by Max Brand
He shuddered and threw a hand up before his eyes.
“Dearest——”
“It’s nothing—but the cross—for every good fortune 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.”
“And I’ve looked for you in the face of every woman.”
“And I used to think that a still, small voice answered 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 your 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 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! 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, 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 mountains 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.”
“Go home with you?”
“Take my hand again. Pierre, what has happened? 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 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!”
“God help me.”
“He will. 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 nameless 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. To-morrow——”
“To-morrow, 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 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 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 me——�
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“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 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 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?”
“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. 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-by. Only one thing more. Never mention my name to her.”
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 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.
“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 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 thunder storm, 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. 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: “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: “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 m
iles 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 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 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.”