Riders of the Silences

She merely stared, like a child which may either burst into tears or laughter, no one can prophesy which.

He explained, rather worried:  “You see, you are a girl, Jack, and I remembered that you were pleased about those clothes that you wore to the dance in the Crittenden schoolhouse, and so when I saw that pin I—­well—­”

“Oh, Pierre!” said a stifled voice.  “Oh, Pierre!”

“Jack, you aren’t angry, are you?  See, when you put it at the throat it doesn’t look half bad!”

And to try it, he pinned it on her shirt.  She caught both his hands, kissed them again and again, and then buried her face against them as she sobbed.  If the heavens had opened and a cloudburst crashed on the roof of the house, he would have been less astounded.

“What is it?” he cried.  “Damn it all—­Jack—­you see—­I meant—­”

But she tore herself away and flung herself face down on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever.  He followed, awestricken—­terrified.

He touched her shoulder, but she shrank away and seemed more distressed than ever.  It was not the crying of a weak woman:  these were heartrending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has never before known tears.

“Jack—­perhaps I’ve done something wrong—­”

He stammered again:  “I didn’t dream I was hurting you—­”

Then light broke upon him.

He said:  “It’s because you don’t want to be treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?”

But to complete his astonishment she moaned:  “N-n-no!  It’s b-b-because you—­you n-n-never do t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre!”

He groaned heartily:  “Well, I’ll be damned!”

And because he was thoughtful he strode away, staring at the floor.  It was then that he saw it, small and crumpled on the floor.  He picked it up—­a glove of the softest leather.  He carried it back to Jacqueline.

“What’s this?”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“This glove I found on the floor?”

The sobs decreased at once—­broke out more violently—­and then she sprang up from the bunk.

“Pierre, I’ve acted a regular chump.  Are you out with me?”

“Not a bit, old-timer.  But about this glove?”

“Oh, that’s one of mine.”

She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt—­the calm blue eye of Pierre noted.

He said:  “We’ll eat and forget the rest of this, if you want, Jack.”

“And you ain’t mad at me, Pierre?”

“Not a bit.”

There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause.

She explained:  “You see, a woman is just about nine tenths fool, Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while.”

“Oh!” said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found food for thought on the wall.

She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with appetite:  “How does the pin look?”

“Why, fine.”

And the silence began again.

She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again:  “The old boy shooting left-handed—­didn’t he even fan the wind near you?”

“That was another bit of carelessness,” said Pierre, but his smile held little of life.  “He might have known that if he had shot close—­by accident—­I might have turned around and shot him dead—­on purpose.  But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he’s apt to go on for a long time making a fool of himself.”

“Right,” she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, “and that reminds me of a story about—­”

“By the way, Jack, I’ll wager there’s a more interesting story than that you could tell me.”

“What?”

“About how that glove happened to be on the floor.”

“Why, partner, it’s just a glove of my own.”

“Didn’t know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that.”

“No?  Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this—­”

And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for she was an admirable mimic.  He met her spirit more than half-way, laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end of the meal at the same time.  She cleared away the pans with a few motions and tossed them clattering into a corner.  Neat housekeeping was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline.  “Now,” said Pierre, leaning back against the wall, “we’ll hear about that glove.”

“Damn the glove!” broke from her.

“Steady, pal!”

“Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little thing like that?”

“Why, Jack, you’re red and white in patches.  I’m interested.”

He sat up.

“I’m more than interested.  The story, Jack.”

“Well, I suppose I have to tell you.  I did a fool thing today.  Took a little gallop down the trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting in her saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart out.  Poor kid!  She’d come up in a hunting party and got separated from the rest.

“So I got sympathetic—­”

“About the first time on record that you’ve been sympathetic with another girl, eh?”

“Shut up, Pierre!  And I brought her in here—­right into your cabin, without thinking what I was doing, and gave her a cup of coffee.  Of course it was a pretty greenhorn trick, but I guess no harm will come of it.  The girl thinks it’s a prospector’s cabin—­which it was once.  She went on her way, happy, because I told her of the right trail to get back with her gang.  That’s all there is to it.  Are you mad at me for letting anyone come into this place?”

“Mad?” He smiled.  “No, I think that’s one of the best lies you ever told me, Jack.”

Their eyes met, hers very wide, and his keen and steady.  Then she gripped at the butt of her gun, an habitual trick when she was very angry, and cried:  “Do I have to sit here and let you call me—­that?  Pierre, pull a few more tricks like that and I’ll call for a new deal.  Get me?”

She rose, whirled, and threw herself sullenly on her bunk.  “Come back,” said Pierre.  “You’re more scared than angry.  Why are you afraid, Jack?”

“It’s a lie—­I’m not afraid!”

“Let me see that glove again.”

“You’ve seen it once—­that’s enough.”

He whistled carelessly, rolling a cigarette.  After he lighted it he said:  “Ready to talk yet, partner?”

She maintained an obstinate silence, but that sharp eye saw that she was trembling.  He set his teeth and then drew several long puffs on his cigarette.

“I’m going to count to ten, pal, and when I finish you’re going to tell me everything straight.  In the meantime don’t stay there thinking up a new lie.  I know you too well, and if you try the same thing on me again—­”

“Well?” she snarled, all the tiger coming back in her voice.

“You’ll talk, all right.  Here goes the count:  One—­two—­three—­four—­”

As he counted, leaving a long drag of two or three seconds between numbers, there was not a change in the figure of the girl.  She still lay with her back turned on him, and the only expressive part that showed was her hand.  First it lay limp against her hip, but as the monotonous count proceeded it gathered to a fist.

“Five—­six—­seven—­”

It seemed that he had been counting for hours, his will against her will, the man in him against the woman in her, and during the pauses between the sound of his voice the very air grew charged with waiting.  To the girl the wait for every count was like the wait of the doomed traitor when he stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer of light go down the aimed rifles.

For she knew the face of the man who sat there counting; she knew how the firelight flared in the dark red of his hair and made it seem like another fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely cold.  Her hand had gathered to a hard-balled fist.

“Eight—­nine—­”

She sprang up, screaming:  “No, no, Pierre!” And threw out her arms to him.

“Ten.”

She whispered:  “It was the girl with yellow hair—­Mary Brown.”