boy's hand or a short motion to knock off the cigarette ash.
"Did you say 'was' Dick Wilbur?"
"Yes. Did you know him?"
"Heard of him, I think. Kind of a hard one, wasn't he?"
"No, no! A fine, brave, gentle fellow—poor Dick!"
She stopped, her eyes filling with tears at many a memory.
"H-m!" coughed the boy. "I thought he was one of old Boone's gang? If he's dead, that made the last of 'em—except Red Pierre."
It was like the sound of a trumpet call at her ear.
Mary sat up with a start.
"What do you know of Red Pierre?"
The boy flushed a little, and could not quite meet her eye.
"Nothin'."
"At least you know that he's still alive?"
"Sure. Any one does. When he dies the whole range will know about it—damn quick. I know that much about Red Pierre; but who doesn't?"
"I, for one."
"You!"
Strangely enough, there was more of accusation than of surprise in the word.
"Certainly," repeated Mary. "I've only been in this part of the country for a short time. I really know almost nothing about the—the legends."
"Legends?" said the boy, and laughed with a voice of such rich, light music that it took the breath
