At that Mary, who stood with her hand on the latch,
whirled and stood wide-eyed, her astonishment greater
than her fear, for that whisper told her a thousand
things.
Through her mind all the time that she stayed in the
cabin there had passed a curious surmise that this
very place might be the covert of Pierre le Rouge.
There was a fatality about it, for the invisible Power
which had led her up the valley of the Old Crow surely
would not make mistakes.
In her search for Pierre, Providence brought her to
this place, and Providence could not be wrong.
This, a vague emotion stirring in her somewhere between
reason and the heart, grew to an almost certain knowledge
as she heard the whisper, the faint, heartbroken whisper:
“Pierre!”
And when she turned to the boy again, noting the shirts
and the chaps hanging at the wall, she knew they belonged
to Pierre as surely as if she had seen him hang them
there.
The fingers of Jack were twisted around the butt of
his revolver, white with the intensity of the pressure.
Now he cried: “Get out! You’ve
done your work; get out!”
But Mary stepped straight toward the murderous, pale
face. “I’ll stay,” she said,
“and wait for Pierre.”
The boy blanched.
“Stay?” he echoed.
The heart of Mary went out to this trusted companion
who feared for his friend.
She said gently: “Listen; I’ve come
all this way looking for Pierre, but not to harm him
or to betray him, I’m his friend. Can’t
you trust me Jack?”
“Trust you? No more than I’ll trust
what came with you!”
And the fierce black eyes lingered on Mary and then
fled past her toward the door, as if the boy debated
hotly and silently whether or not it would be better
to put an end to this intruder, but stayed his hand,
fearing that Power which had followed her up the valley
of the Old Crow.
It was that same invisible guardian who made Mary
strong now; it was like the hand of a friend on her
shoulder, like the voice of a friend whispering reassuring
words at her ear. She faced those blazing, black
eyes steadily. It would be better to be frank,
wholly frank.
“This is the house of Pierre. I know it
as surely as if I saw him sitting here now. You
can’t deceive me. And I’ll stay.
I’ll even tell you why. Once he said that
he loved me, Jack, but he left me because of a strange
superstition; and so I’ve followed to tell him
that I want to be near no matter what fate hangs over
him.”
And the boy, whiter still, and whiter, looked at her
with clearing, narrowing eyes.
“So you’re one of them,” said the
boy softly; “you’re one of the fools who
listen to Red Pierre. Well, I know you; I’ve
known you from the minute I seen you crouched there
at the fire. You’re the one Pierre met
at the dance at the Crittenden schoolhouse. Tell
me!”
