THE VOICE IN THE STORM
All life was tame compared with this sudden awakening of Pierre, for
his whole being burst into flower, his whole nature opened. He had
killed a man. For fear of it he raced the tall roan furiously through
the night.
He had killed a man. For the joy of it his head was high, he shouted a
song that went ringing across the blank, white hills. What place was
there in Red Pierre for solemn qualms of conscience? Had he not met
the first and last test triumphantly? The oldest instinct in creation
was satisfied in him. Now he stood ready to say to all the world:
Behold, a man!
Let it be remembered that his early years had been passed in a dull,
dun silence, and time had slipped by him with softly padding,
uneventful hours. Now, with the rope of restraint snapped, he rode at
the world with hands, palm upward, asking for life, and that life which
lies under the hills of the mountain-desert heard his question and sent
a cold, sharp echo back to answer his lusty singing.
The first answer, as he plunged on, not knowing where, and not caring,
was when the roan reeled suddenly and flung forward to the ground.
Even that violent stop did not unseat Red Pierre. He jerked up on the
reins with a curse and drove in the spurs. Valiantly the horse reared
his shoulders up, but when he strove to rise the right foreleg dangled
helplessly. He had stepped in some hole and the bone was broken
cleanly across.
The rider slipped from the saddle and stood facing the roan, which
pricked its ears forward and struggled once more to regain its feet.
The effort was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and felt the
rough edges of the splintered bone through the skin. The animal, as if
it sensed that the man was trying to do it some good, nosed his
shoulder and whinnied softly.
Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The bullet would do quickly
what the cold would accomplish after lingering hours of torture, yet,
facing those pricking ears and the brave trust of the eyes, he was
blinded by a mist and could not aim. He had to place the muzzle of the
gun against the roan's temple and pull the trigger. When he turned his
back he was the only living thing within the white arms of the hills.
Yet, when the next hill was behind him, he had already forgotten the
second life which he put out that night, for regret is the one sorrow
which never dodges the footsteps of the hunted. Like all his
brotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed forward across the
mountain-desert with his face turned toward the brave to-morrow. In
the evening of his life, if he should live to that time, he would walk
and talk with God.
Now he had no mind save for the bright day coming.
He had been riding with the wind and had scarcely noticed its violence
in his headlong course. Now he felt it whipping sharply at his back
and increasing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear, pitilessly
clear. It seemed to give vision for the wind and cold to seek him out,
and the moon made his following shadow long and black across the snow.
The wind quickened rapidly to a gale that cut off the surface of the
snow and whipped volleys of the small particles level with the surface.
It cut the neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his shoulders with
staggering force like separate blows, twisting him a little from side
to side.
Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it seemed as if the vengeance
for Diaz was following the slayer. Once he turned and laughed hard and
short in the teeth of the wind, and shook his fist back at Morgantown
and all the avenging powers of the law.
Yet he was glad to turn away from the face of the storm and stride on
down-wind. Even traveling with the gale grew more and more impossible.
The snowdrifts which the wind picked up and hurried across the hills
pressed against Pierre's back like a great, invisible hand, bowing him
as if beneath a burden. In the hollows the labor was not so great, but
when he approached a summit the gale screamed in his ear and struck him
savagely.
For all his optimism, for all his young, undrained strength, a doubt
began to grow in the mind of Pierre le Rouge. At length, remembering
how that weight of gold came in his pockets, he slipped his left hand
into the bosom of his shirt and touched the icy metal of the cross.
Almost at once he heard, or thought he heard, a faint, sweet sound of
singing.
The heart of Red Pierre stopped. For he knew the visions which came to
men perishing with cold; but he grew calmer again in a moment. This
touch of cold was nothing compared with whole months of hard exposure
which he had endured in the northland. It had not the edge. If it
were not for the wind it was scarcely a threat to life. Moreover, the
singing sounded no more. It had been hardly more than a phrase of
music, and it must have been a deceptive murmur of the wind.
After all, a gale brought wilder deceptions than that. Some men had
actually heard voices declaiming words in such a wind. He himself had
heard them tell their stories. So he leaned forward again and gave his
stanch heart to the task. Yet once more he stopped, for this time the
singing came clearly, sweetly to him.
There was no doubt of it now. Of course it was wildly impossible,
absurd; but beyond all question he heard the voice of a woman, high and
tender, come whistling down the wind. He could almost catch the words.
For a little moment he lingered still. Then he turned and fought his
way into the strong arms of the storm.
Every now and then he paused and crouched to the snow. Usually there
was only the shriek of the wind in his ears, but a few times the
singing came to him and urged him on. If he had allowed the idea of
failure to enter his mind, he must have given up the struggle, but
failure was a stranger to his thoughts.
He lowered his head against the storm. Sometimes it caught under him
and nearly lifted him from his feet. But he clung against the slope of
the hill, sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he worked his way
to the right, the sound of the singing coming more and more frequently
and louder and louder. When he was almost upon the source of the music
it ceased abruptly.
He waited a moment, but no sound came. He struggled forward a few more
yards and pitched down exhausted, panting. Still he heard the singing
no longer. With a falling heart he rose and resigned himself to wander
on his original course with the wind, but as he started he placed his
hand once more against the cross, and it was then that he saw her.
For he had simply gone past her, and the yelling of the storm had cut
off the sound of her voice. Now he saw her lying, a spot of bright
color on the snow. He read the story at a glance. As she passed this
steep-sided hill the loosely piled snow had slid down and carried with
it the dead trunk of a fallen tree.
Pierre came from behind and stood over her unnoticed. He saw that the
oncoming tree, by a strange chance, had knocked down the girl and
pinned her legs to the ground. His strength and the strength of a
dozen men would not be sufficient to release her. This he saw at the
first glance, and saw the bright gold of her hair against the snow.
Then he dropped on his knees beside her.