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the dark-red hair.

 

“God pardon the sins you shall commit.”

 

Pierre crushed the hand of Jean Paul Victor against his lips and

rushed from the room, while the tall priest, staring down at the

fingers which had been kissed, pronounced: “I have forged a

thunderbolt, Father Gabrielle. It is too great for my hand. Listen!”

And they heard clearly the sharp clang of a horse’s hoofs on the

hard-packed snow, loud at first, but fading rapidly away. The wind,

increasing suddenly, shook the house furiously about them.

 

It was a north wind, and traveled south before the rider of the strong

roan. Over a thousand miles of plain and hills it passed, and down

into the cattle country of the mountain-desert which the Rockies hem

on one side and the tall Sierras on the other.

 

It was a trail to try even the endurance of Pierre and the strong

roan, but the boy clung to it doggedly. On a trail that led down from

the edges of the northern mountain the roan crashed to the ground in a

plunging fall, hitting heavily on his knees. He was dead before the

boy had freed his feet from the stirrups.

 

Pierre threw the saddle over his shoulder and walked eight miles to

the nearest ranch house, where he spent practically the last cent of

his money on another horse, and drove on south once more.

 

There was little hope in him as day after day slipped past. Only the

ghost of a chance remained that Martin Ryder could fight away death

for another fortnight; yet Pierre had seen many a man from the

mountain-desert stave off the end through weeks and weeks of the

bitterest suffering. His father must be a man of the same hard durable

metal, and upon that Pierre staked all his hopes.

 

And always he carried the picture of the dying man alone with his two

wolf-eyed sons who waited for his eyes to weaken. Whenever he thought

of that he touched his horse with the spurs and rode fiercely for a

time. They were his flesh and blood, the man, and even the two

wolf-eyed sons.

 

So he came at last to a gap in the hills and looked down on Morgantown

in the hollow, twoscore unpainted houses sprawling along a single

street. The snow was everywhere white and pure, and the town was

like a stain on the landscape with wisps of smoke rising and trailing

across the hilltops.

 

Down to the edge of the town he rode, left his cow-pony standing with

hanging head outside a saloon, strode through the swinging doors, and

asked of the bartender the way to the house of Martin Ryder.

 

The bartender stopped in his labor of rubbing down the surface of his

bar and stared at the black-serge robe of the stranger, with curiosity

rather than criticism, for women, madmen, and clergymen have the

right-of-way in the mountain-desert.

 

He said: “Well, I’ll be damned!—askin’ your pardon. So old Mart Ryder

has come down to this, eh? Partner, you’re sure going to have a rough

ride getting Mart to heaven. Better send a posse along with him,

because some first-class angels are going to get considerable riled

when they sight him coming. Ha, ha, ha! Sure I’ll show you the way.

Take the northwest road out of town and go five miles till you see a

broken-backed shack lyin’ over to the right. That’s Mart

Ryder’s place.”

 

Out to the broken-backed shack rode Pierre le Rouge, Pierre the Red,

as everyone in the north country knew him. His second horse, staunch

cow-pony that it was, stumbled on with sagging knees and hanging head,

but Pierre rode upright, at ease, for his mind was untired.

 

Broken-backed indeed was the house before which he dismounted. The

roof sagged from end to end, and the stove pipe chimney leaned at a

drunken angle. Nature itself was withered beside that house; before

the door stood a great cottonwood, gashed and scarred by lightning,

with the limbs almost entirely stripped away from one side. Under this

broken monster Pierre stepped and through the door. Two growls like

the snarls of watch-dogs greeted him, and two tall, unshaven men

barred his way. Behind them, from the bed in the corner, a feeble

voice called: “Who’s there?”

 

“In the name of God,” said the boy gravely, for he saw a hollow-eyed

specter staring toward him from the bed in the corner, “let me pass! I

am his son!”

 

It was not that which made them give back, but a shrill, faint cry of

triumph from the sick man toward which they turned. Pierre slipped

past them and stood above Martin Ryder. He was wasted beyond

belief—only the monster hand showed what he had been.

 

“Son?” he queried with yearning and uncertainty.

 

“Pierre, your son.”

 

And he slipped to his knees beside the bed. The heavy hand fell upon

his hair and stroked it.

 

“There ain’t no ways of doubting it. It’s red silk, like the hair of

Irene. Seein’ you, boy, it ain’t so hard to die. Look up! So! Pierre,

my son! Are you scared of me, boy?”

 

“I’m not afraid.”

 

“Not with them eyes you ain’t. Now that you’re here, pay the coyotes

and let ‘em go off to gnaw the bones.”

 

He dragged out a small canvas bag from beneath the blankets and

gestured toward the two lurkers in the corner.

 

“Take it, and be damned to you!”

 

A dirty, yellow hand seized the bag; there was a chortle of

exultation, and the two scurried out of the room.

 

“Three weeks they’ve watched an’ waited for me to go out, Pierre.

Three weeks they’ve waited an’ sneaked up to my bed an’ sneaked away

agin, seein’ my eyes open.”

 

Looking into their fierce fever brightness, Pierre understood why they

had quailed. For the man, though wrecked beyond hope of living, was

terrible still. The thick, gray stubble on his face could not hide

altogether the hard lines of mouth and jaw, and on the wasted arm the

hand was grotesquely huge. It was horror that widened the eyes of

Pierre as he looked at Martin Ryder; it was a grim happiness that made

his lips almost smile.

 

“You’ve taken holy orders, lad?”

 

“No.”

 

“But the black dress?”

 

“I’m only a novice. I’ve sworn no vows.”

 

“And you don’t hate me—you hold no grudge against me for the sake of

your mother?”

 

Pierre took the heavy hand.

 

“Are you not my father? And my mother was happy with you. For her sake

I love you.”

 

“The good Father Victor. He sent you to me.”

 

“I came of my own will. He would not have let me go.”

 

“He—he would have kept my flesh and blood away from me?”

 

“Do not reproach him. He would have kept me from a sin.”

 

“Sin? By God, boy, no matter what I’ve done, is it sin for my son to

come to me? What sin?”

 

“The sin of murder!”

 

“Ha!”

 

“I have come to find McGurk.”

CHAPTER 4

Like some old father-bear watching his cub flash teeth against a

stalking lynx, half proud and half fearful of such courage, so the

dying cattleman looked at his son. Excitement set a high and dangerous

color in his cheek. “Pierre—brave boy! Look at me. I ain’t no

imitation man, even now, but I ain’t a ghost of what I was. There

wasn’t no man I wouldn’t of met fair and square with bare hands or

with a gun. Maybe my hands was big, but they were fast on the draw.

I’ve lived all my life with iron on the hip, and my six-gun has

seven notches.

 

“But McGurk downed me fair and square. There wasn’t no murder. I was

out for his hide, and he knew it. I done the provokin’, an’ he jest

done the finishin’, that was all. It hurts me a lot to say it, but

he’s a better man than I was. A kid like you, why, he’d jest eat

you, Pierre.”

 

Pierre le Rouge smiled again. He felt a stern pride to be the son of

this man.

 

“So that’s settled,” went on Martin Ryder, “an’ a damned good thing it

is. Son, you didn’t come none too soon. I’m goin’ out fast. There

ain’t enough light left in me so’s I can see my own way. Here’s all I

ask: When I die touch my eyelids soft an’ draw ‘em shut—I’ve seen the

look in a dead man’s eyes. Close ‘em, and I know I’ll go to sleep an’

have good dreams. And down in the middle of Morgantown is the

buryin’-ground. I’ve ridden past it a thousand times an’ watched a

corner plot, where the grass grows quicker than it does anywheres else

in the cemetery. Pierre, I’d die plumb easy if I knew I was goin’ to

sleep the rest of time in that place.”

 

“It shall be done.”

 

“But that corner plot, it would cost a pile, son. And I’ve no money. I

gave what I had to them wolf-eyed boys, Bill an’ Bert. Money was what

they wanted, an’ after I had Irene’s son with me, money was the

cheapest way of gettin’ rid of ‘em.”

 

“I’ll buy the plot.”

 

“Have you got that much money, lad?”

 

“Yes,” lied Pierre calmly.

 

The bright eyes grew dimmer and then fluttered close. Pierre started

to his feet, thinking that the end had come. But the voice began

again, fainter, slowly.

 

“No light left inside of me, but dyin’ this way is easy. There ain’t

no wind will blow on me after I’m dead, but I’ll be blanketed safe

from head to foot in cool, sweet-smellin’ sod—the kind that has

tangles of the roots of grass. There ain’t no snow will reach to me

where I lie. There ain’t no sun will burn down to me. Dyin’ like that

is jest—goin’ to sleep.”

 

After that he said nothing for a time, and the late afternoon darkened

slowly through the room.

 

As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back. He did not see

the bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene,

with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, and

a handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some upland

trail at sunset time, sharply framed against the bright sky.

 

There was a whisper below him: “Irene!”

 

And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. He groaned, and

dropped to his knees.

 

“I have come for you,” said the whisper, “because the time has come,

Irene. We have to ride out together. We have a long ways to go. Are

you ready?”

 

“Yes,” said Pierre.

 

“Thank God! It’s a wonderful night. The stars are asking us out.

Quick! Into your saddle. Now the spurs. So! We are alone and free,

with the winds around us, and all that we have been forgotten

behind us.”

 

The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a stir in the great, gaunt

body, he was dead. Pierre reverently drew the eyes shut. There were no

tears in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his heart. He

straightened and looked about him and found that the room was

quite dark.

 

So in the dimness Pierre fumbled, by force of habit, at his throat,

and found the cross which he wore by a silver chain about his throat.

He held it in a great grip and closed his eyes and prayed. When he

opened his eyes again it was almost deep

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