Max Brand (15 page)

"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. "The cross—for every good fortune it has brought me, it
has brought bad luck to others. 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's nothing in it, Pierre, that I don't love."

His head was bowed as if with the weight of the words which he
foresaw. "You have heard of the wild men of the mountains, 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 instant. 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—There's some ghost
of a chance for us. Will you take that chance and come with me?"

He thought of many things, but what he answered was: "I will." "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 horror. When
she looked up a great form was looming through the dark, and then the
voice of Wilbur came, hard and cold.

"I've 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: "I think our friend has something
to say to me. You can find your way easily. Tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow, Pierre?"

"Yes."

"I shall be waiting."

With what a voice she said it! And then 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'll help."

The big man stood with his hands gripped behind, 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 thing, and I'll believe you rather than my senses. Tell me
you haven't stolen the girl I love away from me; tell me—"

"I love her, Dick."

"Damn you! And she?"

"She'll forget me; God knows I hope she'll forget 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."

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 intervening space, dropped
his gun and caught the other by the shoulders. Out of Pierre's
nerveless fingers the revolver slipped to the ground.

"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?"

"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-bye, Dick?"

"Yes."

Their hands met.

"You forgive me, Dick?"

"With all my heart, old fellow."

"I'll try to wish you luck. Stay close to her. Perhaps 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 between you, Pierre?
You've some sort of claim on her. What is it?" "I've said good-bye.
Only one thing more. Never mention my name to her."

So he turned and walked out into the moonlight and Wilbur stared after
him until he disappeared beyond the shoulder of a hill.

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 entered to find Boone, Mansie, and Gandil grouped about the 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.

"Tomorrow 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 mocking smile of Black Gandil
and a rapid volley of questions.

"Where's Patterson?"

"No more idea than you have."

"And Branch?"

"What's become of Branch? Hasn't he returned?"

"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 thunderstorm,
and now you come with a white face and a blank eye. What hell is
trailin' us, Pierre, what hell is in store for us. You've seen
something, and we want to know what it is."

"A ghost, Jim, that's all."

Bud Mansie said softly: "There's only one ghost that could make you
look like this. Was it McGurk, Pierre?"

Boone commanded: "No more of that, Bud. Boys, we're going to turn in,
and tomorrow we'll climb the hills looking for the two we've lost. But
there's something or someone 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: "The 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 entered 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 accepted 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 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 announce 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 disappeared 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 everyone 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 toward 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?"

"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 and more to the left. Either of them
would have 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.