Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre’s voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and said: “Let’s drop the thing, Pierre.”
Pierre looked at him musingly.
“When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?” he asked.
“I will marry her, if she’ll have me.”
“But she is prairie-born, and you!”
“I’m a prairie-rider.”
After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: “So quiet and clean, and the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!”
It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a curious store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman’s power of applying them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half monotone:
“Have you seen the way I have built my nest?
(O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!)
I have trailed the East, I have searched the West,
(O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!)
From South and North I have brought the best:
The feathers fine from an eagle’s crest,
The silken threads from a prince’s vest,
The warm rose-leaf from a maiden’s breast
(O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!).”
They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, chancing to turn round, saw a horseman riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon the man—a Rider of the Plains—was beside them. He had stopped at Throng’s to find Halby, and had followed them. Murder had been committed near the border, and Halby was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with distress, for there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in dismay. Pierre’s face lighted up with the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate enterprises roused him; the impossible had a charm for him.