“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-bye, Dick?”
“Yes.”
Their hands met.
“You forgive me, Dick?”
“With all my heart, old fellow.”
“I'll try to wish you luck. Stay close to her. 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-bye. Only one thing more. Never mention my name to her.”
So he turned and walked out into the moonlight and Wilbur stared after him until he disappeared beyond the shoulder of a hill.
CHAPTER 23
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.
“Tomorrow 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 thunderstorm, 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.”
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. Boys, we're going to turn in, and tomorrow we'll climb the hills looking for the two we've lost. But there's something or someone 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
