At that Mary, who stood with her hand on the latch, whirled and stood
wide-eyed, her astonishment greater than her fear, for that whisper
told her a thousand things.
Through her mind all the time that she stayed in the cabin there had
passed a curious surmise that this very place might be the covert of
Pierre le Rouge. There was a fatality about it, for the invisible
Power which had led her up the valley of the Old Crow surely would not
make mistakes.
In her search for Pierre, Providence brought her to this place, and
Providence could not be wrong. This, a vague emotion stirring in her
somewhere between reason and the heart, grew to an almost certain
knowledge as she heard the whisper, the faint, heartbroken
whisper: "Pierre!"
And when she turned to the boy again, noting the shirts and the chaps
hanging at the wall, she knew they belonged to Pierre as surely as if
she had seen him hang them there.
The fingers of Jack were twisted around the butt of his revolver,
white with the intensity of the pressure.
Now he cried: "Get out! You've done your work; get out!"
But Mary stepped straight toward the murderous, pale face. "I'll
stay," she said, "and wait for Pierre."
The boy blanched.
"Stay?" he echoed.
The heart of Mary went out to this trusted companion who feared for
his friend.
She said gently: "Listen; I've come all this way looking for Pierre,
but not to harm him or to betray him, I'm his friend. Can't you
trust me Jack?"
"Trust you? No more than I'll trust what came with you!"
And the fierce black eyes lingered on Mary and then fled past her
toward the door, as if the boy debated hotly and silently whether or
not it would be better to put an end to this intruder, but stayed his
hand, fearing that Power which had followed her up the valley of
the Old Crow.
It was that same invisible guardian who made Mary strong now; it was
like the hand of a friend on her shoulder, like the voice of a friend
whispering reassuring words at her ear. She faced those blazing, black
eyes steadily. It would be better to be frank, wholly frank.
"This is the house of Pierre. I know it as surely as if I saw him
sitting here now. You can't deceive me. And I'll stay. I'll even tell
you why. Once he said that he loved me, Jack, but he left me because
of a strange superstition; and so I've followed to tell him that I
want to be near no matter what fate hangs over him."
And the boy, whiter still, and whiter, looked at her with clearing,
narrowing eyes.
"So you're one of them," said the boy softly; "you're one of the fools
who listen to Red Pierre. Well, I know you; I've known you from the
minute I seen you crouched there at the fire. You're the one Pierre
met at the dance at the Crittenden schoolhouse. Tell me!"
"Yes," said Mary, marveling greatly.
"And he told you he loved you?"
"Yes." It was a fainter voice now, and the color was going up her
cheeks.
The lad fixed her with his cold scorn and then turned on his heel and
slipped into an easy position on the bunk.
"Then wait for him to come. He'll be here before morning."
But Mary followed across the room and touched the shoulder of Jack. It
was as if she touched a wild wolf, for the lad whirled and struck her
hand away in an outburst of silent fury.
"Why shouldn't I stay? He hasn't--he hasn't changed--Jack?"
The insolent black eyes looked up and scanned her slowly from head to
foot. Then he laughed in the same deliberate manner.
"No, I guess he thinks as much of you now as he ever did."
"You are lying to me," said the girl faintly, but the terror in her
eyes said another thing.
"He thinks as much of you as he ever did. He thinks as much of you as
he does of the rest of the soft-handed, pretty-faced fools who listen
to him and believe him. I suppose--"
He broke off to laugh heartily again, with a jarring, forced note
which escaped Mary.
"I suppose that he made love to you one minute and the next told you
that bad luck--something about the cross--kept him away from you?"
Each slow word was like a blow of a fist. Mary closed her eyes to shut
out the scorn of that handsome, boyish face; closed her eyes to summon
out from the dark of her mind the picture of Pierre le Rouge as he had
told her of his love; and then she heard the voice of Pierre
renouncing her.
She opened her eyes again. She cried: "It is all a lie! If he is not
true, there's no truth in the world."
"If you come down to that," said the boy coldly, "there ain't much
wasted this side of the Rockies. It's about as scarce as rain."
He continued in an almost kindly tone: "What would you do with a wild
man like Red Pierre? Run along; git out of here; grab your horse, and
beat it back to civilization; there ain't no place for you up here in
the wilderness."
"What would I do with him?" cried the girl. "Love him!"
It seemed as though her words, like whips, lashed the boy back to his
murderous anger. He lay with blazing eyes, watching her for a moment,
too moved to speak. At last he propped himself on one elbow, shook a
small, white-knuckled fist under the nose of Mary, and cried: "Then
what would he do with you?"
He went on: "Would he wear you around his neck like a watch charm?"
"I'd bring him back with me--back into the East, and he would be lost
among the crowds and never suspected of his past."
"_You'd_ bring Pierre anywhere? Say, lady, that's like hearing the
sheep talk about leading the wolf around by the nose. If all the men
in the ranges can't catch him, or make him budge an inch out of the
way he's picked, do you think you could stir him?"
Jeering laughter shook him; it seemed that he would never be done with
his laughter, yet there was a hint of the hysterically mirthless in
it. It came to a jarring stop.
He said: "D'you think he's just bein' driven around by chance? Lady,
d'you think he even _wants_ to get out of this life of his? No, he
loves it! He loves the danger. D'you think a man that's used to
breathing in a whirlwind can get used to living in calm air? It
can't be done!"
And the girl answered steadily: "For every man there is one woman,
and for that woman the man will do strange things."
"You poor, white-faced, whimpering fool," snarled the boy, gripping at
his gun again, "d'you dream that you're the one that's picked out for
Pierre? No, there's another!"
"Another? A woman who--"
"Who loves Pierre--a woman that's fit for him. She can ride like a
man; she can shoot almost as straight and as fast as Pierre; she can
handle a knife; and she's been through hell for Pierre, and she'll go
through it again. She can ride the trail all day with him and finish
it less fagged than he is. She can chop down a tree as well as he can,
and build a fire better. She can hold up a train with him or rob a
bank and slip through a town in the middle of the night and laugh with
him about it afterward around a campfire. I ask you, is that the sort
of a woman that's meant for Pierre?"
And Mary answered, with bowed head: "She is."
She cried instantly afterward, cutting short the look of wild triumph
on the face of the boy: "But there's no such woman; there's no one who
could do these things! I know it!"
The boy sprang to his feet, flushing as red as the girl was white.
"You fool, if you're blind and got to have your eyes open to see, look
at the woman!"
And she tore the wide-brimmed sombrero from her head. Down past the
shoulders flooded a mass of blue-black hair. The firelight flickered
and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the
waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man
could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look
at me! Am I worthy of him?"
Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one
who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it
lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands
but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were
jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a
beautiful tigress.
"Answer me--your yellow hair against mine--your child fingers against
my grip--are you equal with me?"
But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to
her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of
the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before
her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with equal scorn. A
mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength.
"Tell me," she said, "was--was this man living with you when he came
to me and--and made speeches--about love?"
"Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he came back and laughed with
me about it, and told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled
with tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell you, as I could
laugh now."
The other twisted her hands together, moaning: "And I have followed
him, even to the place where he keeps his--woman? Ah, how I hate
myself: how I despise myself. I'm unclean--unclean in my own eyes!"
"Wait!" called Jacqueline. "You are leaving too soon. The night is
cold."
"I am going. There is no need to gibe at me."
"But wait--he will want to see you! I will tell him that you have been
here--that you came clear up the valley of the Old Crow to see him and
beg him on your knees to love you--he'll be angry to have missed
the scene!"
But the door closed on Mary as she fled with her hands pressed against
her ears.