Riders of the Silences (5 page)

"Do you let a thing like that happen in this country?" he asked fiercely.

The other turned to him with a sneer.

"
Let
it happen? Who'll stop him? Say, partner, you ain't meanin' to
say that you don't know who Hurley is?"

"I don't need telling. I can see."

"What you can't see means a lot more than what you can. I've been in the same
room when Hurley worked his gun once. It wasn't any killin', but it was the
prettiest bit of cheatin' I ever seen. But even if Hurley wasn't enough, what
about Carl Diaz?"

He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to quail, and
too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn toward the other.

"What of Diaz?"

"Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but you ain't that young. D'you
mean to say that you ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?"

It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snow-bound seclusion of the
north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could not remember
just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim tales through which that
name figured.

The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen him before, look him over now.
They's some says he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk, but, of course, that's
stretchin' him out a size too much. What's the matter, kid; you've met McGurk?"

"No, but I'm going to."

"Might even be carried to him, ehfeet first?"

Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other.

"Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't like it."

The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he stayed his
arm.

He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well, partner,
there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You don't figure you're
a mate for McGurk, do you?"

He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him and
returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect model for a
painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed and twirled the end of his
black mustache so that it thrust out a little spur on either side of his long
face. His habitual expression was a scowl; his habitual position was with a
cigarette in the fingers of his left hand, and his right hand resting on his
hip.

He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre's new-found
acquaintance explained:

"He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's some who could down Hurley in a
straight gun fight; maybe there's one or two like McGurk that could down
Diazdamn his yellow hidebut there ain't no one can buck the two of 'em. It
ain't in reason. So they play the game together. Hurley works the cards and Diaz
covers up the retreat. Can't beat that, can you?"

Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more Inside his shirt until the
fingers touched the cross.

"Nevertheless, that game has to stop."

"Who'llsay, kid, are you stringin' me, or are you drunk? Look me in the
eye!"

Pierre turned and looked calmly upon the other.

And the man whispered in a sort of awe: "Well, I'll be damned!"

"Stand aside!"

The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went straight to the table and said to
Cochrane: "Sir, I have come to take you home."

The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as though waking from a sleep.

"Stand back from the table!" warned Hurley.

"By the Lord, have they been missing me?" queried old Cochrane.

"You are waited for," answered Pierre le Rouge, "and I've been sent to take
you home."

"If that's the case"

"It ain't the case. The kid's lying."

"Lying?" repeated Cochrane, as if he had never heard the word before, and he
peered with clearing eyes toward Pierre. "No, I think this boy has never lied."

Silence had spread through the place like a vapor. Even the slight sounds in
the gaming-room were done now, and one pair after another of eyes swung toward
the table of Cochrane and Hurley. The wave of the silence reached to the
barroom. No one could have carried the tidings so soon, but the air was
surcharged with the consciousness of an impending crisis.

Half a dozen men started to make their way on tiptoe toward the back room.
One stood with his whisky glass suspended in mid air, and tilted back his head
to listen. In the gaming-room Hurley pushed back his chair and leaned to the
left, giving him a free sweep for his right hand. The Mexican smiled with a slow
and deep content.

"Thank you," answered Pierre, "but I am waiting still, sir."

The left hand of Hurley played impatiently on the table.

He said: "Of course, if you have enough"

"Ienough?" flared the old aristocrat.

Pierre le Rouge turned fairly upon Hurley.

"In the name of God," he said calmly, and God on his lips was as gentle as
music, "make an end of your game. You're playing for money, but I think this man
is playing for his eternal soul."

The solemn, bookish phraseology came smoothly from his tongue. He knew no
other. It drew a murmur of amusement from the room and a snarl from Hurley.

"Put on skirts, kid, and join the Salvation Army, but don't get yourself
messed all up in here. This is my party, and I'm damned particular who I invite!
Now, run along!"

The head of Pierre tilted back, and he burst into laughter which troubled
even Hurley.

The gambler blurted: "What's happening to you, kid?"

"I've been making a lot of good resolutions, Mr. Hurley, about keeping out of
trouble; but here I am in it up to the neck."

"No trouble as long as you keep your hand out of another man's game, kid."

"That's it. I can't see you rob Mr. Cochrane like this. You aren't
gamblingyou're digging gold. The game stops now."

It was a moment before the crowd realized what was about to happen; they saw
it reflected first in the face of Hurley, which suddenly went taut and pale, and
then, even as they looked with a smile of curiosity and derision toward Pierre
le Rouge, they saw and understood.

For the moment Pierre said, "The game stops now," the calm which had been
with him was gone. It was like the scent of blood to the starved wolf. The last
word was scarcely off his tongue when he was crouched with a devil of green fury
in his eyesthe light struck his hair into a wave of flamehis face altered by a
dozen ugly years.

"D'you mean?" whispered Hurley, as if he feared to break the silence with his
full voice.

"Get out of the room."

And the impulse of Hurley, plainly enough, was to obey the order, and go
anywhere to escape from that relentless stare. His glance wavered and flashed
around the circle and then back to Red Pierre, for the expectancy and the
alertness of all the crowd forced him back.

When the leader of the pack springs and fails to kill, the rest of the pack
tear him to pieces. Remembering this, Mac Hurley forced his glance back to
Pierre. Moreover, there was a soft voice from behind, and he remembered Diaz.

All this had taken place in the length of time that it takes a heavy body to
totter on the brink of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet after a fall.
After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through the room, a pulse of silence,
and then three hands shot for their hipsPierre, Diaz, and Hurley.

No stop-watch could have caught the differing lengths of time which each
required for the draw. The muzzle of Hurley's revolver was not clear of the
holsterthe gun of Diaz was nearly at the level when Pierre's weapon exploded at
his hip. The bullet cut through the wrist of Hurley. Never again would that
slender, supple hand fly over the cards, doing things other than they seemed. He
made no effort to escape from the next bullet, but stood looking down at his
broken wrist; horror for the moment gave him a dignity oddly out of place with
his usual appearance. He alone in all the room was moveless.

The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for the doors at the first shot;
Pierre le Rouge, pitched to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the revolver in
either hand spitting lead and 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 moon 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 besta 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, for his
whole being burst into flower, his whole nature opened. 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 his head was high, 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 brave 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.