Free Max Brand by Riders of the Silences

the
crossroads saloons.
    In that case he becomes immortal. It is not that lies are told about
him or impossible feats ascribed to him, but every detail about him is
seized upon and passed on with a most scrupulous and loving care.
    In due time he will become a tradition. 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.
    Oddly enough, the tradition of Red Pierre did not begin with his ride
from the school of Father Victor to Morgantown, distant many days of
difficult and dangerous travel. Neither did tradition seize on the
gunfight that crippled Hurley and "put out" wizard Diaz. These things
were unquestionably known to many, but they did not strike the popular
imagination. What set men first on fire was the way Pierre le Rouge
buried his father "at the point of the gun" in Morgantown.
    That day Boone's men galloped out of the higher mountains down the
trail toward Morgantown. They stole a wagon out of a ranch stable on
the way and tied two lariats to the tongue. So they towed it, bounding
and rattling, over the rough trail to the house where Martin Ryder
lay dead.
    His body was placed in state in the body of the wagon, pillowed with
everything in the line of cloth which the house could furnish. Thus
equipped they went on at a more moderate pace toward Morgantown.
    What followed it is useless to repeat here. Tradition rehearsed every
detail of that day's work, and the purpose of this narrative is only
to give the details of some of the events which tradition does not
know, at least in their entirety.
    They started at one end of Morgantown's street. Pierre guarded the
wagon in the center of the street and kept the people under cover of
his rifle. The rest of Boone's men cleaned out the houses as they went
and sent the occupants piling out to swell the crowd.
    And so they rolled the crowd out of town and to the cemetery, where
"volunteers" dug the grave of Martin Ryder wide and deep, and Pierre
paid for the corner plot three times over in gold.
    Then a coffin—improvised hastily for the occasion out of a
packing-box—was lowered reverently, also by "volunteer" mourners, and
before the first sod fell on the dead. Pierre raised over his head the
crucifix of Father Victor that brought good luck, and intoned a
service in the purest Ciceronian Latin, surely, that ever regaled
the ears of Morgantown's elect.
    The moment he raised that cross the bull throat of Jim Boone bellowed
a command, the poised guns of the gang enforced it, and all the crowd
dropped to their knees, leaving the six outlaws scattered about the
edges of the mob like sheep dogs around a folding flock, while in the
center stood Pierre with white, upturned face and the raised cross.
    So Martin Ryder was buried with "trimmings," and the gang rode back,
laughing and shouting, through the town and up into the safety of the
mountains. Election day was fast approaching and therefore the rival
candidates for sheriff hastily organized posses and made the usual
futile pursuit.
    In fact, before the pursuit was well under way, Boone and his men sat
at their supper table in the cabin. The seventh chair was filled; all
were present except Jack, who sulked in her room. Pierre went to her
door and knocked. He carried under his arm a package which he had
secured in the General Merchandise Store of Morgantown.
    "We're all waiting for you at the table," he explained.
    "Just keep on waiting," said the husky voice of Jacqueline.
    "I've brought you a present."
    "I hate your presents!"
    "It's a thing you've wanted for a long time, Jacqueline."
    Only a stubborn silence.
    "I'm putting your door a little ajar."
    "If you dare to come in I'll—"
    "And I'm leaving the package right here at the entrance. I'm so sorry,
Jacqueline, that you hate