Riders of the Silences

“I think you've seen him a few times, at that.”

She concealed another smile, and said in the most businesslike manner: “Chow-time, Pierre,” and set out the pans on the table. “By the way,” he said easily, “I've got a little present for you, Jack.”

And he took out a gold pin flaming with three great rubies.

CHAPTER 32

She merely stared, like a child which may either burst into tears or laughter, no one can prophesy which.

He explained, rather worried: “You see, youare a girl, Jack, and I remembered that you were pleased about those clothes that you wore to the dance in the Crittenden schoolhouse, and so when I saw that pin I—well—”

“Oh, Pierre!” said a stifled voice. “Oh, Pierre!”

“Jack, you aren't angry, are you? See, when you put it at the throat it doesn't look half bad!”

And to try it, he pinned it on her shirt. She caught both his hands, kissed them again and again, and then buried her face against them as she sobbed. If the heavens had opened and a cloudburst crashed on the roof of the house, he would have been less astounded.

“What is it?” he cried. “Damn it all—Jack—you see—I meant—”

But she tore herself away and flung herself face down on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever. He followed, awestricken—terrified.

He touched her shoulder, but she shrank away and seemed more distressed than ever. It was not the crying of a weak woman: these were heartrending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has never before known tears.

“Jack—perhaps I've done something wrong—”

He stammered again: “I didn't dream I was hurting you—”

Then light broke upon him.

He said: “It's because you don't want to be treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?”

But to complete his astonishment she moaned: “N-n-no! It's b-b-because you—you n-n-neverdo t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre!”

He groaned heartily: “Well, I'll be damned!”

And because he was thoughtful he strode away, staring at the floor. It was then that he saw it, small and crumpled on the floor. He picked it up—a glove of the softest leather. He carried it back to Jacqueline.

“What's this?”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“This glove I found on the floor?”

The sobs decreased at once—broke out more violently—and then she sprang up from the bunk.

“Pierre, I've acted a regular chump. Are you out with me?”

“Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?”

“Oh, that's one of mine.”

She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt—the calm blue eye of Pierre noted.

He said: “We'll eat and forget the rest of this, if you want, Jack.”

“And you ain't mad at me, Pierre?”

“Not a bit.”

There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause.

She explained: “You see, a woman is just about nine tenths fool, Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while.”

“Oh!” said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found food for thought on the wall.

She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with appetite: “How does the pin look?”

“Why, fine.”

And the silence began again.

She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again: “The old boy shooting left-handed—didn't he even fan the wind near you?”

“That was another bit of carelessness,” said Pierre, but his smile held little of life. “He might have known that if hehad shot close—by accident—I might have turned around and shot him dead—on purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he's apt to go on for a long time making a fool of himself.”

“Right,” she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, “and that reminds me of a story about—”

“By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more interesting story than that you could tell me.”

“What?”