own, 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, and a light of infinite scorn blazed into those great
black eyes.

"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 started and flushed a little.

"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.

But Pierre, overwhelmed with the endeavor to recollect, rushed on with
his questions and paid no heed to the tone.

"I had a cross in my hand--"

The scorn of the boy grew to mighty proportions.

"It's there in the breast-pocket of your shirt."

Pierre drew out the little cross, and the touch of it against his palm
restored whatever of his strength was lacking. Very carefully he
attached it to the chain about his throat. Then he looked up to the
contempt of the boy, and as he did so another memory burst on him and
brought him to his feet. The gun went to the boy's shoulders at the
same time.

"When I was found--was any one else with me?"

"Nope."

"What happened?"

"Must have been buried in the landslide. Half a hill caved in, and the
dirt rolled you down to the bottom. Plain luck, that's all, that kept
you from going out."

"Luck?" said Pierre and he laid his hand against his breast where he
could feel the outline of the cross. "Yes, I suppose it was luck. And
she--"

He sat down slowly and buried his face in his hands. A new tone came
in the voice of the boy. His tone was thrillingly gentle as he asked:
"Was a woman with you?" But Pierre heard only the tone and not