Riders of the Silences

by Max Brand

  CHAPTER VII

  THE VOICE IN THE STORM

  All life was tame compared with this sudden awakening of Pierre, forhis whole being burst into flower, his whole nature opened. He hadkilled a man. For fear of it he raced the tall roan furiously throughthe night.

  He had killed a man. For the joy of it his head was high, he shouted asong that went ringing across the blank, white hills. What place wasthere in Red Pierre for solemn qualms of conscience? Had he not metthe first and last test triumphantly? The oldest instinct in creationwas 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 atthe world with hands, palm upward, asking for life, and that life whichlies under the hills of the mountain-desert heard his question and senta 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 thereins with a curse and drove in the spurs. Valiantly the horse rearedhis shoulders up, but when he strove to rise the right foreleg dangledhelplessly. He had stepped in some hole and the bone was brokencleanly across.

  The rider slipped from the saddle and stood facing the roan, whichpricked its ears forward and struggled once more to regain its feet.The effort was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and felt therough edges of the splintered bone through the skin. The animal, as ifit sensed that the man was trying to do it some good, nosed hisshoulder and whinnied softly.

  Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The bullet would do quicklywhat the cold would accomplish after lingering hours of torture, yet,facing those pricking ears and the brave trust of the eyes, he wasblinded by a mist and could not aim. He had to place the muzzle of thegun against the roan's temple and pull the trigger. When he turned hisback 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 thesecond life which he put out that night, for regret is the one sorrowwhich never dodges the footsteps of the hunted. Like all hisbrotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed forward across themountain-desert with his face turned toward the brave to-morrow. Inthe evening of his life, if he should live to that time, he would walkand 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 violencein his headlong course. Now he felt it whipping sharply at his backand increasing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear, pitilesslyclear. 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 thesnow and whipped volleys of the small particles level with the surface.It cut the neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his shoulders withstaggering force like separate blows, twisting him a little from sideto side.

  Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it seemed as if the vengeancefor Diaz was following the slayer. Once he turned and laughed hard andshort in the teeth of the wind, and shook his fist back at Morgantownand all the avenging powers of the law.

  Yet he was glad to turn away from the face of the storm and stride ondown-wind. Even traveling with the gale grew more and more impossible.The snowdrifts which the wind picked up and hurried across the hillspressed against Pierre's back like a great, invisible hand, bowing himas if beneath a burden. In the hollows the labor was not so great, butwhen he approached a summit the gale screamed in his ear and struck himsavagely.

  For all his optimism, for all his young, undrained strength, a doubtbegan to grow in the mind of Pierre le Rouge. At length, rememberinghow that weight of gold came in his pockets, he slipped his left handinto 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 ofsinging.

  The heart of Red Pierre stopped. For he knew the visions which came tomen perishing with cold; but he grew calmer again in a moment. Thistouch of cold was nothing compared with whole months of hard exposurewhich he had endured in the northland. It had not the edge. If itwere not for the wind it was scarcely a threat to life. Moreover, thesinging sounded no more. It had been hardly more than a phrase ofmusic, and it must have been a deceptive murmur of the wind.

  After all, a gale brought wilder deceptions than that. Some men hadactually heard voices declaiming words in such a wind. He himself hadheard them tell their stories. So he leaned forward again and gave hisstanch heart to the task. Yet once more he stopped, for this time thesinging 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 woman, high andtender, come whistling down the wind. He could almost catch the words.For a little moment he lingered still. Then he turned and fought hisway into the strong arms of the storm.

  Every now and then he paused and crouched to the snow. Usually therewas only the shriek of the wind in his ears, but a few times thesinging came to him and urged him on. If he had allowed the idea offailure to enter his mind, he must have given up the struggle, butfailure was a stranger to his thoughts.

  He lowered his head against the storm. Sometimes it caught under himand nearly lifted him from his feet. But he clung against the slope ofthe hill, sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he worked his wayto the right, the sound of the singing coming more and more frequentlyand louder and louder. When he was almost upon the source of the musicit ceased abruptly.

  He waited a moment, but no sound came. He struggled forward a few moreyards and pitched down exhausted, panting. Still he heard the singingno longer. With a falling heart he rose and resigned himself to wanderon his original course with the wind, but as he started he placed hishand 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 cutoff the sound of her voice. Now he saw her lying, a spot of brightcolor on the snow. He read the story at a glance. As she passed thissteep-sided hill the loosely piled snow had slid down and carried withit the dead trunk of a fallen tree.

  Pierre came from behind and stood over her unnoticed. He saw that theoncoming tree, by a strange chance, had knocked down the girl andpinned her legs to the ground. His strength and the strength of adozen men would not be sufficient to release her. This he saw at thefirst glance, and saw the bright gold of her hair against the snow.Then he dropped on his knees beside her.