Riders of the Silences

“This is the house of Pierre. I know it as surely as if I saw him sitting here now. You can't deceive me. And I'll stay. I'll even tell you why. Once he said that he loved me, Jack, but he left me because of a strange superstition; and so I've followed to tell him that I want to be near no matter what fate hangs over him.”

And the boy, whiter still, and whiter, looked at her with clearing, narrowing eyes.

“So you're one of them,” said the boy softly; “you're one of the fools who listen to Red Pierre. Well, I know you; I've known you from the minute I seen you crouched there at the fire. You're the one Pierre met at the dance at the Crittenden schoolhouse. Tell me!”

“Yes,” said Mary, marveling greatly.

“And he told you he loved you?”

“Yes.” It was a fainter voice now, and the color was going up her cheeks.

The lad fixed her with his cold scorn and then turned on his heel and slipped into an easy position on the bunk.

“Then wait for him to come. He'll be here before morning.”

But Mary followed across the room and touched the shoulder of Jack. It was as if she touched a wild wolf, for the lad whirled and struck her hand away in an outburst of silent fury.

“Why shouldn't I stay? He hasn't—he hasn't changed—Jack?”

The insolent black eyes looked up and scanned her slowly from head to foot. Then he laughed in the same deliberate manner.

“No, I guess he thinks as much of you now as he ever did.”

“You are lying to me,” said the girl faintly, but the terror in her eyes said another thing.

“He thinks as much of you as he ever did. He thinks as much of you as he does of the rest of the soft-handed, pretty-faced fools who listen to him and believe him. I suppose—”

He broke off to laugh heartily again, with a jarring, forced note which escaped Mary.

“I suppose that he made love to you one minute and the next told you that bad luck—something about the cross—kept him away from you?”

Each slow word was like a blow of a fist. Mary closed her eyes to shut out the scorn of that handsome, boyish face; closed her eyes to summon out from the dark of her mind the picture of Pierre le Rouge as he had told her of his love; and then she heard the voice of Pierre renouncing her.

She opened her eyes again. She cried: “It is all a lie! If he is not true, there's no truth in the world.”

“If you come down to that,” said the boy coldly, “there ain't much wasted this side of the Rockies. It's about as scarce as rain.”

He continued in an almost kindly tone: “What would you do with a wild man like Red Pierre? Run along; git out of here; grab your horse, and beat it back to civilization; there ain't no place for you up here in the wilderness.”

“What would I do with him?” cried the girl. “Love him!”

It seemed as though her words, like whips, lashed the boy back to his murderous anger. He lay with blazing eyes, watching her for a moment, too moved to speak. At last he propped himself on one elbow, shook a small, white-knuckled fist under the nose of Mary, and cried: “Then what would he do with you?”

He went on: “Would he wear you around his neck like a watch charm?”

“I'd bring him back with me—back into the East, and he would be lost among the crowds and never suspected of his past.”

“You'dbring Pierre anywhere? Say, lady, that's like hearing the sheep talk about leading the wolf around by the nose. If all the men in the ranges can't catch him, or make him budge an inch out of the way he's picked, do you think you could stir him?”

Jeering laughter shook him; it seemed that he would never be done with his laughter, yet there was a hint of the hysterically mirthless in it. It came to a jarring stop.

He said: “D'you think he's just bein' driven around by chance? Lady, d'you think he evenwants to get out of this life of his? No, he loves it! He loves the danger. D'you think a man that's used to breathing in a whirlwind can get used to living in calm air? It can't be done!”

And the girl answered steadily: “For every man there is one woman, and for that woman the man will do strange things.”

“You poor, white-faced, whimpering fool,” snarled the boy, gripping at his gun again, “d'you dream that you're the one that's picked out for Pierre? No, there's another!”

“Another? A woman who—”

“Who loves Pierre—a woman that's fit for him. She can ride like a man; she can shoot almost as straight and as fast as Pierre; she can handle a knife; and she's been through hell for Pierre, and she'll go through it again. She can ride the trail all day with him and finish it less fagged than he is. She can chop down a tree as well as he can, and build a fire better. She can hold up a train with him or rob a bank and slip through a town in the middle of the night and laugh with him about it afterward around a campfire. I ask you, is that the sort of a woman that's meant for Pierre?”

And Mary answered, with bowed head: “She is.”

She cried instantly afterward, cutting short the look of wild triumph on the face of the boy: “But there's no such woman; there's no one who could do these things! I know it!”

The boy sprang to his feet, flushing as red as the girl was white.