was something more than the expression which repelled Mary. For she felt that no matter how she wooed him, she could never win the sympathy of this darkly handsome, cruel youth; he was aloof from her, and the distance between them could never be crossed. She knew at once that the mysterious bridges which link men with women broke down in this case, and she was strongly tempted to leave the cabin to the sole possession of her surly host.
It was the warmth of the fire which once more decided against her reason, so she laid hands on one of the blocks of stone to roll it nearer to the hearth. She could not budge it. Then she caught the sneering laughter of the man, and strove again in a fury. It was no use; for the stone merely rocked a little and settled back in its place with a bump.
“Here,” said the boy, “I'll move it for you.” It was a hard lift for him, but he set his teeth, raised the stone in his slender hands, and set it down again at a comfortable distance from the fire.
“Thank you,” smiled Mary, but the boy stood panting against the wall, and for answer merely bestowed on her a rather malicious glance of triumph, as though he gloried in his superior strength and despised her weakness.
Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for the silence began to weigh on her. She said: “My name is Mary Brown.”
“Is it?” said the boy, quite without interest. “You can call me Jack.”
He sat down on the other stone, his dark face swept by the shadows of the flames, and rolled a cigarette, not deftly, but like one who is learning the mastery of the art. It surprised Mary, watching his fumbling fingers. She decided that Jack must be even younger than he looked.
She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to time, a sharp, rather worried glance of expectation toward the door, as if he feared it would open and disclose some important arrival. Furthermore, those old worn shirts hanging on the wall were much too large for the throat and shoulders of Jack.
Apparently, he lived there with some companion, and a companion of such a nature that he did not wish him to be seen by visitors. This explained the lad's coldness in receiving a guest; it also stimulated Mary to linger about a few more minutes.
CHAPTER 29
Not that she stayed there without a growing fear, but she still felt about her, like the protection of some invisible cloak, the presence of the strange guide who had followed her up the valley of the Old Crow.
It seemed as if the boy were reading her mind.
“See you got two horses. Come up alone?”
“Most of the way,” said Mary, and tingled with a rather feline pleasure to see that her curtness merely sharpened the interest of Jack.
The boy puffed on his cigarette, not with long, slow breaths of inhalation like a practiced smoker, but with a puckered face as though he feared that the fumes might drift into his eyes.
“Why,” thought Mary, “he's only a child!”
Her heart warmed a little as she adopted this view of her surly host. Being warmed, and having much to say, words came of themselves. Surely it would do no harm to tell the story to this queer urchin, who might be able to throw some light on the nature of the invisible protector.
“I started with a man for guide.” She fixed a searching gaze on the boy. “His name was Dick Wilbur.”
She could not tell whether it was a tremble of the boy's hand or a short motion to knock off the cigarette ash.
“Did you say 'was' Dick Wilbur?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
“Heard of him, I think. Kind of a hard one, wasn't he?”
“No, no! A fine, brave, gentle fellow—poor Dick!” She stopped, her eyes filling with tears at many a memory.
“Hm!” coughed the boy. “I thought he was one of old Boone's gang? If he's dead, that made the last of 'em —except Red Pierre.”
It was like the sound of a trumpet call at her ear. Mary sat up with a start.
“What do you know of Red Pierre?”
The boy flushed a little, and could not quite meet her eye.
“Nothin'.”
“At least you know that he's still alive?”
“Sure. Anyone does. When he dies the whole range will know about it—damn quick. I know
“I, for one.”
“You!”
Strangely enough, there was more of accusation than of surprise in the word.
“Certainly,” repeated Mary. “I've only been in this part of the country for a short time. I really know almost nothing about the—legends.”
“Legends?” said the boy, and laughed. “Legend? Say, lady, if Red Pierre is just a legend the Civil War ain't no more'n a fable. Legend? You go anywhere on the range an' get 'em talking about that legend, and they'll make you think it's an honest-to-goodness fact, and no mistake.”
