Mary queried earnestly: “Tell me about Red Pierre. It's almost as hard to learn anything of him as it is to find out anything about McGurk.”
“What you doing?” asked the boy, keen with suspicion. “Making a study of them two for a book?”
He wiped a damp forehead.
“Take it from me, lady, it ain't healthy to join up them two even in talk!” “Is there any harm in words?”
The boy was so upset for some unknown reason that he rose and paced up and down the room.
“Lots of harm in fool words.”
He sat down again, and seemed a little anxious to explain his unusual conduct.
“Ma'am, suppose you had a well plumb full of nitroglycerin in your back yard; suppose there was a forest fire comin' your way from all sides; would you like to have people talk about nitroglycerin and that forest fire meeting? Even the talk would give you chills. That's the way it is with Pierre and McGurk. When they meet there's going to be a fight that'll stop the hearts of the people that have to look on.”
Mary smiled to cover her excitement.
“But are they coming your way?”
The question seemed to infuriate young Jack, who cried: “Ain't that a fool way of talkin'? Lady, they're coming everyone's way. You never know where they'll start from or where they'll land. If there's a thunder-cloud all over the sky, do you know where the lightning's going to strike?”
“Excuse me,” said Mary, but she was still eager with curiosity, “but I should think that a youngster like you wouldn't have anything to fear from even those desperadoes.”
“Youngster, eh?” snarled the boy, whose wrath seemed implacable. “I can make my draw and start my gun as fast as any man—except them two, maybe”—he lowered his voice somewhat even to name them—“Pierre— McGurk!”
“It seems hopeless to find out anything about McGurk,” said Mary, “but at least you can tell me safely about Red Pierre.”
“Interested in him, eh?” said the boy dryly.
“Well, he's a rather romantic figure, don't you think?” “Romantic? Lady, about a month ago I was talking with a lady that was a widow because of Red Pierre. She didn't think him none too romantic.”
“Red Pierre had killed the woman's husband?” repeated Mary, with pale lips.
“Yep. He was one of the gang that took a chance with Pierre and got bumped off. Had three bullets in him and dropped without getting his gun out of the leather. Pierre sure does a nice, artistic job. He serves you a murder with all the trimmings. If I wanted to die nice and polite without making a mess, I don't know who I'd rather go to than Red Pierre.”
“A murderer!” whispered Mary, with bowed head.
The boy opened his lips to speak, but changed his mind and sat regarding the girl with a somewhat sinister smile.
“But might it not be,” said Mary, “that he killed one man in self-defense and then his destiny drove him, and bad luck forced him into one bad position after another? There have been histories as strange as that, you know.”
Jack laughed again, but most of the music was gone from the sound, and it was simply a low, ominous purr.
“Sure,” he said. “You can take a bear-cub and keep him tame till he gets the taste of blood, but after that you got to keep him muzzled, you know. Pierre needs a muzzle, but there ain't enough gunfighters on the range to put one on him.”
Something like pride crept into the boy's voice while he spoke, and he ended with a ringing tone. Then, feeling the curious, judicial eyes of Mary upon him, he abruptly changed the subject.
“You say Dick Wilbur is dead?”
“I don't know. I think he is.”
“But he started out with you. You ought to know.”
“It was like this: We had camped on the edge of the trees coming up the Old Crow Valley, and Dick went off with the can to get water at the river. He was gone a long time, and when I went out to look for him I found the can at the margin of the river half filled with sand, and beside it there was the impression of the body of a big man. That was all I found, and Dick never came back.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“Could he have fallen into the river?”
“Sure. He was probably helped in. Did you look for the footprints?”
“I didn't think of that.”
Jack was speechless with scorn.
“Sat down and cried, eh?”
“I was dazed; I couldn't think. But he couldn't have been killed by some other man. There was no shot fired; I should have heard it.”
Jack moistened his lips.
“Lady, a knife don't make much sound either going or coming out—not much more sound than a whisper, but
