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. 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 anyone 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 as he asked: "Was a woman with you?" But Pierre heard only the tone and not the words. His face was gray when he looked up again, and his voice hard. "Tell me as briefly as you can how I come here, and who picked me up." "My father and his men. They passed you lying on the snow. They brought you home." "Who is your father?" The boy stiffened and his color rose. "My father is Jim Boone." Instinctively, while he stared, the right hand of Pierre le Rouge crept toward his hip. "Keep your hand steady," said the boy. "I got a nervous trigger-finger. Yeh, dad is pretty well known." "You're his son?" "I'm Jack Boone." "But I've heard--tell me, why am I under guard?" Jack was instantly aflame with the old anger. "Not because I want you here."