If the people in the houses that he passed had known they would have
started up from their chairs and taken rifle and horse and chased
after him on the trail. But how could they tell from the passing of
those ringing hoofs that Pierre, the novice, was dead, and Red
Pierre was born?
So they drowsed on about their comfortable fires, and Pierre drew rein
with a jerk before the largest of Morgantown's saloons. He had to set
his teeth before he could summon the resolution to throw open the
door. It was done; he stepped inside, and stood blinking in the sudden
rush of light against his face.
It was all bewildering at first; the radiance, the blue tangle of
smoke, the storm of voices. For Muldoon's was packed from door to
door. Coins rang in a steady chorus along the bar, and the crowd
waited three and four deep.
Someone was singing a rollicking song of the range at one end of the
bar, and a chorus of four bellowed a profane parody at the other end.
The ears of Pierre le Rouge tingled hotly, and partly to escape the
uproar he worked his way to the quieter room at the back of
the saloon.
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