Riders of the Silences Read online

  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 loosens the muscles about the heart and makes the eyes of girls dim and 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 some one 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 'skilful, clever,' and it carries with it the connotation of 'novel.'"

  "It carries the con-connowhat'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 skilfully, 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 thousandI 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 friendand 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 XXXIII

  A COUNT TO TEN

  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 Crittenden Schoolhouse, and so when I saw that pin Iwell"

  "Oh, Pierre!" said a stifled voice, "Oh, Pierre!"

  "By Jove, Jack, 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 allJackyou seeI meant"

  But she tore herself away and flung herself face down on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever. He followed, awestrickenterrified.

  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
heart-rending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has never before known tears.

  "Jackperhaps 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 youyou 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 upa 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 oncebroke out more violentlyand then she sprang up from the bunk, face suffused, and eyes timidly seeking his with upward glances.

  "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 shirtthe 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-handeddidn'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 closeby accidentI might have turned around and shot him deadon 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 to-day. 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 hereright 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 cabinwhich 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 any one 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. The 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 methat? 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 lieI'm not afraid!"

  "Let me see that glove again."

  "You've seen it oncethat'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 mean time 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: Onetwothreefour"

  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.

  "Fivesixseven"

  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 and keen. Her hand had gathered to a hard-balled fist.

  "Eightnine"

  She sprang up, screaming: "No, no, Pierre!"

  And threw out her arms to him.

  "Ten."

  She whispered: "It was the girl with yellow hairMary Brown."

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  TIGER-HEART

  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 boun
d 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 hearther best interests, poor girl, and didn't tell her?"

  Her hands went out to him in mute appeal.

  "Please, Pierredon'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 withshe's rather pleasant to look at, don't you think?"

  "I suppose she is."

  "H-m! 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 delightfulMary Brown! You've no idea how often I've repeated it aloud to myself and relished the soundMary Brown!"

  "I hate her!"

  "You two didn't have a very agreeable time of it? By the way, she must have left in rather a hurry to forget her glove, eh?"

  "Yes, she ranlike a coward."

  "Ah?"

  "Like a trembling coward. How can you care for a white-faced little fool like that? Is she your match? Is she your mate?"

  He considered a moment, as though to make sure that he did not exaggerate.

  "I love her, Jack, as men love water when they've ridden all day over hot sand without a drop on their lipsyou know when the tongue gets thick and the mouth fills with cottonand then you see clear, bright water, and taste it."

  "She is like that to me. She feeds every sense; and when I look in her eyes, Jack, I feel like the starved man on the desert, as I was saying, drinking that priceless water. You knew something of the way I feel, Jack. Isn't it a little odd that you didn't keep her here?"

  She had stood literally shuddering during this speech, and now she burst out, far beyond all control: "Because she loathes you; because she hates herself for ever having loved you; because she despises herself for having ridden up here after you. Does that fill your cup of water, Pierre, eh?"