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son—he was my brother."
The sob came openly now, and the tears were a mist in the boy's eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Pierre."
"Pierre? I suppose I got to learn it."
"I suppose so." And he edged farther forward so that he was sitting
only on the edge of the bunk.
"Please do." And he gathered his feet under him, ready for a spring
forward and a grip at the boy's threatening rifle.
Jack had canted his head a little to one side. "Did you ever see a
horse that was gentle and yet had never been ridden, or his spirit
broke, Pierre—"
Here Pierre made his leap swift as some bobcat of the northern woods;
his hand whipped out as lightning fast as the striking paw of the
lynx, and the gun was jerked from the hands of Jack. Not before the
boy clutched at it with a cry of horror, but the force of the pull
sent him lurching to the floor and broke his grip.
He was up in an instant, however, and a knife of ugly length glittered
in his hand as he sprang at Pierre.
Pierre tossed aside the rifle and met the attack barehanded. He caught
the knife-bearing hand at the wrist and under his grip the hand
loosened its hold and the steel tinkled on the floor. His other arm
caught the body of Jack in a mighty vise.
There was a brief and futile struggle, and a hissing of breath in the
silence till the hat tumbled from the head of Jack and down over the
shoulders streamed a torrent of silken black hair.
Pierre stepped back. This was the meaning, then, of the strangely
small feet and hands and the low music of the voice. It was the body
of a girl that he had held.
Chapter 11
*
It was not fear nor shame that made the eyes of Jacqueline so wide as
she stared past Pierre toward the door. He glanced across his
shoulder, and blocking the entrance to the room, literally filling
the doorway, was the bulk of Jim Boone.
"Seems as if I was sort of steppin' in on a little family party," he
said. "I'm sure glad you two got acquainted so quick. Jack, how did
you and—What the hell's your name, lad?"
"He tricked me, dad, or he would never have got the gun away from me.
This—this Pierre—this beast—he got me to talk of Hal. Then
he stole—"
"The point," said Jim Boone coldly, "is that he
got
the gun. Run
along, Jack. You ain't so growed up as I was thinkin'. Or hold
on—maybe you're
more
grown up. Which is it? Are you turnin' into a
woman, Jack?"
She whirled on Pierre in a white fury.
"You see? You see what you've done? He'll never trust me again—never!
Pierre, I hate you. I'll always hate you. And if Hal were here—"
A storm of sobs and tears cut her short, and she disappeared through
the door. Boone and Pierre stood regarding each other critically.
Pierre spoke first: "You're not as big as I expected."
"I'm plenty big; but you're older than I thought."
"Too old for what you want of me. The girl told me what that was."
"Not too old to be made what I want."
And his hands passed through a significant gesture of molding the
empty air. The boy met his eye dauntlessly.
"I suppose," he said, "that I've a pretty small chance of getting
away."
"Just about none, Pierre. Come here."
Pierre stepped closer and looked down the hall into another room.
There, about a table, sat the five grimmest riders of the
mountain-desert that he had ever seen. They were such men as one could
judge at a glance, and Pierre made that instinctive motion for his
six-gun. "The girl," Jim Boone was saying, "kept you pretty busy
tryin' to make a break, and if she could do anything maybe you'd have
a pile of trouble with one of them guardin' you. But if I'd had a good
look at you, lad, I'd never have let Jack take the job of
guardin' you."
"Thanks," answered Pierre dryly.
"You got reason; I can see that. Here's the point, Pierre. I know
young men because I can remember pretty close what I was at your age.
I wasn't any ladies' lap dog, at that, but time and older men molded
me the way I'm going to mold you. Understand?"
Pierre was nerved for many things, but the
The sob came openly now, and the tears were a mist in the boy's eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Pierre."
"Pierre? I suppose I got to learn it."
"I suppose so." And he edged farther forward so that he was sitting
only on the edge of the bunk.
"Please do." And he gathered his feet under him, ready for a spring
forward and a grip at the boy's threatening rifle.
Jack had canted his head a little to one side. "Did you ever see a
horse that was gentle and yet had never been ridden, or his spirit
broke, Pierre—"
Here Pierre made his leap swift as some bobcat of the northern woods;
his hand whipped out as lightning fast as the striking paw of the
lynx, and the gun was jerked from the hands of Jack. Not before the
boy clutched at it with a cry of horror, but the force of the pull
sent him lurching to the floor and broke his grip.
He was up in an instant, however, and a knife of ugly length glittered
in his hand as he sprang at Pierre.
Pierre tossed aside the rifle and met the attack barehanded. He caught
the knife-bearing hand at the wrist and under his grip the hand
loosened its hold and the steel tinkled on the floor. His other arm
caught the body of Jack in a mighty vise.
There was a brief and futile struggle, and a hissing of breath in the
silence till the hat tumbled from the head of Jack and down over the
shoulders streamed a torrent of silken black hair.
Pierre stepped back. This was the meaning, then, of the strangely
small feet and hands and the low music of the voice. It was the body
of a girl that he had held.
Chapter 11
*
It was not fear nor shame that made the eyes of Jacqueline so wide as
she stared past Pierre toward the door. He glanced across his
shoulder, and blocking the entrance to the room, literally filling
the doorway, was the bulk of Jim Boone.
"Seems as if I was sort of steppin' in on a little family party," he
said. "I'm sure glad you two got acquainted so quick. Jack, how did
you and—What the hell's your name, lad?"
"He tricked me, dad, or he would never have got the gun away from me.
This—this Pierre—this beast—he got me to talk of Hal. Then
he stole—"
"The point," said Jim Boone coldly, "is that he
got
the gun. Run
along, Jack. You ain't so growed up as I was thinkin'. Or hold
on—maybe you're
more
grown up. Which is it? Are you turnin' into a
woman, Jack?"
She whirled on Pierre in a white fury.
"You see? You see what you've done? He'll never trust me again—never!
Pierre, I hate you. I'll always hate you. And if Hal were here—"
A storm of sobs and tears cut her short, and she disappeared through
the door. Boone and Pierre stood regarding each other critically.
Pierre spoke first: "You're not as big as I expected."
"I'm plenty big; but you're older than I thought."
"Too old for what you want of me. The girl told me what that was."
"Not too old to be made what I want."
And his hands passed through a significant gesture of molding the
empty air. The boy met his eye dauntlessly.
"I suppose," he said, "that I've a pretty small chance of getting
away."
"Just about none, Pierre. Come here."
Pierre stepped closer and looked down the hall into another room.
There, about a table, sat the five grimmest riders of the
mountain-desert that he had ever seen. They were such men as one could
judge at a glance, and Pierre made that instinctive motion for his
six-gun. "The girl," Jim Boone was saying, "kept you pretty busy
tryin' to make a break, and if she could do anything maybe you'd have
a pile of trouble with one of them guardin' you. But if I'd had a good
look at you, lad, I'd never have let Jack take the job of
guardin' you."
"Thanks," answered Pierre dryly.
"You got reason; I can see that. Here's the point, Pierre. I know
young men because I can remember pretty close what I was at your age.
I wasn't any ladies' lap dog, at that, but time and older men molded
me the way I'm going to mold you. Understand?"
Pierre was nerved for many things, but the
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