The Great West, prior to the century’s turn,
abounded in legend. Stories were told of fabled
gunmen whose bullets always magically found their
mark, of mighty stallions whose tireless gallop rivaled
the speed of the wind, of glorious women whose beauty
stunned mind and heart. But nowhere in the vast
spread of the mountain-desert country was there a
greater legend told than the story of Red Pierre and
the phantom gunfighter, McGurk.
These two men of the wilderness, so unalike, of widely-differing
backgrounds, had in common a single trait: each
was unbeatable. Fate brought them clashing together,
thunder to thunder, lightning to lightning. They
were destined to meet at the crossroads of a long,
long trail ... a trail which began in the northern
wastes of Canada and led, finally, to a deadly confrontation
in the mountains of the Far West.
It seemed that Father Anthony gathered all the warmth
of the short northern summer and kept it for winter
use, for his good nature was an actual physical force.
From his ruddy face beamed such a kindliness that
people reached out toward him as they might extend
their hands toward a comfortable fire.
All the labors of his work as an inspector of Jesuit
institutions across the length and breadth of Canada
could not lessen the good father’s enthusiasm;
his smile was as indefatigable as his critical eyes.
The one looked sharply into every corner of a room
and every nook and hidden cranny of thoughts and deeds;
the other veiled the criticism and soothed the wounds
of vanity.
On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little
less keen and somewhat wider, while that smile was
fixed rather by habit than inclination. In fact,
his expression might be called a frozen kindliness
as he looked across the table to Father Victor.
It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed,
to outface the rigid piety of Jean Paul Victor.
His missionary work had carried him far north, where
the cold burns men thin. The zeal which drove
him north and north and north over untracked regions,
drove him until his body failed, drove him even now,
though his body was crippled.
A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-contempt
whipped him on, and the school over which he was master
groaned and suffered under his régime. Father
Anthony said gently: “Are there none among
all your lads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something
more than imperfect machines?”
The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe
a letter. His lean fingers touched it almost
with a caress.
“One. Pierre Ryder. He shall carry
on my mission in the north. I, who am silent,
have done much; but Pierre will do more. I had
to fight my first battle to conquer my own stubborn
soul, and the battle left me weak for the great work
in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that battle,
for I have trained him.
