but as for following and over- 
 taking him ha, ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 He laughed heartily at the thought. 
 
 And she smiled a little sadly, answering: "But I 
 have the most boundless patience in the world. He 
 may gallop all the way, but I will walk, and keep on 
 walking, and reach him in the end. I am not very 
 strong, but " 
 
 Her hands moved out as though testing their 
 power, gripping at the air. 
 
 "Where will you go to hunt for him?" 
 
 *'I don't know. But every evening, when I look 
 out at the sunset hills, with the purple along the val- 
 leys, I think that he must be out there somewhere, 
 going toward the highest ranges. If I were up in 
 that country I know that I could find him." 
 
 "Never in a thousand years." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he's on the trail " 
 
 "On the trail?" 
 
 "Of McGurk." 
 
 She started. 
 
 What is this man McGurk? I hear of him on 
 all sides. If one of the men rides a bucking horse 
 successfully, some one is sure to say: 'Who taught 
 you what you know, Bud McGurk ?' And then the 
 rest laugh. The other day a man was pointed out 
 to me as an expert shot. 'Not as fast as McGurk,' 
 it was said, 'but he shoots just as straight.' Finally 
 I asked some one about McGurk. The only answer 
 
 j 
 
A GAME OF SUPPOSE 213 
 
 I received was: *I hope you never find out what he 
 is.' Tell me, what is McGurk?" 
 
 Wilbur considered the question gravely. 
 
 He said at last: "McGurk is hell !" 
 
 He expanded his statement: "Think of a man 
 who can ride anything that walks on four feet, who 
 never misses with either a rifle or a revolver, who 
 doesn't know the meaning of fear, and then imagine 
 that man living by himself and fighting the rest of 
 the world like a lone wolf. That's McGurk. He's 
 never had a companion ; he's never trusted any man. 
 Perhaps that's why they say about him the same 
 thing that they say about me." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "You will smile when you hear. They say that 
 McGurk will lose out in the end on account of some 
 
 woman." 
 
 "And they say that of you?" 
 
 "They say right of me. I know it myself. Look 
 at me now? What right have I here? If I'm found 
 I'm the meat of the first man who sights me, but 
 here I stay, and wait and watch for your smiles 
 like a love-sick boy. By Jove, you must despise me, 
 Mary!" 
 
 "I don't try to understand you Westerners," she 
 answered, "and that's why I have never questioned 
 you before. Tell me, why is it that you come so 
 stealthily to see me and run away as soon as any one 
 else appears?" 
 
 He said with wonder: "Haven't you guessed?" 
 
 "I don't dare guess." 
 
 "But you have, and your guess was right. There's 
 
2i 4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 a price on my head. By right, I should be out there 
 on the ranges with Pierre le Rouge and McGurk. 
 There's the only safe place; but I saw you and I 
 came down out of the wilds and can't go back. I'll 
 stay, I suppose, till I run my head into a halter." 
 
 She was too much moved to speak for a moment, 
 and then: "You come to me in spite of that? Dick, 
 whatever you have done, I know that it's only 
 chance which made you go wrong, just as it made 
 Pierre. I wish " 
 
 The dimness of her eyes encouraged him with a 
 great hope. He stole closer to her. 
 
 He repeated: "You wish " 
 
 "That you could be satisfied with a mere friend- 
 ship. I could give you that, Dick, with all my 
 heart." 
 
 He stepped back and smiled somewhat grimly 
 on her. 
 
 She went on: "And this McGurk what do you 
 mean when you say that Pierre is on his trail?" 
 
 "Hunting him with a gun." 
 
 She grew paler and trembled, but her voice re- 
 mained steady. It was always that way; at the very 
 moment when he expected her to quail, some inner 
 strength bore her up and baffled him. 
 
 "But in all those miles of mountains they may 
 never meet?" 
 
 "They can't stay apart any more than iron can 
 stay away from a magnet. Listen : half a dozen 
 years ago McGurk had the reputation of bearing a 
 charmed life. He had been in a hundred fights and 
 he was never touched with either a knife or a bullet. 
 
A GAME OF SUPPOSE 215 
 
 Then he crossed Pierre le Rouge when Pierre was 
 only a youngster just come onto the range. He put 
 two bullets through Pierre, but the boy shot him 
 from the floor and wounded him for the first time. 
 The charm of McGurk was broken. 
 
 "For half a dozen years McGurk was gone; there 
 was never a whisper about him. Then he came back 
 and went on the trail of Pierre. He has killed the 
 friends of Pierre one by one; Pierre himself is the 
 next in order Pierre or myself. And when those 
 two meet there will be the greatest fight that was 
 ever staged in the mountain-desert." 
 
 She stood straight, staring past Wilbur with hun- 
 gry eyes. 
 
 "I knew he needed me. I have to save him, Dick. 
 You see that? I have to bring him down from the 
 mountains and keep him safe from McGurk. Mc- 
 Gurk! somehow the sound means what 'devil 1 used 
 to mean to me." 
 
 "You've never traveled alone, and yet you'd go 
 up there and brave everything that comes for the 
 sake of Pierre? What has he done to deserve it, 
 Mary?" 
 
 "What have I done, Dick, to deserve the care you 
 have for me?" 
 
 He stared gloomily on her. 
 
 "When do you start?" 
 
 "To-night." 
 
 "Your friends won't let you go." 
 
 "I'll steal away and leave a note behind me." 
 
 "And you'll go alone?" 
 
 She caught at a hope. 
 
216 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Unless you'll go with me, Dick?" 
 
 "I? Take you to Pierre?" 
 
 She did not speak to urge him, but in the silence 
 her beauty pleaded for her. 
 
 He said: "Mary, how lovely you are. If I go I 
 will have you for a few days for a week at most, 
 all to myself." 
 
 She shook her head. From the window behind 
 her the sunset light flared in her hair, flooding it 
 with red-gold against which her skin was marvelously 
 delicate and white, and the eyes of the deepest blue. 
 
 "All the time that we are gone, you will never 
 say things like this, Dick?" 
 
 "I suppose not. I should be near you, but ter- 
 ribly far away from your thoughts all the while. 
 Still, you will be near. You will be very beautiful, 
 Mary, riding up the trail through the pines, with 
 all the scents of the evergreens blowing about you, 
 and I well, I must go back to a second childhood 
 and play a game of suppose " 
 
 "A game of what?" 
 
 "Of supposing that you are really mine, Mary, 
 and riding out into the wilderness for my sake." 
 
 She stepped a little closer, peering into his face. 
 
 "No matter what you suppose, I'm sure you'll 
 leave that part of it merely a game, Dick !" 
 
 He laughed suddenly, though the sound broke off 
 as short and sharp as it began. 
 
 "Haven't I played a game all my life with the 
 fair ladies? And have I anything to show for it 
 except laughter? I'll go with you, Mary, if you'll 
 let me." 
 
A GAME OF SUPPOSE 217 
 
 "Dick, you've a heart of gold! What shall I 
 take?" 
 
 "I'll make the pack up, and I'll be back here an 
 hour after dark and whistle. Like this " 
 
 And he gave the call of Boone's gang. 
 
 "I understand. I'll be ready. Hurry, Dick, for 
 we've very little time." 
 
 He hesitated, then: "All the time we're on the 
 trail you must be far from me, and at the end of it 
 will be Pierre le Rouge and happiness for you. 
 Before we start, Mary, I'd like to " 
 
 It seemed that she read his mind, for she slipped 
 suddenly inside his arms, kissed him, and was gone 
 from the room. He stood a moment with a hand 
 raised to his face. 
 
 "After all," he muttered, "that's enough to die 
 for, and " He threw up his long arms in a gesture 
 of infinite resignation. 
 
 "The will of God be done!" said Wilbur, and 
 laughed again. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE TRAIL 
 
 SHE was ready, crouched close to the window of 
 her room, when the signal came, but first she was 
 not sure, because the sound was as faint as a mem- 
 ory. Moreover, it might have been a freakish 
 whistling in the wind, which rose stronger and 
 stronger. It had piled the thunder-clouds high and 
 higher, and now and again a heavy drop of rain 
 tapped at her window like a thrown pebble. 
 
 So she waited, and at last heard the whistle a sec- 
 ond time, unmistakably clear. In a moment she was 
 hurrying down to the stable, climbed into the saddle, 
 and rode at a cautious trot out among the sand-hills. 
 
 For a time she saw no one, and commenced to fear 
 that the whole thing had been a grucsomely real, 
 practical jest. So she stopped her horse and imi- 
 tated the signal whistle as well as she could. It was 
 repeated immediately behind her almost in her ear, 
 and she turned to make out the dark form of a tall 
 horseman. 
 
 "A bad night for the start," called Wilbur. "Do 
 you want to wait till to-morrow?" 
 
 She could not answer for a moment, the wind 
 whipping against her face, while a big drop stung 
 her lips. 
 
 218 
 
THE TRAIL 219 
 
 She said at length : "Would a night like this stop 
 Pierre or McGurk?" 
 
 For answer she heard his laughter. 
 
 "Then I'll start. I must never stop for weather." 
 
 He rode up beside her. 
 
 "This is the start of the finish." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing. But somewhere on this ride, I've an 
 idea a question will be answered for me." 
 
 "What question?" 
 
 Instead of replying he said : "YouVe got a slicker 
 on?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then follow me. We'll gallop into the wind a 
 while and get the horses warmed up. Afterward 
 we'll take the valley of the Old Crow and follow it 
 up to the crest of the range." 
 
 His horse lunged out ahead of hers, and she fol- 
 lowed, leaning far forward against a wind that kept 
 her almost breathless. For several minutes they 
 cantered steadily, and before the end of the gallop 
 she was sitting straight up, her heart beating fast, 
 a faint smile on her lips, and the blood running hot 
 in her veins. For the battle w^s begun, she knew, 
 by that first sharp gallop, and here at the start she 
 felt confident of her strength. When she met Pierre 
 she could force him to turn back with her. 
 
 Wilbur checked his horse to a trot; they climbed 
 a hill, and just as the rain broke on them with a 
 rattling gust they swung into the valley of the Old 
 Crow. Above them in the sky the thunder rode; the 
 rain whipped against the rocks like the rattle of a 
 
220 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 thousand flying hoofs; and now and again the light- 
 ning flashed across the sky. 
 
 Through that vast accompaniment they moved 
 on in the night straight toward the heart of the 
 mountains which sprang into sight with every flash 
 of the lightning and seemed toppling almost above 
 them, yet they were weary miles away, as she knew. 
 
 By those same flashes she caught glimpses of the 
 face of Wilbur. She hardly knew him. She had 
 seen him always big, gentle, handsome, good-nat- 
 ured ; now he was grown harder, with a stern set of 
 the jaw, and a certain square outline of face. It 
 had seemed impossible. Now she began to guess 
 how the law could have placed a price upon his head. 
 For he belonged out here with the night and the 
 crash of the storm, with free, strong, lawless things 
 about him. 
 
 An awe grew up in her, and she was filled half 
 with dread and half with curiosity at the thought 
 of facing him, as she must many a time, across the 
 camp-fire. In a way, he was the ladder by which 
 she climbed to an understanding of Pierre le Rouge, 
 Red Pierre. For that Pierre, she knew, was to big 
 Wilbur what Dick himself was to the great mass 
 of law-abiding men. Accident had cut Wilbur adrift, 
 but it was more than accident which started Pierre 
 on the road to outlawry; it was the sheer love of 
 dangerous chance, the glory in fighting other men. 
 This was Pierre. 
 
 What was the man for whom Pierre hunted? 
 What was McGurk? Not even the description of 
 Wilbur had proved very enlightening. Her thought 
 
THE TRAIL 221 
 
 of him was vague, nebulous, and taking many forms. 
 Sometimes he was tall and dark and stern. Again 
 he was short and heavy and somewhat deformed of 
 body. But always he was everywhere in the night 
 about her. 
 
 She guessed at his voice rumbling through an echo 
 of the thunder; she heard the sound of his pursuing 
 horse in the rattle of the following rain. Her work 
 was to keep this relentless lone rider away from 
 Pierre ; it was as if she strove to keep the ocean tide 
 away from the shore. They seemed doomed to meet 
 and shock. 
 
 All this she pondered as they began the ride up 
 the valley, but as the long journey continued, and the 
 hours and the miles rolled past them, a racking 
 weariness possessed her and numbed her mind. She 
 began to wish desperately for morning, but even 
 morning might not bring an end to the ride. That 
 would be at the will of the outlaw beside her. Fi- 
 nally, only one picture remained to her. It stabbed 
 across the darkness of her mind the red hair and 
 the keen eyes of Pierre. 
 
 The storm decreased as they went up the valley. 
 Finally the wind fell off to a pleasant breeze, and 
 the clouds of the rain broke in the center of the 
 heavens and toppled west in great tumbling masses. 
 In half an hour's time the sky was clear, and a cold 
 moon looked down on the blue-black evergreens, 
 shining faintly with the wet, and on the dead black 
 of the mountains. 
 
 For the first time in all that ride her companion 
 spoke: "In an hour the gray will begin in the east. 
 
222 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Suppose we camp here, eat, get a bit of sleep, and 
 then start again?" 
 
 As if she had waited for permission, fighting 
 against her weariness, she now let down the bars of 
 her will, and a tingling stupor swept over her body 
 and broke in hot, numbing waves on her brain. 
 
 "Whatever you say. I'm afraid I couldn't ride 
 much further to-night." 
 
 "Look up at me." 
 
 She raised her head. 
 
 "No ; you're all in. But youVe made a game ride. 
 I never dreamed there was so much iron in you. 
 We'll make our fire just inside the trees and carry 
 water up from the river, eh?" 
 
 A scanty growth of the evergreens walked over 
 the hills and skirted along the valley, leaving a 
 broad, sandy waste in the center where the river at 
 times swelled with melted snow or sudden rains and 
 rushed over the lower valley in a broad, muddy 
 flood. 
 
 At the edge of the forest he picketed the horses 
 in a little open space carpeted with wet, dead grass. 
 It took him some time to find dry wood. So he 
 wrapped her in blankets and left her sitting on a 
 saddle. As the chill left her body she began to grow 
 delightfully drowsy, and vaguely she heard the crack 
 of his hatchet. He had found a rotten stump and 
 was tearing off the wet outer bark to get at the dry 
 wood within. 
 
 After that it was only a moment before a fire 
 sputtered feebly and smoked at her feet. She 
 watched it, only half conscious, in her utter weari- 
 
THE TRAIL 223 
 
 ness, and seeing dimly the hollow-eyed face of the 
 man who stooped above the blaze. Now it grew 
 quickly, and increased to a sharp-pointed pyramid 
 of red flame. The bright sparks showered up, crack- 
 ling and snapping, and when she followed their 
 flight she saw the darkly nodding tops of the ever- 
 greens above her. 
 
 With the fire well under way, he took the coffee- 
 pot to get water from the river, and left her to fry 
 the bacon. The fumes of the frying meat wakened 
 her at once, and brushed even the thought of her 
 exhaustion from her mind. She was hungry rav- 
 enously hungry. 
 
 So she tended the bacon slices with care until they 
 grew brown and crisped and curled at the edges. 
 After that she removed the pan from the fire, and 
 it was not until then that she began to wonder why 
 Wilbur was so long in returning with the water. 
 The bacon grew cold; she heated it again and was 
 mightily tempted to taste one piece of it, but re- 
 strained herself to wait for Dick. 
 
 Still he did not come. She stood up and called, 
 her high voice rising sharp and small through the 
 trees. It seemed that some sound answered, so she 
 smiled and sat down. Ten minutes passed and he 
 was still gone. A cold alarm swept over her at that. 
 She dropped the pan and ran out from the trees. 
 
 Everywhere was the bright moonlight over the 
 wet rocks, and sand, and glimmering on the slow 
 tide of the river, but nowhere could she see Wilbur, 
 or a form that looked like a man. Then the moon- 
 light glinted on something at the edge of the river. 
 
224 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 She ran to it and found the coffee-can half in the 
 water and partially filled with sand. 
 
 A wild temptation to scream came over her, but 
 the tight muscles of her throat let out no sound. 
 But if Wilbur were not here, where had he gone? 
 He could not have vanished into thin air. The ripple 
 of the water washing on the sand replied. Yes, that 
 current might have rolled his body away. 
 
 To shut out the grim sight of the river she turned. 
 Stretched across the ground at her feet she saw 
 clearly the impression of a body in the moist sand. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A HINT OF WHITE 
 
 THE heels had left two deeply defined gouges in 
 the ground; there was a sharp hollow where the 
 head had lain, and a broad depression for the shoul- 
 ders. It was the impression of the body of a man 
 a large man like Wilbur. Any hope, any doubt she 
 might have had, slipped from her mind, and despair 
 rolled into it with an even, sullen current, like the 
 motion of the river. 
 
 It is strange what we do with our big moments 
 of fear and sorrow and even of joy. Now Mary 
 stooped and carefully washed out the coffee-pot, and 
 filled it again with water higher up the bank; and 
 turned back toward the edge of the trees. 
 
 It was all subconscious, this completing of the 
 task which Wilbur had begun, and subconscious still 
 was her careful rebuilding of the fire till it flamed 
 high, as though she were setting a signal to recall 
 the wanderer. But the flame, throwing warmth and 
 red light across her eyes, recalled her sharply to re- 
 ality, and she looked up and saw the dull dawn 
 brightening beyond the dark evergreens. 
 
 Guilt, too, swept over her, for she remembered 
 what big, handsome Dick Wilbur had said: He 
 would meet his end through a woman. Now it had 
 come to him, and through her. 
 
 225 
 
<226 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 She cringed at the thought, for what was she that 
 a man should die in her service? She raised her 
 hands with a moan to the nodding tops of the trees, 
 to the vast, black sky above them, and the full knowl- 
 edge of Wilbur's strength came to her, for had he 
 not ridden calmly, defiantly, into the heart of this 
 wilderness, confident in his power to care both for 
 himself and for her? But she! What could she do 
 wandering by herself? The image of Pierre le 
 Rouge grew dim indeed and sad and distant. 
 
 She looked about her at the pack, which had been 
 distributed expertly, and disposed on the ground by 
 Wilbur. She could not even lash it in place behind 
 the saddle. So she drew the blanket once more 
 around her shoulders and sat down to think. 
 
 She might return to the house doubtless she 
 could find her way back. And leave Pierre in the 
 heart of the mountains, surely lost to her forever. 
 She made a determination, sullen, like a child, to 
 ride on and on into the wilderness, and let fate take 
 care of her. The pack she could bundle together 
 as best she might; she would live as she might; and 
 for a guide there would be the hunger for Pierre. 
 
 So she ended her thoughts with a hope ; her head 
 nodded lower, and she slept the deep, deep sleep of 
 the exhausted mind and the lifeless body. She woke 
 hours later with a start, instantly alert, quivering 
 with fear and life and energy, for she felt like one 
 who has gone to sleep with voices in his ear. 
 
 While she slept some one had been near her; she 
 could have sworn it before her startled eyes glanced 
 around. 
 
A HINT OF WHITE 227 
 
 And though she kept whispering, with white lips, 
 "No, no; it is impossible!" yet there was evidence 
 which proved it. The fire should have burned out, 
 but instead it flamed more brightly than ever, and 
 there was a little heap of fuel laid conveniently close. 
 Moreover, both horses were saddled, and the pack 
 lashed on the saddle of her own mount. 
 
 Whatever man or demon had done this work evi- 
 dently intended that she should ride Wilbur's beau- 
 tiful bay. Yes, for when she went closer, drawn by 
 her wonder, she found that the stirrups had been 
 much shortened. 
 
 Nothing was forgotten by this invisible caretaker; 
 he had even left out the cooking-tins, and she found 
 a little batter of flapjack flour mixed. 
 
 The riddle was too great for solving. Perhaps 
 Wilbur had disappeared merely to play a practical 
 jest on her; but that supposition was too childish to 
 be retained an instant. Perhaps perhaps Pierre 
 himself had discovered her, but having vowed never 
 to see her again, he cared for her like the invisible 
 hands in the old Greek fable. 
 
 This, again, an instinctive knowledge made her 
 dismiss. If he were so close, loving her, he could 
 not stay away; she read in her own heart, and knew. 
 Then it must be something else; evil, because it 
 feared to be seen; not wholly evil, because it sur- 
 rounded her with care. 
 
 At least this new emotion obscured somewhat the 
 terror and the sorrow of Wilbur's disappearance. 1 
 She cooked her breakfast as if obeying the order of 
 the unseen, climbed into the saddle of Wilbur's 
 
228 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 horse, and started off up the valley, leading her own 
 mount. 
 
 Every moment or so she turned in the saddle sud- 
 denly in the hope of getting a glimpse of the fol- 
 lower, but even when she surveyed the entire stretch 
 of country from the crest of a low hill, she saw noth- 
 ing not the least sign of life. 
 
 She rode slowly, this day, for she was stiff and 
 sore from the violent journey of the night before, 
 but though she went slowly, she kept steadily at the 
 trail. It was a broad and pleasant one, being the 
 beaten sand of the river-bottom; and the horse she 
 rode was the finest that ever pranced beneath her. 
 
 His trot was as smooth and springy as the gallop 
 of most horses, and when she let him run over a few 
 level stretches, it was as if she had suddenly been 
 taken up from the earth on wings. There was some- 
 thing about the animal, too, which reminded her of 
 its vanished owner; for it had strength and pride 
 and gentleness at once. Unquestionably it took 
 kindly to its new rider ; for once when she dismounted 
 the big horse walked up behind and nuzzled her 
 shoulder. 
 
 The mountains were much plainer before the end 
 of the day. They rose sheer up in wave upon frozen 
 wave like water piled ragged by some terrific gale, 
 with the tops of the waters torn and tossed and then 
 frozen forever in that position, like a fantastic and 
 gargantuan mask of dreaming terror. It overawed 
 the heart of Mary Brown to look up to them, but 
 there was growing in her a new impulse of friendly 
 understanding with all this scalped, bald region of 
 
A HINT OF WHITE 229 
 
 rocks, as if in entering the valley she had passed 
 through the gate which closes out the gentler world, 
 and now she was admitted as a denizen of the moun- 
 tain-desert, that scarred and ugly asylum for crime 
 and fear and grandeur. 
 
 Feeling this new emotion, the old horizons of her 
 mind gave way and widened; her gentle nature, 
 which had known nothing but smiles, admitted the 
 meaning of a frown. Did she not ride under the 
 very shadow of that frown with her two horses? 
 Was she not armed ? She touched the holster at her 
 hip, and smiled. To be sure, she could never hit a 
 mark with that ponderous weapon, but at least the 
 pistol gave the seeming of a dangerous lone rider, 
 familiar with the wilds. 
 
 It was about dark, and she was on the verge of 
 looking about for a suitable camping-place, when the 
 bay halted sharply, tossed up his head, and whinnied. 
 From the far distance she thought she heard the be- 
 ginning of a whinny in reply. She could not be sure, 
 but the possibility made her pulse quicken. In this 
 region, she knew, no stranger could be a friend. 
 
 So she started the bay at a gallop and put a couple 
 of swift miles between her and the point at which 
 she had heard the sound; no living creature, she was 
 sure, could have followed the pace the bay held dur- 
 ing that distance. So, secure in her loneliness, she 
 trotted the horse around a bend of the rocks and 
 came on the sudden light of a camp-fire. 
 
 It was too late to wheel and gallop away; so she 
 remained with her hand fumbling at the butt of the 
 revolver, and her wide, blue eyes fixed on the flicker 
 
2 3 o RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 of the fire. Not a voice accoste3 her. As far as 
 she could peer among the lithe trunks of the sap- 
 lings, not a sign of a living thing was near. 
 
 Yet whoever built that fire must be near, for it 
 was obviously newly laid. Perhaps some fleeing out- 
 law had pitched his camp here and had been startled 
 by her coming. In that case he lurked somewhere 
 in the woods at that moment, his keen eyes fixed on 
 her, and his gun gripped hard in his hand. Per- 
 haps and the thought thrilled her this little camp 
 had been prepared by the same power, human or un- 
 earthly, which had watched over her early that 
 morning. 
 
 All reason and sane caution warned her to ride 
 on and leave that camp unmolested, but an over- 
 whelming, tingling curiosity besieged her. The thin 
 column of smoke rose past the dark trees like a 
 ghost, and reaching the unsheltered space above the 
 trees, was smitten by a light wind and jerked away 
 at a sharp angle. 
 
 She looked closer and saw a bed made of a great 
 heap of the tips of limbs of spruce, a bed softer than 
 down and more fragrant than any manufactured 
 perfume, however costly. 
 
 Possibly it was the sight of this bed which tempted 
 her down from the saddle, at last. With the reins 
 over her arm, she stood close to the fire and warmed 
 her hands, peering all the while on every side, like 
 some wild and beautiful creature tempted by the bait 
 of the trap, but shrinking from the scent of man. 
 
 As she stood there a broad, yellow moon edged 
 its way above the hills and rolled up through the 
 
A HINT OF WHITE 231 
 
 black trees and then floated through the sky. Be- 
 neath such a moon no harm could come to her. It 
 was while she stared at it, letting her tensed alert- 
 ness relax little by little, that she saw, or thought 
 she saw, a hint of moving white pass over the top 
 of the rise of ground and disappear among the trees. 
 
 She could not be sure, but her first impulse was 
 to gather the reins with a jerk and place her foot in 
 the stirrup; but then she looked back and saw the 
 fire, burning low now and asking like a human voice 
 to be replenished from the heap of small, broken 
 fuel near by; and she saw also the softly piled bed 
 of evergreens. 
 
 She removed her foot from the stirrup. What 
 mattered that imaginary figure of moving white? 
 She felt a strong power of protection lying all about 
 her, breathing out to her with the keen scent of the 
 pines, fanning her face with the chill of the night 
 breeze. She was alone, but she was secure in the 
 wilderness. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 JACK 
 
 FOR many a minute she waited by that camp-fire, 
 but there was never a sign of the builder of it, though 
 she centered all her will in making her eyes and ears 
 sharper to pierce through the darkness and to gather 
 from the thousand obscure whispers of the forest 
 any sounds of human origin. So she grew bold at 
 length to take off the pack and the saddles ; the camp 
 was hers, built for her coming by the invisible power 
 which surrounded her, which read her mind, it 
 seemed, and chose beforehand the certain route 
 which she must follow. 
 
 She resigned herself to that force without ques- 
 tion, and the worry of her search disappeared. It 
 seemed certain that this omnipotence, whatever it 
 might be, was reading her wishes and acting with all 
 its power to fulfill them, so that in the end it was 
 merely a question of time before she should accom- 
 plish her mission before she should meet Pierre le 
 Rouge face to face. 
 
 That night her sleep was deep, indeed, and she 
 only wakened when the slant light of the sun struck 
 across her eyes. It was a bright day, crisp and chill, 
 and through the clear air the mountains seemed lean- 
 ing directly above her, and chief of all two peaks, 
 
 232 
 
JACK 233 
 
 almost exactly similar, black monsters which ruled 
 the range. Toward the gorge between them the 
 valley of the Old Crow aimed its course, and straight 
 up that diminishing canon she rode all day. 
 
 The broad, sandy bottom changed and contracted 
 until the channel was scarcely wide enough for the 
 meager stream of water, and beside it she picked her 
 way along a narrow bridle-path with banks on either 
 side, which became with every mile more like cliffs, 
 walling her in and dooming her to a single des- 
 tination. 
 
 It was evening before she came to the headwaters 
 of the Old Crow, and rode out into the gorge be- 
 tween the two mountains. The trail failed her here. 
 There was no semblance of a ravine to follow, ex- 
 cept the mighty gorge between the two peaks, and 
 into the dark throat of this pass she ventured, like 
 some maiden of medieval romance riding through 
 a solemn gate with the guarding towers tall and 
 black on either side. 
 
 The moment she was well started in it and the 
 steep shadow of the evening fell across her almost 
 like night from the west, her heart grew cold as the 
 air of that lofty region. A sense of coming danger 
 filled her, like a little child when it passes from a 
 lighted room into one dark and still. Yet she kept 
 on, holding a tight rein, throwing many a fearful 
 glance at the vast rocks which might have concealed 
 an entire army in every mile of their extent. 
 
 When she found the cabin she mistook it at first 
 for merely another rock of singular shape. It was. 
 at this shape that she stared, and checked her horse. 
 
234 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 and not till then did she note the faint flicker of a 
 light no brighter or more distinct than the phos- 
 phorescent glow of the eyes of a hunted beast. 
 
 All her impulse was to drive her spurs home and 
 pass that place at a racing gallop, but she checked 
 the impulse sharply and began to reason. In the 
 first place, it was doubtless only the cabin of some 
 prospector, such as she had often heard of. In the 
 second place, night was almost upon her, and she 
 saw no desirable camping-place, or at least any with 
 the necessary water at hand. 
 
 What harm could come to her? Among Western 
 men, she well knew a woman is safer than all the 
 law and the police of the settled East can make her, 
 so she nerved her courage and advanced toward the 
 faint, changing light. 
 
 The cabin was hidden very cunningly. Crouched 
 among the mighty boulders which earthquakes and 
 storms of some wilder, earlier epoch had torn away 
 from the side of the crags above, the house was like 
 another stone, leaning its back to the mountain for 
 support. 
 
 When she drew very close she knew that the light 
 which glimmered at the window must come from an 
 open fire, and the thought of a fire warmed her very 
 heart. She hallooed, and receiving no answer, fas- 
 tened the horses and entered the house. The door 
 swung to behind her, as if of its own volition it 
 wished to make her close prisoner. 
 
 The place consisted of one room, and not a spa- 
 cious one at that, but arranged as a shelter, not a 
 home. The cooking, apparently, was done over the 
 
JACK 235 
 
 open hearth, for there was no sign of any stove, 
 and, moreover, on the wall near the fireplace hung 
 several soot-blackened pans and the inevitable coffee- 
 pot 
 
 There were two bunks built on opposite sides of 
 the room, and in the middle a table was made of a 
 long section split from the heart of a log by wedges, 
 apparently, and still rude and undressed, except for 
 the preliminary smoothing off which had been done 
 with a broad-ax. 
 
 The great plank was supported at either end by a 
 roughly constructed saw-buck. It was very low, and 
 for this reason two fairly square boulders of com- 
 fortable proportions were sufficiently high to serve 
 as chairs. 
 
 For the rest, the furniture was almost too meager 
 to suggest human habitation, but from nails on the 
 wall there depended a few shirts and a pair of chaps, 
 as well as a much-battered quirt. But a bucket of 
 water in a corner suggested cleanliness, and a small, 
 round, highly polished steel plate, hanging on the 
 wall in lieu of a mirror, further fortified her decision 
 that the owner of this place must be a man somewhat 
 particular as to his appearance. 
 
 Here she interrupted her observations to build 
 up the fire, which was flickering down and apparently 
 on the verge of going out. She worked busily for a 
 few minutes, and a roaring blaze rewarded her; she 
 took off her slicker to enjoy the warmth, and in doing 
 so, turned, and saw the owner of the place standing 
 with folded arms just inside the door. 
 
236 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Making yourself to home?" asked the host, in 
 a low, strangely pleasant voice. 
 
 "Do you mind?" asked Mary Brown. "I couldn't 
 find a place that would do for camping." 
 
 And she summoned her most winning smile. It 
 was wasted, she knew at once, for the stranger hard- 
 ened perceptibly, and his lip curled slightly in scorn 
 or anger. In all her life Mary had never met a man 
 so obdurate, and, moreover, she felt that he could 
 not be wooed into a good humor. 
 
 "If you'd gone farther up the gorge," said the 
 other, "you'd of found the best sort of a campin' 
 place water and everything." 
 
 "Then I'll go," said Mary, shrinking at the 
 thought of the strange, cold outdoors compared 
 with this cheery fire. But she put on the slicker and 
 started for the door. 
 
 At the last moment the host was touched with 
 compunction. He called: "Wait a minute. There 
 ain't no call to hurry. If you can get along here just 
 stick around." 
 
 For a moment Mary hesitated, knowing that only 
 the unwritten law of Western hospitality compelled 
 that speech; it was the crackle and flare of the bright 
 fire which overcame her pride. 
 
 She laid off the slicker again, saying, with another 
 smile: "For just a few minutes, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Sure," said the other gracelessly, and tossed his 
 own slicker onto a bunk. 
 
 Covertly, but very earnestly, Mary was studying 
 him. He was hardly more than a boy handsome, 
 slender. 
 
JACK 237 
 
 Now that handsome face was under a doud of 
 gloom, a frown on the forehead and a sneer on the 
 lips, but it was something more than the expression 
 which repelled Mary. For she felt that no matter 
 how she wooed him, she could never win the sympa- 
 thy of this darkly handsome, cruel youth; he was 
 aloof from her, and the distance between them could 
 never be crossed. She knew at once that the mys- 
 terious bridges which link men with women broke 
 down in this case, and she was strongly tempted to 
 leave the cabin to the sole possession of her surly 
 host. 
 
 It was the warmth of the fire which once more 
 decided against her reason, so she laid hands on one 
 of the blocks of stone to roll it nearer to the hearth. 
 She could not budge it. Then she caught the sneer- 
 ing laughter of the man, and strove again in a fury. 
 It was no use; for the stone merely rocked a little 
 and settled back in its place with a bump. 
 
 "Here," said the boy, "I'll move it for you. ' 
 
 It was a hard lift for him, but he set his teeth, 
 raised the stone in his slender hands, and set it down 
 again at a comfortable distance from the fire. 
 
 "Thank you," smiled Mary, but the boy stood 
 panting against the wall, and for answer merely be- 
 stowed on her a rather malicious glance of triumph, 
 as though he gloried in his superior strength and 
 despised her weakness. 
 
 Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for 
 the silence began to weigh on her. She said: "My 
 name is Mary Brown." 
 
238 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 u ls it?" said the boy, quite without interest. 
 "You can call me Jack." 
 
 He sat down on the other stone, his dark face 
 swept by the shadows of the flames, and rolled a 
 cigarette, not deftly, but like one who is learning 
 the mastery of the art. It surprised Mary, watching 
 his fumbling fingers. She decided that Jack must 
 be even younger than he looked. 
 
 She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to 
 time, a sharp, rather worried glance of expectation 
 toward the door, as if he feared it would open and 
 disclose some important arrival. Furthermore, 
 those old worn shirts hanging on the wall were much 
 too large for the throat and shoulders of Jack. 
 
 Apparently, he lived there with some companion, 
 and a companion of such a nature that he did not 
 wish him to be seen by visitors. This explained the 
 lad's coldness in receiving a guest; it also stimulated 
 Mary to linger about a few more minutes. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE WHISPER OF THE KNIFE 
 
 NOT that she stayed there without a growing fear, 
 but she still felt about her, like the protection of some 
 invisible cloak, the presence of the strange guide who 
 had followed her up the valley of the Old Crow. 
 
 It seemed as if the boy were reading her mind. 
 
 "See you got two horses. Come up alone ?" 
 
 "Most of the way," said Mary, and tingled with 
 a rather feline pleasure to see that her curtness 
 merely sharpened the interest of Jack. 
 
 The boy puffed on his cigarette, not with long, 
 slow breaths of inhalation like a practised smoker, 
 but with a puckered face as though he feared that 
 the fumes might drift into his eyes. 
 
 "Why," thought Mary, "he's only a child!" 
 
 Her heart warmtd a little as she adopted this 
 view-point of her surly host. Being warmed, and 
 having much to say, words came of themselves. 
 Surely it would do no harm to tell the story to this 
 queer urchin, who might be able to throw some light 
 on the nature of the invisible protector. 
 
 "I started with a man for guide." She fixed a 
 searching gaze on the boy. "His name was Dick 
 Wilbur." 
 
 She could not tell whether it was a tremble of the 
 239 
 
2 4 o RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 boy's hand or a short motion to knock off the cig- 
 arette ash. 
 
 "Did you say 'was' Dick Wilbur ?" 
 
 "Yes. Did you know him?" 
 
 "Heard of him, I think. Kind of a hard one, 
 wasn't he?" 
 
 "No, no! A fine, brave, gentle fellow poor 
 Dick!" 
 
 She stopped, her eyes filling with tears at many a 
 memory. 
 
 "H-m !" coughed the boy. "I thought he was one 
 of old Boone's gang? If he's dead, that made the 
 last of 'em except Red Pierre." 
 
 It was like the sound of a trumpet call at her ear. 
 Mary sat up with a start. 
 
 "What do you know of Red Pierre?" 
 
 The boy flushed a little, and could not quite meet 
 Jier eye. 
 
 "Nothin'." 
 
 "At least you know that he's still alive?" 
 
 "Sure. Any one does. When he dies the whole 
 range will know about it damn quick. I know that 
 much about Red Pierre; but who doesn't?" 
 
 "I, for one." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 Strangely enough, there was more of accusation 
 than of surprise in the word. 
 
 "Certainly," repeated Mary. "I've only been in 
 this part of the country for a short time. I really 
 know almost nothing about the the legends." 
 
 "Legends?" said the boy, and laughed with a 
 voice of such rich, light music that it took the breath 
 
THE WHISPER OF THE KNIFE 241 
 
 from Mary. "Legend? Say, lady, if Red Pierre 
 is just a legend the Civil War ain't no more'n a 
 fable. Legend? You go anywhere on the range 
 an' get 'em talking about that legend, and they'll 
 make you think it's an honest-to-goodness fact, and 
 no mistake." 
 
 Mary queried earnestly: "Tell me about Red 
 Pierre. It's almost as hard to learn anything of 
 him as it is to find out anything about McGurk." 
 
 "What you doing?" asked the boy, keen with sus- 
 picion. "Making a study of them two for a book?" 
 
 He wiped a damp forehead. 
 
 (< Take it from me, lady, it ain't healthy to join 
 up them two even in talk!" 
 
 "Is there any harm in words?" 
 
 The boy was so upset for some unknown reason 
 that he rose and paced up and down the room in a 
 nervous tremor. 
 
 "Lots of harm in fool words." 
 
 He sat down again, and seemed a little anxious to 
 explain his unusual conduct. 
 
 "Ma'am, suppose you had a well plumb full of 
 nitroglycerin in your back yard; suppose there was 
 a forest fire comin' your way from all sides; would 
 you like to have people talk about the nitroglycerin 
 and that forest fire meeting? Even the talk would 
 give you chills. That's the way it is with Pierre and 
 McGurk. When they meet there's going to be a 
 fight that'll stop the hearts of the people that have 
 to look on." 
 
 Mary smiled to cover her excitement. 
 
 "But are they coming your way?" , j 
 
242 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 The question seemed to infuriate young Jack, who 
 cried: "Ain't that a fool way of talkin'? Lady, 
 they're coming every one's way. You never know 
 where they'll start from or where they'll land. If 
 there's a thunder-cloud all over the sky, do you know 
 where the lightning's going to strike?" 
 
 "Excuse me," said Mary, but she was still eager 
 with curiosity, "but I should think that a youngster 
 like you wouldn't have anything to fear from even 
 those desperadoes." 
 
 "Youngster, eh?" snarled the boy, whose wrath 
 seemed implacable. "I can make my draw and start 
 my gun as fast as any man except them two, may- 
 be" he lowered his voice somewhat even to name 
 them "Pierre McGurk !" 
 
 "It seems hopeless to find out anything about Mc- 
 Gurk," said Mary, "but at least you can tell me 
 safely about Red Pierre." 
 
 "Interested in him, eh?" said the boy dryly. 
 
 "Well, he's a rather romantic figure, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 "Romantic? Lady, about a month ago I was 
 talking with a lady that was a widow because of 
 Red Pierre. She didn't think him none too ro- 
 
 mantic." 
 
 "Red Pierre had killed the woman's husband?" 
 repeated Mary, with pale lips. 
 
 "Yep. He was one of the gang that took a chance 
 with Pierre and got bumped off. Had three bullets 
 in him and dropped without getting his gun out of 
 the leather. Pierre sure does a nice, artistic job. 
 He serves you a murder with all the trimmings. If 
 
THE WHISPER OF THE KNIFE 243 
 
 I wanted to die nice and polite without making a 
 mess, I don't know who I'd rather go to than Red 
 Pierre." 
 
 "A murderer!" mused Mary, with bowed head. 
 
 The boy opened his lips to speak, but changed his 
 mind and sat regarding the girl with a somewhat 
 sinister smile. 
 
 "But might it not be," said Mary, "that he killed 
 one man in self-defense and then his destiny drove 
 him, and bad luck forced him into one bad position 
 after another? There have been histories as strange 
 as that, you know." 
 
 Jack laughed again, but most of the music was 
 gone from the sound, and it was simply a low, omi- 
 nous purr. 
 
 "Sure," he said. "You can take a bear-cub and 
 keep him tame till he gets the taste of blood, but 
 after that you got to keep him muzzled, you know. 
 Pierre needs a muzzle, but there ain't enough gun- 
 fighters on the range to put one on him." 
 
 Something like pride crept into the boy's voice 
 while he spoke, and he ended with a ringing tone. 
 Then, feeling the curious, judicial eyes of Mary 
 upon him, he abruptly changed the subject. 
 
 "You say Dick Wilbur is dead?" 
 
 "I don't know. I think he is." 
 
 "But he started out with you. You ought to 
 know." 
 
 "It was like this : We had camped on the edge of 
 the trees coming up the Old Crow Valley, and Dick 
 went off with the can to get water at the river. He 
 was gone a long time, and when I went out to look 
 
244 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 for him I found the can at the margin of the river 
 half filled with sand, and beside it there was the im- 
 pression of the body of a big man. That was all I 
 found, and Dick never came back." 
 
 They were both silent for a moment. 
 
 "Could he have fallen into the river?" 
 
 "Sure. He was probably helped in. Did you 
 look for the footprints?" 
 
 "I didn't think of that." 
 
 Jack was speechless with scorn. 
 
 "Sat down and cried, eh?" 
 
 "I was dazed; I couldn't think. But he couldn't 
 have been killed by some other man. There was no 
 shot fired; I should have heard it." 
 
 Jack moistened his lips. 
 
 "Lady, a knife don't make much sound either go- 
 ing or coming out not much more sound than a 
 whisper, but that whisper means a lot. I got an 
 idea that Dick heard it. Then the river covered 
 him up." 
 
 He stopped short and stared at Mary with squint- 
 ed eyes. 
 
 "D'you mean to tell me that you had the nerve 
 to come all the way up the Old Crow by yourself?" 
 
 "Every inch of the way." 
 
 Jack leaned forward, sneering, savage. 
 
 "Then I suppose you put the hitch that's on that 
 pack outside?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Jack was dumfounded. 
 
 "Then you admit " 
 
 "That first night when I went to sleep I felt as if 
 
THE WHISPER OF THE KNIFE 245 
 
 there were something near me. When I woke up 
 there was a bright fire burning in front of me and 
 the pack had been lashed and placed on one of the 
 horses. At first I thought that it was Dick, who had 
 come back. But Dick didn't appear all day. The 
 next night " 
 
 "Wait!" said Jack. "This is gettin' sort of 
 creepy. If you was the drinking kind I'd say you'd 
 been hitting up the red-eye." 
 
 "The next evening," continued Mary steadily, "I 
 came about dark on a camp-fire with a bed of twigs 
 near it. I stayed by the fire, but no one appeared. 
 Once I thought I heard a horse whinny far, away, 
 and once I thought that I saw a streak of white 
 disappear over the top of a hill." 
 
 The boy sprang up, shuddering with panic. 
 
 "You saw what?" 
 
 "Nothing. I thought for a minute that it was a 
 bit of something white, but it was gone all at once." 
 
 "White vanished at once went into the dark 
 as fast as a horse can gallop?" 
 
 "Something like that. Do you think it was some 
 one?" 
 
 For answer the boy whipped out his revolver, ex- 
 amined it, and spun the cylinder with shaking hands. 
 Then he said through set teeth: "So you come up 
 here trailin' him after you, eh?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "McGurk!" 
 
 The name came like a rifle shot and Mary rose 
 in turn and shrank back toward the wall, for there 
 was murder in the lighted black eyes which stared 
 
246 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 after her and crumbling fear in her own heart at 
 the thought of McGurk hovering near, of the peril 
 that impended for Pierre. Of the nights in the val- 
 ley of the Crow she refused to let herself think. 
 Cold beads of perspiration stood out on her fore- 
 head. 
 
 "You fool you fool ! Damn your pretty pink- 
 and-white face youVe done for us all! Get out!" 
 
 Mary moved readily enough toward the door, her 
 teeth chattering with terror in the face of this fury. 
 
 Jack continued wildly: "Done for us all; got us 
 all as good as under the sod. I wish you was in 
 Get out quick, or I'll forget you're a woman!" 
 
 He broke into a shrill, hysterical laughter, which 
 stopped short and finished in a heart-broken whis- 
 per: "Pierre I" 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 LAUGHTER 
 
 AT that Mary, who stood with her hand on the 
 latch, whirled and stood wide-eyed, her astonish- 
 ment greater than her fear, for that whisper told 
 her a thousand things. 
 
 Through her mind all the time that she stayed in 
 the cabin there had passed a curious surmise that 
 this very place might be the covert of Pierre le 
 Rouge he of the dark red hair and the keen blue 
 eyes. There was a fatality about it, for the invisible 
 Power which had led her up the valley of the Old 
 Crow surely would not make mistakes. 
 
 In her search for Pierre, Providence brought her 
 to this place, and Providence could not be wrong. 
 This, a vague emotion stirring in her somewhere be- 
 tween reason and the heart, grew to an almost cer- 
 tain knowledge as she heard the whisper, the faint, 
 heartbroken whisper: "Pierre 1" 
 
 And when she turned to the boy again, noting 
 the shirts and the chaps hanging at the wall, she 
 knew they belonged to Pierre as surely as if she 
 had seen him hang them there. 
 
 The fingers of Jack were twisted around the butt 
 of his revolver, white with the intensity of the pres- 
 sure. 
 
248 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Now he cried: "Get out! YouVe done your 
 work; get out!" 
 
 But Mary stepped straight toward the murderous, 
 pale face. 
 
 "I'll stay," she said, "and wait for Pierre." 
 
 The boy blanched. 
 
 "Stay?" he echoed. 
 
 The heart of Mary went out to this trusty com- 
 panion who feared for his friend. 
 
 She said gently: "Listen; I've come all this way 
 looking for Pierre, but not to harm him, or to be- 
 tray him, I'm his friend. Can't you trust me 
 Jack?" 
 
 "Trust you? No more than I'll trust what came 
 with you!" 
 
 And the fierce black eyes lingered on Mary and 
 then fled past her toward the door, as if the boy 
 debated hotly and silently whether or not it would 
 be better to put an end to this intruder, but stayed 
 his hand, fearing that Power which had followed 
 her up the valley of the Old Crow. 
 
 It was that same invisible guardian who made 
 Mary strong now; it was like the hand of a friend 
 on her shoulder, like the voice of a friend whisper- 
 ing reassuring words at her ear. She faced those 
 blazing, black eyes steadily. It would be better to 
 be frank, wholly frank. 
 
 "This is the house of Pierre. I know it as surely 
 as if I saw him sitting here now. You can't deceive 
 me. And I'll stay. I'll even tell you why. Once 
 he said that he loved me, Jack, but he left me be- 
 cause of a strange superstition ; and so I've followed 
 
 
LAUGHTER 249 
 
 to tell him that I want to be near no matter what 
 fate hangs over him." 
 
 And the boy, whiter still, and whiter, looked at 
 her with clearing, narrowing eyes. 
 
 "So you're one of them," said the boy softly; 
 "you're one of the fools who listen to Red Pierre. 
 Well, I know you ; I've known you from the minute 
 I seen you crouched there at the fire. You're the 
 one Pierre met at the dance at the Crittenden school- 
 house. Tell me !" 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, marveling greatly. 
 
 "And he told you he loved you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 It was a fainter voice now, and the color was go- 
 ing up her cheeks. 
 
 The lad fixed her with his cold scorn and then 
 turned on his heel and slipped into an easy position 
 on the bunk. 
 
 "Then wait for him to come. He'll be here be- 
 fore morning." 
 
 But Mary followed across the room and touched 
 the shoulder of Jack. It was as if she touched a wild 
 wolf, for the lad whirled and struck her hand away 
 in an outburst of silent fury. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I stay? He hasn't he hasn't 
 changed Jack?" 
 
 The insolent black eyes looked up and scanned 
 her slowly from head to foot. Then he laughed 
 in the same deliberate manner. It was to Mary as 
 if her clothes had been torn from her body and she 
 were exposed to the bold eyes of a crowd, like a slave 
 put up for sale. 
 
250 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "No, I guess he thinks as much of you now as he 
 ever did." 
 
 "You are lying to me," said the girl faintly, but 
 the terror in her eyes said another thing. 
 
 "He thinks as much of you as he ever did. He 
 thinks as much of you as he does of the rest of the 
 soft-handed, pretty-faced fools who listen to him 
 and believe him. I suppose " 
 
 He broke off to laugh heartily again, with a jar- 
 ring, forced note which escaped Mary. 
 
 "I suppose that he made love to you one minute 
 and the next told you that bad luck something 
 about the cross kept him away from you?" 
 
 Each slow word, like a blow of a fist, drove the 
 girl quivering back. She closed her eyes to shut 
 out the scorn of that handsome, boyish face; closed 
 her eyes to summon out from the dark of her mind 
 the picture of Pierre le Rouge as he had knelt be- 
 fore her and told her of his love; of Pierre le Rouge 
 as he had lain beside her with the small, shining cross 
 held high above his head, and waited for death to 
 come over them both. She saw all this, and then 
 she heard the voice of Pierre renouncing her. 
 
 She opened her eyes again. She cried : 
 
 "It is all a lie ! If he is not true, there's no truth 
 in the world." 
 
 "If you come down to that," said the boy coldly, 
 "there ain't much wasted this side of the Rockies. 
 It's about as scarce as rain." 
 
 He continued in an almost kindly tone: "What 
 would you do with a wild man like Red Pierre? 
 Run along; git out of here; grab your horse, and 
 
LAUGHTER 251 
 
 beat it back to civilization; there ain't no place for 
 you up here in the wilderness." 
 
 "What would I do with him?" cried the girl. 
 "Love him!" 
 
 It seemed as though her words, like whips, lashed 
 the boy back to his murderous anger. He lay with 
 blazing eyes, watching her for a moment, too moved 
 to speak. At last he propped himself on one elbow, 
 shook a small, white-knuckled fist under the nose of 
 Mary, and cried: "Then what would he do with 
 you?" 
 
 He went on : "Would he wear you around his neck 
 like a watch charm?" 
 
 "I'd bring him back with me back into the East, 
 and he would be lost among the crowds and never 
 suspected of his past." 
 
 "Yorfd bring Pierre anywhere? Say, lady, that's 
 like hearing the sheep talk about leading the wolf 
 around by the nose. If all the men in the ranges 
 can't catch him, or make him budge an inch out of 
 the way he's picked, do you think you could stir 
 him?" 
 
 Jeering laughter shook him; it seemed that he 
 would never be done with his laughter, yet there 
 was a hint of the hysterically mirthless in it. It came 
 to a jarring stop. 
 
 He said: "D'you think he's just bein' driven 
 around by chance? Lady, d'you think he even wants 
 to get out of this life of his? No, he loves it! He 
 loves the danger. D'you think a man that's used to 
 breathing in a whirlwind can get used to living in 
 calm air? It can't be done!" 
 
2 5 2 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 And the girl answered steadily: "For every man 
 there is one woman, and for that woman the man 
 will do strange things." 
 
 "You poor, white-faced, whimpering fool," 
 snarled the boy, gripping at his gun again, "d'you 
 dream that you're the one that's picked out for 
 Pierre? No, there's another!" 
 
 "Another? A woman who " 
 
 "Who loves Pierre a woman that's fit for him. 
 She can ride like a man; she can shoot almost as 
 straight and as fast as Pierre; she can handle a 
 knife; and she's been through hell for Pierre, and 
 she'll go through it again. She can ride the trail all 
 day with him and finish it less fagged than he is. 
 She can chop down a tree as well as he can, and build 
 a fire better. She can hold up a train with him or rob 
 a bank and slip through a town in the middle of the 
 night and laugh with him about it afterward around 
 a camp-fire. I ask you, is that the sort of a woman 
 that's meant for Pierre?" 
 
 Anft the girl answered, with bowed head: "She 
 
 is." 
 
 She cried instantly afterward, cutting short the 
 look of wild triumph on the face of the boy: "But 
 there's no such woman; there's no one who could do 
 these things! I know it!" 
 
 The boy sprang to his feet, flushing as red as the 
 girl was white. 
 
 "You fool, if you're blind and got to have your 
 eyes open to see, look at the woman!" 
 
 And she tore the wide-brimmed sombrero from 
 her head. Down past the shoulders flooded a mass 
 
LAUGHTER 253 
 
 of blue-black hair. The firelight flickered and 
 danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept 
 wildly past the waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in 
 which the heart of a strong man could be tangled and 
 lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look 
 at me ! Am I worthy of him ? n 
 
 Short step by step Mary went back, staring with 
 fascinated eyes as one who sees some devilish, mid- 
 night revelry, and shrinks away from it lest the sight 
 should blast her. She covered her eyes with her 
 hands but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists 
 and her hands were jerked down from her 
 face. She looked up into the eyes of a beautiful 
 tigress. 
 
 "Answer me your yellow hair against mine 
 your child fingers against my grip are you equal 
 with me?" 
 
 But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew 
 small; her arms fell to 'her side; she stepped back, 
 with a rising pallor taking the place of the red. 
 For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one 
 bare, before her eyes, returned the stare of the 
 mountain girl with a calm and equal scorn. Her 
 heart was breaking, but a mighty loathing filled up 
 her veins in place of strength. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "was was this man living 
 with you when he came to me and and made 
 speeches about love?" 
 
 "Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he 
 came back and laughed with me about it, and told 
 me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled with 
 
2 S 4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell you, 
 as I could laugh now." 
 
 The other twisted her hands together, moaning: 
 "And I have followed him, even to the place where 
 he keeps his woman? Ah, how I hate myself; 
 how I despise myself. I'm unclean unclean in my 
 own eyes!" 
 
 "Wait!" called Jacqueline. "You are leaving too 
 soon. The night is cold." 
 
 "I am going. There is no need to gibe at me." 
 
 "But wait he will want to see you! I will tell 
 him that you have been here that you came clear 
 up the valley of the Old Crow to see him and beg 
 him on your knees to love you he'll be angry to 
 have missed the scene!" 
 
 But the door closed on Mary as she fled with 
 her hands pressed against her ears. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A TALE OF A CARELESS MAN 
 
 JACQUELINE ran to the door and threw it open. 
 
 "Ride down the valley!" she cried. "That's 
 right. He's coming up, and he'll meet you on the 
 way. He'll be glad to see you !" 
 
 She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the 
 clatter of the galloping hoofs died out up the val- 
 ley; then she closed the door, dropped the latch, and, 
 running to the middle of the room, threw up her 
 arms and cried out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like 
 the call of the old Indian brave when he rises with 
 the scalp of his murdered enemy dripping in his 
 hand. 
 
 The extended arms she caught back to her breast, 
 and stood there with head tilted back, crushing her 
 delight closer to her heart. 
 
 And she whispered: "Pierre! Mine, mine! 
 Pierre!" 
 
 Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall 
 and looked long at the flushed, triumphant image. 
 At length she started, like one awakening from a 
 happy dream, and hurriedly coiled tta thick, soft 
 tresses about her head. Never before had she lin- 
 gered so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, 
 
 255 
 
256 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 twisting her head from side to side like a peacock 
 admiring its image. 
 
 Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of 
 color and uttered a little moan of vexation when she 
 saw nothing, till her eyes, piercing through the 
 gloom of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn 
 leaves, long left there and still stained with beauty. 
 She fastened them at the breast of her shirt, and 
 so arrayed began to cook. 
 
 Never was there a merrier cook, not even some 
 jolly French chef with a heart made warm with 
 good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and 
 whenever she had to cross the room it was with a 
 dancing step. Spring was in her blood, warm spring 
 that loosens the muscles about the heart and makes 
 the eyes of girls dim and sets men smiling for no 
 cause except that they are living, and rejoicing with 
 the whole awakening world. 
 
 So it was with Jacqueline. Ever and anon as 
 she leaned over the pans and stirred the fire she 
 raised her head and remained a moment motionless, 
 waiting for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time 
 she had to look down again with a sigh. 
 
 As it was, he took her by surprise, for he entered 
 with the soft foot of the hunted and remained an 
 instant searching the room with a careful glance. 
 Not that he suspected, not that he had not relaxed 
 his guard and his vigilance the moment he caught 
 sight of the flicker of light through the mass of 
 great boulders, but the lifelong habit of watchful- 
 ness remained with him. 
 
 Even when he spoke face to face with a man, he 
 
A TALE OF A CARELESS MAN 257 
 
 never seemed to be giving more than half his at- 
 tention, for might not some one else approach if he 
 lost himself in order to listen to any one voice ? He 
 had covered half the length of the room with that 
 soundless step before she heard, and rose with a 
 glad cry: "Pierre!" 
 
 Meeting that calm blue eye, she checked herself 
 mightily. 
 
 "A hard ride?' 1 she asked. 
 
 "Nothing much. 11 
 
 He took the rock nearest the fire and then raised 
 a glance of inquiry. 
 
 "I got cold," she said, "and rolled it over." 
 
 He considered her and then the r6ck, not with 
 suspicion, but as if he held the matter in abeyance 
 for further consideration; a hunted man and a 
 hunter must keep an eye for little things, must carry 
 an armed hand and an armed heart even among 
 friends. As for Jacqueline, her color had risen, and 
 she leaned hurried'y over a pan in which meat was 
 frying. 
 
 "Any results?" she asked. 
 
 "Some." 
 
 She waited, knowing that the story would come 
 at length. 
 
 He added after a moment: "Strange how care- 
 less some people get to be." 
 
 "Yes?" she queried. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Another pause, during which he casually drummed 
 his fingers on his knee. She saw that he must re- 
 ceive more encouragement before he would tell, and 
 
258 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 she gave it, smiling to herself. Women are old in 
 certain ways of understanding in which men remain 
 children forever. 
 
 "I suppose we're still broke, Pierre?" 
 
 "Broke? Well, not entirely. I got some results." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 "As a matter of fact, it was a pretty fair haul. 
 Watch that meat, Jack; I think it's burning." 
 
 It was hardly beginning to cook, but she turned 
 it obediently and hid another slow smile. Rising, 
 she passed behind his chair, and pretended to busy 
 herself with something near the wall. This was 
 the environment and attitude which would make 
 him talk most freely, she knew. 
 
 "Speaking of careless men," said Pierre, "I could 
 tell you a yarn, Jack." 
 
 She stood close behind him and made about his 
 unconscious head a gesture of caress, the overflow 
 of an infinite tenderness. 
 
 "I'd sure like to hear it, Pierr-." 
 
 "Well, it was like this: I knew a fellow who 
 started on the range with a small stock of cattle. 
 He wasn't a very good worker, and he didn't under- 
 stand cattle any too well, so he didn't prosper for 
 quite a while. Then his affairs took a sudden turn 
 for the better; his herd began to increase. Nobody 
 understood the reason, though a good many sus- 
 pected, but one man fell onto the reason : our friend 
 was simply running in a few doggies on the side, 
 and he'd arranged a very ingenious way of chang- 
 ing the brands." 
 
 "Pierre" 
 
A TALE OF A CARELESS MAN 259 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "What does ingenious' mean?" 
 
 "Why, I should say it means 'skilful, clever/ and 
 it carries with it the connotation of 'novel.' ' 
 
 "It carries the con-conno what's that word, 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "I'm going to get some books for you, Jack, and 
 we'll do a bit of reading on the side, shall we?" 
 
 "I'd love that!" 
 
 He turned and looked up to her sharply. 
 
 He said: "Sometimes, Jack, you talk just like 
 a girl." 
 
 "Do I? That's queer, isn't it? But go on with 
 the story." 
 
 "He changed the brands very skilfully, and no 
 one got the dope on him except this one man I 
 mentioned; and that man kept his face shut. He 
 waited. 
 
 "So it went on for a good many years. The 
 herd of our friend grew very rapidly. He sold 
 just enough cattle to keep himself and his wife alive; 
 he was bent on making one big haul, you see. So 
 when his doggies got to the right age and condition 
 for the market, he'd trade them off, one fat doggie 
 for two or three skinny yearlings. But finally he 
 had a really big herd together, and shipped it off 
 to the market on a year when the price was sky- 
 
 high." 
 "T : 
 
 Like this year?" 
 "Don't interrupt me, Jack!" 
 From the shadow behind him she smiled again. 
 "They went at a corking price, and our friend 
 
260 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 cleared up a good many thousand I won't say just 
 how much. He sank part of it in a ruby brooch for 
 his wife, and shoved the rest into a satchel. 
 
 "You see how careful he'd been all those years 
 while he was piling up his fortune ? Well, he began 
 to get careless the moment he cashed in, which was 
 rather odd. He depended on his fighting power to 
 keep that money safe, but he forgot that while he'd 
 been making a business of rustling doggies and 
 watching cattle markets, other men had been mak- 
 ing a business of shooting fast and straight. 
 
 "Among others there was the silent man who'd 
 watched and waited for so long. But this silent 
 man hove alongside while our rich friend was bound 
 home in a buckboard. 
 
 * 'Good evening!' he called. 
 
 "The rich chap turned and heard; it all seemed 
 all right, but he'd done a good deal of shady busi- 
 ness in his day, and that made him suspicious of the 
 silent man now. So he reached for his gun and 
 got it out just in time to be shot cleanly through the 
 hand. 
 
 "The silent man tied up that hand and sympa- 
 thized with the rich chap ; then he took that satchel 
 and divided the paper money into two bundles. 
 One was twice the size of the other, and the silent 
 man took the smaller one. There was only twelve 
 thousand dollars in it. Also, he took the ruby 
 brooch for a friend and as a sort of keepsake, you 
 know. And he delivered a short lecture to the rich 
 man on the subject of carelessness and rode away. 
 The rich man picked up his gun with his left hand 
 

 A TALE OF A CARELESS MAN 261 
 
 and opened fire, but he'd never learned to shoot 
 very well with that hand, so the silent man came 
 through safe." 
 
 "That's a bully story," said Jack. "Who was 
 the silent man?" 
 
 "I think you've seen him a few times, at that." 
 
 She concealed another smile, and said in the most 
 businesslike manner: "Chow-time, Pierre," and set 
 out the pans on the table. 
 
 "By the way," he said easily, "I've got a little 
 present for you, Jack." 
 
 And he took out a gold pin flaming with three 
 great rubies. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A COUNT TO TEN 
 
 SHE merely stared, like a child which may either 
 burst into tears or laughter, no one can prophesy 
 which. 
 
 He explained, rather worried: "You see, you 
 are a girl, Jack, and I remembered that you were 
 pleased about those clothes that you wore to the 
 dance in Crittenden Schoolhouse, and so when I saw 
 that pin I well " 
 
 "Oh, Pierre !" said a stifled voice, "Oh, Pierre!" 
 
 "By Jove, Jack, aren't angry, are you? See, when 
 you put it at the throat it doesn't look half bad!" 
 
 And to try it, he pinned it on her shirt. She 
 caught both his hands, kissed them again and again, 
 and then buried her face against them as she sobbed. 
 If the heavens had opened and a cloudburst crashed 
 on the roof of the house, he would have been less 
 astounded. 
 
 "What is it?" he cried. "Damn it all Jack 
 you see I meant " 
 
 But she tore herself away and flung herself face 
 down on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever. 
 He followed, awestricken terrified. 
 
 He touched her shoulder, but she shrank away 
 and seemed more distressed than ever. It was not 
 
 262 
 
A COUNT TO TEN 263 
 
 the crying of a weak woman: these were heart- 
 rending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has 
 never before known tears. 
 
 "Jack perhaps I've done something wrong " 
 
 He stammered again: "I didn't dream I was 
 hurting you " 
 
 Then light broke upon him. 
 
 He said: "It's because you don't want to be 
 treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?" 
 
 But to complete his astonishment she moaned: 
 "N-n-no! It's b-b-because you you n-n-never do 
 t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre 1" 
 
 He groaned heartily: "Well, I'll be damned!" 
 
 And because he was thoughtful he strode away, 
 staring at the floor. It was then that he saw it, 
 small and crumpled on the floor. He picked it up 
 a glove of the softest leather. He carried it back 
 to Jacqueline. 
 
 "What's this?" 
 
 "Wh-wh-what?" 
 
 "This glove I found on the floor?" 
 
 The sobs decreased at once broke out more vio- 
 lently and then she sprang up from the bunk, face 
 suffused, and eyes timidly seeking his with upward 
 glances. 
 
 "Pierre, I've acted a regular chump. Are you 
 out with me?" 
 
 "Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?" 
 
 "Oh, that's one of mine." 
 
 She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her 
 shirt the calm blue eye of Pierre noted. 
 
264 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 He said: "We'll eat and forget the rest of this, 
 if you want, Jack." 
 
 "And you ain't mad at me, Pierre?" 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and 
 she knew perfectly why it was there, but she chose 
 to ascribe it to another cause. 
 
 She explained: "You see, a woman is just about 
 nine-tenths fool, Pierre, and has to bust out like 
 that once in a while." 
 
 "Oh!" said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past 
 her as though he found food for thought on the 
 wall. 
 
 She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was 
 eating with appetite: "How does the pin look?" 
 
 "Why, fine." 
 
 And the silence began again. 
 
 She dared not question him in that mood, so she 
 ventured again : "The old boy shooting left-handed 
 didn't he even fan the wind near you?" 
 
 "That was another bit of carelessness," said 
 Pierre, but his smile held little of life. "He might 
 have known that if he had shot close by accident 
 I might have turned around and shot him dead 
 on purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a 
 minute, he's apt to go on for a long time making 
 a fool of himself." 
 
 "Right," she said, brightening as she felt .the 
 crisis pass away, "and that reminds me of a story 
 about" 
 
 "By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more in- 
 teresting story than that you could tell me." 
 
A COUNT TO TEN 265 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "About how that glove happened to be on the 
 floor." 
 
 "Why, partner, it's just a glove of my own." , 
 
 "Didn't know you wore gloves with a leather as 
 soft as that." 
 
 "No? Well, that story I was speaking about 
 runs something like this " 
 
 And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all 
 her spirit into it, for she was an admirable mimic. 
 He met her spirit more than half-way, laughing 
 gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and 
 the end of the meal at the same time. She cleared 
 away the pans with a few motions and tossed them 
 clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping was 
 not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline. 
 
 "Now," said Pierre, leaning back against the 
 wall, "we'll hear about that glove." 
 
 "Damn the glove!" broke from her. 
 
 "Steady, pal!" 
 
 "Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little 
 thing like that?" 
 
 "Why, Jack, you're red and white in patches. 
 I'm interested." 
 
 He sat up. 
 
 "I'm more than interested. The story, Jack." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I have to tell you. I did a 
 fool thing to-day. Took a little gallop down the 
 trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting in her 
 saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart 
 out. Poor kid ! She'd come up in a hunting party 
 and got separated from the rest. 
 
166 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "So I got sympathetic " 
 
 "About the first time on record that youVe been 
 sympathetic with another girl, eh?" 
 
 "Shut up, Pierre! And I brought her in here 
 right into your cabin, without thinking what I was 
 doing, and gave her a cup of coffee. Of course it 
 was a pretty greenhorn trick, but I guess no harm 
 will come of it. The girl thinks it's a prospector's 
 cabin which it was once. She went on her way, 
 happy, because I told her of the right trail to get 
 back with her gang. That's all there is to it. Are 
 you mad at me for letting any one come into this 
 place?" 
 
 "Mad?" he smiled. "No, I think that's one of 
 the best lies you ever told me, Jack." 
 
 Their eyes met, hers very wide, and his keen and 
 steady. The she gripped at the butt of her gun, an 
 habitual trick when she was very angry, and cried: 
 "Do I have to sit here and let you call me that? 
 Pierre, pull a few more tricks like that and I'll call 
 for a new deal. Get me?" 
 
 She rose, whirled, and threw herself sullenly on 
 her bunk. 
 
 "Come back," said Pierre. "You're more scared 
 than angry. Why are you afrafd, Jack?" 
 
 "It's a lie I'm not afraid!" 
 
 "Let me see that glove again." 
 
 "You've seen it once that's enough." 
 
 He whistled carelessly, rolling a cigarette. After 
 he lighted it he said : "Ready to talk yet, partner?" 
 
 She maintained an obstinate silence, but that sharp 
 
A COUNT TO TEN 267 
 
 eye saw that she was trembling. He set his teeth 
 and then drew several long puffs on his cigarette. 
 
 "I'm going to count to ten, pal, and when I finish 
 you're going to tell me everything straight. In the 
 mean time don't stay there thinking up a new lie. 
 I know you too well, and if you try the same thing 
 on me again " 
 
 "Well?" she snarled, all the tiger coming back in 
 her voice. 
 
 "You'll talk, all right. Here goes the count: 
 One two three four " 
 
 As he counted, leaving a long drag of two or 
 three seconds between numbers, there was not a 
 change in the figure of the girl. She still lay with 
 her back turned on him, and the only expressive 
 part that showed was her hand. First it lay limp 
 against^her hip, but as the monotonous count pro- 
 ceeded it gathered to a fist. 
 
 "Five six seven " 
 
 It seemed that he had been counting for hours, 
 his will against her will, the man in him against 
 the woman in her, and during the pauses between 
 the sound of his voice the very air grew charged 
 with waiting. To the girl the wait for every count 
 was like the wait of the doomed traitor when he 
 stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer 
 of light go down the aimed rifles. 
 
 For she knew the face of the man who sat there 
 counting; she knew how the firelight flared in the 
 dark-red of his hair and made it seem like another 
 fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely 
 
268 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 cold and keen. Her hand had gathered to a hard- 
 balled fist. 
 
 "Eight nine " 
 
 She sprang up, screaming: "No, no, Pierre I" 
 And threw out her arms to him. 
 
 "Ten." 
 
 She whispered: "It was the girl with yellow hair 
 Mary Brown." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 TIGER-HEART 
 
 IT was as if she had said: "Good morning 1" in 
 the calmest of voices. There was no answer in him, 
 neither word nor expression, and out of ten sharp- 
 eyed men, nine would have passed him by without 
 noting the difference ; but the girl knew him as the 
 monk knows his prayers or the Arab his horse, and 
 a solemn, deep despair came over her. She felt 
 like the drowning, when the water closes over their 
 heads for the last time. 
 
 He puffed twice again at the cigarette and then 
 flicked the butt into the fire. When he spoke it was 
 only to say: "Did she stay long?" 
 
 But his eyes avoided her. She moved a little so 
 as to read his face, but when he turned again and 
 answered her stare she winced. 
 
 "Not very long, Pierre." 
 
 "Ah," he said, "I see ! It was because she didn't 
 dream that this was the place I lived in." 
 
 It was the sort of heartless, torturing questioning 
 which was once the cruelest' weapon of the inquisition. 
 With all her heart she fought to raise her voice 
 above the whisper whose very sound accused her, 
 but could not. She was condemned to that voice as 
 the man bound in nightmare is condemned to walk 
 
 269 
 
70 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 slowly, slowly, though the terrible danger is racing 
 toward him, and the safety which he must reach lies 
 only a dozen steps, a dozen mortal steps away. 
 
 She said in that voice : u No ; of course she didn't 
 dream it." 
 
 "And you, Jack, had her interests at heart her 
 best interests, poor girl, and didn't tell her?" 
 
 Her hands went out to him in mute appeal. 
 
 "Please, Pierre don't !" 
 
 "Is something troubling you, Jack?" 
 
 "You are breaking my heart." 
 
 "Why, by no means! Let's sit here calmly and 
 chat about the girl with the yellow hair. To be- 
 gin with she's rather pleasant to look at, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "I suppose she is." 
 
 "H-m! rather poor taste not to be sure of it. 
 Well, let it go. You've always had rather queer 
 taste in women, Jack; but, of course, being a long- 
 rider, you haven't seen much of them. At least her 
 name is delightful Mary Brown! You've no idea 
 how often I've repeated it aloud to myself and 
 relished the sound Mary Brown!" 
 
 "I hate her!" 
 
 "You two didn't have a very agreeable time of 
 it? By the way, she must have left in rather a hurry 
 to forget her glove, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, she ran like a coward." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 "Like a trembling coward. How can you care 
 for a white-faced little fool like that? Is she your 
 match? Is she your mate?" 
 
TIGER-HEART 7i 
 
 He considered a moment, as though to make 
 sure that he did not exaggerate. 
 
 "I love her, Jack, as men love water when they've 
 ridden all day over hot sand without a drop on their 
 lips you know when the tongue gets thick and the 
 mouth fills with cotton- and then you see clear, 
 bright water, and taste it i* 
 
 "She is like that to me. She feeds every sense; 
 and when I look in her eyes, Jack, I feel like the 
 starved man on the desert, as I was saying, drink- 
 ink that priceless water. You knew something of 
 the way I feel, Jack. Isn't it a little odd that you 
 didn't keep her here?" 
 
 She had stood literally shuddering during this 
 speech, and now she burst out, far beyond all con- 
 trol: "Because she loathes you; because she hates 
 herself for ever having loved you; because she de- 
 spises herself for having ridden up here after you. 
 Does that fill your cup of water, Pierre, eh?" 
 
 His forehead was shining with sweat, but he set 
 his teeth, and, after a moment, he was able to say in 
 the same hard, calm voice: "I suppose there was 
 no real reason for her change. She can be persuaded 
 back to me in a moment. In that case just tell me 
 where she has gone and I'll ride after her." 
 
 He made as if to rise, but she cried in a panic, 
 and yet with a wild exultation: "No, she's done 
 with you forever, and the more you make love to 
 her now the more she'll hate you. Because she 
 knows that when you kissed her before when you 
 kissed her you were living with a woman." 
 
 "I living with a woman?" 
 
272 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Her voice had risen out of the whisper for the 
 outbreak. Now it sank back into it. 
 
 "Yes with me!" 
 
 "With you? I see. Naturally it must have gone 
 hard with her Mary! And she wouldn't see rea- 
 son even when you explained that you and I are 
 like brothers? 1 ' 
 
 He leaned a little toward her and just a shade of 
 emotion came in his voice. 
 
 "When you carefully explained, Jack, with all 
 the eloquence you could command, that you and I 
 have ridden and fought and camped together like 
 brothers for six years? And how I gave you your 
 first gun? And how I've stayed between you and 
 danger a thousand times? And how I've never 
 treated you otherwise than as a man? And how I've 
 given you the love of a blood-brother to take the 
 place of the brother who died? And how I've kept 
 you in a clean and pure respect such as a man can 
 only give once in his life and then only to his 
 dearest friend? She wouldn't listen even when 
 you talked to her like this?" 
 
 "For God's sake Pierre !" 
 
 "Ah, but you talked well enough to pave the way 
 for me. You talked so eloquently that with a little 
 more persuasion from me she will know and under- 
 stand. Come, I must be gone after her. Which 
 way did she ride up or down the valley?" 
 
 "You could talk to her forever and she'd never 
 listen. Pierre, I told her that I was your woman 
 that you'd told me of your scenes with her and 
 that we'd laughed at them together." 
 
TIGER-HEART 273 
 
 She covered her eyes and crouched, waiting for 
 the wrath that would fall on her, but he only smiled 
 bitterly on the bowed head, saying: "Why have I 
 waited so long to hear you say what I knew already? 
 I suppose because I wouldn't believe until I heard 
 the whole abominable truth from your own lips. 
 Jack, why did you do it?" 
 
 "Won't you see? Because I've loved you always, 
 Pierre!" 
 
 "Love you your tiger-heart? No, but you 
 were like a cruel, selfish child. You were jealous 
 because you didn't want the toy taken away. I 
 knew it. I knew that even if I rode after her it 
 would be hopeless. Oh, God, how terribly you've 
 hurt me, partner!" 
 
 It wrung a little moan from her. He said after 
 a moment: "It's only the ghost of a chance, but 
 I'll have to take it. Tell me which way she rode? 
 J*o? .Then I'll try to find her." 
 
 She leaped between him and the door, flinging 
 her shoulders against it with a crash and standing 
 with outspread arms to bar the way. 
 
 "You must not go I" 
 
 He turned his head somewhat. 
 
 "Don't stand in front of me, Jack. You know 
 I'll do what I say, and just now it's a bit hard for 
 me to face you." 
 
 "Pierre, I feel as if there were a hand squeezing 
 my heart small, and small, and small. Pierre, I'd 
 die for you !" 
 
 "I know you would. I know you would, partner. 
 It was only a mistake, and you acted the way any 
 
274 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 cold-hearted boy would act if if some one were to 
 try to steal his horse, for instance. But just now it's 
 hard for me to look at you and be calm." 
 
 "Don't try to be ! Swear at me curse rave 
 beat me; I'd be glad of the blows, Pierre. I'd hold 
 out my arms to 'em. But don't go out that door 1" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because if you found her she's not alone." 
 
 "Say that slowly. I don't understand. She 1 * 
 not alone?" 
 
 "I'll try to tell you from the first. She started 
 out for you with Dick Wilbur for a guide." 
 
 "Good old Dick, God bless him I I'll fill all his 
 pockets with gold for that; and he loves her, you 
 know." 
 
 "You'll never see Dick Wilbur again. On the 
 first night they camped she missed him when he 
 went for water. She went down after a while and 
 saw the mark of his body on the sand. He never 
 appeared again." 
 
 "Who was it?" 
 
 "Listen. The next morning she woke up and 
 found that some one had taken care of the fire 
 while she slept, and her pack was lashed on one 
 of the saddles. She rode on that day and came at 
 night to a camp-fire with a bed of boughs near it and 
 no one in sight. She took that camp for herself and 
 no one showed up. 
 
 "Don't you see? Some one was following her 
 up the valley and taking care of the poor baby on 
 the way. Some one who was afraid to let himself 
 be seen. Perhaps it was the man who killed Dick 
 
TIGER-HEART 275 
 
 Wilbur without a sound there beside the river; per- 
 haps as Dick died he told the man who killed him 
 about the lonely girl and this other man was white 
 enough to help Mary. 
 
 "But all Mary ever saw of him was that second 
 night when she thought that she saw a streak of 
 white, traveling like a galloping horse, that disap- 
 peared over a hill and into the trees " 
 
 "A streak of white " 
 
 "Yes, yes! The white horse McGurk!" 
 
 "McGurk!" repeated Pierre stupidly; then: 
 "And you knew she would be going out to him when 
 she left this house?'* 
 
 "I knew Pierre don't look at me like that I 
 knew that it would be murder to let you cross with 
 McGurk. You're the last of seven he's a devil 
 no man " 
 
 "And you let her go out into the night to him." 
 
 She clung to a last thread of hope: "If you met 
 him and killed him with the luck of the cross it 
 would bring equal bad luck on some one you love 
 on the girl, Pierre!" 
 
 He was merely repeating stupidly: "You let her 
 go out to him in the night! She's in his arms 
 now you devil you tiger " 
 
 She threw herself down and clung about his knees 
 with hysterical strength. 
 
 "Pierre, you shall not go. Pierre, you walk on 
 my heart if you go !" 
 
 He tore the little cross from his neck and flung 
 it into her upturned face. 
 
276 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Don't make me put my hands on you, Jack. Let 
 me go !" 
 
 There was no need to tear her grasp away. She 
 crumpled and slipped sidewise to the floor. He 
 leaned over and shook her violently by the shoulder. 
 
 "Which way did she ride? Which way did they 
 ride?" 
 
 She whispered: "Down the valley, Pierre; down 
 the valley; I swear they rode that way." 
 
 And as she lay in a half swoon she heard the faint 
 clatter of galloping hoofs over the rocks and a wild 
 voice yelling, fainter and fainter with distance: 
 "McGurk!" 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 JACK HEARS A SMALL VOICE 
 
 IT came back to her like a threat; it beat at her 
 ears and roused her, that continually diminishing 
 cry: "McGurk!" It went down the valley, and 
 Mary Brown, and McGurk with her, perhaps, had 
 gone up the gorge, but it would be a matter of a 
 short time before Pierre le Rouge discovered that 
 there was no camp-fire to be sighted in the lower 
 ralley and whirled to storm back up the canon with 
 that battle-cry: "McGurk!" still on his lips. 
 
 And if the two met she knew the result. Seven 
 strong men had ridden together, fought together, 
 and one by one they had fallen, disappeared like 
 the white smoke of the camp-fire, jerked off into 
 thin air by the wind, until only one remained. 
 
 How clearly she could see them all ! Bud Mansic, 
 meager, lean, with a shifting eye; Garry Patterson, 
 of the red, good-natured face; Phil Branch, stolid 
 and short and muscled like a giant ; Handsome Dick 
 Wilbur on his racing bay; Black Gandil, with his vil- 
 lainies from the South Seas like an invisible mantle 
 of awe about him; and her father, the stalwart, 
 gray Boone. 
 
 All these had gone, and there remained only 
 
 377 
 
278 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 Pierre le Rouge to follow in the steps of the six 
 who had gone before. 
 
 She crawled to the door, feeble in mind and 
 shuddering of body like a runner who has spent his 
 last energy in a long race, and drew it open. The 
 wind blew up the valley from the Old Crow, but no 
 sound came back to her, no calling from Pierre; 
 and orer her rose the black pyramid of the western 
 peak of the Twin Bears like a monstrous nose point- 
 ing stiffly toward the stars. 
 
 She closed the door, dragged herself back to her 
 feet, and stood with her shoulders leaning against 
 the wall. Her weakness was not weariness it was 
 as if something had been taken from her. She won- 
 dered at herself somewhat vaguely. Surely she 
 had never been like this before, with the singular 
 coldness about her heart and the feeling of loss, of 
 infinite loss. 
 
 What had she 4ost? She began to search her 
 mind for an answer. Then she smiled uncertainly, 
 a wan, small smile. It was very clear; what she 
 had lost was all interest in life and all hope for the 
 brave to-morrow. Nothing remained of all those 
 lovely dreams which she had built up by day and 
 night about the figure of Pierre le Rouge. He was 
 gone, and the bright-colored bubble she had blown 
 vanished at once. 
 
 She felt a slight pain at her forehead and then 
 remembered the cross which Pierre had thrown 
 into her face. Casting that away he had thrown 
 his faintest chance of victory with it; it would be a 
 
JACK HEARS A SMALL VOICE 279 
 
 slaughter, not a battle, and red-handed McGurk 
 would leave one more foe behind him. 
 
 But looking down she found the cross and picked 
 up the shining bit of metal; it seemed as if she held 
 the greater part of Pierre le Rouge in her hands. 
 She raised the cross to her lips. 
 
 When she fastened the cross about her throat it 
 was with no exultation, but like one who places over 
 his heart a last memorial of the dead; a consecration, 
 like the red sign or the white which the crusaders 
 wore on the covers of their shields. 
 
 Then she took from her breast the spray of au- 
 tumn leaves. He had not noticed them, yet perhaps 
 they had helped to make him gay when he came into 
 the cabin that night, so she placed the spray on the 
 table. Next she unpinned the great rubies from her 
 throat and let her eye linger over them for a mo- 
 ment. They were chosen stones, each as deeply 
 lighted as an eye, if there ever were eyes of this 
 blood-red, and they looked up at her with a lure 
 and a challenge at once. 
 
 The first thought of what she must do came to 
 Jacqueline then, but not in an overwhelming tide 
 it was rather a small voice that whispered in her 
 heart. 
 
 Last, she took from her bosom the glove of the 
 yellow-haired girl. Compared with her stanch rid- 
 ing gloves, how small was this! Yet, when she 
 tried it, it slipped easily on her hand. This she 
 laid in that little pile, for these were the things 
 which Pierre would wish to find if by some miracle 
 he came back from the battle. The spray, perhaps, 
 
2o RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 he would not understand; and yet he might. She 
 pressed both hands to her breast and drew a long 
 breath, for her heart was breaking. Through her 
 misted eyes she could barely see the shimmer of the 
 cross. 
 
 That sight made her look up, searching for a 
 superhuman aid in her woe, and for the first time 
 in her life a conception of God dawned on her wild, 
 gay mind. She made a picture of him like a vast 
 cloud looming over the Twin Bear peaks and 
 breathing an infinite calm over the mountains. The 
 cloud took a faintly human shape a shape some- 
 what like that of her father when he lived, for he 
 could be both stern and gentle, as she well knew, 
 and such gray Boone had been. 
 
 Perhaps it was because of this that another pic- 
 ture came out of her infancy of a soft voice, of a 
 tender-touching hand, of brooding, infinitely loving 
 eyes. She smiled the wan smile again because for 
 the first time it came to her that she, too, even she, 
 the wild, the "tiger-heart," as Pierre himself had 
 called her, might one day have been the mother of 
 a child, his child. 
 
 But the ache within her grew so keen that she 
 dropped, writhing, to her knees, and twisted her 
 hands together in agony. It was prayer. There 
 were no words to it, but it was prayer, a wild appeal 
 for aid. 
 
 That aid came in the form of a calm that swept 
 on her like the flood of a clear moonlight over a 
 storm-beaten landscape. The whisper which had 
 come to her before was now a solemn-speaking 
 
JACK HEARS A SMALL VOICE 281 
 
 voice, and she knew what she must do. She could 
 not keep the two men apart, but she might reach 
 McGurk before and strike him down by stealth, by 
 craft, any way to kill that man as terrible as a 
 devil, as invulnerable as a ghost. 
 
 This she might do in the heart of the night, and 
 afterward she might have the courage left to tell 
 the girl the truth and then creep off somewhere and 
 let this steady pain burn its way out of her heart. 
 
 Once she had reached a decision, it was charac- 
 teristic that she moved swiftly. Also, there was 
 cause for haste, for by this time Pierre must have 
 discovered that there was no one in the lower 
 reaches of the gorge and would be galloping back 
 with all the speed of the cream-colored mare which 
 even McGurk's white horse could not match. 
 
 She ran from the cabin and into the little lean-to 
 behind it where the horses were tethered. There 
 she swung her saddle with expert hands, whipped 
 up the cinch, and pulled it with the strength of a 
 man, mounted, and was off up the gorge. 
 
 For the first few minutes she let the long-limbed 
 black race on at full speed, a breathless course, be- 
 cause the beat of the wind in her face raised her 
 courage, gave her a certain impulse which was al- 
 most happiness, just as the martyrs rejoiced and 
 held out their hands to the fire that was to consume 
 them; but after the first burst of headlong gallop- 
 ing, she drew down the speed to a hand-canter, and 
 this in turn to a fast trot, for she dared not risk the 
 far-echoed sound of the clattering hoofs over the 
 rock. 
 
282 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES - 
 
 And as she rode she saw at last the winking eye 
 of red which she longed for and dreaded. She 
 pulled her black to an instant halt and swung from 
 the saddle, tossing the reins over the head of the 
 horse to keep him standing there. 
 
 Yet, after she had made half a dozen hurried 
 paces something forced her to turn and look again 
 at the handsome head of the horse. He stood quite 
 motionless, with his ears pricking after her, and now 
 as she stopped he whinnied softly, hardly louder than 
 the whisper of a man. So she ran back again and 
 threw the reins over the horn of the saddle ; he 
 should be free to wander where he chose through 
 the free mountains, but as for her, she knew very 
 certainly now that she would never mount that sad- 
 dle again, or control that triumphant steed with the 
 touch of her hands on the reins. She put her arms 
 around his neck and drew his head down close. 
 
 There was a dignity in that parting, for it was 
 the burning of her bridges behind her. When 
 "King-Maker" Richard of Warwick, betrayed and 
 beaten on the field, came to his last stand by the 
 forest, he dismounted and stabbed his favorite 
 charger. Very different was this wild mountain girl 
 from the armored earl who put kings up and pulled 
 them down again at pleasure, but her heart swelled 
 as great as the heart of famous Warwick; he gave 
 up a kingdom, and she gave up her love. 
 
 When she drew back the horse followed her a 
 pace, but she raised a silent hand in the night and 
 halted him; a moment later she was lost among the 
 boulders. 
 
JACK HEARS A SMALL VOICE 283 
 
 It was rather slow work to stalk that camp-fire, 
 for the big boulders cut off the sight of the red 
 eye time and again, and she had to make little, cau- 
 tious detours before she found it again, but she kept 
 steadily at her work. Once she stopped, her blood 
 running cold, for she thought that she heard a faint 
 voice blown up the canon on the wind: "McGurk!" 
 
 For half a minute she stood frozen, listening, but 
 the sound was not repeated, and she went on again 
 with greater haste. So she came at last in view of 
 a hollow in the side of the gorge. Here there were 
 a few trees, growing in the cove, and here, she knew, 
 there was a small spring of clear water. Many a 
 time she had made a cup of her hands and drunk 
 here. 
 
 Now she made out the fire clearly, the trees 
 throwing out great spokes of shadow on all sides, 
 spokes of shadows that wavered and shook with 
 the flare of the small fire beyond them. She dropped 
 to her hands and knees and, parting the dense un- 
 derbrush, began the last stealthy approach. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 
 
 UP the same course which Jacqueline followed, 
 Mary Brown had fled earlier that night with the 
 triumphant laughter of Jack still ringing in her 
 ears and following her like a remorseless, pointed 
 hand of shame. 
 
 There is no power like shame to disarm the spirit. 
 A dog will fight if a man laughs at him; a coward 
 will challenge the devil himself if he is whipped on 
 by scorn; and this proud girl shrank and moaned on 
 the saddle. She had not progressed far enough to 
 hate Pierre. That would come later, but now all 
 her heart had room for was a consuming loathing 
 of herself. 
 
 Some of that torture went into the spurs with 
 which she punished the side of the bay, and the tall 
 horse responded with a high-tossed head and a burst 
 of whirlwind speed. The result was finally a stum- 
 ble over a loose rock that almost flung Mary over 
 the pommel of the saddle and forced her to draw 
 rein. 
 
 Having slowed the pace she became aware that 
 she was very tired from the trip of the day, and 
 utterly exhausted by the wild scene with Jacqueline, 
 so that she began to look about for a place where 
 
 284 
 
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 285 
 
 she could stop for even an hour or so and rest her 
 aching body. 
 
 Thought of McGurk sent her hand trembling to 
 her holster. Still she knew she must have little to 
 fear from him. He had been kind to her. Why 
 had this scourge of the mountain-desert spared her? 
 Was it to track down Pierre? 
 
 It was at this time that she heard the purl and 
 whisper of running water, a sound dear to the hearts 
 of all travelers. She veered to the left and found 
 the little grove of trees with a thick shrubbery grow- 
 ing between, fed by the water of that diminutive 
 brook. She dismounted and tethered the horses. 
 
 By this time she had seen enough of camping out 
 to know how to make herself fairly comfortable, 
 and she set about it methodically, eagerly. It was 
 something to occupy her mind and keep out a little 
 of that burning sense of shame. One picture it 
 could not obliterate, and that was the scene of Jac- 
 queline and Pierre le Rouge laughing together over 
 the love affair with the silly girl of the yellow hair. 
 
 That was the meaning, then, of those silences 
 that had come between them ? He had been think- 
 ing, remembering, careful lest he should forget a 
 single scruple of the whole ludicrous affair. She 
 shuddered, remembering how she had fairly flung 
 herself into his arms. 
 
 On that she brooded, after starting the little fire. 
 It was not that she was cold, but the fire, at least, 
 in the heart of the black night, was a friend incap- 
 able of human treachery. She had not been there 
 long when the tall bay, Wilbur's horse, stiffened, 
 
286 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 raised his head, arched his tail, and then whinnied. 
 
 She started to her feet, stirred by a thousand 
 fears, and heard, far away, an answering neigh. At 
 once all thought of shame and of Pierre le Rouge 
 vanished from her mind, for she remembered the 
 man who had followed her up the valley of the 
 Old Crow. Perhaps he was coming now out of the 
 night; perhaps she would even see him. 
 
 And the excitement grew in her pulse by pulse, as 
 the excitement grows in a man waiting for a friend 
 at a station; he sees first the faint smoke like a 
 cloud on the skyline, and then a black speck beneath 
 the smoke, and next the engine draws up on him 
 with a humming of the rails which grows at length 
 to a thunder. 
 
 All the while his heart beats faster and faster 
 and rocks with the sway of the approaching engine ; 
 so the heart of Mary Brown beat, though she could 
 not see, but only felt the coming of the stranger. 
 
 The only sign she saw was in the horses, which 
 showed an increasing uneasiness. Her own mare 
 now shared the restlessness of the tall bay, and the 
 two were footing it nervously here and there, tug- 
 ging at the tethers, and tossing up their heads, with 
 many a start, as if they feared and sought to flee 
 from some approaching catastrophe some vast and 
 preternatural change some forest fire which came 
 galloping faster than even their fleet limbs could 
 carry them. 
 
 Yet all beyond the pale of her campfire's light 
 was silence, utter and complete silence. It seemed 
 as if a veritable muscular energy went into the in- 
 
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 287 
 
 tensity of her listening, but not a sound reached her 
 except a faint whispering of the wind in the dark 
 trees above her. 
 
 But at last she knew that the thing was upon her. 
 The horses ceased their prancing and stared in a 
 fixed direction through the thicket of shrubbery; 
 the very wind grew hushed above her; she could 
 feel the new presence as one feels the silence when 
 a door closes and shuts away the sound of the street 
 below. 
 
 It came on her with a shock, thrilling, terrible, 
 yet not altogether unpleasant. She rose, her hands 
 clenched at her sides and the great blue eyes abnor- 
 mally wide as they stared in the same direction as 
 the eyes of the two horses held. Yet for all her 
 preparation she nearly fainted and a blackness came 
 across her mind when a voice sounded directly be- 
 hind her, a pleasantly modulated voice: "Look this 
 way. I am here, in front of the fire." 
 
 She turned about and the two horses, quivering, 
 whirled toward that sound. 
 
 She stepped back, back until the embers of the 
 fire lay between her^and that side of the little clear- 
 ing. In spite of herself the exclamation escaped 
 her "McGurk!" 
 
 The voice spoke again: u Do not be afraid. You 
 are safe, absolutely." 
 
 "What are you?" 
 
 "Your friend." 
 
 "Is it you who followed me up the valley?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
288 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "Come into the light. I must see you." A faint 
 laughter reached her from the dark. 
 
 "I cannot let you do that. If that had been pos- 
 sible I should have come to you before." 
 
 "But I feel I feel almost as if you are a ghost 
 and no man of flesh and blood." 
 
 "It is better for you to feel that way about it," 
 said the voice solemnly, "than to know me." 
 
 "At least, tell me why you have followed me, 
 why you have cared for me." 
 
 "You will hate me if I tell you, and fear me." 
 
 "No, whatever you are, trust me. Tell me at 
 least what came to Dick Wilbur?" 
 
 "That's easy enough. I met him at the river, a 
 little by surprise, and caught him before he could 
 even shout. Then I took his guns and Jet him go." 
 
 "But he didn't come back to me?" 
 
 "No. He knew that I would be there. I might 
 have finished him without giving him a chance to 
 speak, girl, but I'd seen him with you and I was 
 curious. So I found out where you were going and 
 why, and let Wilbur go. I came back and looked 
 at you and found you asleep." 
 
 She grew cold at the thought of him leaning over 
 her. 
 
 "I watched you a long time, and I suppose I'll 
 remember you always as I saw you then. You were 
 very beautiful with the shadow of the lashes against 
 your cheek almost as beautiful as you are now as 
 you stand over there, fearing and loathing me. I 
 dared not let you see me, but I decided to take care 
 of you for a while." 
 
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 289 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "I have come to say farewell to you." 
 
 "Let me see you once before you go." 
 
 u No ! You see, I fear you even more than you 
 fear me." 
 
 u Then I'll follow you." 
 
 "It would be useless utterly useless. There are 
 ways of becoming invisible in the mountains. But 
 before I go, tell me one thing: Have you left the 
 cabin to search for Pierre le Rouge in another 
 place?" 
 
 "No. I do not search for him." 
 
 There was an instant of pause. Then the voice 
 said sharply : "Did Wilbur lie to me ?" 
 
 "No. I started up the valley to find him." 
 
 "But you've given him up?" 
 
 "I hate him I hate him as much as I loathe my- 
 self for ever condescending to follow him." 
 
 She heard a quick breath drawn in the dark, and 
 then a murmur: "I am free, then, to hunt him 
 down!" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Listen: I had given him up for your sake; I gave 
 him up when I stood beside you that first night and 
 watched you trembling with the cold in your sleep. 
 It was a weak thing for me to do, but since I saw 
 you, Mary, I am not as strong as I once was." 
 
 "Now you go back on his trail? It is death for 
 Pierre?" 
 
 "You say you hate him?" 
 
 "Ah, but as deeply as that?" she questioned her- 
 self. 
 
290 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "It may not be death for Pierre. I have ridden 
 the ranges many years and met them all in time, 
 but never one like him. Listen: six years ago I met 
 him first and then he wounded me the first time 
 any man has touched me. And afterward I was 
 afraid, Mary, for the first time in my life, for the 
 charm was broken. For six years I could not return, 
 but now I am at his heels. Six are gone; he will be 
 the last to go." 
 
 "What are you?" she cried. "Some bloodhound 
 reincarnated?" 
 
 He said: "That is the mildest name I have ever 
 been called." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 A MAN'S DEATH 
 
 "GiVE up the trail of Pierre." 
 
 And there, brought face to face with the mortal 
 question, even her fear burned low in her, and once 
 more she remembered the youth who would not 
 leave her in the snow, but held her in his arms with 
 the strange cross above them. 
 
 She said simply: "I still love him." 
 
 A faint glimmer came to her through the dark 
 and she could see deeper into the shrubbery, for now 
 the moon stood up on the top of the great peak 
 above them and flung a faint radiance into the hol- 
 low. That glimmer she saw, but no face of a man. 
 
 And then the silence held; every second of it was 
 more than a hundred spoken words. 
 
 Then the calm voice said: "I cannot give him 
 up." 
 
 "For the sake of God!" 
 
 "God and I have been strangers for a good 
 many years." 
 
 "For my sake." 
 
 "But you see, I have been lying to myself. I told 
 myself that I was coming merely to see you once 
 for the last time. But after I saw you I had to 
 speak, and now that I have spoken it is hard to 
 
 291 
 
292 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 leave you, and now that I am with you I cannot 
 give you up to Pierre le Rouge." 
 
 She cried: "What will you have of me?" 
 
 He answered with a ring of melancholy: "Friend- 
 ship? No, I can't take those white hands mine 
 are so red. All I can do is to lurk about you like 
 a shadow a shadow with a sting that strikes down 
 all other men who come near you." 
 
 She said: "For all men have told me about you, 
 I know you could not do that." 
 
 "Mary, I tell you there are things about me, and 
 possibilities, about which I don't dare to question 
 myself." 
 
 "You have guarded me like a brother. Be one 
 to me still; I have never needed one so deeply!" 
 
 "A brother? Mary, if your eyes were less blue 
 or your hair less golden I might be; but you are 
 too beautiful to be only that to me." 
 
 "Listen to me " 
 
 But she stopped in the midst of her speech, be- 
 cause a white head loomed beside the dim form. 
 It was the head of a horse, with pricking ears, 
 which now nosed the shoulder of its master, and 
 she saw the firelight glimmering in the great eyes. 
 
 "Your horse," she said in a trembling voice, 
 "loves you and trusts you." 
 
 "It is the only thing which has not feared me. 
 When it was a colt it came out of the herd and 
 nosed my hand. It is the only thing which has not 
 fought me, as all men have done as you are doing 
 now, Mary." 
 
 The wind that blew up the gorge came in gusts, 
 
A MAN'S DEATH 293 
 
 not any steady current, but fitful rushes of air, and 
 on one of these brief blasts it seemed to Mary that 
 she caught the sound of a voice blown to whistling 
 murmur. It was a vague thing of which she could 
 not be sure, as faint as a thought. Yet the head of 
 the white horse disappeared, and the glimmer of the 
 man's face went out. 
 
 She called: "Whatever you are, wait! Let me 
 speak!" 
 
 But no answer came, and she knew that the form 
 was gone forever. 
 
 She cried again: "Who's there?" 
 
 "It is I," said a voice at her elbow, and she 
 turned to look into the dark eyes of Jacqueline. 
 
 "So he's gone?" asked Jack bitterly. 
 
 She fingered the butt of her gun. 
 
 "I thought well, my chance at him is gone." 
 
 "But what" 
 
 "Bah, if you knew you'd die of fear. Listen to 
 what I have to say. All the things I told you in 
 the cabin were lies." 
 
 "Lies?" said Mary evenly. "No, they proved 
 themselves." 
 
 "Be still till I've finished, because if you talk you 
 may make me forget " 
 
 The gesture which finished the sentence was so 
 eloquent of hate that Mary shrank away and put 
 the embers of the fire between them. 
 
 "I tell you, it was all a lie, and Pierre le Rouge 
 has never loved anything but you, you milk-faced, 
 yellow-livered " 
 
 She stopped again, fighting against her passion. 
 
2o 4 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES . 
 
 The pride of Mary held her stiff and straight, 
 though her voice shook. 
 
 "Has he sent- you after me with mockery?" 
 
 "No, he's given up the hope of you." 
 
 "The hope?" 
 
 "Don't you see ? Are you going to make me crawl 
 to explain? It always seemed to me that God meant 
 Pierre for me. It always seemed to me that a girl 
 like me was what he needed. But Pierre had never 
 seen it. Maybe, if my hair was yellow an' my eyes 
 blue, he might have felt different; but the way it is, 
 he's always treated me like a kid brother " 
 
 "And lived with you?" said the other sternly. 
 
 "Like two men ! D'you understand how a 
 woman could be the bunky of a man an' yet be no 
 more to him than than a man would be. You 
 don't? Neither do I, but that's what I've been to 
 Pierre le Rouge. What's that?" 
 
 She lifted her head and stood poised as if for 
 flight. Once more the vague sound blew up to them 
 upon the wind. Mary ran to her and grasped both 
 of her hands in her own. 
 
 "If it's true" 
 
 But Jack snatched her hands away and looked 
 on the other with a mighty hatred and a mightier 
 contempt. 
 
 "True? Why, it damn near finishes Pierre with 
 me to think he'd take up with a thing like you. 
 But it's true. If somebody else had told me I'd of 
 laughed at 'em. But it's true. Tell me: what'll 
 you do with him?" 
 
A MAN'S DEATH 295 
 
 "Take him back if I can reach him take him 
 back to the East and to God's country." 
 
 "Yes maybe he'd be happy there. But when 
 the spring comes to the city, Mary, wait till the 
 wind blows in the night and the rain comes tappin' 
 on the roof. Then hold him if you can. D'ye hear? 
 Hold him if you can!" 
 
 "If he cares it will not be hard. Tell me again, 
 if" 
 
 "Shut up. What's that again?" 
 
 The sound was closer now and unmistakably 
 something other than the moan , of the wind. 
 
 Jacqueline turned in great excitement to Mary: 
 
 "Did McGurk hear that sound down the gorge?" 
 
 "Yes. I think so. And then he" 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Pierre, and he's calling for d'you hear?" 
 
 Clear and loud, though from a great distance, 
 the wind carried up the sound and the echo pre- 
 served it: "McGurk!" 
 
 "McGurk!" repeated Mary. 
 
 "Yes! And you brought him up here with you, 
 and brought his death to Pierre. What'll you do 
 to save him now? Pierre!" 
 
 She turned and fled out among the trees, and after 
 her ran Mary, calling, like the other: "Pierre!" 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 THE WAITING 
 
 AFTER that call first reached him, clear to his 
 ears though vague as a murmur at the ear of Mary, 
 McGurk swung to the saddle of his white horse, 
 and galloped down the gorge like a veritable angel 
 of death. 
 
 The end was very near, he felt, yet the chances 
 were at least ten to one that he would miss Pierre 
 in the throat of the gorge, for among the great 
 boulders, tall as houses, which littered it, a thousand 
 men might have passed and repassed and never seen 
 each other. Only the calling of Pierre could guide 
 him surely. 
 
 The calling had ceased for some moments, and he 
 began to fear that he had overrun his mark and 
 missed Pierre in the heart of the pass, when, as he 
 rounded a mighty boulder, the shout ran ringing in 
 his very ears: "McGurk !" and a horseman swung 
 into view. 
 
 "Here!" he called in answer, and stood with his 
 right hand lifted, bringing his horse to a sharp 
 halt, like some ancient cavalier stopping in the mid- 
 dle of the battle to exchange greetings with a friend- 
 ly foe. 
 
 The other rider whirled alongside, his sombrero's 
 296 
 
THE WAITING 297 
 
 brim flaring back from his forehead, so that Mo 
 Gurk caught the glare of the eyes beneath the 
 shadow. 
 
 "So for the third time, my friend " said Mc- 
 Gurk. 
 
 "Which is the fatal one," answered Pierre. "How 
 will you die, McGurk? On foot or on horseback ?" 
 
 "On the ground, Pierre, for my horse might stir 
 and make my work messy. I love a neat job, you 
 know." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 They swung from the saddles and stood facing 
 each other. 
 
 "Begin!" commanded McGurk. "I've no time 
 to waste." 
 
 "I've very little time to look at the living Mc- 
 Gurk. Let me look my fill before the end." 
 
 "Then look, and be done. I've a lady coming to 
 meet me." 
 
 The other grew marvelously calm. 
 
 "She is with you, McGurk?" 
 
 "My dear Pierre, I've been with her ever since 
 she started up the Old Crow." 
 
 "It will be easier to forget her. Are you ready?" 
 
 "So soon? Come, man, there's much for us to 
 say. Many old times to chat over." 
 
 "I only wonder," said Pierre, "how one death 
 can pay back what you've done. Think of it ! I've 
 actually run away from you and hidden myself away 
 among the hills. I've feared you, McGurk!" 
 
 He said it with a deep astonishment, as a grown 
 man will speak of the way he feared darkness when 
 
298 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 he was a child. McGurk moistened his white lips. 
 The white horse pawed the rocks as though impa- 
 tient to be gone. 
 
 "Listen," said Pierre, "your horse grows restive. 
 Suppose we stand here it's a convenient distance 
 apart, you see, and wait with our arms folded for 
 the next time the white horse paws the rocks, be- 
 cause when I kill you, McGurk, I want you to die 
 knowing that another man was faster on the draw 
 and straighter with his bullets than you are. D'you 
 see?" 
 
 He could not have spoken with a more formal 
 politeness if he had been asking the other to pass 
 first through the door, of a dining-room. The won- 
 der of McGurk grew and the sweat on his forehead 
 seemed to be spreading a chill through his entire 
 body. 
 
 He said: "I see. You trust all to the cross, eh, 
 Pierre? The little cross under your neck?" 
 
 "The cross is gone," said Pierre le Rouge. "Why 
 should I use it against a night rider, McGurk? Are 
 you ready?" 
 
 And McGurk, not trusting his voice for some 
 strange reason, nodded. The two folded their arms. 
 
 But the white horse which had been pawing the 
 stones so eagerly a moment before was now un- 
 usually quiet. The very postures of the men seemed 
 to have frozen him to stone, a beautiful, marble 
 statue, with the moonlight glistening on the muscles 
 of his perfect shoulders. 
 
 At length he stirred. At once a quiver jerked 
 through the tense bodies of the waiting men, but 
 
THE WAITING 299 
 
 the white horse had merely stiffened and raised his 
 head high. Now, with arched neck and flaunting 
 tail he neighed loudly, as if he asked a question. 
 How could he know, dumb brute, that what he 
 asked only death could answer? 
 
 And as they waited an itching came at the palm 
 of McGurk's hand. It was not much, just a tingle 
 of the blood. To ease it, he closed his fingers and 
 found that his hand was moist with cold perspiration. 
 
 He began to wonder if his fingers would be slip- 
 pery on the butt of the gun. Then he tried covertly 
 to dry them against his shirt. But he ceased this 
 again, knowing that he must be of naif-trigger 
 alertness to watch for the stamp of the white horse. 
 
 It occurred to him, also, that he was standing on 
 a loose stone which might wabble when he pulled 
 his gun, and he cursed himself silently for his hasty 
 folly. Pierre, doubtless, had noticed that stone, and 
 therefore he had made the suggestion that they stand 
 where they were. Otherwise, how could there be 
 that singular calm in the steady eyes which looked 
 across at him? 
 
 Also, how explain the hunger of that stare? Was 
 not he McGurk, and was not this a man whom he 
 had already once shot down? God, what a fool 
 he had been not to linger an instant longer in that 
 saloon in the old days and place the final shot in 
 the prostrate body! In all his life he had made 
 only one such mistake, and now that folly was pur- 
 suing him. And now 
 
 The foot of the white horse lifted struck the 
 rock. The sound of its fall was lost in the explo- 
 
300 RIDERS OF THE oiLENCES 
 
 sion of two guns, and a ring of metal on metal. 
 The revolver snapped from the hand of McGurk, 
 whirled in a flashing circle, and clanged on the rocks 
 at his feet. The bullet of Pierre had struck the 
 barrel and knocked it cleanly from his hand. 
 
 It was luck, only luck, that placed that shot, and 
 his own bullet, which had started first, had travelled 
 wild for there stood Pierre le Rouge, Smiling 
 faintly, alert, calm. For the first time in his life 
 McGurk had missed. He set his teeth and waited 
 for death. 
 
 But that steady voice of Pierre said: "To shoot 
 you would be a pleasure ; it would even be a luxury, 
 but there wouldn't be any lasting satisfaction in it. 
 So there lies your gun at your feet. Well, here lies 
 
 mine." 
 
 He dropped his own weapon to a position corre- 
 sponding with that of McGurk's. 
 
 "We were both very wild that time. We must 
 do better now. We'll stoop for our guns, McGurk. 
 The signal? No, we won't wait for the horse to 
 stamp. The signal will be when you stoop for your 
 gun. You shall have every advantage, you see? 
 Start for that gun, McGurk, when you're ready 
 for the end." 
 
 The hand of McGurk stretched out and his arm 
 stiffened but it seemed as though all the muscles of 
 his back had grown stiff. He could not bend. It 
 was strange. It was both ludicrous and incompre- 
 hensible. Perhaps he had grown stiff with cold in 
 that position. 
 
 But he heard the voice of Pierre explaining gently: 
 
THE WAITING 301 
 
 "You can't move, my friend. I understand. It's 
 fear that stiffened your back. It's fear that sends 
 the chill up and down your blood. It's fear that 
 makes you think back to your murders, one by one. 
 McGurk, you're done for. You're through. You're 
 ready for the discard. I'm not going to kill you. 
 I've thought of a finer hell than death, and that is to 
 live as you shall live. I've beaten you, McGurk, 
 beaten you fairly on the draw, and I've broken your 
 heart by doing it. The next time you face a man 
 you'll begin to think you'll begin to remember how 
 one other man beat you at the draw. And that 
 wonder, McGurk, will make your hand freeze to 
 your side, as you've made the hands of other men 
 before me freeze. D'you understand?" 
 
 The lips of McGurk parted. The whisper of his 
 dry panting reached Pierre, and the devil in him 
 smiled. 
 
 "In six weeks, McGurk, you'll take water from a 
 Chinaman. Now get out!" 
 
 And pace by pace McGurk drew back, with his 
 face still toward Pierre. 
 
 The latter cried: "Wait. Are you going to leave 
 your gun?" 
 
 Only the steady retreat continued. 
 
 "And go unarmed through the mountains? What 
 will men say when they see McGurk with an empty 
 holster?" 
 
 But the outlaw had passed out of view beyond 
 the corner of one of the monster boulders. After 
 him went the white horse, slowly, picking his steps* 
 
302 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 as if he were treading on dangerous and unknown 
 ground and would not trust his leader. Pierre was 
 left to the loneliness of the gorge. 
 
 The moonlight only served to make more visible 
 its rocky nakedness, and like that nakedness was the 
 life of Pierre under his hopeless inward eye. Over 
 him loomed from either side the gleaming pinnacles 
 of the Twin Bears, and he remembered many a time 
 when he had looked up toward them from the crests 
 of lesser mountains looked up toward them as a 
 man looks to a great and unattainable ideal. 
 
 Here he was come to the crest of all the ranges; 
 here he was come to the height and limit of his life, 
 and what had he attained? Only a cruel, cold isola- 
 tion. It had been a steep ascent; the declivity of 
 the farther side led him down to a steep and certain 
 .ruin and the dark night below. But he stiffened 
 suddenly and threw his head high as if he faced his 
 fate; and behind him the cream-colored mare raised 
 her head with a toss and whinnied softly. 
 
 It seemed to him that he had heard something 
 calling, for the sound was lost against the sweep of 
 wind coming up the gorge. Something calling there 
 in the night of the mountains as he himself had 
 called when he rode so wildly in the. quest for Mc- 
 Gurk. How long ago had that been? 
 
 But it came once more, clear beyond all doubt. 
 He recognized the voice in spite of the panting 
 which shook it; a wild wail like that of a heart- 
 broken child, coming closer to him like some one, 
 running: "Pierre! Oh, Pierre I" 
 
THE WAITING 303 
 
 And all at once he knew that the moon was broad 
 and bright and fair, and the heavens clear and shin- 
 ing with golden points of light. Once more the 
 cry. He raised his arms and waited. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE CROSS GOES ON 
 
 So Mary, running through the wilderness of 
 boulders, was guided straight and found Pierre, and 
 before the morning came, they were journeying 
 east side by side, east and down to the cities of cul- 
 ture and a new life; but Jacqueline, a thousand times 
 quicker of foot and surer of eye and ear, missed 
 her goal, went past it, and still on and on, running 
 finally at a steady trot. 
 
 Until at last she knew that she had far over- 
 stepped her mark and sank down against one of 
 the rocks to rest and think out what next she must 
 do. There seemed nothing left. Even the sound 
 of a gun fired she might not hear, for that sharp 
 call would not travel far against the wind. 
 
 It was while she sat there, burying Pierre in 
 her thoughts, a white shape came glimmering down 
 to her through the moonlight. She was on her feet 
 at once, alert and gun in hand. It could only be 
 one horse, only one rider, McGurk coming down 
 from his last killing with the sneer on his pale lips. 
 Well, he would complete his work this night and 
 kill her fighting face to face. 
 
 A man's death ; that was all she crave3. She rose ; 
 
THE CROSS GOES ON 305 
 
 she stepped boldly out into the center of the trail 
 between the rocks. 
 
 There she saw the greatest wonder she had ever 
 looked on. It was McGurk walking with bare, 
 bowed head, and after him, like a dog after the 
 master, followed the white horse. She shoved the 
 revolver back into the holster. This should be a 
 fair fight. 
 
 "McGurk!" 
 
 Very slowly the head went up and back, and there 
 he stood, not ten paces from her, with the white 
 moon full on his face. The sneer was still there; 
 the eyelid fluttered in scornful derision. And the 
 heart of Jacqueline came thundering in her throat. 
 
 But she cried in a strong voice: "McGurk, d'you 
 know me?" 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "You murderer, you night-rider! Look again: 
 it's the last of the Boones!" 
 
 The sneer, it seemed to her, grew bitterer, but 
 still the man did not speak. Then the thought of 
 Pierre, lying dead somewhere among the rocks, 
 burned across her mind. Her hand leaped for the 
 revolver, and whipped it out in a blinding flash 
 to cover him, but with her finger curling on the 
 trigger she checked herself in the nick of time. Mc- 
 Gurk had made no move to protect himself. 
 
 A strange feeling came to her that perhaps the 
 man would not war against women; the case of 
 Mary was almost proof enough of that. But as 
 she stepped forward, wondering, she looked at the 
 
306 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 holster at his side and saw that it was empty. Then 
 she understood. 
 
 Understood in a daze that Pierre had met the 
 man and conquered him and sent him out through 
 the mountains disarmed. The white horse raised 
 his head and whinnied, and the sound gave a thought 
 to her. She could not kill this man, unarmed as he 
 was ; she could do a more shameful thing. 
 
 "The bluff you ran was a strong one, McGurk," 
 she said bitterly, "and you had these parts pretty 
 well at a standstill; but Pierre was a bit too much 
 for you, eh?" 
 
 The white face had not altered, and still it did 
 not change, but the sneer was turned steadily on 
 her. 
 
 She cried: "Goon! Go on down the gorge !" 
 
 Like an automaton the man stepped forward, and 
 after him paced the white horse. She stepped be- 
 tween, caught the reins, and swung up to the saddle, 
 and sat there, controlling between her stirrups the 
 best-known mount in all the mountain-desert. A 
 thrill of wild exultation came to her. She cried: 
 "Look back, McGurk ! Your gun is gone, your horse 
 is gone; you're weaker than a woman in the moun- 
 tains!" 
 
 Yet he went on without turning, not with the 
 hurried step of a coward, but still as one stunned. 
 Then, sitting quietly in the saddle, she forgot Mc- 
 Gurk and remembered Pierre. He was happy by 
 this time with the girl of the yellow hair; there was 
 nothing remaining to her from him except the 
 ominous cross which touched cold against her 
 
THE CROSS GOES ON 307 
 
 breast. That he had abandoned as he had aban- 
 doned her. 
 
 What, then, was left for her? The horse of an 
 outlaw for her to ride; the heart of an outlaw in 
 her breast. 
 
 She touched the white horse with the spurs and 
 went at a reckless gallop, weaving back and forth 
 among the boulders down the gorge. For she was 
 riding away from the past. 
 
 The dawn came as she trotted out into a widening 
 valley of the Old Crow. To maintain even that 
 pace she had to use the spurs continually, for the 
 white horse was deadly weary, and his head fell more 
 and more. She decided to make a brief halt, at last, 
 and in order to make a fire that would take the chill 
 of the cold morning from her, she swung up to the 
 edge of the woods. There, before she could dis- 
 mount, she saw a man turn the shoulder of the slope. 
 She drew the horse back deeper among the trees 
 and waited. 
 
 He came with a halting step, reeling now and 
 again, a big man, hatless, coatless, apparently at the 
 last verge of exhaustion. Now his foot apparently 
 struck a small rock, and he pitched to his face. It 
 required a long struggle before he could regain his 
 feet; and now he continued his journey at the same 
 gait, only more uncertainly than ever, close and 
 closer. There was something familiar now about 
 the fellow's size, and something in the turn of his 
 head. Suddenly she rode out, crying: "Wilbur!" 
 
 He swerved, saw the white horse, threw up his 
 hands high above his head, and went backward, 
 
308 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 reeling, with a hoarse scream which Jacqueline 
 would never forget. She galloped to him and swung 
 to the ground. 
 
 "It's me Jack. D'you hear?" 
 
 He would not lower those arms, and his eyes 
 stared wildly at her. On his forehead the blood had 
 caked over a cut; his shirt was torn to rags, and 
 the hair matted wildly over his eyes. She caught 
 his hands and pulled them down. 
 
 "It's not McGurk! Don't you hear me? It's 
 Jack!" 
 
 He reached out, like a blind man who has to see 
 by the sense of touch, and stroked her face. 
 
 "Jack!" he whispered at last. "Thank God!" 
 
 "What's happened?" 
 
 "McGurk" 
 
 A violent palsy shook him, and he could not go 
 on. 
 
 "I know I understand. He took your guns 
 and left you to wander in this hell ! Damn him ! I 
 wish" 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "How long since you've eaten?" 
 
 "Years!" 
 
 "We'll eat McGurk's food!" 
 
 But she had to assist him up the slope to the 
 trees, and there she left him propped against P. 
 trunk, his arms fallen weakly at his sides, while she 
 built the fire and cooked the food. Afterward she 
 could hardly eat, watching him devour what she 
 placed before him; and it thrilled all the woman 
 in her to a strange warmth to take care of the long- 
 
THE CROSS GOES ON 309 
 
 rider. Then, except for the disfigured face and the 
 bloodshot eyes, he was himself. 
 
 "Up there? What happened?" 
 
 He pointed up the valley. 
 
 "The girl and Pierre. They're together." 
 
 "She found him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He bowed his head and sighed. 
 
 "And the horse, Jack?" He said it with awe. 
 
 "I took the horse from McGurk." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 She nodded. After all, it was not a lie. 
 
 "You killed McGurk?" 
 
 She said coolly : "I let him go the way he let you, 
 Dick. He's on foot in the mountains without a 
 horse or a gun." 
 
 "It isn't possible!" 
 
 "There the horse for proof." 
 
 He looked at her as if she were something more 
 than human. 
 
 "Our Jack did this?" 
 
 "We've got to start on. Can you walk, Dick?" 
 
 "A thousand miles now." 
 
 Yet he staggered when he tried to rise, and she 
 made him climb up to the saddle. The white horse 
 walked on, and she kept her place close at the stirrup 
 of the rider. He would have stopped and dis- 
 mounted for her a hundred times, but she made him 
 keep his place. 
 
 "What's ahead of us, Jack? We're the last of 
 the gang?" 
 
 "The last of Boone's gang. We are." 
 
310 RIDERS OF THE SILENCES 
 
 "The old life over again?" 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "Yes; what else?" 
 
 "Are you afraid, Dick?" 
 
 "Not with you for a pal. Seven was too many; 
 with two we can rule the range." 
 
 "Partners, Dick?" 
 
 How could he tell that her voice was gone so 
 gentle because she was seeing in her mind's eye an- 
 other face than his? He leaned toward her, 
 thrilling. 
 
 "Why not something more than partners, after 
 a while, Jack?" 
 
 She smiled strangely up to him. 
 
 "Because of this, Dick." 
 
 And fumbling at her throat, she showed him the 
 glittering metal of the cross; an instinct made him 
 swerve the horse away from her. 
 
 "The cross goes on, but what of you Jack?" 
 
 A long silence fell between them. Words died 
 in the making. 
 
 The great weight pressing down on that slender 
 throat was like the iron hand of a giant, but slowly 
 one by one the sounds marshalled themselves : 
 
 "... God knows . . . ' It was the passing of 
 Judgment. "God knows . . . not I." 
 
? k