Like all his
brotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed forward across the
mountain-desert with his face turned toward the brave tomorrow. In the
evening of his life, if he should live to that time, he would walk and
talk with God.
Now he had no mind save for the bright day coming.
He had been riding with the wind and had scarcely noticed its violence
in his headlong course. Now he felt it whipping sharply at his back
and increasing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear. It seemed
to give vision for the wind and cold to seek him out, and the moon
made his following shadow long and black across the snow.
The wind quickened rapidly to a gale that cut off the surface of the
snow and whipped volleys of the small particles level with the
surface. It cut the neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his
shoulders with staggering force like separate blows, twisting him a
little from side to side.
Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it seemed as if the vengeance
for Diaz was following the slayer. Once he turned and laughed in the
teeth of the wind, and shook his fist back at Morgantown and all the
avenging powers of the law.
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