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?"
"You could try till rattlers got tame, but it'd take ten like you to make one like Hal. He was dad's own son—he was my brother."
The sob came openly now, and the tears were a bright mist in the boy's eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Pierre."
"Pierre? I suppose I got to learn it"
"I suppose so." And he edged farther forward, so that he was sitting only on the edge of the bunk.
"Please do." And he gathered his feet under him, ready for a spring forward and a grip at the boy's threatening rifle.
Jack had canted his head a little to one side, smiling faintly for the joy of the memory.
"Did you ever see a horse that was gentle and yet had never been ridden, or his spirit broke, Pierre—"
Here Pierre made his leap swift as some bobcat of the northern woods; his hand whipped out as lightning fast as the striking paw of the lynx, and the gun was jerked from the hands of Jack. Not before the boy clutched at it with a cry of horror, but the force of the pull sent him lurching to the floor and broke his grip.
He was up in an instant, however, and a knife of ugly length glittered in his hand; as he sprang at Pierre his lips were as white as the teeth over which they snarled.
Pierre tossed aside the rifle and met the attack
