wants it done,
and he don't care how, and he don't ask questions why. He just raises
hell."

"He really expects to keep me here?"

"Expects? He will."

"Going to tie me up?" asked Pierre ironically.

"Maybe," answered Jack, overlooking the irony. "Maybe he'll just put
you on my shoulders to guard."

He moved the gun significantly.

"And I can do it."

"Of course. But he would have to let me go some time."

"Not till you'd promised to stick by him. I told him that myself, but
he said that you're young and that he'd teach you to like this life
whether you wanted to or not. Me speaking personally, I agree with
Black Gandil: This is the worst fool thing that dad has ever done.
What do we want with you--in Hal's place!"

And a suggestion of a sob came in Jack's voice, though he set his teeth
to keep it back.

"But I've got a thing to do right away--to-day; it can't wait.

"Give dad your word to come back and he'll let you go. He says you're
the kind that will keep your word. You see, he found you with a cross
in your hand."

And Jack's lips curled again.

It was all absurd, too impossible to be real. The only real things
were the body of white-handed, yellow-haired Mary Brown under the
tumbled rocks and dirt of the landslide, and the body of Martin Ryder
waiting to be placed in that corner plot where the grass grew quicker
than all other grass in the spring of the year.

However, having fallen among madmen, he must use cunning to get away
before the outlaw and his men came back from wherever they had gone.
Otherwise there would be more bloodshed, more play of guns and hum of
lead.

"Tell me of Hal," he said, and dropped his elbows on his knees as if he
accepted his fate.

"Don't know you well enough to talk of Hal."

"I'm sorry."

The boy made a little gesture of apology.

"I guess that was a low-down mean thing to say. Sure I'll tell you
about Hal--if I can."

For his lips trembled at the thought of the dead.

"Tell me anything you can," said Pierre gently, "because I've got to
try to be like him, haven't I?"

"You could try till rattlers got tame, but it'd take ten like you to
make one like Hal. He was dad's own son--he was my brother."

The sob came openly now, and the tears were a bright 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 o