“Golden, Pierre.”
“Mary, and golden hair,” mused Red Pierre. “I think I'll go to that dance.”
“With Jack? She dances wonderfully, you know.”
“Well—with Jack.”
So they reached a tumbled ranch house squeezed between two hills so that it was sheltered from the storms of the winter but held all the heat of the summer.
Once it had been a goodly building, the home of some cattle king. But bad times had come. A bullet in a saloon brawl put an end to the cattle king, and now his home was a wreck of its former glory. The northern wing shelved down to the ground as if the building were kneeling to the power of the wind, and the southern portion of the house, though still erect, seemed tottering and rotten throughout and holding together until at a final blow the whole structure would crumple at once.
To the stables, hardly less ruinous than the big house, Pierre and Wilbur took their horses, and a series of whinnies greeted them from the stalls. To look down that line of magnificent heads raised above the partitions of the stalls was like glancing into the stud of some crowned head who made hunting and racing his chief end in life, for these were animals worthy of the sport of kings.
They were chosen each from among literal hundreds, and they were cared for far more tenderly than the masters cared for themselves. There was a reason in it, for upon their speed and endurance depended the life of the outlaw. Moreover, the policy of Jim Boone was one of actual “long riding.”
Here he had come to a pause for a few days to recuperate his horses and his men. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be on the spur again and sweeping off to a distant point in the mountain-desert to strike and be gone again before the rangers knew well that he had been there. Very rarely did one settler have another neighbor at a distance of less than two hundred miles. It meant arduous and continual riding, and a horse with any defect was worse than useless because the speed of the gang had to be the speed of the slowest horse in the lot.
It was some time before the two long riders had completed the grooming of their horses and had gone down the hill and into the house. In the largest habitable room they found a fire fed with rotten timbers from the wrecked portion of the building, and scattered through the room a sullen and dejected group: Mansie, Branch, Jim Boone, and Black Morgan Gandil.
At a glance it was easy to detect their malady; it was the horrible ennui which comes to men who are always surrounded by one set of faces. If a man is happily married he may bear with his wife and his children constantly through long stretches of time, but the glamour of life lies in the varying personalities which a man glimpses in passing, but never knows.
This was a rare crew. Every man of them was marked for courage and stamina and wild daring. Yet even so in their passive moments they hated each other with a hate that passed the understanding of common men.
Through seven years they had held together, through fair weather and foul, and now each knew from the other's expression the words that were about to be spoken, and each knew that the other was reading him, and loathing what he read.
So they were apt to relapse into long silences unless Jack was with them, for being a woman her variety was infinite, or Pierre le Rouge, whom all except Black Gandil loved and petted, and feared.
They were a battered crowd. Wind and hard weather and a thousand suns had marked them, and the hand of man had branded them. Here and there was a touch of gray in their hair, and about the mouth of each were lines which in such silent moments as this one gave an expression of yearning.
“What's up? What's wrong?” asked Wilbur from the door, but since no answer was deigned he said no more.
But Pierre, like a charmed man who dares to walk among lions, strolled easily through the room, and looked into the face of big Boone, who smiled faintly up to him, and Black Gandil, who scowled doubly dark, and Bud Mansie, who shifted uneasily in his chair and then nodded, and finally to Branch. He dropped a hand on the massive shoulder of the blacksmith.
“Well?” he asked.
Branch let himself droop back into his chair. His big, dull, colorless eyes stared up to his friend.
“I dunno, lad. I'm just weary with the sort of tired that you can't help by sleepin'. Understand?”
Pierre nodded, slowly, because he sympathized. “And the trouble?”
Branch stared about as if searching for a reason. “Jack's upstairs sulking; Patterson hasn't come home yet.”
And Black Gandil, who heard all things, said without looking up: “A man that saves a shipwrecked fellow, he gets bad luck for thanks.”
Pierre turned a considerable eye on him, and Gandil scowled back.
“You've been croaking for six years, Morgan, about the bad luck that would come to Jim from saving me out of the snow. It's never happened, has it?”
Gandil, snarling from one side of his mouth, answered: “Where's Patterson?”
“Am I responsible if the blockhead has got drunk someplace?”
“Patterson doesn't get drunk—not that way. And he knows that we were to start again today.”
“There ain't no doubt of that,” commented Branch.
“It's the straight dope. Patterson keeps his dates,” said Bud Mansie.
The booming bass of Jim Boone broke in: “Shut up, the whole gang of you. We've had luck for the six years Pierre has been with us. Who calls him a Jonah?”
And Black Gandil answered: “I do. I've sailed the seas. I know bad luck when I see it.”
