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Updated: May 22, 2025
As he sat there minute after minute and then hour after hour of the long night Pierre saw the meaning of it. If they sent word that they would not give up Pierre it was war, and war with McGurk had only one ending. If they sent word that Pierre was surrendered the shame would never leave Boone and his men. Whatever they did there was ruin for them in the end.
The door opened and framed McGurk. He did not start, seeing Pierre. He said: "None of the rest of them had the guts even to bring me the message, eh?" Pierre shrugged his shoulders. It was a mighty effort, but he was able to look his man fairly in the eyes. "All right, lad. How long is it going to take you to clear out of the country?"
He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre's new-found acquaintance explained: "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's some who could down Hurley in a straight gun fight; maybe there's one or two like McGurk that could down Diaz damn his yellow hide but there ain't no one can buck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. So they play the game together.
And McGurk, swelling with importance and emotion, pulled a couple of cigars from his pocket and the two smoked the pipe of peace. But the reader is not particularly concerned with the progress of the trial, for he has already attended many.
She felt a slight pain at her forehead and then remembered the cross which Pierre had thrown into her face. Casting that away he had thrown his faintest chance of victory with it; it would be a slaughter, not a battle, and red-handed McGurk would leave one more foe behind him.
That is, he will be known familiarly at widely separated parts of the range, places which he has never visited. It has happened to a few of the famous characters of the mountain-desert that they became traditions before their deaths. It happened to McGurk, of course. It also happened to Red Pierre.
Very slowly the head went up and back, and there he stood, not ten paces from her, with the white moon full on his face. The sneer was still there; the eyelid fluttered in scornful derision. And the heart of Jacqueline came thundering in her throat. But she cried in a strong voice: "McGurk, d'you know me?" He did not answer. "You murderer, you night-rider! Look again: it's the last of the Boones!"
Clear and loud, though from a great distance, the wind carried up the sound and the echo preserved it: "McGurk!" "McGurk!" repeated Mary. "Yes! And you brought him up here with you, and brought his death to Pierre. What'll you do to save him now? Pierre!" She turned and fled out among the trees, and after her ran Mary, calling, like the other: "Pierre!"
"But all Mary ever saw of him was that second night when she thought she saw a streak of white, traveling like a galloping horse, that disappeared over a hill and into the trees " "A streak of white " "Yes, yes! The white horse McGurk!" "McGurk!" repeated Pierre stupidly; then: "And you knew she would be going out to him when she left this house?"
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 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.
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