The stranger went on: "Martin Ryder is finished, as I suppose you know. He left a spawn of two mongrels behind him. I haven't bothered with them, but I'm a little more interested in another son that has cropped up. He's sitting over there in your family party and his name is Pierre. In his own country they call him Pierre le Rouge, which means Red Pierre, in our talk. "You know I've never crossed you in anything before, Jim. Have I?" Boone moistened his white lips and answered: "Never," huskily, as if it were a great muscular effort for him to speak. "This time I have to break the custom. Boone, this fellow Pierre has to leave the country. Will you see that he goes?" The lips of Boone moved and made no sound. He said at length: "McGurk, I'd rather cross the devil than cross you. There's no shame in admitting that. But I've lost my boy, Hal." "Too bad, Jim. I knew Hal; at a distance, of course." "And Pierre is filling Hal's place in the family." "Is that your answer?" "McGurk, are you going to pin me down in this?" And here Jack whirled and cried: "Dad, you won't let Pierre go!" "You see?" pleaded Boone. It was uncanny and horrible to see the giant so unnerved before this stranger, but that part of it did not come to Pierre until later. Now he felt a peculiar emptiness of stomach and a certain jumping chill that traveled up and down his spine. Moreover, he could not move his eyes from the face of McGurk, and he knew at length that this was fear--the first real fear that he had ever known. Shame made him hot, but fear made him cold again. He knew that if he rose his knees would buckle under him; that if he drew out his revolver it would slip from his palsied fingers. For the fear of death is a mighty fear, but it is nothing compared with the fear of man. "I've asked you a question," said McGurk. "What's your answer?" There was a quiver in the black forest of Boone's beard, and if Pierre was cold before, he was sick at heart to see the big man cringe before McGurk. He stammered: "Give me time." "Good," said McGurk. "I'm afraid I know what your answer would be now, but if you take a couple of days you will think things over and come to a reasonable conclusion. I will be at Gaffney's place about fifteen miles from here. You know it? Send your answer there. In the meantime"--he stepped forward to the table and poured a small drink of whisky into a glass and raised it high--"here's to the long health and happiness of us all. Drink!" There was a hasty pouring of liquor. "And you also!" Pierre jumped as if he had been struck, and obeyed the order hastily. "So," said the master, pleasant again, and Pierre wiped his forehead furtively and stared up with fascinated eyes. "An unwilling pledge is better than none at all. To you, gentlemen, much happiness; to you, Pierre le Rouge, bon voyage."