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Authors: Riders of the Silences
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before I came out I got mixed up with a man called
Hurley, a professional gambler."
"And Diaz?" queried a chorus.
"Yes. Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died. I think I'm wanted
in Morgantown."
Out of a little silence came the voice of Black Gandil: "Dick, I'm
thankin' you now for cuttin' me so short a minute ago."
Phil Branch had not spoken, as usual, but now he repeated, with rapt,
far-off eyes: "'Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died?' Hurley
and Diaz! I played with Hurley, a couple of times."
"Speakin' personal," said Garry Patterson, his red verging toward
purple in excitement, "which I'm ready to go with you down to
Morgantown and bury your father."
"And do it shipshape," added Black Gandil.
"With all the trimmings," said Bud Mansie, "with all Morgantown
joinin' the mournin' voluntarily under cover of our six-guns."
"Wait," said Boone. "What's the second request?"
"That can wait."
"It's a bigger job than this one?"
"Lots bigger."
"And in the meantime?"
"I'm your man."
They shook hands. Even Black Gandil rose to take his share in the
ceremony—all save Bud Mansie, who had glanced out the window a moment
before and then silently left the room. A bottle of whisky was
produced and glasses filled all round. Jim Boone brought in the
seventh chair and placed it at the table. They raised their glasses.
"To the empty chair," said Boone.
They drank, and for the first time in his life, the liquid fire went
down the throat of Pierre. He set down his glass, coughing, and the
others laughed good-naturedly.
"Started down the wrong way?" asked Wilbur.
"It's beastly stuff; first I ever drank."
A roar of laughter answered him.
"Still I got an idea," broke in Jim Boone, "that he's worthy of takin'
the seventh chair. Draw it up lad."
Vaguely it reminded Pierre of a scene in some old play with himself
in the role of the hero signing away his soul to the devil, but an
interruption kept him from taking the chair. There was a racket at the
door—a half-sobbing, half-scolding voice, and the laughter of a man;
then Bud Mansie appeared carrying Jack in spite of her struggles. He
placed her on the floor and held her hands to protect himself from
her fury.
"I glimpsed her through the window," he explained. "She was lining out
for the stable and then a minute later I saw her swing a saddle
onto—what horse d'you think?"
"Out with it."
"Jim's big Thunder. Yep, she stuck the saddle on big black Thunder and
had a rifle in the holster. I saw there was hell brewing somewhere, so
I went out and nabbed her."
"Jack!" called Jim Boone. "What were you started for?"
Bud Mansie released her arms and she stood with them stiffening at her
sides and her fists clenched.
"Hal—he died, and there was nothing but talk about him—nothing done.
You got a live man in Hal's place."
She pointed an accusing finger at Pierre.
"Maybe he takes his place for you, but he's not my brother—I hate
him. I went out to get another man to make up for Pierre."
"Well?"
"A dead man. I shoot straight enough for that."
A very solemn silence spread through the room; for every man was
watching in the eyes of the father and daughter the same shining black
devil of wrath.
"Jack, get into your room and don't move out of it till I tell you to.
D'you hear?"
She turned on her heel like a soldier and marched from the room.
"Jack."
She stopped in the door but would not turn back. "Jack, don't you
love your old dad anymore?" She whirled and ran to him with
outstretched arms and clung to him, sobbing. "Oh, dad," she groaned.
"You've broken my heart."
Chapter 12
*
The annals of the mountain-desert have never been written and can
never be written. They are merely a vast mass of fact and tradition
and imagining which floats from tongue to tongue from the Rockies to
the Sierra Nevadas. A man may be a fact all his life and die only a
local celebrity. Then again, he may strike sparks from that
imagination which runs riot by camp-fires and at the bars of
Hurley, a professional gambler."
"And Diaz?" queried a chorus.
"Yes. Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died. I think I'm wanted
in Morgantown."
Out of a little silence came the voice of Black Gandil: "Dick, I'm
thankin' you now for cuttin' me so short a minute ago."
Phil Branch had not spoken, as usual, but now he repeated, with rapt,
far-off eyes: "'Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died?' Hurley
and Diaz! I played with Hurley, a couple of times."
"Speakin' personal," said Garry Patterson, his red verging toward
purple in excitement, "which I'm ready to go with you down to
Morgantown and bury your father."
"And do it shipshape," added Black Gandil.
"With all the trimmings," said Bud Mansie, "with all Morgantown
joinin' the mournin' voluntarily under cover of our six-guns."
"Wait," said Boone. "What's the second request?"
"That can wait."
"It's a bigger job than this one?"
"Lots bigger."
"And in the meantime?"
"I'm your man."
They shook hands. Even Black Gandil rose to take his share in the
ceremony—all save Bud Mansie, who had glanced out the window a moment
before and then silently left the room. A bottle of whisky was
produced and glasses filled all round. Jim Boone brought in the
seventh chair and placed it at the table. They raised their glasses.
"To the empty chair," said Boone.
They drank, and for the first time in his life, the liquid fire went
down the throat of Pierre. He set down his glass, coughing, and the
others laughed good-naturedly.
"Started down the wrong way?" asked Wilbur.
"It's beastly stuff; first I ever drank."
A roar of laughter answered him.
"Still I got an idea," broke in Jim Boone, "that he's worthy of takin'
the seventh chair. Draw it up lad."
Vaguely it reminded Pierre of a scene in some old play with himself
in the role of the hero signing away his soul to the devil, but an
interruption kept him from taking the chair. There was a racket at the
door—a half-sobbing, half-scolding voice, and the laughter of a man;
then Bud Mansie appeared carrying Jack in spite of her struggles. He
placed her on the floor and held her hands to protect himself from
her fury.
"I glimpsed her through the window," he explained. "She was lining out
for the stable and then a minute later I saw her swing a saddle
onto—what horse d'you think?"
"Out with it."
"Jim's big Thunder. Yep, she stuck the saddle on big black Thunder and
had a rifle in the holster. I saw there was hell brewing somewhere, so
I went out and nabbed her."
"Jack!" called Jim Boone. "What were you started for?"
Bud Mansie released her arms and she stood with them stiffening at her
sides and her fists clenched.
"Hal—he died, and there was nothing but talk about him—nothing done.
You got a live man in Hal's place."
She pointed an accusing finger at Pierre.
"Maybe he takes his place for you, but he's not my brother—I hate
him. I went out to get another man to make up for Pierre."
"Well?"
"A dead man. I shoot straight enough for that."
A very solemn silence spread through the room; for every man was
watching in the eyes of the father and daughter the same shining black
devil of wrath.
"Jack, get into your room and don't move out of it till I tell you to.
D'you hear?"
She turned on her heel like a soldier and marched from the room.
"Jack."
She stopped in the door but would not turn back. "Jack, don't you
love your old dad anymore?" She whirled and ran to him with
outstretched arms and clung to him, sobbing. "Oh, dad," she groaned.
"You've broken my heart."
Chapter 12
*
The annals of the mountain-desert have never been written and can
never be written. They are merely a vast mass of fact and tradition
and imagining which floats from tongue to tongue from the Rockies to
the Sierra Nevadas. A man may be a fact all his life and die only a
local celebrity. Then again, he may strike sparks from that
imagination which runs riot by camp-fires and at the bars of
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