Max Brand (14 page)

So they came to the schoolhouse and reached the long line of buggies,
buckboards, and, most of all, saddled horses. They crowded the
horse-shed where the school children stabled their mounts in the
winter weather. They were tethered to the posts of the fence; they
were grouped about the trees.

It was a prodigious gathering, and a great affair for the
mountain-desert. They knew this even before they had set foot within
the building.

They stopped here and adjusted their masks carefully. They were made
from a strip of black lining which Jack had torn from one of the coats
in the trunk which lay far back in the hills.

Those masks had to be tied firmly and well, for some jester might try
to pull away that of Pierre, and if his face were seen, it would be
death—a slaughter without defense, for he had not been able to
conceal his big Colt in these tight-fitting clothes. Even as it was,
there was peril from the moment that the lights within should shine on
that head of dark-red hair.

As for Jack, there was little fear that she would be recognized. She
was strange even to Pierre every time he looked down at her, for she
had ceased to be Jack and had become very definitely "Jacqueline." But
the masks were on; the scarf adjusted about the throat and bare,
shivering shoulders of Jack, and they stood arm in arm before the door
out of which streamed the voices and the music.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

But she was trembling so, either from fear, or excitement, or both,
that he had to take a firm hold on her arm and almost carry her up the
steps, shove the door open, and force her in. A hundred eyes were
instantly upon them, practiced, suspicious eyes, accustomed to search
into all things and take nothing for granted; eyes of men who, when a
rap came at the door, looked to see whether or not the shadow of the
stranger fell full in the center of the crack beneath the door. If it
fell to one side the man might be an enemy, and therefore they would
stand at one side of the room, their hands upon the butt of a six-gun,
and shout: "Come in." Such was the battery of glances from the men,
and the color of Pierre altered, paled.

He knew some of those faces, for those who hunt and are hunted never
forget the least gestures of their enemies. There was a mighty
temptation to turn back even then, but he set his teeth and forced
himself to stand calmly.

The chuckle which replied to this maneuver freed him for the moment.
Suspicion was lulled. Moreover, the red-jeweled hair of Jacqueline and
her lighted eyes called all attention almost immediately upon her. She
shifted the golden scarf—the white arms and breast flashed in the
light—a gasp responded. There would be talk tomorrow; there were
whispers even now.

It was not the main hall that they stood in, for this school, having
been built by an aspiring community, contained two rooms; this smaller
room, used by the little ones of the school, was now converted into a
hat-and-cloak room.

Pierre hung up his hat, removed his gloves slowly, nerving himself to
endure the sharp glances, and opened the door for Jacqueline.

If she had held back tremulously before, something she had seen in the
eyes of those in the first room, something in the whisper and murmur
which rose the moment she started to leave, gave her courage. She
stepped into the dance-hall like a queen going forth to address
devoted subjects. The second ordeal was easier than the first. There
were many times more people in that crowded room, but each was intent
upon his own pleasure. A wave of warmth and light swept upon them, and
a blare of music, and a stir and hum of voices, and here and there the
sweet sound of a happy girl's laughter. They raised their heads, these
two wild rangers of the mountain-desert, and breathed deep of the
fantastic scene.

There was no attempt at beauty in the costumes of the masqueraders.
Here and there some girl achieved a novel and pleasing effect; but on
the whole they strove for cheaper and more stirring things in the line
of the grotesque.

Here passed a youth wearing a beard made from the stiff, red bristles
of the tail of a sorrel horse. Another wore a bear's head cunningly
stuffed, the grinning teeth flashing over his head and the skin draped
over his shoulders. A third disfigured himself by painting after the
fashion of an Indian on the warpath, with crimson streaks down his
forehead and red and black across his cheeks.

But not more than a third of all the assembly made any effort to
masquerade, beyond the use of the simple black mask across the upper
part of the face. The rest of the men and women contented themselves
with wearing the very finest clothes they could afford to buy, and
there was through the air a scent of the general merchandise store
which not even a liberal use of cheap perfume and all the drifts of
pale-blue cigarette smoke could quite overcome.

As for the music, it was furnished by two very old men, relics of the
days when there were contests in fiddling; a stout fellow of middle
age, with cheeks swelled almost to bursting as he thundered out
terrific blasts on a slide trombone; a youth who rattled two sticks on
an overturned dish-pan in lieu of a drum, and a cornetist of
real skill.

There were hard faces in the crowd, most of them, of men who had set
their teeth against hard weather and hard men, and fought their way
through, not to happiness, but to existence, so that fighting had
become their pleasure.

Now they relaxed their eternal vigilance, their eternal suspicion.
Another phase of their nature weakened. Some of them were smiling and
laughing for the first time in months, perhaps, of labor and
loneliness on the range. With the gates of good-nature opened, a
veritable flood of gaiety burst out. It glittered in their eyes, it
rose to their lips in a wild laughter. They seemed to be dancing more
furiously fast in order to forget the life which they had left, and to
which they must return.

These were the conquerors of the bitter nature of the mountain-desert.
There was beauty here, the beauty of strength in the men and a brown
loveliness in the girls; just as in the music, the blatancy of the
rattling dish-pan and the blaring trombone were more than balanced by
the real skill of the violinists, who kept a high, sweet, singing tone
through all the clamor.

And Pierre le Rouge and Jacqueline? They stood aghast for a moment
when that crash of noise broke around them; but they came from a life
where there was nothing of beauty except the lonely strength of the
mountains and the appalling silences of the stars that roll above the
desert. Almost at once they caught the overtone of human joyousness,
and they turned with smiles to each other, and it was "Pierre?"
"Jack?" Then a nod, and she was in his arms, and they glided into
the dance.

When a crowd gathers in the street, there rises a babel of voices, a
confused and pointless clamor, no matter what the purpose of the
gathering, until some man who can think as well as shout begins to
speak. Then the crowd murmurs a moment, and after a few seconds
composes itself to listen.

So it was with the noise in the hall when Pierre and Jacqueline began
to dance. First there were smiles of derision and envy around them,
but after a moment a little hush came where they moved.

They could not help but dance well, for they had youth and grace and
strength, and the glances of applause and envy were like wine to
quicken their blood, while above all they caught the overtone of the
singing violins, and danced by that alone. The music ended with a long
flourish just as they whirled to a stop in a corner of the room. At
once an eddy of men started toward them.

"Who shall it be?" smiled Pierre. "With whom do you want to dance?
It's your triumph, Jack."

She was alight and alive with the victory, and her eyes roved over the
crowd.

"The big man with the tawny hair."

"But he's making right past us."

"No; he'll turn and come back."

"How do you know?"

For answer she glanced up and laughed, and he realized with a singular
sense of loneliness that she knew many things which were beyond his
ken. Someone touched his arm, and a voice, many voices, beset him.

"How's the chances for a dance with the girl, partner?"

"This dance is already booked," Pierre answered, and kept his eyes on
the tall man with the scarred face and the resolute jaw. He wondered
why Jacqueline had chosen such a partner.

At least she had prophesied correctly, for the big man turned toward
them just as he seemed about to head for another part of the hall. The
crowd gave way before him, not that he shouldered them aside, but they
seemed to feel the coming of his shadow before him, and separated as
they would have done before the shadow of a falling tree.

In another moment Pierre found himself looking up to the giant. No
mask could cover that long, twisting mark of white down his cheek, nor
hide the square set of the jaw, nor dim the steady eyes.

And there came to Pierre an exceedingly great uneasiness in his right
hand, and a twitching of the fingers low down on his thigh where the
familiar holster should have hung. His left hand rose, following the
old instinct, and touched beneath his throat where the cold cross lay.

He was saying easily: "This is your dance, isn't it?"

"Right, Bud," answered the big man in a mellow voice as great as his
size. "Sorry I can't swap partners with you, but I hunt alone."

An overwhelming desire to get a distance between himself and this huge
unknown came to Pierre.

He said: "There goes the music. You're off."

And the other, moving toward Jack, leaned down a little and murmured
at the ear of the outlaw: "Thanks, Pierre."

Then he was gone, and Jacqueline was laughing over his shoulder back
to Pierre.

Through his daze and through the rising clamor of the music, a voice
said beside him: "You look sort of sick, dude. Who's your friend?"

"Don't you know him?" asked Pierre.

"No more than I do you; but I've ridden the range for ten years around
here, and I know that he's new to these parts. If I'd ever glimpsed
him before, I'd remember him. He'd be a bad man in a mix, eh?"

And Pierre answered with devout earnestness: "He would."

"But where'd you buy those duds, pal? Hey, look! Here's what I've been
waiting for—the Barneses and the girl that's visitin' 'em from
the East."

"What girl?"

"Look!"

The Barnes group was passing through the door, and last came the
unmistakable form of Dick Wilbur, masked, but not masked enough to
hide his familiar smile or cover the well-known sound of his laughter
as it drifted to Pierre across the hall, and on his arm was a girl in
an evening dress of blue, with a small, black mask across her eyes,
and deep-golden hair.

Pausing before she swung into the dance with Wilbur, she made a
gesture with the white arm, and looked up laughing to big, handsome
Dick. Pierre trembled with a red rage when he saw the hands of Wilbur
about her.

Dick, in passing, marked Pierre's stare above the heads of the crowd,
and frowned with trouble. The hungry eyes of Pierre followed them as
they circled the hall again; and this time Wilbur, perhaps fearing
that something had gone wrong with Pierre, steered close to the edge
of the dancing crowd and looked inquisitively across.

He leaned and spoke to the girl, and she turned her head, smiling, to
Pierre. Then the smile went out, and even despite the mask, he saw her
eyes widen. She stopped and slipped from the arm of Wilbur, and came
step by step slowly toward him like one walking in her sleep. There,
by the edge of the dancers, with the noise of the music and the
shuffling feet to cover them, they met. The hands she held to him were
cold and trembling.

"Is it you?"

"It is I."

That was all; and then the shadow of Wilbur loomed above them.

"What's this? Do you know each other? It isn't possible! Pierre, are
you playing a game with me?"

But under the glance of Pierre he fell back a step, and reached for
the gun which was not there. They were alone once more.

"Mary—Mary Brown!"

"Pierre!"

"But you are dead!"

"No, no! But you—Pierre, where can we go?"

"Outside."

"Let us go quickly!"

"Do you need a wrap?"

"No."

"But it is cold outside, and your shoulders are bare."

"Then take that cloak. But quickly, Pierre, before we're followed."

He drew it about her; he led her through the door; it clicked shut;
they were alone with the sweet, frosty air before them. She tore
away the mask.

"And yours, Pierre?"

"Not here."

"Why?"

"Because there are people. Hurry. Now here, with just the trees around
us—"

And he tore off his mask.

The white, cold moon shone over them, slipping down between the dark
tops of the trees, and the wind stirred slowly through the branches
with a faint, hushing sound, as if once more a warning were coming to
Pierre this night. He looked up, his left hand at the cross.

"Look down. You are afraid of something, Pierre. What is it?"

"With your arms around my neck, there's nothing in the world I fear. I
never dreamed I could love anything more than the little girl who lay
in the snow, and died there that night."

"And I never dreamed I could smile at any man except the boy who lay
by me that night. And he died."

"What miracle saved you?"

She said: "It was wonderful, and yet very simple. You remember how the
tree crushed me down into the snow? Well, when the landslide moved, it
carried the tree before it; the weight of the trunk was lifted from
me. Perhaps it was a rock that struck me over the head then, for I
lost consciousness. The slide didn't bury me, but the rush carried me
before it like a stick before a wave, you see.