Riders of the Silences

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Michael Lockey and PG Distributed


Max Brand



The Great West, prior to the century’s turn, abounded in legend.
Stories were told of fabled gunmen whose bullets always magically
found their mark, of mighty stallions whose tireless gallop rivaled
the speed of the wind, of glorious women whose beauty stunned mind and
heart. But nowhere in the vast spread of the mountain-desert country
was there a greater legend told than the story of Red Pierre and the
phantom gunfighter, McGurk.

These two men of the wilderness, so unalike, of widely-differing
backgrounds, had in common a single trait: each was unbeatable. Fate
brought them clashing together, thunder to thunder, lightning to
lightning. They were destined to meet at the crossroads of a long,
long trail … a trail which began in the northern wastes of Canada
and led, finally, to a deadly confrontation in the mountains of the
Far West.

Riders of the Silences


It seemed that Father Anthony gathered all the warmth of the short
northern summer and kept it for winter use, for his good nature was an
actual physical force. From his ruddy face beamed such a kindliness
that people reached out toward him as they might extend their hands
toward a comfortable fire.

All the labors of his work as an inspector of Jesuit institutions
across the length and breadth of Canada could not lessen the good
father’s enthusiasm; his smile was as indefatigable as his critical
eyes. The one looked sharply into every corner of a room and every
nook and hidden cranny of thoughts and deeds; the other veiled the
criticism and soothed the wounds of vanity.

On this day, however, the sharp eyes grew a little less keen and
somewhat wider, while that smile was fixed rather by habit than
inclination. In fact, his expression might be called a frozen
kindliness as he looked across the table to Father Victor.

It required a most indomitable geniality, indeed, to outface the rigid
piety of Jean Paul Victor. His missionary work had carried him far
north, where the cold burns men thin. The zeal which drove him north
and north and north over untracked regions, drove him until his body
failed, drove him even now, though his body was crippled.

A mighty yearning, and a still mightier self-contempt whipped him on,
and the school over which he was master groaned and suffered under his
régime. Father Anthony said gently: “Are there none among all your
lads, dear Father Victor, whom you find something more than imperfect

The man of the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His lean
fingers touched it almost with a caress.

“One. Pierre Ryder. He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, who
am silent, have done much; but Pierre will do more. I had to fight my
first battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left me
weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that
battle, for I have trained him.

“This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days I
have not seen Pierre.”

Father Anthony winced.

He said: “Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad’s company?
Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself with
your own hands. What harm is there in being often with the lad?”

The sneer returned to the lips of Jean Paul Victor.

“The purpose would be lost—lost to my eyes and lost to his—the
purpose for which I have lived and for which he shall live. When I
first saw him he was a child, a baby, but he came to me and took one
finger of my hand in his small fist and looked up to me. Ah,
Gabrielle, the smile of an infant goes to the heart swifter than the
thrust of a knife! I looked down upon him and I knew that I was chosen
to teach the child. There was a voice that spoke in me. You will
smile, but even now I think I can hear it.”

“I swear to you that I believe,” said Father Anthony.

“Another man would have given Pierre a Bible and a Latin grammar and a
cell. I gave him the testament and the grammar; I gave him also the
wild north country to say his prayers in and patter his Latin. I
taught his mind, but I did not forget his body.

“He is to go out among wild men. He must have strength of the spirit.
He must also have a strength of the body that they will understand and
respect. He can ride a horse standing; he can run a hundred miles in a
day behind a dog-team. He can wrestle and fight with his hands, for
skilled men have taught him. I have made him a thunderbolt to hurl
among the ignorant and the unenlightened; and this is the hand which
shall wield it. Ha!

“It is now hardly a six month since he saved a trapper from a bobcat
and killed the animal with a knife. It must have been my prayers which
saved him from the teeth and the claws.”

Good Father Anthony rose.

“You have described a young David. I am eager to see him. Let us go.”

Father Victor nodded, and the two went out together. The chill of the
open was hardly more than the bitter cold inside the building, but
there was a wind that drove the cold through the blood and bones of
a man.

They staggered along against it until they came to a small house, long
and low. On the sheltered side they paused to take breath, and Father
Victor explained: “This is his hour in the gymnasium. To make the body
strong required thought and care. Mere riding and running and swinging
of the ax will not develop every muscle. Here Pierre works every day.
His teachers of boxing and wrestling have abandoned him.”

There was almost a smile on the lean face.

“The last man left with a swollen jaw and limping on one leg.”

Here he opened the door, and they slipped inside. The air was warmed

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