The Max Brand Megapack (94 page)

“I’ve asked you a question,” said McGurk. “What’s your answer?”

There was a quiver in the black forest of Boone’s beard, and if Pierre was cold before, he was sick at heart to see the big man cringe before McGurk.

He stammered: “Give me time.”

“Good,” said McGurk. “I’m afraid I know what your answer would be now, but if you take a couple of days you will think things over and come to a reasonable conclusion. I will be at Gaffney’s place about fifteen miles from here. You know it? Send your answer there. In the mean time”—he stepped forward to the table and poured a small drink of whiskey into a glass and raised it high—“here’s to the long health and happiness of us all. Drink!”

There was a hasty pouring of liquor.

“And you also!”

Pierre jumped as if he had been struck, and obeyed the order hastily.

“So,” said the master, pleasant again, and Pierre wiped his forehead furtively and stared up with fascinated eyes. “An unwilling pledge is better than none at all. To you, gentleman, much happiness; to you, Pierre le Rouge,
bon voyage
.”

They drank; the master placed his glass on the table again, smiled upon them, and was gone through the door. He turned his back in leaving. There was no fitter way in which he could have expressed his contempt.

CHAPTER XIV

MCGURK

The mirth died and in its place came a
long silence. Jim Boone stared upon Pierre with miserable eyes, and then rose and left the room. The others one by one followed his example. Dick Wilbur in passing dropped his hand on Pierre’s shoulder. Jacqueline was silent.

As he sat there minute after minute and then hour after hour of the long night Pierre saw the meaning of it. If they sent word that they would not give up Pierre it was war, and war with McGurk had only one ending. If they sent word that Pierre was surrendered the shame would never leave Boone and his men.

Whatever they did there was ruin for them in the end. All this Pierre conned slowly in his mind, until he was cold. Then he looked up and saw that the lamp had burned out and that the wood in the fireplace was consumed to a few red embers.

He replenished the fire, and when the yellow flames began to mount he made his resolution and walked slowly up and down the floor with it. For he knew that he must go to meet McGurk.

The very thought of the man sent the old chill through his blood, yet he must go and face him and end the thing.

It came over him with a pang that he was very young; that life was barely a taste in his mouth, whether bitter or sweet he could not tell. He picked a flaming stick from the fire and went before a little round mirror on the wall.

Back at him stared the face of a boy. He had seen so much of the grim six in the last day that the contrast startled him. They were men, hardened to life and filled with knowledge of it. They were books written full and ready to be ended. But he? He was a blank page with a scribbled word here and there. Nevertheless, he was chosen and he must go.

Having reached that decision he closed his mind on what would happen. There was a vague fear that when he faced McGurk he would be unmanned again and frozen with fear; that his spirit would be broken and he would become a thing too despicable for a man to kill.

One thing was certain: if he was to act a man’s part and die a man’s death he must not stand long before McGurk. It seemed to him then that he would die happy if he had the strength to fire one shot before the end.

Then he tiptoed from the house and went over the snow to the barn and saddled the horse of Hal Boone. It was already morning, and as he led the horse to the door of the barn a shadow, a faint shadow in that early light, fell across the snow before him.

He looked up and saw Jacqueline. She stepped close, and the horse nosed her shoulder affectionately.

She said: “Isn’t there anything that will keep you from going?”

“It’s just a little ride before breakfast. I’ll be back in an hour.”

It was foolish to try to blind her, as he saw by her wan, unchildish smile.

“Is there no other way, Pierre?”

“I don’t know of any, do you?”

“You have to leave us, and never come back?”

“Is he as sure as that, Jack?”

“Sure? Who?”

She had not known, after all; she thought that he was merely riding away from the region where McGurk was king. Now she caught his wrists and shook them.

“Pierre, you are not going to face McGurk? Pierre!”

It was sweet and bitter-sweet that the child should wish him to stay, and it made the heart of Pierre old and stern to look down on her.

“If you were a man, you would understand.”

“I know; because of your father. I do understand, but oh, Pierre, it makes me so unhappy—so terribly sad, Pierre.”

Inspiration made her catch her breath.

“Listen! I can shoot as straight as almost any man. We will ride down together. We will go through the doors together—me first to take his fire, and you behind to shoot him down.”

“I guess no man can be as brave as a woman, Jack. No; I have to see McGurk alone. He faced my father alone and shot him down. I’ll face McGurk alone and live long enough to put my mark on him.”

“But you don’t know him. He can’t be hurt. Do you think my father and—and Dick Wilbur would fear any man who could be hurt? No, but McGurk has been in a hundred fights and never been touched. There’s a charm over him, don’t you see?”

“I’ll break the charm, that’s all.”

“You’re only a boy, Pierre.”

“I, also, carry a charm with me. Good-by.”

He was up in the saddle.

“Then I’ll call dad—I’ll call them all—if you die they shall all follow you. I swear they shall, Pierre!”

He merely leaned forward and touched the horse with his spurs, but after he had raced the first hundred yards he glanced back. She was running hard for the house, and calling as she went. Pierre cursed and spurred the horse again.

Yet even if Jim Boone and his men started out after him they could never overtake him. Before they were in their saddles and up with him, he’d be a full three miles out in the hills. Not even black Thunder could make up as much ground as that.

So all the fifteen miles to Gaffney’s place he urged his horse. The excitement of the race kept the thought of McGurk back in his mind. Only once he lost time when he had to pull up beside a buckboard and inquire the way. After that he flew on again. Yet as he clattered up to the door of Gaffney’s crossroads saloon and swung to the ground he looked back and saw a cluster of horsemen swing around the shoulder of a hill and come tearing after him. Surely his time was short.

He thrust open the door of the place and called for a drink. The bartender spun the glass down the bar to him.

“Where’s McGurk?”

The other stopped in the very act of taking out the bottle from the shelf, and his curious glance went over the face of Pierre le Rouge. He decided, apparently, that it was foolish to hold suspicions against so young a man.

“In that room,” and he jerked his hand toward a door. “What do you want with him?”

“Got a message for him.”

“Tell it to me, and I’ll pass it along.”

Pierre met the eye of the other and smiled faintly.

“Not
this
message.”

“Oh,” said the other, and then shouted: “McGurk!”

Far away came the rush of hoofs over a hard trail. Only a minute more and they would be here; only a minute more and the room would be full of fighting men ready to die with him and for him. Yet Pierre was glad; glad that he could meet the danger alone; ten minutes from now, if he lived, he could answer certainly one way or the other the greatest of all questions: “Am I a man?”

Out of the inner room the pleasant voice which he dreaded answered: “What’s up?”

The barkeeper glanced Pierre le Rouge over again and then answered: “A friend with a message.”

The door opened and framed McGurk. He did not start, seeing Pierre.

He said: “None of the rest of them had the guts even to bring me the message, eh?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders. It was a mighty effort, but he was able to look his man fairly in the eyes.

“All right, lad. How long is it going to take you to clear out of the country?”

“That’s not the message,” answered a voice which Pierre did not recognize as his own.

“Out with it, then.”

“It’s in the leather on my hip.”

And he went for his gun. Even as he started his hand he knew that he was too slow for McGurk, yet the finest split-second watch in the world could not have caught the differing time they needed to get their guns out of the holsters.

Just a breath before Pierre fired there was a stunning blow on his right shoulder and another on his hip. He lurched to the floor, his revolver clattering against the wood as he fell, but falling, he scooped up the gun with his left and twisted.

That movement made the third shot of McGurk fly wide and Pierre fired from the floor and saw a spasm of pain contract the face of the outlaw.

Instantly the door behind him flew open and Boone’s men stormed into the room. Once more McGurk fired, but his wound made his aim wide and the bullet merely tore up a splinter beside Pierre’s head. A fusillade from Boone and his men answered, but the outlaw had leaped back through the door.

“He’s hurt,” thundered Boone. “By God, the charm of McGurk is broken. Dick, Bud, Gandil, take the outside of the place. I’ll force the door.”

Wilbur and the other two raced through the door and raised a shout at once, and then there was a rattle of shots. Big Patterson leaned over Pierre.

He said in an awe-stricken voice: “Lad, it’s a great work that you’ve done for all of us, if you’ve drawn the blood from McGurk.”

“His left shoulder,” said Pierre, and smiled in spite of his pain.

“And you, lad?”

“I’m going to live; I’ve got to finish the job. Who’s that beside you? There’s a mist over my eyes.”

“It’s Jack. She outrode us all.”

Then the mist closed over the eyes of Pierre and his senses went out in the dark.

CHAPTER XV

GOLD HAIR

Those who are curious about the period whi
ch followed during which the title “Le Rouge” was forgotten and he became known only as “Red” Pierre through all the mountain-desert, can hear the tales of his doing from the analists of the ranges. This story has to do only with his struggle with McGurk, and must end where that struggle ended.

The gap of six years which occurs here is due to the fact that during that period McGurk vanished from the mountain-desert. He died away from the eyes of men and in their minds he became that tradition which lives still so vividly, the tradition of the pale face, the sneering, bloodless lips, and the hand which never failed.

During this lapse of time there were many who claimed that he had ridden off into some lonely haunt and died of the wound which he received from Pierre’s bullet. A great majority, however, would never accept such a story, and even when the six years had rolled by they still shook their heads and “had their doubt on the matter” like
Wouter Van Twiller
of immortal memory.

They awaited his return just as certain stanch old Britons await the second coming of Arthur from the island of Avalon. In the mean time the terror of his name passed on to him who had broken the “charm” of McGurk.

Not all that grim significance passed on to “Red” Pierre, indeed, because he never impressed the public imagination as did the terrible ruthlessness of McGurk. At that he did enough to keep tongues wagging.

Cattlemen loved to tell those familiar exploits of the “two sheriffs,” or that “thousand-mile pursuit of Canby,” with its half-tragic, half-humorous conclusion, or the “Sacking of Two Rivers,” or the “three-cornered battle” against Rodriguez and Blond.

But men could not forget that in all his work there rode behind Red Pierre six dauntless warriors of the mountain-desert, while McGurk had been always a single hand against the world, a veritable lone wolf.

Whatever kept him away through those six years, the memory of the wound he received at Gaffney’s place never left McGurk, and now he was coming back with a single great purpose in his mind, and in his heart a consuming hatred for Pierre and all the other of Boone’s men.

Certainly if he had sensed the second coming of McGurk, Pierre would not have ridden so jauntily through the hills this day, or whistled so carelessly, or swept the hills with such a complacent, lordly eye. A man of mark cannot bear himself too modestly, and Pierre, from boots to high-peaked, broad-brimmed sombrero, was the last word in elegance for a rider of the mountain-desert.

Even his mount seemed to sense the pride of his master. It was a cream-colored mustang, not one of the lump-headed, bony-hipped species common to the ranges, but one of those rare reversions to the Spanish thoroughbreds from which the Western cow-pony is descended. The mare was not over-large, but the broad hips and generous expanse of chest were hints, and only hints, of her strength and endurance. There was the speed of the blooded racer in her and the tirelessness of the mustang.

Now, down the rocky, half broken trail she picked her way as daintily as any debutante tiptoeing down a great stairway to the ballroom. Life had been easy for Mary since that thousand-mile struggle to overtake Canby, and now her sides were sleek from good feeding and some casual twenty miles a day, which was no more to her than a canter through the park is to the city horse.

The eye which had been so red-stained and fierce during the long ride after Canby was now bright and gentle. At every turn she pricked her small sharp ears as if she expected home and friends on the other side of the curve. And now and again she tossed her head and glanced back at the master for a moment and then whinnied across some echoing ravine.

It was Mary’s way of showing happiness, and her master’s acknowledgment was to run his gloved left hand up through her mane and with his ungloved right, that tanned and agile hand, pat her shoulder lightly.

Passing to the end of the down-grade, they reached a slight upward incline, and the mare, as if she had come to familiar ground, broke into a gallop, a matchless, swinging stride. Swerving to right and to left among the great boulders, like a football player running a broken field, she increased the gallop to a racing pace.