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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’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.

CHAPTER 31

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

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