She threw herself down and clung about his knees with
hysterical strength.
He tore the little cross from his neck and flung it
into her upturned face.
“Don’t make me put my hands on you, Jack.
Let me go!” There was no need to tear her grasp
away. She crumpled and slipped sidewise to the
floor. He leaned over and shook her violently
by the shoulder.
“Which way did she ride? Which way did
they ride?”
She whispered: “Down the valley, Pierre;
down the valley; I swear they rode that way.”
And as she lay in a half swoon she heard the faint
clatter of galloping hoofs over the rocks and a wild
voice yelling, fainter and fainter with distance:
“McGurk!”
It came back to her like a threat; it beat at her
ears and roused her, that continually diminishing
cry: “McGurk!” It went down the valley,
and Mary Brown, and McGurk with her, perhaps, had gone
up the gorge, but it would be a matter of a short
time before Pierre le Rouge discovered that there
was no camp-fire to be sighted in the lower valley
and whirled to storm back up the canyon with that battle-cry:
“McGurk!” still on his lips.
And if the two met she knew the result. Seven
strong men had ridden together, fought together, and
one by one they had fallen, disappeared like the white
smoke of the camp-fire, jerked off into thin air by
the wind, until only one remained.
How clearly she could see them all! Bud Mansie,
meager, lean, with a shifting eye; Garry Patterson,
of the red, good-natured face; Phil Branch, stolid
and short and muscled like a giant; Handsome Dick
Wilbur on his racing bay; Black Gandil, with his villainies
from the South Seas like an invisible mantle of awe
about him; and her father, the stalwart, gray Boone.
All these had gone, and there remained only Pierre
le Rouge to follow in the steps of the six who had
gone before.
She crawled to the door, feeble in mind and shuddering
of body like a runner who has spent his last energy
in a long race, and drew it open. The wind blew
up the valley from the Old Crow, but no sound came
back to her, no calling from Pierre; and over her
rose the black pyramid of the western peak of the
Twin Bears like a monstrous nose pointing stiffly
toward the stars.
She closed the door, dragged herself back to her feet,
and stood with her shoulders leaning against the wall.
Her weakness was not weariness—it was as
if something had been taken from her. She wondered
at herself somewhat vaguely. Surely she had never
been like this before, with the singular coldness
about her heart and the feeling of loss, of infinite
loss.
What had she lost? She began to search her mind
for an answer. Then she smiled uncertainly, a
wan, small smile. It was very clear; what she
had lost was all interest in life and all hope for
the brave tomorrow. Nothing remained of all those
lovely dreams which she had built up by day and night
about the figure of Pierre le Rouge. He was gone,
and the bright-colored bubble she had blown vanished
at once.
