Riders of the Silences - Max Brand (best ereader for manga TXT) 📗
- Author: Max Brand
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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 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?”
The question seemed to infuriate young Jack, who cried: “Ain’t that a
fool way of talkin’? Lady, they’re coming everyone’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,
maybe”—he lowered his voice somewhat even to name them—“Pierre—McGurk!”
“It seems hopeless to find out anything about McGurk,” 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 romantic.”
“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 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!” whispered 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, ominous 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 gunfighters 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 for
him I found the can at the margin of the river half filled with sand,
and beside it there was the impression 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 going 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 squinted 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 dumbfounded.
“Then you admit—”
“That first night when I went to sleep I felt as if 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
campfire 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 someone?”
For answer the boy whipped out his revolver, examined 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 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 valley of the Crow she refused to let herself think.
Cold beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead.
“You fool—you fool! Damn your pretty pink-and-white face—you’ve 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 hysterical laughter, which stopped short and
finished in a heartbroken whisper: “Pierre!”
At that Mary, who stood with her hand on the latch, whirled and stood
wide-eyed, her astonishment 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. 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 between reason and the heart, grew to an almost certain
knowledge as she heard the whisper, the faint, heartbroken
whisper: “Pierre!”
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 pressure.
Now he cried: “Get out! You’ve 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 trusted companion 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 betray 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
whispering 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 because
of a strange superstition; and so I’ve followed 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 schoolhouse. 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 going 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 before 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.
“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 jarring, forced note
which escaped Mary.
“I suppose that he made love to
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