Riders of the Silences (14 page)

"And you to me, Pierre."

"But differentnearer even than a sister."

"So much nearer!"

"It's queer, isn't it? But you can't forget this trouble you've had. The
tears come up in your eyes again. Tell me his name, Jack, and the dog"

She said: "Only let me go. Take your hands away, Pierre."

He obeyed her, deeply worried, and she stood for a moment with a hand pressed
over her eyes, swaying. He had never seen her like this; he was like a pilot
striving to steer his ship through an unfathomable fog. Following what had
become an instinct with him, he raised his left hand and touched the cross
beneath his throat. And inspiration came to him.

"Whether you want to or not, Jack, we'll go to this dance to-night."

Jacqueline's hand fell away from her eyes. She seemed suddenly glad again.

"Do you want to take me, Pierre?"

He explained: "Of course. Besides, we have to keep an eye on Wilbur. This
girl with the yellow hair"

She had altered swiftly again. There was no understanding her or following
her moods this day. He decided to disregard them, as he had often done before.

"Black Gandil swears that I'm bringing bad luck to the boys at last.
Patterson has disappeared; Wilbur has lost his head about a girl. We've got to
save Dick."

He knew that she was fond of Wilbur, but she showed no enthusiasm now.

"Let him go his own way. He's big enough to take care of himself."

"But it's common talk, Jack, that the end of Wilbur will come through a
woman. It was that that sent him on the long trail, you know. And this girl with
the yellow hair"

"Why do you harp on her?"

"Harp on her?"

"Every other wordnothing but yellow hair. I'm sick of it. I know the
kindfaded corn colordyed, probably. Pierre, you are all blind, and you most of
all."

This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the consideration of it from
his mind.

"And for clothes, Jack?"

They were both dumb. It had been years since she had worn the clothes of a
woman. She had danced with the men of her father's gang many a time while some
one whistled or played on a mouth-organ, and there was the time they rode into
Beulah Ferry and held up the dance-hall, and Jim Boone and Mansie lined up the
crowd with their hands held high above their heads while the sweating musicians
played fast and furious and Jack and Pierre danced down the center of the hall.

She had danced many a time, but never in the clothes of a woman; so they
stared, mutely puzzled.

A thought came first to Jacqueline. It obliterated even the memory of the
yellow-haired girl and set her eyes dancing. She stepped close and murmured her
suggestion in the ear of Pierre. Whatever it was, it made his jaw set hard and
brought grave lines into his face.

She stepped back, asking: "Well?"

"We'll do it. What a little demon you are, Jack!"

"Then we'll have to start now. There's barely time."

They ran from the room together, and as they passed through the room below
Wilbur called after them: "The dance?"

"Yes."

"Wait and go with me."

"We ride in a roundabout way."

They were through the door as Pierre called back, and a moment later the
hoofs of their horses scattered the gravel down the hillside. Jacqueline rode a
black stallion sired by her father's mighty Thunder, who had grown old but still
could do the work of three ordinary horses in carrying the great bulk of his
master. The son of Thunder was little like his sire, but a slender-limbed racer,
graceful, nervous, eager. A clumsy rider would have ruined the horse in a single
day's hard work among the trails of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline, fairly
reading the mind of the black, nursed his strength when it was needed and let
him run free and swift when the ground before him was level.

Now she picked her course dexterously down the hillside with the
cream-colored mare of Pierre following half a length behind.

After the first down-pitch of ground was covered they passed into difficult
terrain, and for half an hour went at a jog trot, winding in and out among the
rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the hills.

Here the ground opened up again, and they roved on at a free gallop, the
black always half a length in front. In all the length of the mountain-desert
there was no other picture which could compare with these two in their youth and
their pride and their fearlessness.

They rode alert, high-headed like their horses, and there was about them a
suggestion of the patience which carries a man endlessly after one purpose, and
a suggestion of the eagerness, too, which makes him strike swift and hard and
surely when the time for action comes.

Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch of a mile or more, Jack
eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a sudden lengthening
of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flat while he fairly flew
over the ground.

Nothing could match that speed. The strong mare fell to the rear, fighting
gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.

Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, laughing her triumph. Pierre
smiled grimly in response and leaned forward, shifting his weight more over the
withers of Mary. He spoke to her, and one of her pricking ears fell back as if
to listen to his voice. He spoke again and the other ear fell back, her neck
straightened, she gave her whole heart to her work.

First she held the stallion even, then she began to gain. That was the
meaning of those round, strong hips, and the breadth of the chest. She needed a
half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and now the black came back to her
with every leap.

The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned the girl. One more glance she
cast in apprehension over her shoulder, and then brought her spurs into play
again and again. Still the rush of hoofs behind her grew louder and louder, and
now there was a panting at her side and the head of cream-colored Mary drew up
and past.

She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger and slowed up her mount
with a sharp pull on the reins. It needed only a word from Pierre and his mare
drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head a little toward the black as if
she called for some recognition of her superiority.

"It's always this way," cried Jack, and jerked at the reins with a childish
impotence of anger. "I beat you for the first quarter of a mile and then this
fool of a horseI'm going to give him away."

"The black," said Pierre, assuming an air of quiet and superior knowing which
always aggravated her most, "is a good second-rate cayuse when some one who
knows horses is in the saddle. I'd give you fifty for him on the strength of his
looks and keep him for a decoration."

She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment. Then she changed
swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture of surrender.

"After all, what difference does it make? Your Mary can beat him in a long
run or a short one, but it's your horse, Pierre, and that takes the sting away.
If it were any one else's I'dwell, I'd shoot either the horse or the rider. But
my partner's horse is my horse, you know."

She broke into song, the clear voice flinging back from the mountainside to
the canon that dropped on their right:

"My partner's horse is my horse, bunky
From his fetlock to the bucking-strap,
From his flying hoofs to the saddle-flap
My
partner's horse is my horse, bunky.

"My partner's gun is my gun, bunky
From the chamber to the trigger-guard;
And the butt like a friend's hand gripping
hard
My partner's gun is my gun, bunky.

"My partner's heart is my heart, bunky
And like matched horses galloping well,
They will beat together through heaven and
hell
My partner's heart is my heart, bunky."

He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a strong grip.

"Jack, of all the men I've ever known, I'd rather walk with you, I'd rather
talk with you, I'd rather ride with you, I'd rather fight for you. Jack, you're
the best pal that ever wore spurs, and the gamest sport."

"Of all the men you ever knew," she said, "I suppose that I am."

He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the canon and
whistling the refrain of her song happily. A few moments later they swung out
onto the very crest of the range.

On all sides the hills dropped away through the gloom of the evening, brown
near by, but falling off through a faint blue haze and growing blue-black with
the distance. A sharp wind, chill with the coming of night, cut at them. Not a
hundred feet overhead shot a low-winging hawk back from his day's hunting and
rising only high enough to clear the range and then plunge down toward his nest.

Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into the profound
gloom of the valley below. They shaded their eyes and studied it with a singular
interest for long moments, patient, silent, quiet as the hawk when he steadies
himself in leisurely circles high in the heart of heaven and fixes his eyes
surely on his prey far, far belowthen folds his wings and shoots suddenly down,
a veritable bolt from the blue.

So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and then pointed
down. He followed the direction she indicated, and there, through the haze of
the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.

He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll have a devil of a ride to get
there."

And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope. It was precipitous in
many places, but Pierre kept almost at a gallop, making the mare take the slopes
often crouched back on her haunches with forefeet braced forward, and sliding
many yards at a time.

In between the boulders he darted, twisting here and there, and always erect
and jaunty in the saddle, swaying easily with every movement of Mary. Not far
behind him came the girl. Fine rider that she was, she could not hope to compete
with such matchless horsemanship where man and horse were only one piece of
strong brawn and muscle, one daring spirit. Many a time the chances seemed too
desperate to her, but she followed blindly where he led, setting her teeth at
each succeeding venture, and coming out safe every time, until they swung out at
last through a screen of brush and onto the level floor of the valley.

In the heart of that valley two roads crossed. Many a year before a man with
some imagination and illimitable faith was moved by the crossing of those roads
to build a general merchandise store.

Time justified his faith, in a small way, and now McGuire's store was famed
for leagues and leagues about, for he dared to take chances with all manner of
novelties, and the curious, when their pocketbooks were full, went to McGuire's
to find inspiration.

Business was dull this night, however; there was not a single patron at the
bar, and the store itself was empty, so he went to put out the big gasoline lamp
which hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, and was on the ladder,
reaching high above his head, when a singular chill caught him in the center of
his plump back and radiated from that spot in all directions, freezing his
blood. He swallowed the lump in his throat and with his arms still stretched
toward the lamp he turned his head and glanced behind.

Two men stood watching him from a position just inside the door. How they had
come there he could never guess, for the floor creaked at the lightest step.
Nevertheless, these fantoms had appeared silently, and now they must be dealt
with. He turned on the ladder to face them, and still he kept the arms
automatically above his head while he descended to the floor.

However, on a closer examination, these two did not seem particularly
formidable. They were both quite young, one with dark-red hair and a somewhat
overbright eye; the other was hardly more than a boy, very slender, delicately
made, the sort of handsome young scoundrel whom women cannot resist.

Having made these observations McGuire ventured to lower his arms by jerks;
nothing happened; he was safe. So he vented his feelings by scowling on the
strangers.

"Well," he snapped, "what's up? Too late for business. I'm closin' up."

The two quite disregarded him. Their eyes were wandering calmly about the
place, and now they rested on the pride of McGuire's store. The figure of a man
in evening clothes, complete from shoes to gloves and silk hat, stood beside a
girl of wax loveliness. She wore a low-cut gown of dark green, and over her
shimmering, cold white shoulders was draped a scarf of dull gold. Above, a sign
said: "You only get married once; why don't you do it up right?"

"That," said the taller stranger, "ought to do very nicely for us, eh?"

And the younger replied in a curiously light, pleasant voice: "Just what we
want. But how'll I get away with all that fluffy stuff, eh?"

The elder explained: "We're going to a bit of a dance and we'll take those
evening clothes."

The heart of McGuire beat faster and his little eyes took in the strangers
again from head to foot.

"They ain't for sale," he said. "They's just samples. But right over here"

"This isn't a question of selling," said the red-headed man. "We've come to
accept a little donation, McGuire."

The storekeeper grew purple and white in patches. Still there was no show of
violence, no display of guns; he moved his hand toward his own weapon, and still
the strangers merely smiled quietly on him. He decided that he had
misunderstood, and went on: "Over here I got a line of goods that you'll like.
Just step up and"