Riders of the Silences by Max Brand (top 20 books to read .txt) 📕

and dooming

her to a single destination.

 

It was evening before she came to the headwaters of the Old Crow, and

rode out into the gorge between the two mountains. The trail failed

her here. There was no semblance of a ravine to follow, except the

mighty gorge between the two peaks, and she ventured into the dark

throat of this pass, riding through a gate with the guarding towers

tall and black on either side.

 

The moment she was well started in it and the steep shadow of the

evening fell across her almost like night from the west, her heart

grew cold as the air. A sense of coming danger filled her. Yet she

kept on, holding a tight rein, throwing many a fearful glance at the

vast rocks which might have concealed an entire army in every mile

of their extent.

 

When she found the cabin she mistook it at first for merely another

rock of singular shape. It was at this shape that she stared, and

checked her horse, and not till then did she note the faint flicker of

a light no brighter than the phosphorescent glow of the eyes of a

hunted beast.

 

Her impulse was to drive her spurs home and pass that place at a

racing gallop, but she checked the impulse sharply and began to

reason. In the first place, it was doubtless only the cabin of some

prospector, such as she had often heard of. In the second place, night

was almost upon her, and she saw no desirable camping-place, or at

least any with the necessary water at hand.

 

What harm could come to her? Among Western men, she well knew a woman

is safer than all the law and the police of the settled East can make

her, so she nerved her courage and advanced toward the faint,

changing light.

 

The cabin was hidden very cunningly. Crouched among the mighty

boulders which earthquakes and storms of some wilder, earlier epoch

had torn away from the side of the crags above, the house was like

another stone, leaning its back to the mountain for support.

 

When she drew very close she knew that the light which glimmered at

the window must come from an open fire, and the thought of a fire

warmed her. She hallooed, and receiving no answer, fastened the horses

and entered the house. The door swung to behind her, as if of its own

volition it wished to make her a prisoner.

 

The place consisted of one room, and not a spacious one at that, but

arranged as a shelter, not a home. The cooking, apparently, was done

over the open hearth, for there was no sign of any stove, and,

moreover, on the wall near the fireplace hung several soot-blackened

pans and the inevitable coffeepot. There were two bunks built on

opposite sides of the room, and in the middle a table was made of a

long section split from the heart of a log by wedges, apparently, and

still rude and undressed, except for the preliminary smoothing off

which had been done with a broad-ax.

 

The great plank was supported at either end by a roughly constructed

sawbuck. It was very low, and for this reason two fairly square

boulders of comfortable proportions were sufficiently high to serve

as chairs.

 

For the rest, the furniture was almost too meager to suggest human

habitation, but from nails on the wall there hung a few shirts and a

pair of chaps, as well as a much-battered quirt. But a bucket of

water in a corner suggested cleanliness, and a small, round, highly

polished steel plate, hanging on the wall in lieu of a mirror, further

fortified her decision that the owner of this place must be a man

somewhat particular as to his appearance.

 

Here she interrupted her observations to build up the fire, which was

flickering down and apparently on the verge of going out. She worked

busily for a few minutes, and a roaring blaze rewarded her; she took

off her slicker to enjoy the warmth, and in doing so, turned, and saw

the owner of the place standing with folded arms just inside the door.

 

“Making yourself to home?” asked the host, in a low, strangely

pleasant voice.

 

“Do you mind?” asked Mary Brown. “I couldn’t find a place that would

do for camping.”

 

And she summoned her most winning smile. It was wasted, she knew at

once, for the stranger hardened perceptibly, and his lip curled

slightly in scorn or anger. In all her life Mary had never met a man

so obdurate, and, moreover, she felt that he could not be wooed into a

good humor.

 

“If you’d gone farther up the gorge,” said the other, “you’d of found

the best sort of a camping place—water and everything.”

 

“Then I’ll go,” said Mary, shrinking at the thought of the strange,

cold outdoors compared with this cheery fire. But she put on the

slicker and started for the door.

 

At the last moment the host was touched with compunction. He called:

“Wait a minute. There ain’t no call to hurry. If you can get along

here just stick around.”

 

For a moment Mary hesitated, knowing that only the unwritten law of

Western hospitality compelled that speech; it was the crackle and

flare of the bright fire which overcame her pride.

 

She laid off the slicker again, saying, with another smile: “For just

a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Sure,” said the other gracelessly, and tossed his own slicker onto a

bunk.

 

Covertly, but very earnestly, Mary was studying him. He was hardly

more than a boy—handsome, slender.

 

Now that handsome face was under a cloud of gloom, a frown on the

forehead and a sneer on the lips, but it was something more than the

expression which repelled Mary. For she felt that no matter how she

wooed him, she could never win the sympathy of this darkly handsome,

cruel youth; he was aloof from her, and the distance between them

could never be crossed. She knew at once that the mysterious bridges

which link men with women broke down in this case, and she was

strongly tempted to leave the cabin to the sole possession of her

surly host.

 

It was the warmth of the fire which once more decided against her

reason, so she laid hands on one of the blocks of stone to roll it

nearer to the hearth. She could not budge it. Then she caught the

sneering laughter of the man, and strove again in a fury. It was no

use; for the stone merely rocked a little and settled back in its

place with a bump.

 

“Here,” said the boy, “I’ll move it for you.” It was a hard lift for

him, but he set his teeth, raised the stone in his slender hands, and

set it down again at a comfortable distance from the fire.

 

“Thank you,” smiled Mary, but the boy stood panting against the wall,

and for answer merely bestowed on her a rather malicious glance of

triumph, as though he gloried in his superior strength and despised

her weakness.

 

Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for the silence began to

weigh on her. She said: “My name is Mary Brown.”

 

“Is it?” said the boy, quite without interest. “You can call me Jack.”

 

He sat down on the other stone, his dark face swept by the shadows of

the flames, and rolled a cigarette, not deftly, but like one who is

learning the mastery of the art. It surprised Mary, watching his

fumbling fingers. She decided that Jack must be even younger than

he looked.

 

She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to time, a sharp, rather

worried glance of expectation toward the door, as if he feared it

would open and disclose some important arrival. Furthermore, those old

worn shirts hanging on the wall were much too large for the throat and

shoulders of Jack.

 

Apparently, he lived there with some companion, and a companion of

such a nature that he did not wish him to be seen by visitors. This

explained the lad’s coldness in receiving a guest; it also stimulated

Mary to linger about a few more minutes.