She turned and fled out among the trees, and after
her ran Mary, calling, like the other: “Pierre!”
After that call first reached him, clear to his ears
though vague as a murmur at the ear of Mary, McGurk
swung to the saddle of his white horse, and galloped
down the gorge like a veritable angel of death.
The end was very near, he felt, yet the chances were
at least ten to one that he would miss Pierre in the
throat of the gorge, for among the great boulders,
tall as houses, which littered it, a thousand men
might have passed and repassed and never seen each
other. Only the calling of Pierre could guide
him surely.
The calling had ceased for some moments, and he began
to fear that he had overrun his mark and missed Pierre
in the heart of the pass, when, as he rounded a mighty
boulder, the shout ran ringing in his very ears:
“McGurk!” and a horseman swung into view.
“Here!” he called in answer, and stood
with his right hand lifted, bringing his horse to
a sharp halt, like some ancient cavalier stopping
in the middle of the battle to exchange greetings with
a friendly foe.
The other rider whirled alongside, his sombrero’s
brim flaring back from his forehead, so that McGurk
caught the glare of the eyes beneath the shadow.
“So for the third time, my friend—”
said McGurk.
“Which is the fatal one,” answered Pierre.
“How will you die, McGurk? On foot or on
horseback?”
“On the ground, Pierre, for my horse might stir
and make my work messy. I love a neat job, you
know.” “Good.”
They swung from the saddles and stood facing each
other.
“Begin!” commanded McGurk. “I’ve
no time to waste.”
“I’ve very little time to look at the
living McGurk. Let me look my fill before the
end.”
“Then look, and be done. I’ve a lady
coming to meet me.”
The other grew marvelously calm.
“She is with you, McGurk?”
“My dear Pierre, I’ve been with her ever
since she started up the Old Crow.”
“It will be easier to forget her. Are you
ready?”
“So soon? Come, man, there’s much
for us to say. Many old times to chat over.”
“I only wonder,” said Pierre, “how
one death can pay back what you’ve done.
Think of it! I’ve actually run away from
you and hidden myself among the hills. I’ve
feared you, McGurk!”
He said it with a deep astonishment, as a grown man
will speak of the way he feared darkness when he was
a child. McGurk moistened his white lips.
The white horse pawed the rocks as though impatient
to be gone.
“Listen,” said Pierre, “your horse
grows restive. Suppose we stand here—it’s
a convenient distance apart—and wait with
our arms folded for the next time the white horse
paws the rocks, because when I kill you, McGurk, I
want you to die knowing that another man was faster
on the draw and straighter with his bullets than you
are. D’you see?”
