Riders of the Silences

Riders of the Silences, by John
Frederick,

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Title: Riders of the Silences
Author: John Frederick

Release Date: December 7, 2006 [eBook #20044]
Language: English
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RIDERS OF THE SILENCES
by
JOHN FREDERICK
With Frontispiece by Frank Tenney Johnson

[Frontispiece: Each one of them should have ridden alone to be
properly appreciated. To see them together was like watching a flock of
eagles.]

A. L. Burt Company Publishers -------- New York Published by
arrangement with The H. K. Fly Company Copyright, 1920, by The H.
K. Fly Company Copyright, 1920, The Munsey Co.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.
The Thunderbolt II. Irene III. The Launching of The Bolt IV. The
Corner Plot V. Hurley VI. Fear VII. The Voice in The Storm VIII.
Belief IX. Riders of The Silences X. The Guard XI. Jack Grows Up XII.
The Burial XIII. A Tale of The Sledge XIV. McGurk XV. Gold Hair
XVI. Ennui XVII. Black Gandil XVIII. Five Minutes' Silence XIX.
Partners XX. Full Dress XXI. The Dance XXII. The Overtone XXIII.

The Fear of The Living XXIV. The Luck of The Shipwrecked XXV.
Jacqueline Waits XXVI. A Game of Suppose XXVII. The Trail
XXVIII. A Hint of White XXIX. Jack XXX. The Whisper of The Knife
XXXI. Laughter XXXII. A Tale of A Careless Man XXXIII. A Count
To Ten XXXIV. Tiger-Heart XXXV. Jack Hears a Small Voice
XXXVI. A Voice in The Night XXXVII. A Man's Death XXXVIII.
The Waiting XXXIX. The Cross Goes On

RIDERS OF THE SILENCES
CHAPTER I
THE THUNDERBOLT
It seemed that Father Anthony gathered all the warmth of the short
northern summer and kept it for winter use, for his good nature was an
actual physical force. From his ruddy face beamed such an ardent
kindliness that people literally reached out towards him as they might
extend their hands toward a comfortable fire.
All the labors of his work as an Inspector of Jesuit institutions across
the length and breadth of Canada could not lessen the flame of the good
father's enthusiasm; his smile was as indefatigable as his critical eyes.
The one looked sharply into every corner of a room and every nook and
hidden cranny of thoughts and deeds; the other veiled the criticism and
soothed the wounds of vanity.
On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little less keen and
somewhat wider, while that smile was fixed rather by habit than
inclination. In fact, his expression might be called a frozen kindliness
as he looked across the table to Father Victor.
It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed, to outface the rigid
piety of Jean Paul Victor. His missionary work had carried him far
north, where the cold burns men thin. The eternal frost of the Arctics
lay on his hair, and his starved eyes looked out from hollows shadowed

with blue. He might have posed for a painting of one of those damned
souls whom Dante placed in the frozen circle of the "Inferno."
It was his own spirit which tortured him--the zeal which drove him
north and north and north over untracked regions, drove him until his
body failed, 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
his régime, and the disciples caught his spirit and went out like warriors
in the name of God to spread the faith.
He despised them as he despised himself, for he said continually in his
heart: "How great is the purpose and how little is our labor!"
Some such thought as that curled his thin lip as he stared across at
Father Anthony like a wolf that has not eaten for a fortnight. The good
father sustained the gaze, but he shivered a little and sighed. There was
awe, and pity, and even a touch of horror in his eyes.
He said gently: "Are there none among all your lads, dear Father Victor,
whom you find something more than imperfect machines?"
The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His
marvelously lean fingers touched it almost