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?"