Riders of the Silences | Page 4

out the folded paper and moved a
little nearer the light. Then he read aloud, as if it had never entered his
mind that what was addressed to him might be meant for his eyes
alone.
"Morgantown,
"R.F.D. No. 4.
"SON PIERRE:
"Here I lie with a chunk of lead from the gun of Bob McGurk resting
somewheres in the insides of me, and there ain't no way of doubting
that I'm about to go out. Now, I ain't complaining none. I've had my
fling. I've eat my meat to order, well done and rare--mostly rare. Maybe

some folks will be saying that I've got what I've been asking for, and I
know that Bob McGurk got me fair and square, shooting from the hip.
That don't help me none, lying here with a through ticket to some place
that's farther south than Texas.
"Hell ain't none too bad for me, I know. I ain't whining none. I just lie
here and watch the world getting dimmer until I begin to be seeing
things out of my past. That shows the devil ain't losing no time with me.
But the thing that comes back oftenest and hits me the hardest is the
sight of your mother, lying with you in the hollow of her arm and
looking up at me and whispering, 'Dad,' just before she went out."
The hand of the boy fell, and his eyes sought the face of Father Victor.
The latter was standing.
"You told me I had no father--"
An imperious arm stretched toward him.
"Give me the letter."
He moved to obey, and then checked himself.
"This is my father's writing, is it not?"
"No, no! It's a lie, Pierre!"
But Pierre stood with the letter held behind his back, and the first doubt
in his life stood up darkly in his eyes. Father Victor sank slowly back
into his chair, his gaunt frame trembling.
"Read on," he commanded.
And Pierre, white of face, read on:
"So I got a idea that I had to write to you, Pierre. There ain't nothing I
can make up to you, but knowing the truth may help some. Poor kid,
you ain't got no father in the eyes of the law, and neither did you have
no mother, and there ain't no name that belongs to you by rights.

"I was a man in them days, and your mother was a woman that brought
your heart into your throat and set it singing. She and me, we were too
busy being just plain happy to care much about what was right or
wrong; so you just sort of happened along, Pierre. Me being so close to
hell, I remember her eyes that was bluer than heaven looking up to me,
and her hair, that was copper with gold lights in it.
"I buried Irene on the side of the mountain under a big, rough rock, and
I didn't carve nothing on the rock. Then I took you, Pierre, and I knew I
wasn't no sort of a man to raise up the son of Irene; so I brought you to
Father Victor on a winter night and left you in his arms. That was after
I'd done my best to raise you and you was just about old enough to
chatter a bit. There wasn't nothing else to do. My wife, she went pretty
near crazy when I brought you home. And she'd of killed you, Pierre, if
I hadn't took you away.
"You see, I was married before I met Irene. So there ain't no alibi for
me. But me being so close to hell now, I look back to that time, and
somehow I see no wrong in it still.
"And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. Here I
lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of the
room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolves
in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When I go
out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot,
maybe.
"Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that cares,
and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going to lie here and have
my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So I'm writing to you, Pierre,
part to tell you what you ought to know; part because I got a sort of
crazy idea that maybe you could get down here to me before I go out.
"You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you don't try
to come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow you all