"
And Pierre sat down, partly because Western men never argue a point
when that little black hole is staring them in the face, partly
because he remembered with a rush that the last time he had fully
possessed his consciousness he had been lying in the snow with the
cross gripped hard and the toppling mass of the landslide above him.
All that had happened between was blotted from his memory. He fumbled
at his throat. The cross was not there. He touched his pockets.
"Ease your hands away from your hip," said the cold voice of the boy,
who had dropped his gun to the ready with a significant finger curled
around the trigger, "or I'll drill you clean."
Pierre obediently raised his hands to the level of his shoulders. The
boy sneered.
"This isn't a hold-up," he explained. "Put 'em down again, but watch
yourself."
The sneer varied to a contemptuous smile.
"I guess you're tame, all right."
"Point that gun another way, will you, son?"
The boy flushed.
"Don't call me son."
"Is this a lockup--a jail?"
"This?"
"What is it, then? The last I remember I was lying in the snow with--"
"I wish to God you'd been let there," said the boy bitterly.
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