It seemed to him that he had heard something calling,
for the sound was lost against the sweep of wind coming
up the gorge. Something calling there in the
night of the mountains as he himself had called when
he rode so wildly in the quest for McGurk. How
long ago had that been?
But it came once more, clear beyond all doubt.
He recognized the voice in spite of the panting which
shook it; a wild wail like that of a heartbroken child,
coming closer to him like someone running: “Pierre!
Oh, Pierre!”
And all at once he knew that the moon was broad and
bright and fair, and the heavens clear and shining
with gold points of light. Once more the cry.
He raised his arms and waited.
So Mary, running through the wilderness of boulders,
was guided straight and found Pierre, and before the
morning came, they were journeying east side by side,
east and down to the cities and a new life; but Jacqueline,
a thousand times quicker of foot and surer of eye
and ear, missed her goal, went past it, and still on
and on, running finally at a steady trot.
Until at last she knew that she had far overstepped
her mark and sank down against one of the rocks to
rest and think out what next she must do. There
seemed nothing left. Even the sound of a gun fired
she might not hear, for that sharp call would not
travel far against the wind.
It was while she sat there, burying Pierre in her
thoughts, a white shape came glimmering down to her
through the moonlight. She was on her feet at
once, alert and gun in hand. It could only be
one horse, only one rider, McGurk coming down from
his last killing with the sneer on his pale lips.
Well, he would complete his work this night and kill
her fighting face to face.
A man’s death; that was all she craved.
She rose; she stepped boldly out into the center of
the trail between the rocks.
There she saw the greatest wonder she had ever looked
on. It was McGurk walking with bare, bowed head,
and after him, like a dog after the master, followed
the white horse. She shoved the revolver back
into the holster. This should be a fair fight.
“McGurk!”
Very slowly the head went up and back, and there he
stood, not ten paces from her, with the white moon
full on his face. The sneer was still there;
the eyelid fluttered in scornful derision. And
the heart of Jacqueline came thundering in her throat.
But she cried in a strong voice: “McGurk,
d’you know me?”
He did not answer.
“You murderer, you night rider! Look again:
it’s the last of the Boones!”
The sneer, it seemed to her, grew bitterer, but still
the man did not speak. Then the thought of Pierre,
lying dead somewhere among the rocks, burned across
her mind. Her hand leaped for the revolver, and
whipped it out in a blinding flash to cover him, but
with her finger curling on the trigger she checked
herself in the nick of time. McGurk had made
no move to protect himself.
