The door opened and framed McGurk. He did not
start, seeing Pierre.
He said: “None of the rest of them had
the guts even to bring me the message, eh?”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders. It was a mighty
effort, but he was able to look his man fairly in
the eyes. “All right, lad. How long
is it going to take you to clear out of the country?”
“That’s not the message,” answered
a voice which Pierre did not recognize as his own.
“Out with it, then.”
“It’s in the leather on my hip.”
And he went for his gun. Even as he started his
hand he knew that he was too slow for McGurk, yet
the finest splitsecond watch in the world could not
have caught the differing time they needed to get their
guns out of the holsters.
Just a breath before Pierre fired there was a stunning
blow on his right shoulder and another on his hip.
He lurched to the floor, his revolver clattering against
the wood as he fell, but falling, he scooped up the
gun with his left and twisted.
That movement made the third shot of McGurk fly wide
and Pierre fired from the floor and saw a spasm of
pain contract the face of the outlaw.
Instantly the door behind him flew open and Boone’s
men stormed into the room. Once more McGurk fired,
but his wound made his aim wide and the bullet merely
tore up a splinter beside Pierre’s head.
A fusillade from Boone and his men answered, but the
outlaw had leaped back through the door.
“He’s hurt,” thundered Boone.
“By God, the charm of McGurk is broken.
Dick, Bud, Gandil, take the outside of the place.
I’ll force the door.”
Wilbur and the other two raced through the door and
raised a shout at once, and then there was a rattle
of shots. Big Patterson leaned over Pierre.
He said in an awe-stricken voice: “Lad,
it’s a great work that you’ve done for
all of us, if you’ve drawn the blood from McGurk.”
“His left shoulder,” said Pierre, and
smiled in spite of his pain. “And you,
lad?”
“I’m going to live; I’ve got to
finish the job. Who’s that beside you?
There’s a mist over my eyes.”
“It’s Jack. She outrode us all.”
Then the mist closed over the eyes of Pierre and his
senses went out in the dark.
Those who are curious about the period which followed
during which the title “Le Rouge” was
forgotten and he became known only as “Red”
Pierre through all the mountain-desert, can hear the
tales of his doing from the analysts of the ranges.
This story has to do only with his struggle with McGurk.
The gap of six years which occurs here is due to the
fact that during that period McGurk vanished from
the mountain-desert. He died away from the eyes
of men and in their minds he became that tradition
which lives still so vividly, the tradition of the
pale face, the sneering, bloodless lips, and the hand
which never failed.
