Riders of the Silences, Max Brand [best books for 8th graders txt] 📗
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To know the six wild riders who galloped over the white reaches of the
mountain-desert this night, certainly their horses should be studied
first and the men secondly, for the one explained the other.
They came in a racing triangle. Even the storm at its height could not
daunt such furious riders. At the point of the triangle thundered a
mighty black stallion, his muzzle and his broad chest flecked with
white foam, for he stretched his head out and champed at the bit with
ears laid flat back, as though even that furious pace gave him no
opportunity to use fully his strength.
He was an ugly headed monster with a savagely hooked Roman nose and
small, keen eyes, always red at the corners. A medieval baron in full
panoply of plate armor would have chosen such a charger among ten
thousand steeds, yet the black stallion needed all his strength to
uphold the unarmored giant who bestrode him, a savage figure.
When the broad brim of his hat flapped up against the wind the
moonshine caught at shaggy brows, a cruelly arched nose, thin,
straight lips, and a forward-thrusting jaw. It seemed as if nature had
hewn him roughly and designed him for a primitive age where he could
fight his way with hands and teeth.
This was Jim Boone. To his right and a little behind him galloped a
riderless horse, a beautiful young animal continually tossing its
head and looking as if for guidance at the big stallion.
To the left strode a handsome bay with pricking ears. A mound
interfered with his course, and he cleared it in magnificent style
that would have brought a cheer from the lips of any English lover of
the chase.
Straight in the saddle sat Dick Wilbur, and he raised his face a
little to the wind, smiling faintly as if he rejoiced in its fine
strength, as handsome as the horse he rode, as cleanly cut, as finely
bred. The moon shone a little brighter on him than on any other of the
six riders.
Bud Mansie behind, for instance, kept his head slightly to one side
and cursed beneath his breath at the storm and set his teeth at the
wind. His horse, delicately formed, with long, slender legs, could not
have endured that charge against the storm save that it constantly
edged behind the leaders and let them break the wind. It carried less
weight than any other mount of the six, and its strength was cunningly
nursed by the rider so that it kept its place, and at the finish it
would be as strong as any and swifter, perhaps, for a sudden, short
effort, just as Bud Mansie might be numbed through all his nervous,
slender body, but never too numb for swift and deadly action.
On the opposite wing of the flying wedge galloped a dust-colored gray,
ragged of mane and tail, and vindictive of eye, like its down-headed
rider, who shifted his glance rapidly from side to side and watched
the ground closely before his horse as if he were perpetually prepared
for danger.
He distrusted the very ground over which his mount strode. For all
this he seemed the least formidable of all the riders. To see him pass
none could have suspected that this was Black Morgan Gandil.
Last of the crew came two men almost as large as Jim Boone himself, on
strong steady-striding horses. They came last in this crew, but among
a thousand other long-riders they would have ridden first, either
red-faced, good-humored, loud-voiced Garry Patterson, or Phil Branch,
stout-handed, blunt of jaw, who handled men as he had once hammered
red iron at the forge.
Each of them should have ridden alone in order to be properly
appreciated. To see them together was like watching a flock of eagles
every one of which should have been a solitary lord of the air. But
after scanning that lordly train which followed, the more terrible
seemed the rider of the great black horse.
Yet the king was sad, and the reason for his sadness was the riderless
horse which galloped so freely beside him. His son had ridden that
horse when they set out, and all the way down to the railroad Handsome
Hal Boone had kept his mount prancing and curveting and had ridden
around and around tall Dick Wilbur, playing pranks, and had teased his
father’s black until the big stallion lashed out wildly with
furious heels.
It was the memory of this that kept the grave shadow of a smile on the
father’s lips for all the sternness of his eyes. He never turned his
head, for, looking straight forward, he could conjure up the laughing
vision; but when he glanced to the empty saddle he heard once more the
last unlucky shot fired from the train as they raced off with their
booty, and saw Hal reel in his saddle and pitch forward; and how he
had tried to check his horse and turn back; and how Dick Wilbur, and
Patterson, and big Phil Branch had forced him to go on and leave that
form lying motionless on the snow.
At that he groaned, and spurred the black, and so the cavalcade rushed
faster and faster through the night.
They came over a sharp ridge and veered to the side just in time, for
all the further slope was a mass of treacherous sand and rubble and
raw rocks and mud, where a landslide had stripped the hill to
the stone.
As they veered about the ruin and thundered on down to the foot of
the hill, Jim Boone threw up his hand for a signal and brought his
stallion to a halt on back-braced, sliding legs.
For a metallic glitter had caught his eye, and then he saw, half
covered by the pebbles and dirt, the figure of a man. He must have
been struck by the landslide and not overwhelmed by it, but rather
carried before it like a stick in a rush of water. At the outermost
edge of the wave he lay with the rocks and dirt washed over him. Boone
swung from the saddle and lifted Pierre le Rouge.
The gleam of metal was the cross which his fingers still gripped.
Boone examined it with a somewhat superstitious caution, took it from
the nerveless fingers, and slipped it into a pocket of Pierre’s shirt.
A small cut on the boy’s forehead showed where the stone struck which
knocked him senseless, but the cut still bled—a small trickle—Pierre
lived. He even stirred and groaned and opened his eyes, large and
deeply blue.
It was only an instant before they closed, but Boone had seen. He
turned with the figure lifted easily in his arms as if Pierre had been
a child fallen asleep by the hearth and now about to be carried off
to bed.
And the outlaw said: “I’ve lost my boy tonight. This here one was
given me by the will of—God.”
Black Morgan Gandil reined his horse close by, leaned to peer down,
and the shadow of his hat fell across the face of Pierre.
“There’s no good comes of savin’ shipwrecked men. Leave him where you
found him, Jim. That’s my advice. Sidestep a redheaded man. That’s
what I say.”
The quick-stepping horse of Bud Mansie came near, and the rider wiped
his stiff lips, and spoke from the side of his mouth, a prison habit
of the line that moves in the lockstep: “Take it from me, Jim, there
ain’t any place in our crew for a man you’ve picked up without knowing
him beforehand. Let him lay, I say.” But big Dick Wilbur was already
leading up the horse of Hal Boone, and into the saddle Jim Boone swung
the inert body of Pierre. The argument was settled, for every man of
them knew that nothing could turn Boone back from a thing once begun.
Yet there were muttered comments that drew Black Morgan Gandil and Bud
Mansie together.
And Gandil, from the South Seas, growled with averted eyes: “This is
the most fool stunt the chief has ever pulled.”
“Right, pal,” answered Mansie. “You take a snake in out of the cold,
and it bites you when it comes to in the warmth; but the chief has
started, and there ain’t nothing that’ll make him stop, except maybe
God or McGurk.”
And Black Gandil answered with his evil, sudden grin: “Maybe McGurk,
but not God.”
They started on again with Garry Patterson and Dick Wilbur riding
close on either side of Pierre, supporting his limp body. It delayed
the whole gang, for they could not go on faster than a jog-trot. The
wind, however, was falling off in violence. Its shrill whistling
ceased, at length, and they went on, accompanied only by the harsh
crunching of the snow underfoot.
Consciousness returned to Pierre slowly. Many a time his eyes opened,
and he saw nothing, but when he did see and hear it was by
vague glimpses.
He heard the crunch of the snow underfoot; he heard the panting and
snorting of the horses; he felt the swing and jolt of the saddle
beneath him; he saw the grim faces of the long-riders, and he said:
“The law has taken me.”
Thereafter he let his will lapse, and surrendered to the sleepy
numbness which assailed his brain in waves. He was riding without
support by this time, but it was an automatic effort. There was no
more real life in him than in a dummy figure. It was not the effect of
the blow. It was rather the long exposure and the overexertion of mind
and body during the evening and night. He had simply collapsed beneath
the strain.
But an old army man has said: “Give me a soldier of eighteen or
twenty. In a single day he may not march quite so far as a more mature
man or carry quite so much weight. He will go to sleep each night dead
to the world. But in the morning he awakens a new man. He is like a
slate from which all the writing has been erased. He is ready for a
new day and a new world. Thirty days of campaigning leaves him as
strong and fresh as ever.
“Thirty days of campaigning leaves the old soldier a wreck. Why?
Because as a man grows older he loses the ability to sleep soundly. He
carries the nervous strain of one day over to the next. Life is a
serious problem to a man over thirty. To a man under thirty it is
simply a game. For my part, give me men who can play at war.”
So it was with Pierre le Rouge. He woke with a faint heaviness of
head, and stretched himself. There were many sore places, but nothing
more. He looked up, and the slant winter sun cut across his face and
made a patch of bright yellow on the wall beside him.
Next he heard a faint humming, and, turning his head, saw a boy of
fourteen or perhaps a little more, busily cleaning a rifle in a way
that betokened the most expert knowledge of the weapon. Pierre himself
knew rifles as a preacher knows his Bible, and as he lay half awake
and half asleep he smiled with enjoyment to see the deft fingers move
here and there, wiping away the oil. A green hand will spend half a
day cleaning a gun, and then do the work imperfectly; an expert does
the job efficiently in ten minutes. This was an expert.
Undoubtedly this was a true son of the mountain-desert. He wore
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