by Max Brand
“Open the window on the veranda,” said Joe Cumberland. “I want to feel the wind.”
The doctor obeyed the instruction, and again he noted that same quiet, contented smile on the lips of the old man. For some reason it made him ill at ease to see it.
“He won’t get here for eight or ten hours,” went on Buck Daniels, easing himself into a more comfortable position, and raising his head a little higher. “Ten hours more, even if he does come. That’ll give me a chance to rest up; right now I’m kind of shaky.”
“A condition, you will observe, in which Mr. Barry will also be when he arrives,” remarked the doctor.
“Shaky?” grinned Buck Daniels. “M’frien’, you don’t know that bird!” He sat up, clenching his fist. “And if Dan does come, he can’t affo’d to press me too far! I’ll take so much, and then—”
He struck his fist on the arm of the chair.
“Buck!” cried Kate Cumberland. “Are you mad? Have you lost your reason? Would you face him?”
Buck Daniels winced, but he then shook his head doggedly.
“He had his chance down in Brownsville,” he said. “And he didn’t take it. Why? Because my back was turned? Well, he could of got in front of me if he’d been terrible anxious. I’ve seen Dan in action; he’s seen me in action! Maybe he’s seen too much. They’ve been stranger things than that, in this world!” He hitched his belt so that the butt of his revolver came farther forward. But now Kate Cumberland advised: “Buck, you’re tired out; you don’t know what you’re saying. Better go up to bed.”
He flushed a ruddy bronze.
“D’you think I’m jest talkin’ words, Kate, to hear myself talk?”
“Listen!” broke in Joe Cumberland, and raised a bony forefinger for silence.
* * * * *
And the doctor noted a great change in the old man. There was no longer a tremor in his body. There was only a calm and smiling expectation — a certainty. A tinge of colour was in his withered face for the first time since Byrne had come to the ranch, and now the cattleman raised his finger with such an air of calm authority that at once every voice in the room was stilled.
“D’ye hear?”
They did not. They heard only the faint rushing of the air through the window. The flame danced in the chimney of the lamp and changed the faces in phantastic alteration. One and all, they turned and faced the window. Still there was not a sound audible, but the doctor felt as if the noise were approaching. He knew it as surely as if he could see some far-off object moving near and nearer. And he knew, as clearly, that the others in the room felt the same thing. He turned his glance from the window towards Kate Cumberland. Her face was upturned. There was about it a transparent pallor; the eyes were large and darkly ringed; the lips parted into the saddest and the most patient of smiles; and the slender fingers were interwoven and pressed against the base of her throat.
For the first time he saw how the fire that was so manifest in the old man had been consuming her, also. It left no mark of the coming of death upon her. But it had burned her pure and left her transparent as crystal. Pity swelled in the throat of Byrne as he realised the anguish of her long waiting. Fear mingled with his pity. He felt that something was coming which would seize on her as the wind seizes on the dead leaf, whirling her off into an infinity of storm and darkness into which he could not follow a single pace.
He turned back towards the window. The rush of air played steadily, and then in pulses, upon his face. Then even the wind ceased; as if it, too, were waiting. Not a sound. But silence has a greater voice than discord or music. It seemed to Byrne that he could tell how fast each heart was beating.
The old man had closed his eyes again. And yet the rigid forefinger remained raised, and the faint smile touched at the corners of his mouth. Buck Daniels sat lunging forward in his chair, his knees supporting his elbows, and scowled up at the window with a sort of sullen terror.
Then Byrne heard it — so small a voice that at first he thought it was only a part of the silence. It grew and grew — in a sudden burst it was clear to every ear — the honking of the wild geese!
And Byrne knew the picture they made. He could see them far up in the sky — a dim triangle of winter grey — moving with the beat of lightning wings each in an arrowy flight north, and north, and north. Creatures for sport all the world over; here alone, in all the earth, in the heart of this mountain-desert, they were in some mysterious wise messengers. Once more the far discord showered down upon them, died as they rose, perhaps, to a higher level, and was heard no more.
20. THE COMING
THEN A PADDING step, light, lighter than the sound of the softest thought. It was passing near; the faint breeze blew the sound to them, around them, behind them. Each man felt as if some creature were stalking him, unseen. Next — it appeared by magic against the blue black of the night — the head of a great wolf, quite black, shaggy, with sharply pointed ears. And the eyes stared at them, green eyes with lights that swirled as the flame jumped in the throat of the lamp. For a long moment the horror lasted. Then the head, as it had come, disappeared, and the light, light foot fall, faded away.
Buck Daniels had risen, now. The sound of his whisper made them start.
“I’m going up — to my room — and lock the door — for God’s sake — keep — him away!”
And so he stole soundlessly away, and then they heard the creaks which announced his progress up the stairs.
Not Buck Daniels alone. In the deadly silence Kate rose to her feet; and the old man, the invalid — he with the dead body and the living brain, rose from his couch and stood as erect as a soldier on parade. The doctor was conscious of repeating to himself, hurriedly, a formula something like this: “The thing which is coming is human; it cannot be more than human; as long as it is human it is nothing to fear; the laws of truth are irrevocably fixed; the laws of science will not change.” Yet in spite of this formula he was deadly cold, as if a wind were blowing through his naked soul. It was not fear. It was something beyond fear, and he would not have been otherwhere for any reward. All his mind remained poised, expectant, as the astronomer waits for the new star which his calculations have predicted to enter the field of his telescope.
He caught the sound of another horse coming, far different even to his unpracticed ear from the beat of hoofs which announced the coming of Buck Daniels. The rhythm of their fall was slower, as if the stride of the animal were much longer. He pictured a mighty creature with a vast mane blown back against the chest of a giant rider. There was a murmur from Kate: “Dan, my dear, my dear!”
Then he heard a padding footfall, hardly louder than the light, light step of the wolf. The knob of the door turned slowly, without a sound; it opened, and a man stepped in. He was not larger than the doctor — a slender fellow, almost dapper in his dress, with hardly a sign of travel about him, except that the brim of his sombrero was folded back from his face as if from continual pressure of wind. These things Randall Byrne noted vaguely; what he was sharply aware of were the eyes of the man. He had the feeling that he had seen them before; he remembered the yellow light that had swirled in the eyes of the wolf at the window.
The newcomer flashed a glance about the room, yet for all its speed it seemed to linger an instant on each face, and when it crossed the stare of Byrne the doctor shrank.
“Where is Buck?” asked the man. “I’ve come for him!”
As if in answer, the great, shaggy dog slipped through the entrance past his master and glided across the room. As he passed, Kate held out a hand to him. She called softly: “Bart!” but she was greeted with a silent baring of fangs; and she caught her hand back against her breast, with the tears springing in her eyes. On the other side of the room the black dog paused and looked back to his master, while Byrne realised with a shudder that the door before which it stood was the door through which Buck Daniels had disappeared. Straight to that door Barry stepped, and Byrne realised, with an eerie emotion, that the footf
alls made no sound.
Before he reached the door, however, the girl started forward and sprang before him. With her outstretched arms she barred the way. Her skirt brushed almost in the face of the dog, and the beast shrank away not in fear, but crouching in readiness to leap. The sharp ears twitched back; a murderous snarl rolled up from between the wicked teeth. Yet she did not cast a single glance at him; she faced the greater danger.
She was saying: “Whatever Buck did, it wasn’t done to hurt you, Dan; it was done for your own sake. And for Dad’s sake. You shan’t pass here!”
From his position, the doctor could not see the face of Dan Barry, but he guessed at it through the expression of Kate. Such terror and horror were in her eyes as though she were facing a death’s head inches away. Then he saw the slender hand of Barry rise and move towards the girl, slowly, tremblingly, as though one fierce impulse urged him to thrust her to one side and as though another held back his arm. The doctor could not watch the girl longer; fear and pity were wringing him as he lowered his glance to the floor.
Then he heard her cry: “Have you forgotten me, like Bart? Like Bart, have you forgotten me, Dan?”
His hand fell to his side and he glided back from her; but now Byrne could see that the eyes of Barry were looking past the girl, as though he stared through the solid wood of the door and found his prey beyond it. The stranger slipped towards the door by which he had entered, with the great dog slinking at his heels. Kate Cumberland leaned heavily against the wall, her arm thrown across her face, but there was no consciousness of her in the face of Barry. Yet at the very door he paused and straightened; Byrne saw that he was staring towards Joe Cumberland; and the old man reached a bony hand out.
“Oh, lad,” he said softly, “I been waitin’ for you years an’ years, seems like!”
Barry crossed the room as noiselessly, as swiftly, as a flying shadow.
“Sit down!” he commanded, and Byrne caught a faint ring in the voice, like the shiver of metal striking steel.
Joe Cumberland obeyed without a word, and then lay back at full length upon the couch — a palsy had seized on him, and the hand which rested on the shoulder of Dan Barry was shaking. By the couch came the tall dog, and crouched, staring up in the master’s face; then the younger man turned his face towards Byrne and the girl. Those thin-cut nostrils expanded, the lips compressed, and Byrne dared not look into the flare of the eyes.
“Who done this?” asked Barry, and still the shiver of cold metal rang in his voice. “Who’s done this?”
“Steady, lad,” said Joe Cumberland faintly. “They ain’t no call for fightin’. Steady, Dan, boy. An’ don’t leave me!”
Byrne caught a signal from Kate and followed her obediently from the room.
“Let them be alone,” she said.
“Impossible!” protested the doctor. “Your father is lapsed into a most dangerous condition. The physical inertia which has held him for so long is now broken and I look for a dangerous mental and nervous collapse to accompany it. A sedative is now imperative!”
He laid his hand on the knob of the door to return, but the girl blocked his way.
“Don’t go in,” she commanded feebly. “I can’t explain to you. All I can say is that Dad was the one who found Dan Barry and there’s something between them that none of us understand. But I know that he can help Dad. I know Dad is in no danger while Dan is with him.”
“A pleasant superstition,” nodded the doctor, “but medicine, my dear Miss Cumberland, does not take account of such things.”
“Doctor Byrne,” she said, rallying a failing strength for the argument, “I insist. Don’t ask me to explain.”
“In that case,” he answered coldly, “I cannot assume responsibility for what may happen.”
She made a gesture of surrender, weakly.
“Look back in on them now,” she said. “If you don’t find father quiet, you may go in to him.”
Doctor Byrne obeyed, opening the door softly. He saw Joe Cumberland prone, of course, upon the couch. One hand lay as usual across his breast, but the other was at his side, clasped in the hands of Dan Barry. The old cattleman slept. Yes, there was no doubt that for the first time in many days he slumbered soundly. The lean, narrow chest rose and fell with deep, slow breaths; the eyes were closed, and there was no twitching of muscles to betray ragged nerves or a mind that dreamed fiercely while the body slept. Far over the sleeping man leaned the stranger, as if he were peering closely into the closed eyes of Joe Cumberland. There was a tenseness of watching and waiting in his attitude, like the runner on the mark, or like the burden-bearer lifting a great weight, and Byrne gathered, in some mysterious manner, the impression that Barry sent through his hands and into the body of Cumberland a continual stream of nervous strength — an electric thing. Nonsense, of course. And it was nonsense, also, to think that the huge dog which lay staring up into the face of the master understood all this affair much better than the practiced mind of the physician. Yet the illusion held with Randall Byrne in spite of all his scepticism.
He was certain that he had made not the slightest sound in opening the door, but presently the head of the watcher turned slowly, and Byrne was looking into those same yellow, terrible eyes. At the same instant the sick man moaned faintly. The doctor closed the door as softly as he had opened it and turned a drawn face upon Kate Cumberland.
“I don’t understand; it isn’t possible!” he whispered.
“No one understands,” said the girl, and smiled mirthlessly. “Don’t try to, Doctor Byrne. Go to bed, and sleep. If you can. Good night.”
“But you,” said Byrne, following her, “are almost as ill as your father. Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“You?” she asked, surprised. “No, nothing.”
“But there’s not the slightest colour in your face. And you are trembling, Miss Cumberland!”
She did not seem to hear him.
“Will he stay?” she asked of herself. “Will he leave before the morning?”
“I shall see that he stays,” said the doctor. “I will stay here outside the door and see that he does not leave, if you wish.”
Once more she smiled in that baffling manner.
“Could you keep the wind from blowing, Doctor Byrne? If I thought that he could be kept—” she stopped. “He has forgotten us. He has forgotten all of us except Dad. And if Dad cannot keep him, nothing will keep him. It’s useless for you to wait here. Good night again, Doctor Byrne.”
He watched her up the stairs. By the dim light he saw her hand catching at the balustrade as if she were drawing herself up, step by step. When she reached the landing and turned half towards him, he saw that her head was fallen.
“Not a glance, not a thought for me,” murmured the doctor. “But if the stranger does leave—” Instead of finishing the muttered sentences, he drew a chair back against the wall and sat down with folded hands to wait.
21. MAC STRANN DECIDES TO KEEP THE LAW
IT WAS HOURS later that night when Haw-Haw Langley and Mac Strann sat their horses on the hill to the south. Before them, on the nearest rise of ground, a clump of tall trees and the sharp triangle of a roof split the sky, while down towards the right spread a wide huddle of sheds and barns.
“That’s where the trail ends,” said Mac Strann, and started his horse down the slope. Haw-Haw Langley urged his little mount hurriedly alongside the squat bulk of his companion. He looked like the skeleton reality, and Mac Strann the blunt, deformed shadow.
“You ain’t going into the house lookin’ for him, Mac?” he asked, and he lowered his voice to a sharp whisper in spite of the distance. “Maybe there’s a pile of men in that house. It’s got room for a whole army. You ain’t going in there by yourself, Mac?”
“Haw-Haw,” explained the big man quietly, “I ain’t going after Barry. I’m going to make him come after me.”
Haw-Haw considered this explanation for a dazed moment. It was far too mysterious for his comp
rehension.
“What you goin’ to do?” he asked again.
“Would you know that black hoss agin if you seen him?” asked Mac Strann.
“In a thousand.”
“That hoss has had a long ride; and Barry has put him in one of them barns, they ain’t no doubt. Most like, the dog is with the hoss.”
“It looks a considerable lot like a wolf,” muttered Langley. “I wouldn’t choose meetin’ up with that dog in the dark. Besides, what good is it goin’ to do you to find the dog?”
“If you hurt a man’s dog,” explained Mac Strann calmly, “you’re hurting the man, ain’t you? I’m going to hurt this man’s dog; afterwards the dog’ll bring the man to me. They ain’t no doubt of that. I ain’t goin’ to kill the dog. I’m goin’ to jest nick him so’s he’ll get well and then hit my trail.”
“What sense is they in that?”
“If Barry comes to me, ain’t he the one that’s breakin’ the law? If I kill him then, won’t it be in self-defense? I ain’t no law-breaker, Haw-Haw. It ain’t any good bein’ a law-breaker. Them lawyers can talk a man right into a grave. They’s worse nor poison. I’d rather be caught in a bear trap a hundred miles from my shack than have a lawyer fasten onto my leg right in the middle of Brownsville. No, Haw-Haw, I ain’t going to break any law. But I’m going to fix the wolf so’s he’ll know me; and when he gets well he’ll hit my trail, and when he hits my trail he’ll have Barry with him. And when Barry sees me, then—” he raised his arms above him in the dark. “Then!” breathed Mac Strann, “Jerry can start sleepin’ sound for the first time!”
Haw-Haw Langley wrapped his long arms about himself.
“An’ I’ll be there to watch. I’ll be there to see fair play, don’t you never doubt it, Mac. Why didn’t I never go with you before? Why, Jerry never done anything to touch this! But be careful, Mac. Don’t make no slip up to-night. If they’s trouble — I ain’t a fighting man, Mac. I ain’t no ways built for it.”