Riders of the Silences by Max Brand (top 20 books to read .txt) 📕
"And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. Here I lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of the room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolves in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When I go out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot, maybe.
"Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that cares, and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going to lie here and have my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So I'm writing to you, Pierre, part to tell you what you ought to know; part because I got a sort of crazy idea that maybe you could get down here to me before I go out.
"You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you don't try to come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow you all your life, lad, and you'll be seeing her blue eyes and the red-gold of her hair in the dark of the night as I see it now. Me, I
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had passed from youth to manhood. Through the gloom nothing stood out
distinctly save the white face of the dead man, and from that Pierre
looked quickly away.
One by one he numbered his obligations to Martin Ryder, and first and
last he remembered the lie which had soothed his father. The money for
that corner plot where the grass grew first in the spring of the
year—where was he to find it? He fumbled in his pocket and found only
a single coin.
He leaned back against the wall and strove to concentrate on the
problem, but his thoughts wandered in spite of himself. Looking
backward, he remembered all things much more clearly than when he had
actually seen them. For instance, he recalled now that as he walked
through the door the two figures which had started up to block his way
had left behind them some playing-cards at the corner table. One of
these cards had slipped from the edge of the board and flickered
slowly to the floor.
With that memory the thoughts of Pierre le Rouge stopped. The picture
of the falling card remained; all else went out in his mind like the
snuffing of the candle. Then, as if he heard a voice directing him
through the utter blackness of the room, he knew what he must do.
All his wealth was the single half-dollar piece in his pocket, and
there was only one way in which that coin could be increased to the
sum he would need to buy that corner plot, where the soul of old
Martin Ryder could sleep long and deep.
From his brothers he would get no help. The least memory of those
sallow, hungry faces convinced him of that.
There remained the gaming table. In the north country he had watched
men sit in a silent circle, smoking, drinking, with the flare of an
oil-lamp against deep, seamed faces, and only the slip and whisper of
card against card.
Cold conscience tapped the shoulder of Pierre, remembering the lessons
of Father Victor, but a moment later his head went up and his eyes
were shining through the dark. After all, the end justified the means.
A moment later he was laughing softly as a boy in the midst of a
prank, and busily throwing off the robe of serge. Fumbling through the
night he located the shirt and trousers he had seen hanging from a
nail on the wall. Into these he slipped, and then went out under
the open sky.
The rest had revived the strength of the tough little cow-pony, and he
drove on at a gallop toward the twinkling lights of Morgantown. There
was a new consciousness about Pierre as if he had changed his whole
nature with his clothes. The sober sense of duty which had kept him in
awe all his life like a lifted finger, was almost gone, and in its
place was a joyous freedom.
For the first time he faintly realized what an existence other than
that of a priest might be. Now for a brief moment he could forget the
part of the subdued novice and become merely a man with nothing about
him to distinguish him from other men, nothing to make heads turn at
his approach and raise whispers as he passed.
It was a game, but he rejoiced in it as a girl does in her first
masquerade. Tomorrow he must be grave and sober-footed and an example
to other men; tonight he could frolic as he pleased.
So Pierre le Rouge tossed back his head and laughed up to the frosty
stars. The loose sleeves and the skirts of the robe no longer
entangled his limbs. He threw up his arms and shouted. A hillside
caught the sound and echoed it back to him with a wonderful clearness,
and up and down the long ravine beat the clatter of the flying hoofs.
The whole world shouted and laughed and rode with him on Morgantown.
If the people in the houses that he passed had known they would have
started up from their chairs and taken rifle and horse and chased
after him on the trail. But how could they tell from the passing of
those ringing hoofs that Pierre, the novice, was dead, and Red
Pierre was born?
So they drowsed on about their comfortable fires, and Pierre drew rein
with a jerk before the largest of Morgantown’s saloons. He had to set
his teeth before he could summon the resolution to throw open the
door. It was done; he stepped inside, and stood blinking in the sudden
rush of light against his face.
It was all bewildering at first; the radiance, the blue tangle of
smoke, the storm of voices. For Muldoon’s was packed from door to
door. Coins rang in a steady chorus along the bar, and the crowd
waited three and four deep.
Someone was singing a rollicking song of the range at one end of the
bar, and a chorus of four bellowed a profane parody at the other end.
The ears of Pierre le Rouge tingled hotly, and partly to escape the
uproar he worked his way to the quieter room at the back of
the saloon.
It was almost as crowded as the bar, but here no one spoke except for
an occasional growl. Sudden speaking, and a loud voice, indeed, was
hardly safe. Someone cursed at his ill-luck as Pierre entered, and a
dozen hands reached for six-guns. In such a place one had to
be prepared.
Pierre remembered with quick dismay that he was not armed. All his
life the straight black gown had been weapon enough to make all men
give way before him. Now he carried no borrowed strength upon his
shoulders.
Automatically he slipped his fingers under the breast of his shirt
until their tips touched the cold metal of the cross. That gave him
stronger courage. The joy of the adventure made his blood warm again
as he drew out his one coin and looked for a place to start
his venture.
So he approached the nearest table. On the surface of it were marked
six squares with chalk, and each with its appropriate number. The man
who ran the game stood behind the table and shook three dice. The
numbers which turned up paid the gambler. The numbers which failed to
show paid the owner of the game.
His luck had been too strong that night, and now only two men faced
him, and both of them lost persistently. They were “bucking” the dice
with savage stubbornness.
Pierre edged closer, shut his eyes, and deposited his coin. When he
looked again he saw that he had wagered on the five.
The dice clattered across the table and were swept up by the hand of
the man behind the table before Pierre could note them. Sick at heart,
he began to turn away, as he saw that hand reach out and gather in the
coins of the other two bettors. It went out a third time and laid
another fifty-cent piece upon his. The heart of Pierre bounded up to
his throat.
Again the dice rolled, and this time he saw distinctly two fives turn
up. Two dollars in silver were dropped upon his, and still he let the
money lie. Again, again, and again the dice rolled. And now there were
pieces of gold among the silver that covered the square of the five.
The other two looked askance at him, and the owner of the game
growled: “Gimme room for the coins, stranger, will you?”
Pierre picked up his winnings. In his left hand he held them, and the
coins brimmed his cupped palm. With the free hand he placed his new
wagers. But he lost now.
“I cannot win forever,” thought Pierre, and redoubled his bets in an
effort to regain the lost ground.
Still his little fortune dwindled, till the sweat came out on his
forehead and the blood that had flushed his face ran back and left him
pale with dread. And at last there remained only one gold piece. He
hesitated, holding it poised for the wager, while the owner of the
game rattled the dice loudly and looked up at the coin with
hungry eyes.
Once more Pierre closed his eyes and laid his wager, while his empty
left hand slipped again inside his shirt and touched the metal of the
cross, and once more when he opened his eyes the hand of the gambler
was going out to lay a second coin over his.
“It is the cross!” thought Pierre. “It is the cross which brings me
luck.”
The dice rattled out. He won. Again, and still he won. The gambler
wiped his forehead and looked up anxiously. For these were wagers in
gold, and the doubling stakes were running high. About Pierre a crowd
had grown—a dozen cattlemen who watched the growing heap of gold with
silent fascination. Then they began to make wagers of their own, and
there were faint whispers of wrath and astonishment as the dice
clicked out and each time the winnings of Pierre doubled.
Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left hand as a warning.
With his right, very slowly, inch by inch lest anyone should suspect
him of a gunplay, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on the
table with the belt of cartridges. “Three years she’s been on my hip
through thick and thin, stranger. Three years she’s shot close an’
true. There ain’t a butt in the world that hugs your hand tighter.
There ain’t a cylinder that spins easier. Shoot? Lad, even a kid like
you could be a killer with that six-gun. What will you lay ag’in’ it?”
And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously at the yellow heap of
Pierre’s money.
“How much?” said Pierre eagerly. “Is there enough on the table to buy
the gun?”
“Buy?” said the other fiercely. “There ain’t enough coin west of the
Rockies to buy that gun. D’you think I’m yaller enough to sell my six?
No, but I’ll risk it in a fair bet. There ain’t no disgrace in that;
eh, pals?”
There was a chorus of low grunts of assent.
“All right,” said Pierre. “That pile against the gun.”
“All of it?”
“All.”
“Look here, kid, if you’re tryin’ to play a charity game with me—”
“Charity?”
The frank surprise of that look disarmed the other. He swept up the
dice-box, and shook it furiously, while his lips stirred. It was as if
he murmured an incantation for success. The dice rolled out, winking
in the light, spun over, and the owner of the gun stood with both
hands braced against the edge of the table, and stared hopelessly down.
A moment before his pockets had sagged with a precious weight, and
there had been a significant drag of the belt over his right hip. Now
both burdens were gone.
He looked up with a short laugh.
“I’m dry. Who’ll stake me to a drink?”
Pierre scooped up a dozen pieces of the gold.
“Here.”
The other drew back. “You’re very welcome to it. Here’s more, if
you’ll have it.”
“The coin I’ve lost to you? Take back a gamblin’ debt?”
“Easy there,” said one of the men. “Don’t you see the kid’s green?
Here’s a five-spot.”
The loser accepted the coin as carelessly as if he were conferring a
favor by taking it, cast another scowl in the direction of Pierre, and
went out toward the bar. Pierre, very
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