Max Brand (3 page)

"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 as he looked at Martin Ryder; it was a grim happiness 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 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."

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 dangerous
color in his cheek. "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 pride to be the son of
this man.

"So that's settled," went on Martin Ryder, "an' 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. 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 anywheres 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."

"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' 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 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 burning gold, and
a handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some upland
trail at sunset time, sharply framed against the bright sky.

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 together. 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 forgotten
behind us."

The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a stir in the great, gaunt
body, he was dead. Pierre reverently drew the eyes shut. There were no
tears in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his heart. 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 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 Martin 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 wandered in spite of himself. 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 voice 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
Martin Ryder could sleep long and deep.

From his brothers he would get no help. The least memory of those
sallow, hungry faces convinced 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 moment later his head went up and his eyes
were shining through the dark. After all, the end justified the means.

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 located the shirt and trousers he had seen hanging from a
nail on the wall. Into these he slipped, 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 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 nothing 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. Tomorrow he must be grave and sober-footed and an example
to other men; tonight he could frolic as he pleased.

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 hillside
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 chased
after him on the trail. But how could they tell from the passing of
those 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. He had to set
his teeth before he could summon 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 Muldoon's was packed from door to
door. Coins rang in a steady chorus along the bar, and the crowd
waited three and four deep.

Someone 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 partly to escape the
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. Someone 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.

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 before 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 courage. 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.

So he approached the nearest table. On the surface 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 gambler. 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 persistently. 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 five.

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 bettors. 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 distinctly 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 covered 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
wagers. But he lost now.

"I cannot win forever," thought Pierre, and redoubled his bets in an
effort to regain the lost ground.

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
hesitated, 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 inside 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. "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 cattlemen 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.