Max Brand (21 page)

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'd
bring 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 even
wants
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.

"You fool, if you're blind and got to have your eyes open to see, look
at the woman!"

And she tore the wide-brimmed sombrero from her head. Down past the
shoulders flooded a mass of blue-black hair. The firelight flickered
and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the
waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man
could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look
at me! Am I worthy of him?"

Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one
who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it
lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands
but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were
jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a
beautiful tigress.

"Answer me—your yellow hair against mine—your child fingers against
my grip—are you equal with me?"

But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to
her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of
the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before
her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with equal scorn. A
mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength.

"Tell me," she said, "was—was this man living with you when he came
to me and—and made speeches—about love?"

"Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he came back and laughed with
me about it, and told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled
with tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell you, as I could
laugh now."

The other twisted her hands together, moaning: "And I have followed
him, even to the place where he keeps his—woman? Ah, how I hate
myself: how I despise myself. I'm unclean—unclean in my own eyes!"

"Wait!" called Jacqueline. "You are leaving too soon. The night is
cold."

"I am going. There is no need to gibe at me."

"But wait—he will want to see you! I will tell him that you have been
here—that you came clear up the valley of the Old Crow to see him and
beg him on your knees to love you—he'll be angry to have missed
the scene!"

But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands pressed against
her ears.

Jacqueline ran to the door and threw it open.

"Ride down the valley!" she cried. "That's right. He's coming up, and
he'll meet you on the way. He'll be glad—to see you!"

She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter of the
galloping hoofs died out up the valley; then she closed the door,
dropped the latch, and, running to the middle of the room, threw up
her arms and cried out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like the call
of the old Indian brave when he rises with the scalp of his murdered
enemy dripping in his hand.

The extended arms she caught back to her breast, and stood there with
head tilted back, crushing her delight closer to her heart.

And she whispered: "Pierre! Mine, mine! Pierre!"

Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked long at the
flushed, triumphant image. At length she started, like one awakening
from a happy dream, and hurriedly coiled the thick, soft tresses about
her head. Never before had she lingered so over a toilet, patting each
lock into place, twisting her head from side to side like a peacock
admiring its image.

Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of color and uttered a
little moan of vexation when she saw nothing, till her eyes, piercing
through the gloom of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn leaves, long
left there and still stained with beauty. She fastened them at the
breast of her shirt, and so arrayed began to cook. Never was there a
merrier cook, not even some jolly French chef with a heart made warm
with good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and whenever she had
to cross the room it was with a dancing step. Spring was in her blood,
warm spring that sets men smiling for no cause except that they are
living, and rejoicing with the whole awakening world.

So it was with Jacqueline. Ever and anon as she leaned over the pans
and stirred the fire she raised her head and remained a moment
motionless, waiting for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time she
had to look down again with a sigh.

As it was, he took her by surprise, for he entered with the soft foot
of the hunted and remained an instant searching the room with a
careful glance. Not that he suspected, not that he had not relaxed his
guard and his vigilance the moment he caught sight of the flicker of
light through the mass of great boulders, but the lifelong habit of
watchfulness remained with him.

Even when he spoke face to face with a man, he never seemed to be
giving more than half his attention, for might not someone else
approach if he lost himself in order to listen to any one voice? He
had covered half the length of the room with that soundless step
before she heard, and rose with a glad cry: "Pierre!"

Meeting that calm blue eye, she checked herself mightily.

"A hard ride?" she asked.

"Nothing much."

He took the rock nearest the fire and then raised a glance of inquiry.

"I got cold," she said, "and rolled it over."

He considered her and then the rock, not with suspicion, but as if he
held the matter in abeyance for further consideration; a hunted man
and a hunter must keep an eye for little things, must carry an armed
hand and an armed heart even among friends. As for Jacqueline, her
color had risen, and she leaned hurriedly over a pan in which meat
was frying.

"Any results?" she asked.

"Some."

She waited, knowing that the story would come at length.

He added after a moment: "Strange how careless some people get to be."

"Yes?" she queried.

"Yes."

Another pause, during which he casually drummed his fingers on his
knee. She saw that he must receive more encouragement before he would
tell, and she gave it, smiling to herself. Women are old in certain
ways of understanding in which men remain children forever.

"I suppose we're still broke, Pierre?"

"Broke? Well, not entirely. I got some results."

"Good."

"As a matter of fact, it was a pretty fair haul. Watch that meat,
Jack; I think it's burning."

It was hardly beginning to cook, but she turned it obediently and hid
another slow smile. Rising, she passed behind his chair, and pretended
to busy herself with something near the wall. This was the environment
and attitude which would make him talk most freely, she knew.

"Speaking of careless men," said Pierre, "I could tell you a yarn,
Jack."

She stood close behind him and made about his unconscious head a
gesture of caress, the overflow of an infinite tenderness.

"I'd sure like to hear it, Pierre."

"Well, it was like this: I knew a fellow who started on the range with
a small stock of cattle. He wasn't a very good worker, and he didn't
understand cattle any too well, so he didn't prosper for quite a
while. Then his affairs took a sudden turn for the better; his herd
began to increase. Nobody understood the reason, though a good many
suspected, but one man fell onto the reason: our friend was simply
running in a few doggies on the side, and he'd arranged a very
ingenious way of changing the brands."

"Pierre—"

"Well?"

"What does 'ingenious' mean?"

"Why, I should say it means 'skillful, clever,' and it carries with it
the connotation of 'novel.'"

"It carries the con-conno—what's that word, Pierre?"

"I'm going to get some books for you, Jack, and we'll do a bit of
reading on the side, shall we?"

"I'd love that!"

He turned and looked up to her sharply.

He said: "Sometimes, Jack, you talk just like a girl."

"Do I? That's queer, isn't it? But go on with the story."

"He changed the brands very skillfully, and no one got the dope on him
except this one man I mentioned; and that man kept his face shut.
He waited.

"So it went on for a good many years. The herd of our friend grew very
rapidly. He sold just enough cattle to keep himself and his wife
alive; he was bent on making one big haul, you see. So when his
doggies got to the right age and condition for the market, he'd trade
them off, one fat doggie for two or three skinny yearlings. But
finally he had a really big herd together, and shipped it off to the
market on a year when the price was sky-high."

"Like this year?"

"Don't interrupt me, Jack!"

From the shadow behind him she smiled again.

"They went at a corking price, and our friend cleared up a good many
thousand—I won't say just how much. He sank part of it in a ruby
brooch for his wife, and shoved the rest into a satchel.

"You see how careful he'd been all those years while he was piling up
his fortune? Well, he began to get careless the moment he cashed in,
which was rather odd. He depended on his fighting power to keep that
money safe, but he forgot that while he'd been making a business of
rustling doggies and watching cattle markets, other men had been
making a business of shooting fast and straight.

"Among others there was the silent man who'd watched and waited for so
long. But this silent man hove alongside while our rich friend was
bound home in a buckboard.

"'Good evening!' he called.

"The rich chap turned and heard; it all seemed all right, but he'd
done a good deal of shady business in his day, and that made him
suspicious of the silent man now. So he reached for his gun and got it
out just in time to be shot cleanly through the hand.

"The silent man tied up that hand and sympathized with the rich chap;
then he took that satchel and divided the paper money into two
bundles. One was twice the size of the other, and the silent man took
the smaller one. There was only twelve thousand dollars in it. Also,
he took the ruby brooch for a friend—and as a sort of keepsake, you
know. And he delivered a short lecture to the rich man on the subject
of carelessness and rode away. The rich man picked up his gun with his
left hand and opened fire, but he'd never learned to shoot very well
with that hand, so the silent man came through safe."

"That's a bully story," said Jack. "Who was the silent man?"

"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.

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, you
are
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, awe-stricken—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.