by Max Brand
CHAPTER IV
THE CORNER PLOT
Like some old father-bear watching his cub flash teeth against astalking lynx, half proud and half fearful of such courage, so thedying cattleman looked at his son. Excitement set a high and dangerouscolor in his cheek. His eyes were too bright.
"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 ofmet fair and square with bare hands or with a gun. Maybe my hands wasbig, but they were fast on the draw. I've lived all my life with ironon the hip, and my six-gun has seven notches.
"But McGurk downed me fair and square. There wasn't no murder. I wasout for his hide, and he knew it. I done the provokin', an' he jestdone the finishin', that was all. It hurts me a lot to say it, buthe'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 and aching pride to bethe son of this man.
"So that's settled," went on Martin Ryder, "an' a damned good thing itis. Son, you didn't come none too soon. I'm goin' out fast. Thereain't enough light left in me so's I can see my own way. Here's all Iask: When I die touch my eyelids soft an' draw 'em shut--I've seen thelook 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 theburyin'-ground. I've ridden past it a thousand times an' watched acorner plot, where the grass grows quicker than it does anywheres elsein the cemetery. Pierre, I'd die plumb easy if I knew I was goin' tosleep 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 waswhat they wanted, an' after I had Irene's son with me, money was thecheapest 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 startedto his feet, thinking that the end had come. But the voice beganagain, fainter, slowly:
"No light left inside of me, but dyin' this way is easy. There ain'tno wind will blow on me after I'm dead, but I'll be blanketed safe fromhead to foot in cool, sweet-smellin' sod--the kind that has tangles ofthe 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 isjest--goin' to sleep."
After that he said nothing for a time, and the late afternoon darkenedslowly through the room.
As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back. He did not seethe bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene,with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, anda handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some uplandtrail at sunset rime, sharply framed against the bright sky. Theirhands were together; their faces were raised; they laughed, from themidst of their small heaven.
There was a whisper below him: "Irene!"
And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. He groaned, anddropped 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. Areyou 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 behindus. Irene, look up with me!"
The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a stir in the great, gauntbody he was dead. Pierre drew the eyes reverently shut. There were notears in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his heart, and agreat pain. He straightened and looked about him and found that theroom was quite dark.
So in the dimness Pierre fumbled, by force of habit, at his throat, andfound the cross which he wore by a silver chain about his throat. Heheld it in a great grip and closed his eyes and prayed. When he openedhis eyes again it was almost deep night in the room, and Pierre hadpassed from youth to manhood. Through the gloom nothing stood outdistinctly save the white face of the dead man, and from that Pierrelooked quickly away.
One by one he numbered his obligations to Martin Ryder, and first andlast he remembered the lie which had soothed his father. The money forthat corner plot where the grass grew first in the spring of theyear--where was he to find it? He fumbled in his pocket and found onlya single coin.
He leaned back against the wall and strove to concentrate on theproblem, but his thoughts wandered in spite of himself back to thesnows of Canada, to the letter, to the ride south, the death of theroan, and so on until he reached his entry to that very room.
Looking backward, he remembered all things much more clearly than whenhe had actually seen them. For instance, he recalled now that as hewalked through the door the two figures which had started up to blockhis 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 flickeredslowly to the floor.
With that memory the thoughts of Pierre le Rouge stopped. The pictureof the falling card remained; all else went out in his mind like thesnuffing of the candle. Then, as if he heard a voice directing himthrough the utter blackness of the room, he knew what he must do.
All his wealth was the single half-dollar piece in his pocket, andthere was only one way in which that coin could be increased to the sumhe would need to buy that corner plot, where the soul of old MartinRyder could sleep long and deep.
From his brothers he would get no help. The least memory of thosesallow, hungry faces convinced him of that.
There remained the gaming table. In the north country he had watchedmen sit in a silent circle, smoking, drinking, with the flare of anoil-lamp against deep, seamed faces, and only the slip and whisper ofcard against card.
Cold conscience tapped the shoulder of Pierre, remembering the lessonsof Father Victor, but a moment later his head went up and his eyes wereshining through the dark. After all, the end justified the means. Itwas typical of him that sorrow sat lightly on him.
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 nighthe located the shirt and overalls he had seen hanging from a nail onthe wall. Into these he slipped, leaned to kiss the chill, dampforehead of the sleeper, and then went out under the open sky.
The rest had revived the strength of the tough little cow-pony, and hedrove on at a gallop toward the twinkling lights of Morgantown. Therewas a new consciousness about Pierre as if he had changed his wholenature with his clothes. The sober sense of duty which had kept him inawe all his life like a lifted finger, was almost gone, and in itsplace was a joyous freedom.
For the first time he faintly realized what an existence other thanthat of a priest might be. Now for a brief moment he could forget thepart of the subdued novice and become merely a man with nothing abouthim to distinguish him from other men, nothing to make heads turn athis approach and raise whispers as he passed.
It was a game, but he rejoiced in it as a girl does in her firstmasquerade. To-morrow he must be grave and sober-footed and an exampleto other men; to-night he could frolic as he pleased. The good FatherVictor would hear and frown, perhaps, but remembering the purpose forwhich the thing was done he would forgive.
So Pierre le Rouge tossed back his head and laughed up to the frostystars. The loose sleeves and the skirts of the robe no longerentangled his limbs. He threw up his arms and shouted. A hillsidecaught 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 havestarted up from their chairs and taken rifle and horse and after him onthe trail. But how could they tell from the passing of those ringinghoofs that Pierre, the no
vice, was dead, and Red Pierre was born?
So they drowsed on about their comfortable fires, and Pierre drew reinwith a jerk before the largest of Morgantown's saloons. With a hand onthe swinging doors he paused a breathless moment, thinking, doubting,wondering--and a little cold of heart like the boy who stands on thebank of the river to take the first plunge in the spring of the year.He had to set his teeth before he could summon the resolution to throwopen the door. It was done; he stepped inside, and stood blinking inthe sudden rush of light against his face.
It was all bewildering at first; the radiance, the blue tangle ofsmoke, the storm of voices. For Muldoon's was packed from door todoor. Coins rang in a steady chorus along the bar, and the crowdwaited three and four deep.
Some one was singing a rollicking song of the range at one end of thebar, and a chorus of four bellowed a profane parody at the other end.
The ears of Pierre le Rouge tingled hotly, and he lowered his eyes tothe floor. Truly, Father Victor would be very wrath when all this wasconfessed. Partly to escape this uproar he worked his way to thequieter room at the back of the saloon.
It was almost as crowded as the bar, but here no one spoke except foran occasional growl. Sudden speaking, and a loud voice, indeed, washardly safe. Some one cursed at his ill-luck as Pierre entered, and adozen hands reached for six-guns. In such a place one had to beprepared.
Pierre remembered with quick dismay that he was not armed. All hislife the straight black gown had been weapon enough to make all mengive way before him. Now he carried no borrowed strength upon hisshoulders.
Automatically he slipped his fingers under the breast of his shirtuntil their tips touched the cold metal of the cross. That gave himstronger courage. The joy of the adventure made his blood warm againas he drew out his one coin and looked for a place to start his venture.
"It is God who governs me," he said, "and why should I doubt Him?"
So he approached the nearest table. On the surface of it were markedsix squares with chalk, and each with its appropriate number. The manwho ran the game stood behind the table and shook three dice. Thenumbers which turned up paid the gambler. The numbers which failed toshow paid the owner of the game.
His luck had been too strong that night, and now only two men facedhim, and both of them lost persistently. They had passed the stage ofintelligent gaming; they were "bucking" the dice with savagestubbornness.
Pierre edged closer, shut his eyes, and deposited his coin. When helooked again he saw that he had wagered on the five.