Riders of the Silences

“Whether you want to or not, Jack, we’ll go to this dance tonight.”

Jacqueline’s hand fell away from her eyes.  She seemed suddenly glad again.

“Do you want to take me, Pierre?”

He explained:  “Of course.  Besides, we have to keep an eye on Wilbur.  This girl with the yellow hair—­”

She had altered swiftly again.  There was no understanding her or following her moods this day.  He decided to disregard them, as he had often done before.

“Black Gandil swears that I’m bringing bad luck to the boys at last.  Patterson has disappeared; Wilbur has lost his head about a girl.  We’ve got to save Dick.”

He knew that she was fond of Wilbur, but she showed no enthusiasm now.

“Let him go his own way.  He’s big enough to take care of himself.”

“But it’s common talk, Jack, that the end of Wilbur will come through a woman.  It was that that sent him on the long trail, you know.  And this girl with the yellow hair—­”

“Why do you harp on her?”

“Harp on her?”

“Every other word—­nothing but yellow hair.  I’m sick of it.  I know the kind—­faded corn color—­dyed, probably.  Pierre, you are all blind, and you most of all.”

This being obviously childish, Pierre brushed the consideration of it from his mind.  “And for clothes, Jack?”

They were both dumb.  It had been years since she had worn the clothes of a woman.  She had danced with the men of her father’s gang many a time while someone whistled or played on a mouth-organ, and there was the time they rode into Beulah Ferry and held up the dance hall, and Jim Boone and Mansie lined up the crowd with their hands held high above their heads while the sweating musicians played fast and furious and Jack and Pierre danced down the center of the hall.

She had danced many a time, but never in the clothes of a woman; so they stared, mutely puzzled.

A though came first to Jacqueline.  She stepped close and murmured her suggestion in the ear of Pierre.  Whatever it was, it made his jaw set hard and brought grave lines into his face.

She stepped back, asking:  “Well?”

“We’ll do it.  What a little demon you are, Jack!”

“Then we’ll have to start now.  There’s barely time.”

They ran from the room together, and as they passed through the room below Wilbur called after them:  “The dance?”

“Yes.”

“Wait and go with me.”

“We ride in a roundabout way.”

They were through the door as Pierre called back, and a moment later the hoofs of their horses scattered the gravel down the hillside.  Jacqueline rode a black stallion sired by her father’s mighty Thunder, who had grown old but still could do the work of three ordinary horses in carrying the great bulk of his master.  The son of Thunder was little like his sire, but a slender-limbed racer, graceful, nervous, eager.  A clumsy rider would have ruined the horse in a single day’s hard work among the trails of the mountain-desert, but Jacqueline, fairly reading the mind of the black, nursed his strength when it was needed and let him run free and swift when the ground before him was level.

Now she picked her course dexterously down the hillside with the cream-colored mare of Pierre following half a length behind.

After the first down-pitch of ground was covered they passed into difficult terrain, and for half an hour went at a jog trot, winging in and out among the rocks, climbing steadily up and up through the hills.

Here the ground opened up again, and they roved on at a free gallop, the black always half a length in front.  Along the ridge of a crest, an almost level stretch of a mile or more, Jack eased the grip on the reins, and the black responded with a sudden lengthening of stride and lowered his head with ears pressed back flat while he fairly flew over the ground.

Nothing could match that speed.  The strong mare fell to the rear, fighting gamely, but beaten by that effort of the stallion.

Jack swerved in the saddle and looked back, laughing her triumph.  Pierre smiled grimly in response and leaned forward, shifting his weight more over the withers of Mary.  He spoke to her, and one of her pricking ears fell back as if to listen to his voice.  He spoke again and the other ear fell back, her neck straightened, she gave her whole heart to her work.

First she held the stallion even, then she began to gain.  That was the meaning of those round, strong hips, and the breadth of the chest.  She needed a half-mile of running to warm her to her work, and now the black came back to her with every leap.

The thunder of the approaching hoofs warned the girl.  One more glance she cast in apprehension over her shoulder, and then brought her spurs into play again and again.  Still the rush of hoofs behind her grew louder and louder, and now there was a panting at her side and the head of cream-colored Mary drew up and past.

She gave up the battle with a little shout of anger and slowed up her mount with a sharp pull on the reins.  It needed only a word from Pierre and his mare drew down to a hand-gallop, twisting her head a little toward the black as if she called for some recognition of her superiority.

“It’s always this way,” cried Jack, and jerked at the reins with a childish impotence of anger.  “I beat you for the first quarter of a mile and then this fool of a horse—­I’m going to give him away.”

“The black,” said Pierre, assuming an air of quiet and superior knowing which always aggravated her most, “is a good second-rate cayuse when someone who knows horses is in the saddle.  I’d give you fifty for him on the strength of his looks and keep him for a decoration.”

She could only glare her speechless rage for a moment.  Then she changed swiftly and threw out her hands in a little gesture of surrender.

“After all, what difference does it make?  Your Mary can beat him in a long run or a short one, but it’s your horse, Pierre, and that takes the sting away.  If it were anyone else’s I’d—­well, I’d shoot either the horse or the rider.  But my partner’s horse is my horse, you know.”

He swerved his mare sharply to the left and took her hand with a strong grip.

“Jack, of all the men I’ve ever known, I’d rather ride with you, I’d rather fight for you.”

“Of all the men you ever knew,” she said, “I suppose that I am.”

He did not hear the low voice, for he was looking out over the canyon.  A few moments later they swung out onto the very crest of the range.

On all sides the hills dropped away through the gloom of the evening, brown nearby, but falling off through a faint blue haze and growing blue-black with the distance.  A sharp wind, chill with the coming of night, cut at them.  Not a hundred feet overhead shot a low-winging hawk back from his day’s hunting and rising only high enough to clear the range and then plunge down toward his nest.

Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into the profound gloom of the valley below.  They shaded their eyes and studied it with a singular interest for long moments, patient, as the hawk.

So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and then pointed down.  He followed the direction she indicated, and there, through the haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.

He said sharply:  “I know the place, but we’ll have a devil of a ride to get there.”

And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope.  It was precipitous in many places, but Pierre kept almost at a gallop, making the mare take the slopes often crouched back on her haunches with forefeet braced forward, and sliding many yards at a time.

In between the boulders he darted, twisting here and there, and always erect and jaunty in the saddle, swaying easily with every movement of the mare.  Not far behind him came the girl.  Fine rider that she was, she could not hope to compete with such matchless horsemanship where man and horse were only one piece of strong brawn and muscle, one daring spirit.  Many a time the chances seemed too desperate to her, but she followed blindly where he led, setting her teeth at each succeeding venture, and coming out safe every time, until they swung out at last through a screen of brush and onto the level floor of the valley.