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fire.

 

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.

CHAPTER 7

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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