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Outside, the wind had kept

up a perpetual roaring, and no one noticed the noise of the opening

door. Bud Mansie, facing that door, however, turned a queer yellow

and sat with his lips parted on the last word. He was not pretty to

see. The others turned their heads, and there followed the strangest

panic which Pierre had ever seen.

 

Jim Boone jerked his hand back to his hip, but stayed the motion, half

completed, and swung his hands stiffly above his head. Garry Patterson

sat with his eyes blinked shut, pale, waiting for death to come. Dick

Wilbur rose, tall and stiff, and stood with his hands gripped at his

sides, and Black Morgan Gandil clutched at the table before him and

his eyes wandered swiftly about the room, seeking a place for escape.

 

There was only one sound, and that was a whispering moan of terror

from Jacqueline. Only Pierre made no move, yet he felt as he had when

the black mass of the landslide loomed above him.

 

What he saw in the door was a man of medium size and almost slender

build. In spite of the patch of gray hair at either temple he was only

somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. But to see him was to forget

all details except the strangest face which Pierre had ever seen or

would ever look upon in all his career.

 

It was pale, with a pallor strange to the ranges; even the lips seemed

bloodless, and they curved with a suggestion of a smile that was a

nervous habit rather than any sign of mirth. The nerves of the left

eye were also affected, and the lid dropped and fluttered almost shut,

so that he had to carry his head far back in order to see plainly.

There was such pride and scorn in the man that his name came up to the

lips of Pierre: “McGurk.”

 

A surprisingly gentle voice said: “Jim, I’m sorry to drop in on you

this way, but I’ve had some unpleasant news.”

 

His words dispelled part of the charm. The hands of big Boone lowered;

the others assumed more natural positions, but each, it seemed to

Pierre, took particular and almost ostentatious care that their

right hands should be always far from the holsters of their guns.

 

The stranger went on: “Martin Ryder is finished, as I suppose you

know. He left a spawn of two mongrels behind him. I haven’t bothered

with them, but I’m a little more interested in another son that has

cropped up. He’s sitting over there in your family party and his name

is Pierre. In his own country they call him Pierre le Rouge, which

means Red Pierre, in our talk.

 

“You know I’ve never crossed you in anything before, Jim. Have I?”

 

Boone moistened his white lips and answered: “Never,” huskily, as if

it were a great muscular effort for him to speak.

 

“This time I have to break the custom. Boone, this fellow Pierre has

to leave the country. Will you see that he goes?”

 

The lips of Boone moved and made no sound.

 

He said at length: “McGurk, I’d rather cross the devil than cross you.

There’s no shame in admitting that. But I’ve lost my boy, Hal.”

 

“Too bad, Jim. I knew Hal; at a distance, of course.”

 

“And Pierre is filling Hal’s place in the family.”

 

“Is that your answer?”

 

“McGurk, are you going to pin me down in this?”

 

And here Jack whirled and cried: “Dad, you won’t let Pierre go!”

 

“You see?” pleaded Boone.

 

It was uncanny and horrible to see the giant so unnerved before this

stranger, but that part of it did not come to Pierre until later. Now

he felt a peculiar emptiness of stomach and a certain jumping chill

that traveled up and down his spine. Moreover, he could not move his

eyes from the face of McGurk, and he knew at length that this was

fear—the first real fear that he had ever known.

 

Shame made him hot, but fear made him cold again. He knew that if he

rose his knees would buckle under him; that if he drew out his

revolver it would slip from his palsied fingers. For the fear of death

is a mighty fear, but it is nothing compared with the fear of man.

 

“I’ve asked you a question,” said McGurk. “What’s your answer?”

 

There was a quiver in the black forest of Boone’s beard, and if Pierre

was cold before, he was sick at heart to see the big man cringe

before McGurk.

 

He stammered: “Give me time.”

 

“Good,” said McGurk. “I’m afraid I know what your answer would be now,

but if you take a couple of days you will think things over and come

to a reasonable conclusion. I will be at Gaffney’s place about fifteen

miles from here. You know it? Send your answer there. In the

meantime”—he stepped forward to the table and poured a small drink

of whisky into a glass and raised it high—“here’s to the long health

and happiness of us all. Drink!”

 

There was a hasty pouring of liquor.

 

“And you also!”

 

Pierre jumped as if he had been struck, and obeyed the order hastily.

 

“So,” said the master, pleasant again, and Pierre wiped his forehead

furtively and stared up with fascinated eyes. “An unwilling pledge is

better than none at all. To you, gentlemen, much happiness; to you,

Pierre le Rouge, bon voyage.”

 

They drank; the master placed his glass on the table again, smiled

upon them, and was gone through the door. He turned his back in

leaving. There was no fitter way in which he could have expressed his

contempt.

CHAPTER 14

The mirth died and in its place came a long silence. Jim Boone stared

upon Pierre with miserable eyes, and then rose and left the room. The

others one by one followed his example. Dick Wilbur in passing dropped

his hand on Pierre’s shoulder. Jacqueline was silent.

 

As he sat there minute after minute and then hour after hour of the

long night Pierre saw the meaning of it. If they sent word that they

would not give up Pierre it was war, and war with McGurk had only one

ending. If they sent word that Pierre was surrendered the shame would

never leave Boone and his men.

 

Whatever they did there was ruin for them in the end. All this Pierre

conned slowly in his mind, until he was cold. Then he looked up and

saw that the lamp had burned out and that the wood in the fireplace

was consumed to a few red embers.

 

He replenished the fire, and when the yellow flames began to mount he

made his resolution and walked slowly up and down the floor with it.

For he knew that he must go to meet McGurk.

 

The very thought of the man sent the old chill through his blood, yet

he must go and face him and end the thing.

 

It came over him with a pang that he was very young; that life was

barely a taste in his mouth, whether bitter or sweet he could not

tell. He picked a flaming stick from the fire and went before a little

round mirror on the wall.

 

Back at him stared the face of a boy. He had seen so much of the

grim six in the last day that the contrast startled him. They were

men, hardened to life and filled with knowledge of it. They were books

written full. But he? He was a blank page with a scribbled word here

and there. Nevertheless, he was chosen and he must go.

 

Having reached that decision he closed his mind on what would happen.

There was a vague fear that when he faced McGurk he would be frozen

with fear; that his spirit would be broken and he would become a thing

too despicable for a man to kill.

 

One thing was certain: if he was to act a man’s part and die a man’s

death he must not stand long before McGurk. It seemed to him then that

he would die happy if he had the strength to fire one shot before

the end.

 

Then he tiptoed from the house and went over the snow to the barn and

saddled the horse of Hal Boone. It was already morning, and as he led

the horse to the door of the barn a shadow, a faint shadow in that

early light, fell across the snow before him.

 

He looked up and saw Jacqueline. She stepped close, and the horse

nosed her shoulder affectionately.

 

She said: “Isn’t there anything that will keep you from going?”

 

“It’s just a little ride before breakfast. I’ll be back in an hour.”

 

It was foolish to try to blind her, as he saw by her wan, unchildish

smile.

 

“Is there no other way, Pierre?”

 

“I don’t know of any, do you?”

 

“You have to leave us, and never come back?”

 

“Is he as sure as that, Jack?”

 

“Sure? Who?”

 

She had not known, after all; she thought that he was merely riding

away from the region where McGurk was king. Now she caught his wrists

and shook them. “Pierre, you are not going to face McGurk? Pierre!”

 

“If you were a man, you would understand.”

 

“I know; because of your father. I do understand, but oh, Pierre,

listen! I can shoot as straight as almost any man. We will ride down

together. We will go through the doors together—me first to take his

fire, and you behind to shoot him down.”

 

“I guess no man can be as brave as a woman, Jack. No; I have to see

McGurk alone. He faced my father alone and shot him down. I’ll face

McGurk alone and live long enough to put my mark on him.”

 

“But you don’t know him. He can’t be hurt. Do you think my father

and—and Dick Wilbur would fear any man who could be hurt? No, but

McGurk has been in a hundred fights and never been touched. There’s a

charm over him, don’t you see?”

 

“I’ll break the charm, that’s all.”

 

He was up in the saddle.

 

“Then I’ll call dad—I’ll call them all—if you die they shall all

follow you. I swear they shall. Pierre!”

 

He merely leaned forward and touched the horse with his spurs, but

after he had raced the first hundred yards he glanced back. She was

running hard for the house, and calling as she went. Pierre cursed and

spurred the horse again.

 

Yet even if Jim Boone and his men started out after him they could

never overtake him. Before they were in their saddles and up with him,

he’d be a full three miles out in the hills. Not even black Thunder

could make up as much ground as that.

 

So all the fifteen miles to Gaffney’s place he urged his horse. The

excitement of the race kept the thought of McGurk back in his mind.

Only once he lost time when he had to pull up beside a buckboard and

inquire the way. After that he flew on again. Yet as he clattered up

to the door of Gaffney’s crossroads saloon and swung to the ground

he looked back and saw a cluster of horsemen swing around the shoulder

of a hill and come tearing after him. Surely his time was short.

 

He thrust open the door of the place and called for a drink. The

bartender spun the glass down the bar to him.

 

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