Riders of the Silences by Max Brand (the dot read aloud txt) 📖
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It was no bullet that downed Pierre but his own cunning. He broke his
fall with an outstretched left hand, while the bullets of Diaz pumped
into the void space which his body had filled a moment before.
Lying there at ease, he leveled the revolver, grinning with the
mirthless lust of battle, and fired over the top of the table. The
guns dropped from the hands of huge Diaz. He caught at his throat and
staggered back the full length of the room, crashing against the wall.
When he pitched forward on his face he was dead before he struck
the floor.
Pierre, now Red Pierre, indeed, rose and ran to the fallen man, and,
looking at the bulk of the giant, he wondered with a cold heart. He
knew before he slipped his hand over the breast of Diaz that this was
death. Then he rose again and watched the still fingers which seemed
to be gripping at the boards. These he saw, and nothing else, and
all he heard was the rattling of the wind of winter, wrenching at some
loose shingle on the roof, and he knew that he was alone in the world,
for he had put out a life.
He found a strange weight pulling down his right hand, and started
when he saw the revolver. He replaced it in the holster automatically,
and in so doing touched the barrel and found it warm.
Then fear came to Pierre, the first real fear of his life. He jerked
his head high and looked about him. The room was utterly empty. He
tiptoed to the door and found even the long bar deserted, littered
with tall bottles and overturned glasses. The cold in his heart
increased. A moment before he had been hand in hand with all the mirth
in that place.
Now the men whose laughter he had repeated with smiles, the men
against whose sleeves his elbow had touched, were further away from
him than they had been when all the snow-covered miles from Morgantown
to the school of Father Victor had laid between them. They were men
who might lose themselves in any crowd, but he was set apart with a
brand, even as Hurley and Diaz had been set apart that eventful evening.
He had killed a man. That fact blotted out the world. He drew his gun
again and stole down the length of the bar. Once he stopped and poised
the weapon before he realized that the white, fierce face that
squinted at him was his own reflection in a mirror.
Outside the door the free wind caught at his face, and he blessed it
in his heart, as if it had been the touch of the hand of a friend.
Beyond the long, dark, silent street the moor rose and passed up
through the safe, dark spaces of the sky.
He must move quickly now. The pursuit was not yet organized, but it
would begin in a space of minutes. From the group of half a dozen
horses which stood before the saloon he selected the best—a tall,
raw-boned nag with an ugly head. Into the saddle he swung, wondering
faintly that the theft of a horse mattered so little to him. His was
the greatest sin. All other things mattered nothing.
Down the long street he galloped. The sharp echoes flew out at him
from every unlighted house, but not a human being was in sight. So he
swung out onto the long road which wound up through the hills, and
beside him rode a grim brotherhood, the invisible fellowship of Cain.
The moon rose higher, brighter, and a grotesque black shadow galloped
over the snow beside him. He turned his head sharply to the other side
and watched the sweep of white hills which reached back in range after
range until they blended with the shadows of night.
The road faded to a bridle path, and this in turn he lost among the
windings of the valley. He was lost from even the traces of men, and
yet the fear of men pursued him. Fear, and yet with it there was a
thrill of happiness, for every swinging stride of the tall, wild roan
carried him deeper into freedom, the unutterable fierce freedom of
the hunted.
All life was tame compared with this sudden awakening of Pierre. He
had killed a man. For fear of it he raced the tall roan furiously
through the night.
He had killed a man. For the joy of it he shouted a song that went
ringing across the blank, white hills. What place was there in Red
Pierre for solemn qualms of conscience? Had he not met the first and
last test triumphantly? The oldest instinct in creation was satisfied
in him. Now he stood ready to say to all the world: Behold, a man!
Let it be remembered that his early years had been passed in a dull,
dun silence, and time had slipped by him with softly padding,
uneventful hours. Now, with the rope of restraint snapped, he rode at
the world with hands, palm upward, asking for life, and that life
which lies under the hills of the mountain-desert heard his question
and sent a cold, sharp echo back to answer his lusty singing.
The first answer, as he plunged on, not knowing where, and not caring,
was when the roan reeled suddenly and flung forward to the ground.
Even that violent stop did not unseat Red Pierre. He jerked up on the
reins with a curse and drove in the spurs. Valiantly the horse reared
his shoulders up, but when he strove to rise the right foreleg dangled
helplessly. He had stepped in some hole and the bone was broken
cleanly across.
The rider slipped from the saddle and stood facing the roan, which
pricked its ears forward and struggled once more to regain its feet.
The effort was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and felt the
rough edges of the splintered bone through the skin. The animal, as if
it sensed that the man was trying to do it some good, nosed his
shoulder and whinnied softly.
Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The bullet would do quickly
what the cold would accomplish after lingering hours of torture, yet,
facing those pricking ears and the trust of the eyes, he was blinded
by a mist and could not aim. He had to place the muzzle of the gun
against the roan’s temple and pull the trigger. When he turned his
back he was the only living thing within the white arms of the hills.
Yet, when the next hill was behind him, he had already forgotten the
second life which he put out that night, for regret is the one sorrow
which never dodges the footsteps of the hunted. Like all his
brotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed forward across the
mountain-desert with his face turned toward the brave tomorrow. In the
evening of his life, if he should live to that time, he would walk and
talk with God.
Now he had no mind save for the bright day coming.
He had been riding with the wind and had scarcely noticed its violence
in his headlong course. Now he felt it whipping sharply at his back
and increasing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear. It seemed
to give vision for the wind and cold to seek him out, and the moon
made his following shadow long and black across the snow.
The wind quickened rapidly to a gale that cut off the surface of the
snow and whipped volleys of the small particles level with the
surface. It cut the neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his
shoulders with staggering force like separate blows, twisting him a
little from side to side.
Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it seemed as if the vengeance
for Diaz was following the slayer. Once he turned and laughed in the
teeth of the wind, and shook his fist back at Morgantown and all the
avenging powers of the law.
Yet he was glad to turn away from the face of the storm and stride on
down-wind. Even traveling with the gale grew more and more impossible.
The snowdrifts which the wind picked up and hurried across the hills
pressed against Pierre’s back like a great, invisible hand, bowing him
as if beneath a burden. In the hollows the labor was not so great, but
when he approached a summit the gale screamed in his ear and struck
him savagely.
For all his optimism, for all his young, undrained strength, a doubt
began to grow in the mind of Pierre le Rouge. At length, remembering
how that weight of gold came in his pockets, he slipped his left hand
into the bosom of his shirt and touched the icy metal of the cross.
Almost at once he heard, or thought he heard, a faint, sweet sound
of singing.
The heart of Red Pierre stopped. For he knew the visions which came to
men perishing with cold; but he grew calmer again in a moment. This
touch of cold was nothing compared with whole months of hard exposure
which he had endured in the northland. It had not the edge. If it were
not for the wind it was scarcely a threat to life. Moreover, the
singing sounded no more. It had been hardly more than a phrase of
music, and it must have been a deceptive murmur of the wind.
After all, a gale brought wilder deceptions than that. Some men had
actually heard voices declaiming words in such a wind. He himself had
heard them tell their stories. So he leaned forward again and gave his
stanch heart to the task. Yet once more he stopped, for this time the
singing came clearly, sweetly to him.
There was no doubt of it now. Of course it was wildly impossible,
absurd; but beyond all question he heard the voice of a girl come
whistling down the wind. He could almost catch the words. For a little
moment he lingered still. Then he turned and fought his way into the
strong arms of the storm.
Every now and then he paused and crouched to the snow. Usually there
was only the shriek of the wind in his ears, but a few times the
singing came to him and urged him on. If he had allowed the idea of
failure to enter his mind, he must have given up the struggle, but
failure was a stranger to his thoughts.
He lowered his head against the storm. Sometimes it caught under him
and nearly lifted him from his feet. But he clung against the slope of
the hill, sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he worked his way
to the right, the sound of the singing coming more and more
frequently and louder and louder. When he was almost upon the source
of the music it ceased abruptly.
He waited a moment, but no sound came. He struggled forward a few more
yards and pitched down exhausted, panting. Still he heard the singing
no longer. With a falling heart he rose and resigned himself to wander
on his original course with the wind, but as he started he placed his
hand once more against the cross, and it was then that he saw her.
For he had simply gone past her, and the yelling of the storm had cut
off the sound of her voice. Now he saw her lying, a spot of bright
color on the snow. He read the story at a glance. As she passed this
steep-sided hill the loosely piled snow
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