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Updated: June 22, 2025
Boone moistened his white lips and answered: "Never," huskily, as if it were a great muscular effort for him to speak. "This time I have to break the custom. Boone, this fellow Pierre has to leave the country. Will you see that he goes?" The lips of Boone moved and made no sound. He said at length: "McGurk, I'd rather cross the devil than cross you. There's no shame in admitting that.
But Pierre threw his arms wide, and standing so, his shadow made a black cross on the wall behind him. He even smiled to tempt the big man further. Jacqueline ran between and caught the hand of her father, crying: "Are you going to finish the work of McGurk before he has a chance to start it? He hunted the rest down one by one. Dad, if you put out Pierre what is left?
"I can make my draw and start my gun as fast as any man except them two, maybe" he lowered his voice somewhat even to name them "Pierre McGurk!" "It seems hopeless to find out anything about McGurk," said Mary, "but at least you can tell me safely about Red Pierre." "Interested in him, eh?" said the boy dryly. "Well, he's a rather romantic figure, don't you think?" "Romantic?
He would not lower those arms, and his eyes stared wildly at her. On his forehead the blood had caked over a cut; his shirt was torn to rags, and the hair matted wildly over his eyes. She caught his hands and pulled them down. "It's not McGurk! Don't you hear me? It's Jack!" He reached out, like a blind man who has to see by the sense of touch, and stroked her face. "Jack!" he whispered at last.
The gap of six years which occurs here is due to the fact that during that period McGurk vanished from the mountain-desert. He died away from the eyes of men and in their minds he became that tradition which lives still so vividly, the tradition of the pale face, the sneering, bloodless lips, and the hand which never failed.
Michael McGurk, the father of the actual brick artist, who had learned that the cop was getting wabbly and was entertaining the preposterous possibility of withdrawing the charge against the innocent Mathusek, to the imminent danger of his own offspring.
The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he stayed his arm. He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well, partner, there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You don't figure you're a mate for McGurk, do you?" He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz.
The whisper which had come to her before was now a solemn-speaking voice, and she knew what she must do. She could not keep the two men apart, but she might reach McGurk before and strike him down by stealth, by craft, any way to kill that man as terrible as a devil, as invulnerable as a ghost.
"Here!" he called in answer, and stood with his right hand lifted, bringing his horse to a sharp halt, like some ancient cavalier stopping in the middle of the battle to exchange greetings with a friendly foe. The other rider whirled alongside, his sombrero's brim flaring back from his forehead, so that McGurk caught the glare of the eyes beneath the shadow.
Just a breath before Pierre fired there was a stunning blow on his right shoulder and another on his hip. He lurched to the floor, his revolver clattering against the wood as he fell, but falling, he scooped up the gun with his left and twisted. That movement made the third shot of McGurk fly wide and Pierre fired from the floor and saw a spasm of pain contract the face of the outlaw.
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