Riders of the Silences by Max Brand (the dot read aloud txt) 📖

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, 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, 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-never do 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 he had 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?”

 

“About how that glove happened to be on the floor.”

 

“Why, partner, it’s just a glove of my own.”

 

“Didn’t know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that.”

 

“No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this—”

 

And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for

she was an admirable mimic. He met her spirit more than halfway,

laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end

of the meal at the same time. She cleared away the pans with a few

motions and tossed them clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping

was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline. “Now,” said

Pierre, leaning back against the wall, “we’ll hear about that glove.”

 

“Damn the glove!” broke from her.

 

“Steady, pal!”

 

“Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little thing like that?”

 

“Why, Jack, you’re red and white in patches. I’m interested.”

 

He sat up.

 

“I’m more than interested. The story, Jack.”

 

“Well, I suppose I have to tell you. I did a fool thing today. Took a

little gallop down the trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting

in her saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart out. Poor

kid! She’d come up in a hunting party and got separated from the rest.

 

“So I got sympathetic—”

 

“About the first time on record that you’ve been sympathetic with

another girl, eh?”

 

“Shut up, Pierre! And I brought her in here—right into your cabin,

without thinking what I was doing, and gave her a cup of coffee. Of

course it was a pretty greenhorn trick, but I guess no harm will come

of it. The girl thinks it’s a prospector’s cabin—which it was once.

She went on her way, happy, because I told her of the right trail to

get back with her gang. That’s all there is to it. Are you mad at me

for letting anyone come into this place?”

 

“Mad?” He smiled. “No, I think that’s one of the best lies you ever

told me, Jack.”

 

Their eyes met, hers very wide, and his keen and steady. Then she

gripped at the butt of her gun, an habitual trick when she was very

angry, and cried: “Do I have to sit here and let you call me—that?

Pierre, pull a few more tricks like that and I’ll call for a new

deal. Get me?”

 

She rose, whirled, and threw herself sullenly on her bunk. “Come

back,” said Pierre. “You’re more scared than angry. Why are you

afraid, Jack?”

 

“It’s a lie—I’m not afraid!”

 

“Let me see that glove again.”

 

“You’ve seen it once—that’s enough.”

 

He whistled carelessly, rolling a cigarette. After he lighted it he

said: “Ready to talk yet, partner?”

 

She maintained an obstinate silence, but that sharp eye saw that she

was trembling. He set his teeth and then drew several long puffs on

his cigarette.

 

“I’m going to count to ten, pal, and when I finish you’re going to

tell me everything straight. In the meantime don’t stay there thinking

up a new lie. I know you too well, and if you try the same thing on

me again—”

 

“Well?” she snarled, all the tiger coming back in her voice.

 

“You’ll talk, all right. Here goes the count: One—two—three—four—”

 

As he counted, leaving a long drag of two or three seconds between

numbers, there was not a change in the figure of the girl. She still

lay with her back turned on him, and the only expressive part that

showed was her hand. First it lay limp against her hip, but as the

monotonous count proceeded it gathered to a fist.

 

“Five—six—seven—”

 

It seemed that he had been counting for hours, his will against her

will, the man in him against the woman in her, and during the pauses

between the sound of his voice the very air grew charged with waiting.

To the girl the wait for every count