Riders of the Silences (23 page)

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 trusty 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'the hasn't changedJack?"

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.

"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 you one minute and the next told you that bad
lucksomething about the crosskept 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 before 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 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 meback into the East, and he would be lost among
the crowds and never suspected of his past."

"
You'd
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!"

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-raced, 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 Pierrea 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?"

And 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 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?"

Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one who
sees some devilish, midnight 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 meyour yellow hair against mineyour child fingers against my
gripare 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, "waswas this man living with you when he came to me
andand made speechesabout 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 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 hiswoman? Ah, how I hate myself; how I despise
myself. I'm uncleanunclean 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 waithe will want to see you! I will tell him that you have been
herethat you came clear up the valley of the Old Crow to see him and beg him on
your knees to love youhe'll be angry to have missed the scene!"

But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands pressed against her
ears.

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 gladto see you!"

She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter of the galloping hoofs
died out up the valley; 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 the thick, soft tresses about her head. Never before had
she lingered so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, 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 watchfulness remained with him.

Even when he spoke face to face with a man, he never seemed to be giving more
than half his attention, 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?" she asked.

"Nothing much."

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 rock, 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 hurriedly
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 careless 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 receive more encouragement before he would tell, and 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.