Produced by Suzanne Shell, Michael Lockey and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
Max Brand
1919
Prologue
The Great West, prior to the century's turn, abounded in legend.Stories were told of fabled gunmen whose bullets always magicallyfound their mark, of mighty stallions whose tireless gallop rivaledthe speed of the wind, of glorious women whose beauty stunned mind andheart. But nowhere in the vast spread of the mountain-desert countrywas there a greater legend told than the story of Red Pierre and thephantom gunfighter, McGurk.
These two men of the wilderness, so unalike, of widely-differingbackgrounds, had in common a single trait: each was unbeatable. Fatebrought them clashing together, thunder to thunder, lightning tolightning. They were destined to meet at the crossroads of a long,long trail … a trail which began in the northern wastes of Canadaand led, finally, to a deadly confrontation in the mountains of theFar West.
Riders of the Silences
It seemed that Father Anthony gathered all the warmth of the shortnorthern summer and kept it for winter use, for his good nature was anactual physical force. From his ruddy face beamed such a kindlinessthat people reached out toward him as they might extend their handstoward a comfortable fire.
All the labors of his work as an inspector of Jesuit institutionsacross the length and breadth of Canada could not lessen the goodfather's enthusiasm; his smile was as indefatigable as his criticaleyes. The one looked sharply into every corner of a room and everynook and hidden cranny of thoughts and deeds; the other veiled thecriticism and soothed the wounds of vanity.
On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little less keen andsomewhat wider, while that smile was fixed rather by habit thaninclination. In fact, his expression might be called a frozenkindliness as he looked across the table to Father Victor.
It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed, to outface the rigidpiety of Jean Paul Victor. His missionary work had carried him farnorth, where the cold burns men thin. The zeal which drove him northand north and north over untracked regions, drove him until his bodyfailed, drove him even now, though his body was crippled.
A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-contempt whipped him on,and the school over which he was master groaned and suffered under hisrégime. Father Anthony said gently: "Are there none among all yourlads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something more than imperfectmachines?"
The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His leanfingers touched it almost with a caress.
"One. Pierre Ryder. He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, whoam silent, have done much; but Pierre will do more. I had to fight myfirst battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left meweak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight thatbattle, for I have trained him.
"This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days Ihave not seen Pierre."
Father Anthony winced.
He said: "Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad's company?Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself withyour own hands. What harm is there in being often with the lad?"
The sneer returne