and slipped it into a pocket of Pierre's shirt.
A small cut on the boy's forehead showed where the stone struck which
knocked him senseless, but the cut still bled—a small trickle—Pierre
lived. He even stirred and groaned and opened his eyes, large and
deeply blue.
It was only an instant before they closed, but Boone had seen. He
turned with the figure lifted easily in his arms as if Pierre had been
a child fallen asleep by the hearth and now about to be carried off
to bed.
And the outlaw said: "I've lost my boy tonight. This here one was
given me by the will of—God."
Black Morgan Gandil reined his horse close by, leaned to peer down,
and the shadow of his hat fell across the face of Pierre.
"There's no good comes of savin' shipwrecked men. Leave him where you
found him, Jim. That's my advice. Sidestep a redheaded man. That's
what I say."
The quick-stepping horse of Bud Mansie came near, and the rider wiped
his stiff lips, and spoke from the side of his mouth, a prison habit
of the line that moves in the lockstep: "Take it from me, Jim, there
ain't any place in our crew for a man you've picked up without knowing
him beforehand. Let him lay, I say." But big Dick Wilbur was already
leading up the horse of Hal Boone, and into the saddle Jim Boone swung
the inert body of Pierre. The argument was settled, for every man of
them knew that nothing could turn Boone back from a thing once begun.
Yet there were muttered comments that drew Black Morgan Gandil and Bud
Mansie together.
And Gandil, from the South Seas, growled with averted eyes: "This is
the most fool stunt the chief has ever pulled."
"Right, pal," answered Mansie. "You take a snake in out of the cold,
and it bites you when it comes to in the warmth; but the chief has
started, and there ain't nothing that'll make him stop, except maybe
God or McGurk."
And Black Gandil answered with his evil, sudden grin: "Maybe McGurk,
but not God."
They started on again with Garry Patterson and Dick Wilbur riding
close on either side of Pierre, supporting his limp body. It delayed
the whole gang, for they could not go on faster than a jog-trot. The
wind, however, was falling off in violence. Its shrill whistling
ceased, at length, and they went on, accompanied only by the harsh
crunching of the snow underfoot.
Chapter 10
*
Consciousness returned to Pierre slowly. Many a time his eyes opened,
and he saw nothing, but when he did see and hear it was by
vague glimpses.
He heard the crunch of the snow underfoot; he heard the panting and
snorting of the horses; he felt the swing and jolt of the saddle
beneath him; he saw the grim faces of the long-riders, and he said:
"The law has taken me."
Thereafter he let his will lapse, and surrendered to the sleepy
numbness which assailed his brain in waves. He was riding without
support by this time, but it was an automatic effort. There was no
more real life in him than in a dummy figure. It was not the effect of
the blow. It was rather the long exposure and the overexertion of mind
and body during the evening and night. He had simply collapsed beneath
the strain.
But an old army man has said: "Give me a soldier of eighteen or
twenty. In a single day he may not march quite so far as a more mature
man or carry quite so much weight. He will go to sleep each night dead
to the world. But in the morning he awakens a new man. He is like a
slate from which all the writing has been erased. He is ready for a
new day and a new world. Thirty days of campaigning leaves him as
strong and fresh as ever.
"Thirty days of campaigning leaves the old soldier a wreck. Why?
Because as a man grows older he loses the ability to sleep soundly. He
carries the nervous strain of one day over to the next. Life is a
serious problem to a man over thirty. To a man under thirty it is
simply a game. For my part, give me men who can play at war."
So it was with Pierre le Rouge. He woke with a faint heaviness of
head, and stretched himself. There were many sore
A small cut on the boy's forehead showed where the stone struck which
knocked him senseless, but the cut still bled—a small trickle—Pierre
lived. He even stirred and groaned and opened his eyes, large and
deeply blue.
It was only an instant before they closed, but Boone had seen. He
turned with the figure lifted easily in his arms as if Pierre had been
a child fallen asleep by the hearth and now about to be carried off
to bed.
And the outlaw said: "I've lost my boy tonight. This here one was
given me by the will of—God."
Black Morgan Gandil reined his horse close by, leaned to peer down,
and the shadow of his hat fell across the face of Pierre.
"There's no good comes of savin' shipwrecked men. Leave him where you
found him, Jim. That's my advice. Sidestep a redheaded man. That's
what I say."
The quick-stepping horse of Bud Mansie came near, and the rider wiped
his stiff lips, and spoke from the side of his mouth, a prison habit
of the line that moves in the lockstep: "Take it from me, Jim, there
ain't any place in our crew for a man you've picked up without knowing
him beforehand. Let him lay, I say." But big Dick Wilbur was already
leading up the horse of Hal Boone, and into the saddle Jim Boone swung
the inert body of Pierre. The argument was settled, for every man of
them knew that nothing could turn Boone back from a thing once begun.
Yet there were muttered comments that drew Black Morgan Gandil and Bud
Mansie together.
And Gandil, from the South Seas, growled with averted eyes: "This is
the most fool stunt the chief has ever pulled."
"Right, pal," answered Mansie. "You take a snake in out of the cold,
and it bites you when it comes to in the warmth; but the chief has
started, and there ain't nothing that'll make him stop, except maybe
God or McGurk."
And Black Gandil answered with his evil, sudden grin: "Maybe McGurk,
but not God."
They started on again with Garry Patterson and Dick Wilbur riding
close on either side of Pierre, supporting his limp body. It delayed
the whole gang, for they could not go on faster than a jog-trot. The
wind, however, was falling off in violence. Its shrill whistling
ceased, at length, and they went on, accompanied only by the harsh
crunching of the snow underfoot.
Chapter 10
*
Consciousness returned to Pierre slowly. Many a time his eyes opened,
and he saw nothing, but when he did see and hear it was by
vague glimpses.
He heard the crunch of the snow underfoot; he heard the panting and
snorting of the horses; he felt the swing and jolt of the saddle
beneath him; he saw the grim faces of the long-riders, and he said:
"The law has taken me."
Thereafter he let his will lapse, and surrendered to the sleepy
numbness which assailed his brain in waves. He was riding without
support by this time, but it was an automatic effort. There was no
more real life in him than in a dummy figure. It was not the effect of
the blow. It was rather the long exposure and the overexertion of mind
and body during the evening and night. He had simply collapsed beneath
the strain.
But an old army man has said: "Give me a soldier of eighteen or
twenty. In a single day he may not march quite so far as a more mature
man or carry quite so much weight. He will go to sleep each night dead
to the world. But in the morning he awakens a new man. He is like a
slate from which all the writing has been erased. He is ready for a
new day and a new world. Thirty days of campaigning leaves him as
strong and fresh as ever.
"Thirty days of campaigning leaves the old soldier a wreck. Why?
Because as a man grows older he loses the ability to sleep soundly. He
carries the nervous strain of one day over to the next. Life is a
serious problem to a man over thirty. To a man under thirty it is
simply a game. For my part, give me men who can play at war."
So it was with Pierre le Rouge. He woke with a faint heaviness of
head, and stretched himself. There were many sore
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