GENTLEMAN JOHNNY HAD savored this moment of triumph, with a picked audience at hand so that the humiliation he had suffered in public might be redressed. Only, like Abbott, he had been unable to guard against the unknown or the unforeseen.
In the retrospect it was simple enough, even obvious; and watching the pair of them close in each other’s arms, Montana felt that he’d been not merely obtuse, but dangerously close to dumb. Still, his astonishment was as nothing compared to that of Gentleman Johnny Pierre, a gentleman no longer, his triumph turned to mockery, watching with dismay as Kate Webberly gave a cry and ran to Mike Molloy.
“Oh, Dick!” she repeated, drawing back after a long moment the better to look at him, as though still not quite believing the evidence of her eyes and arms.
“Kate!” he echoed, and both disregarded Pierre’s snarl as he glared, his fury made more bitter by the realization that he had played some small part in bringing them together, finally setting Kate on the deck of the Star.
Montana watched alertly, understanding, admiring. Molly Molloy had played her part well, though there had been times when she had forgotten her accent, and Pritchett had hailed her as Jinny. As for Mike Molloy, he’d been too sick of his wound to need or pretend to be Irish, beyond the name.
The mystery of Dick Webberly’s whereabouts was explained, and not at all to Pierre’s liking. Whatever pretensions to being a gentleman he had cherished, they were forgotten now. He thrust the muzzle of his revolver between them, and Kate drew back with a startled gasp.
“So you turn up here—and maybe you’re together, Kate, but I’m damned if that’s going to cheat me of my rights,” he grated. “It makes a highly touching scene, but—”
“Are you trying to tell us, Johnny, that you’re so little of a gentleman that you’d go back on your part of a bargain, now that Webberly is on his way to his hearing, and Kate has found him again?” Montana cut in.
“I tell you I don’t intend to be cheated, not by a wanted man, that the law will be hanging once it gets its hands on him—”
“Hanging is like a bullet, Pierre—and speaking of a bullet, it would take but a little to cause me to squeeze the trigger,” Montana observed. His voice came softly, contrasting with the stridency in Pierre’s, but at something in the tone Gentleman Johnny’s head jerked. He stared at the leveled gun, fixed as unwinkingly between his eyes as his own weapon was on Dick Webberly.
“Losing your temper, Johnny, was a mistake,” Montana’s voice prodded. “The tables, as you have observed, are quick to turn.”
A few pent-up breaths were expelled in slow sighs, while Pierre eyed the gun and the face behind it. But he was himself again, and he had the aplomb of a gentleman. His shrug was bland.
“You have the drop,” he conceded. “But so do I—on him! And you will not have overlooked the other guns which are on you and on my hostages?” Montana nodded casually.
“That is the way it is,” he agreed. “But one thing you and I both discovered long ago. There is no glory in dying. We would die together, and probably a few others, but to what profit?”
He waited a thoughtful moment, his gun as bland as his words.
“You have been their friend in days past, Johnny, and I have a notion that, when the facts of his sickness through this past winter become known, Dick’s record will be cleared—thanks, in part, to you. And now you have restored Kate to the arms of her husband. A man like yourself will find that a thought to be proud of.”
Pierre, if not a gentleman, was at least a gambler. He pondered, shrugged, and lowered his revolver. His bow to Kate was courteous.
“Happiness to you, my dear,” he said. “I mean it. Put away your guns, boys. We’ll be riding back.” Montana was almost tempted to ride with them. In any case, he’d leave the boat, at Union, but there were still a few details to attend to. Also, he reflected, with a wry smile which no more than twisted the corners of his mouth, he preferred good company. So, as usual, he would ride alone.