The lips of Boone moved and made no sound.
He said at length: “McGurk, I’d rather
cross the devil than cross you. There’s
no shame in admitting that. But I’ve lost
my boy, Hal.”
“Too bad, Jim. I knew Hal; at a distance,
of course.”
“And Pierre is filling Hal’s place in
the family.”
“Is that your answer?”
“McGurk, are you going to pin me down in this?”
And here Jack whirled and cried: “Dad,
you won’t let Pierre go!”
“You see?” pleaded Boone.
It was uncanny and horrible to see the giant so unnerved
before this stranger, but that part of it did not
come to Pierre until later. Now he felt a peculiar
emptiness of stomach and a certain jumping chill that
traveled up and down his spine. Moreover, he could
not move his eyes from the face of McGurk, and he
knew at length that this was fear—the first
real fear that he had ever known.
Shame made him hot, but fear made him cold again.
He knew that if he rose his knees would buckle under
him; that if he drew out his revolver it would slip
from his palsied fingers. For the fear of death
is a mighty fear, but it is nothing compared with the
fear of man.
“I’ve asked you a question,” said
McGurk. “What’s your answer?”
There was a quiver in the black forest of Boone’s
beard, and if Pierre was cold before, he was sick
at heart to see the big man cringe before McGurk.
He stammered: “Give me time.”
“Good,” said McGurk. “I’m
afraid I know what your answer would be now, but if
you take a couple of days you will think things over
and come to a reasonable conclusion. I will be
at Gaffney’s place about fifteen miles from
here. You know it? Send your answer there.
In the meantime”—he stepped forward
to the table and poured a small drink of whisky into
a glass and raised it high—“here’s
to the long health and happiness of us all. Drink!”
There was a hasty pouring of liquor.
“And you also!”
Pierre jumped as if he had been struck, and obeyed
the order hastily.
“So,” said the master, pleasant again,
and Pierre wiped his forehead furtively and stared
up with fascinated eyes. “An unwilling pledge
is better than none at all. To you, gentlemen,
much happiness; to you, Pierre le Rouge, bon voyage.”
They drank; the master placed his glass on the table
again, smiled upon them, and was gone through the
door. He turned his back in leaving. There
was no fitter way in which he could have expressed
his contempt.
The mirth died and in its place came a long silence.
Jim Boone stared upon Pierre with miserable eyes,
and then rose and left the room. The others one
by one followed his example. Dick Wilbur in passing
dropped his hand on Pierre’s shoulder.
Jacqueline was silent.
As he sat there minute after minute and then hour
after hour of the long night Pierre saw the meaning
of it. If they sent word that they would not
give up Pierre it was war, and war with McGurk had
only one ending. If they sent word that Pierre
was surrendered the shame would never leave Boone
and his men.
