by Max Brand
But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands pressed against her ears.
Chapter 31
Jacqueline ran to the door and threw it open.
"Ride down the valley!" she cried. "That's right. He's coming up, and he'll meet you on the way. He'll be glad--to see you!"
She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter of the galloping hoofs died out up the valley; then she closed the door, dropped the latch, and, running to the middle of the room, threw up her arms and cried out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like the call of the old Indian brave when he rises with the scalp of his murdered enemy dripping in his hand.
The extended arms she caught back to her breast, and stood there with head tilted back, crushing her delight closer to her heart.
And she whispered: "Pierre! Mine, mine! Pierre!"
Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked long at the flushed, triumphant image. At length she started, like one awakening from a happy dream, and hurriedly coiled the thick, soft tresses about her head. Never before had she lingered so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, twisting her head from side to side like a peacock admiring its image.
Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of color and uttered a little moan of vexation when she saw nothing, till her eyes, piercing through the gloom of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn leaves, long left there and still stained with beauty. She fastened them at the breast of her shirt, and so arrayed began to cook. Never was there a merrier cook, not even some jolly French chef with a heart made warm with good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and whenever she had to cross the room it was with a dancing step. Spring was in her blood, warm spring that sets men smiling for no cause except that they are living, and rejoicing with the whole awakening world.
So it was with Jacqueline. Ever and anon as she leaned over the pans and stirred the fire she raised her head and remained a moment motionless, waiting for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time she had to look down again with a sigh.
As it was, he took her by surprise, for he entered with the soft foot of the hunted and remained an instant searching the room with a careful glance. Not that he suspected, not that he had not relaxed his guard and his vigilance the moment he caught sight of the flicker of light through the mass of great boulders, but the lifelong habit of watchfulness remained with him.
Even when he spoke face to face with a man, he never seemed to be giving more than half his attention, for might not someone else approach if he lost himself in order to listen to any one voice? He had covered half the length of the room with that soundless step before she heard, and rose with a glad cry: "Pierre!"
Meeting that calm blue eye, she checked herself mightily.
"A hard ride?" she asked.
"Nothing much."
He took the rock nearest the fire and then raised a glance of inquiry.
"I got cold," she said, "and rolled it over."
He considered her and then the rock, not with suspicion, but as if he held the matter in abeyance for further consideration; a hunted man and a hunter must keep an eye for little things, must carry an armed hand and an armed heart even among friends. As for Jacqueline, her color had risen, and she leaned hurriedly over a pan in which meat was frying.
"Any results?" she asked.
"Some."
She waited, knowing that the story would come at length.
He added after a moment: "Strange how careless some people get to be."
"Yes?" she queried.
"Yes."
Another pause, during which he casually drummed his fingers on his knee. She saw that he must receive more encouragement before he would tell, and she gave it, smiling to herself. Women are old in certain ways of understanding in which men remain children forever.
"I suppose we're still broke, Pierre?"
"Broke? Well, not entirely. I got some results."
"Good."
"As a matter of fact, it was a pretty fair haul. Watch that meat, Jack; I think it's burning."
It was hardly beginning to cook, but she turned it obediently and hid another slow smile. Rising, she passed behind his chair, and pretended to busy herself with something near the wall. This was the environment and attitude which would make him talk most freely, she knew.
"Speaking of careless men," said Pierre, "I could tell you a yarn, Jack."
She stood close behind him and made about his unconscious head a gesture of caress, the overflow of an infinite tenderness.
"I'd sure like to hear it, Pierre."
"Well, it was like this: I knew a fellow who started on the range with a small stock of cattle. He wasn't a very good worker, and he didn't understand cattle any too well, so he didn't prosper for quite a while. Then his affairs took a sudden turn for the better; his herd began to increase. Nobody understood the reason, though a good many suspected, but one man fell onto the reason: our friend was simply running in a few doggies on the side, and he'd arranged a very ingenious way of changing the brands."
"Pierre--"
"Well?"
"What does 'ingenious' mean?"
"Why, I should say it means 'skillful, clever,' and it carries with it the connotation of 'novel.'"
"It carries the con-conno--what's that word, Pierre?"
"I'm going to get some books for you, Jack, and we'll do a bit of reading on the side, shall we?"
"I'd love that!"
He turned and looked up to her sharply.
He said: "Sometimes, Jack, you talk just like a girl."
"Do I? That's queer, isn't it? But go on with the story."
"He changed the brands very skillfully, and no one got the dope on him except this one man I mentioned; and that man kept his face shut. He waited.
"So it went on for a good many years. The herd of our friend grew very rapidly. He sold just enough cattle to keep himself and his wife alive; he was bent on making one big haul, you see. So when his doggies got to the right age and condition for the market, he'd trade them off, one fat doggie for two or three skinny yearlings. But finally he had a really big herd together, and shipped it off to the market on a year when the price was sky-high."
"Like this year?"
"Don't interrupt me, Jack!"
From the shadow behind him she smiled again.
"They went at a corking price, and our friend cleared up a good many thousand--I won't say just how much. He sank part of it in a ruby brooch for his wife, and shoved the rest into a satchel.
"You see how careful he'd been all those years while he was piling up his fortune? Well, he began to get careless the moment he cashed in, which was rather odd. He depended on his fighting power to keep that money safe, but he forgot that while he'd been making a business of rustling doggies and watching cattle markets, other men had been making a business of shooting fast and straight.
"Among others there was the silent man who'd watched and waited for so long. But this silent man hove alongside while our rich friend was bound home in a buckboard.
"'Good evening!' he called.
"The rich chap turned and heard; it all seemed all right, but he'd done a good deal of shady business in his day, and that made him suspicious of the silent man now. So he reached for his gun and got it out just in time to be shot cleanly through the hand.
"The silent man tied up that hand and sympathized with the rich chap; then he took that satchel and divided the paper money into two bundles. One was twice the size of the other, and the silent man took the smaller one. There was only twelve thousand dollars in it. Also, he took the ruby brooch for a friend--and as a sort of keepsake, you know. And he delivered a short lecture to the rich man on the subject of carelessness and rode away. The rich man picked up his gun with his left hand and opened fire, but he'd never learned to shoot very well with that hand, so the silent man came through safe."
"That's a bully story," said Jack. "Who was the silent man?"
"I think you've seen him a few times, at that."
She concealed another smile, and said in the most businesslike manner: "Chow-time, Pierre," and set out the pans on the table.
"By the way," he said easily, "I've got a little present for you, Jack."
And he took out a gold pin flaming with three great rubies.
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 half-way, 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 was like the wait of the doomed traitor when he stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer of light go down the aimed rifles.
For she knew the face of the man who sat there counting; she knew how the firelight flared in the dark red of his hair and made it seem like another fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely cold. Her hand had gathered to a hard-balled fist.
She sprang up, screaming: "No, no, Pierre!" And threw out her arms to him.
"Ten."
She whispered: "It was the girl with yellow hair--Mary Brown."
Chapter 33
It was as if she had said: "Good morning!" in the calmest of voices. There was no answer in him, neither word nor expression, and out of ten sharp-eyed men, nine would have passed him by without noting the difference; but the girl knew him as the monk knows his prayers or the Arab his horse, and a solemn, deep despair came over her. She felt like the drowning, when the water closes over their heads for the last time.
He puffed twice again at the cigarette and then flicked the butt into the fire. When he spoke it was only to say: "Did she stay long?"
But his eyes avoided her. She moved a little so as to read his face, but when he turned again and answered her stare she winced. "Not very long, Pierre."
"Ah," he said. "I see! It was because she didn't dream that this was the place I lived in."
It was the sort of heartless, torturing questioning which was once the crudest weapon of the inquisition. With all her heart she fought to raise her voice above the whisper whose very sound accused her, but could not. She was condemned to that voice as the man bound in nightmare is condemned to walk slowly, slowly, though the terrible danger is racing toward him, and the safety which he must reach lies only a dozen steps, a dozen mortal steps away.
She said in that voice: "No; of course she didn't dream it."
"And you, Jack, had her interests at heart--her best interests, poor girl, and didn't tell her?"
Her hands went out to him in mute appeal.
"Please, Pierre--don't!"
"Is something troubling you, Jack?"
"You are breaking my heart."
"Why, by no means! Let's sit here calmly and chat about the girl with the yellow hair. To begin with--she's rather pleasant to look at, don't you think?"
"I suppose she is."
"Hm! Rather poor taste not to be sure of it. Well, let it go. You've always had rather queer taste in women, Jack; but, of course, being a long-rider, you haven't seen much of them. At least her name is delightful--Mary Brown! You've no idea how often I've repeated it aloud to myself--Mary Brown!"
