by Max Brand
“Shut your mouth,” said Mac Strann bluntly. “I need quiet now.”
For they were now close to the house. Mac Strann brought his horse to a jog trot and cast a semi-circle skirting the house and bringing him behind the barns. Here he retreated to a little jutting point of land from behind which the house was invisible, and there dismounted.
Haw-Haw Langley followed example reluctantly. He complained: “I ain’t never heard before of a man leavin’ his hoss behind him! It ain’t right and it ain’t policy.”
His leader, however, paid no attention to this grumbling. He skirted back behind the barns, walking with a speed which extended even the long legs of Haw-Haw Langley. Most of the stock was turned out in the corrals. Now and then a horse stamped, or a bull snorted from the fenced enclosures, but from the barns they heard not a sound. Now Mac Strann paused. They had reached the largest of the barns, a long, low structure.
“This here,” said Mac Strann, “is where that hoss must be. They wouldn’t run a hoss like that with others. They’d keep him in a big stall by himself. We’ll try this one, Haw-Haw.”
But Haw-Haw drew back at the door. The interior was black as the hollow of a throat as soon as Mac Strann rolled back the sliding door, and Haw-Haw imagined evil eyes glaring and twinkling at him along the edges of the darkness.
“The wolf!” he cautioned, grasping the shoulder of his companion. “You ain’t goin’ to walk onto that wolf, Mac?”
The latter struck down Haw-Haw’s hand.
“A wolf makes a noise before it jumps,” he whispered, “and that warnin’ is all the light I need.”
Now their eyes grew somewhat accustomed to the dark and Haw-Haw could make out, vaguely, the posts of the stalls to his right. He could not tell whether or not some animal might be lying down between the posts, but Mac Strann, pausing at every stall, seemed to satisfy himself at a glance. Right down the length of the barn they passed until they reached a wall at the farther end.
“He ain’t here,” sighed Haw-Haw, with relief. “Mac, if I was you, I’d wait till they was light before I went huntin’ that wolf.”
“He ought to be here,” growled Mac Strann, and lighted a match. The flame spurted in a blinding flash from the head of the match and then settled down into a steady yellow glow. By that brief glow Mac Strann looked up and down the wall. The match burned out against the calloused tips of his fingers.
“That wall,” mused Strann, “ain’t made out of the same timber as the side of the barn. That wall is whole years newer. Haw-Haw, that ain’t the end of the barn. They’s a holler space beyond it.” He lighted another match, and then cursed softly in delight. “Look!” he commanded.
At the farther side of the wall was the glitter of metal — the latch of a door opening in the wooden wall. Mac Strann set it ajar and Haw-Haw peered in over the big man’s shoulder. He saw first a vague and formless glimmer. Then he made out a black horse lying down in the centre of a box stall. The animal plunged at once to its feet, and crowding as far as possible away against the wall, turned its head and stared at them with flashing eyes.
“It’s him!” whispered Haw-Haw. “It’s Barry’s black. They ain’t another hoss like him on the range. An’ the wolf — thank God! — ain’t with him.”
But Mac Strann closed the door of the stall, frowning thoughtfully, and thought on the face of Strann was a convulsion of pain. He dropped the second match to his feet, where it ignited a wisp of straw that sent up a puff of light.
“Ah-h!” drawled Mac Strann. “The wolf ain’t here, but we’ll soon have him here. And the thing that brings him here will get rid of the black hoss.”
“Are you goin’ to steal the hoss?”
“Steal him? He couldn’t carry me two mile, a skinny hoss like that. But if Barry ever gets away agin on that hoss I ain’t never goin’ to catch him. That hoss has got to die.”
Haw-Haw Langley caught his breath with a harsh gurgle. For men of the mountain-desert sometimes fall very low indeed, but in their lowest moments it is easier for him to kill a man than a horse. There is the story, for instance, of the cattleman who saw the bull-fight in Juarez, and when the bull gored the first horse the cowpuncher rose in the crowd and sent a bullet through the picador to square the deal. So Haw-Haw sighed.
“Mac,” he whispered, “has it got to be done? Ain’t there any other way? I’ve seen that hoss. When the sun hits him it sets him on fire, he’s that sleek. And his legs is like drawn-iron, they’re that fine. And he’s got a head that’s finer than a man’s head, Mac.”
“I’ve seen him close enough,” answered Mac Strann grimly. “An’ I’ve follered him for a day and a half, damn near. S’pose Barry finds out I’m on his trail; s’pose he won’t foller the wolf when the wolf tries to lead him to me. S’pose he gets on this hoss and cuts away? Can I foller the wind, Haw-Haw? This hoss has got to die!”
From the manger he threw out several armfuls of hay, wrenched down from behind the manger several light boards, and tossed them on the hay. He lighted a match and was approaching the small flame to the pile of inflammables when Haw-Haw Langley cried softly: “Hark, Mac!”
The big man instantly extinguished the match. For a moment they could distinguish nothing, but then they heard the sharp, high chorus of the wild geese flying north. Haw-Haw Langley snickered apologetically.
“That was what I heard a minute ago!” he said. “And it sounded like voices comin’.”
A snarl of contempt came from Mac Strann; then he scratched another match and at once the flame licked up the side of the hay and cast a long arm up the wooden wall.
“Out of this, quick!” commanded Mac Strann, and they started hastily down the barn towards the door. The fire behind them, after the puff of flame from the hay, had died away to a ghastly and irregular glow with the crackle of the slowly catching wood. It gave small light to guide them — only enough, indeed, to deceive the eye. The posts of the stalls grew into vast, shadowy images; the irregularities of the floor became high places and pits alternately. But when they were halfway to the door, Haw-Haw Langley saw a form too grim to be a shadow, blocking their path. It was merely a blacker shape among the shades, but Haw-Haw was aware of the two shining eyes, and stopped short in his tracks.
“The wolf!” he whispered to Mac Strann. “Mac, what’re we goin’ to do?”
The other had not time to answer, for the shadow at the door of the barn now leaped towards them, silently, without growl or yelp or snarl. As if to guide the battle, the kindling wood behind them now ignited and sent up a yellow burst of light. By it Haw-Haw Langley saw the great beast clearly, and he leaped back behind the sheltering form of Mac Strann. As for Mac, he did not move or flinch from the attack. His revolver was in his hand, levelled, and following the swift course of Black Bart.
22. PATIENCE
THERE IS ONE patience greater than the endurance of the cat at the hole of the mouse or the wolf which waits for the moose to drop, and that is the patience of the thinking man; the measure of the Hindoo’s moveless contemplation of Nirvana is not in hours but in weeks or even in months. Randall Byrne sat at his sentinel post with his hands folded and his grave eyes steadily fixed before him, and for hour after hour he did not move. Though the wind rose, now and again, and whistled through the upper chambers or mourned down the empty halls, Randall Byrne did not stir so much as an eyelash in observance. Two things held him fascinated. One was the girl who had passed up yonder stairs so wearily without a single backward glance at him; the other was the silent battle which went on in the adjoining room. Now and then his imagination wandered away to secondary pictures. He would see Barry meeting Buck Daniels, at last, and striking him down as remorselessly as the hound strikes the hare; or he would see him riding back towards Elkhead and catch a bright, sad vision of Kate Cumberland waving a careless adieu to him, and then hear her singing carelessly as she turned away. Such pictures as these, however, came up but rarely in the mind of Byrne. Mostly he thought of the stranger
leaning over the body of old Joe Cumberland, reviving him, restoring him with electric energy, paying back, as it were, some ancient debt. And he thought of the girl as she had turned at the landing place of the stairs, her head fallen; and he thought of her lying in her bed, with her arm under the mass of bright hair, trying to sleep, very tired, but remorsely held awake by that same power which was bringing Joe Cumberland back from the verge of death.
It was all impossible. This thing could not be. It was really as bad as the yarn of the Frankenstein monster. He considered how it would seem in print, backed by his most solemn asseverations, and then he saw the faces of the men who associated with him, pale thoughtful faces striving to conceal their smiles and their contempt. But always he came back, like the desperate hare doubling on his course, upon the picture of Kate Cumberland there at the turning of the stairs, and that bent, bright head which confessed defeat. The man had forgotten her. It made Byrne open his eyes in incredulity even to imagine such a thing. The man had forgotten her! She was no more to him than some withered hag he might ride past on the road.
His ear, subconsciously attentive to everything around him, caught a faint sound from the next room. It was a regular noise. It had the rhythm of a quick footfall, but in its nature it was more like the sound of a heavily beating pulse. Randall Byrne sat up in his chair. A faint creaking attested that it was, indeed, a footfall traversing the room to and fro, steadily.
The stranger, then, no longer leaned over the couch of the old cattleman. He was walking up and down the floor with that characteristic, softly padding step. Of what did he think as he walked? It carried Byrne automatically out into the darkest night, with a wind in his face, and the rhythm of a long striding horse carrying him on to a destination unknown.
Here he heard a soft scratching, repeated, at the door. When it came again he rose and opened the door — at once the tall, shaggy dog slipped through the opening and glided past him. It startled Byrne oddly to see the animal stealing away, as if Barry himself had been leaving. He called to the beast, but he was met by a silent baring of white fangs that stopped him in his tracks. The great dog was gone without a sound, and Byrne closed the door again without casting a look inside. He was stupidly, foolishly afraid to look within.
After that the silence had a more vital meaning. No pictures crowded his brain. He was simply keyed to a high point of expectancy, and therefore, when the door was opened silently, he sprang up as if in acknowledgment of an alarm and faced Barry. The latter closed the door behind him and glided after the big dog. He had almost crossed the big room when Byrne was able to speak.
“Mr. Barry!” he called.
The man hesitated.
“Mr. Barry,” he repeated.
And Dan Barry turned. It was something like the act of the wolf the moment before — a swift movement, a flash of the eyes in something like defiance.
“Mr. Barry, are you leaving us?”
“I’m going outside.”
“Are you coming back?”
“I dunno.”
A great joy swelled in the throat of Doctor Byrne. He felt like shouting in triumph; yet he remembered once more how the girl had gone up the stairs, wearily, with fallen head. He decided that he would do what he could to keep the stranger with them, and though Randall Byrne lived to be a hundred he would never do a finer thing than what he attempted then. He stepped across the room and stood before Barry, blocking the way.
“Sir,” he said gravely, “if you go now, you will work a great sorrow in this house.”
A glint of anger rose in the eyes of Barry.
“Joe Cumberland is sleepin’ soun’,” he answered. “He’ll be a pile rested when he wakes up. He don’t need me no more.”
“He’s not the only one who needs you,” said Byrne. “His daughter has been waiting impatiently for your coming, sir.”
The sharp glance of Barry wavered away.
“I’d kind of like to stay,” he murmured, “but I got to go.”
A dull voice called from the next room.
“It’s Joe Cumberland,” said Byrne. “You see, he is not sleeping!”
The brow of Barry clouded, and he turned gloomily back.
“Maybe I better stay,” he agreed.
Yet before he made a step Byrne heard a far-away honking of the wild geese, that musical discord carrying for uncounted miles through the windy air. The sound worked like magic on Barry. He whirled back.
“I got to go,” he repeated.
And yet Byrne blocked the way. It required more courage to do that than to do anything he had ever attempted in his life. The sweat poured out from under his armpits as the stranger stepped near; the blood rushed from his face as he stared into the eyes of Barry — eyes which now held an uncanny glimmer of yellow light.
“Sir,” said Byrne huskily, “you must not go! Listen! Old Cumberland is calling to you again! Does that mean nothing? If you have some errand out in the night, let me go for you.”
“Partner,” said the soft voice of Barry, “stand aside. I got no time, I’m wanted!”
Every muscle of Randall Byrne’s body was set to repulse the stranger in any effort to pass through that door, and yet, mysteriously, against his will, he found himself standing to one side, and saw the other slip through the open door.
“Dan! Are ye there?” called a louder voice from the room beyond.
There was no help for it. He, himself, must go back and face Joe Cumberland. With a lie, no doubt. He would say that Dan had stepped out for a moment and would be back again. That might put Cumberland safely to sleep. In the morning, to be sure, he would find out the deception — but let every day bury its dead. Here was enough trouble for one night. He went slowly, but steadily enough, towards the door of what had now become a fatal room to the doctor. In that room he had seen his dearest doctrines cremated. Out of that room he had come bearing the ashes of his hopes in his hands. Now he must go back once more to try to fill, with science, a gap of which science could never take cognizance.
He lingered another instant with his hand on the door; then he cast it wide bravely enough and stepped in. Joe Cumberland was sitting up on the edge of his couch. There was colour in the old man’s face. It almost seemed, to the incredulous eyes of Byrne, that the face was filled out a trifle. Certainly the fire of the old cattleman’s glance was less unearthly.
“Where’s Dan?” he called. “Where’d he go?”
It was no longer the deep, controlled voice of the stoic; it was the almost whining complaint of vital weakness.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” parried Byrne. “Anything you need or wish?”
“Him!” answered the old man explosively. “Damn it, I need Dan! Where is he? He was here. I felt him here while I was sleepin’. Where is he?”
“He has stepped out for an instant,” answered Byrne smoothly. “He will be back shortly.”
“He — has — stepped — out?” echoed the old man slowly. Then he rose to the full of his gaunt height. His white hair, his triangle of beard and pointed moustache gave him a detached, a mediaeval significance; a portrait by Van Dyck had stepped from its frame.
“Doc, you’re lyin’ to me! Where has he gone?”
A sudden, almost hysterical burst of emotion swept Doctor Byrne.
“Gone to heaven or hell!” he cried with startling violence. “Gone to follow the wind and the wild geese — God knows where!”
Like a period to his sentence, a gun barked outside, there was a howl of demoniac pain and rage, and then a scream that would tingle in the ear of Doctor Randall Byrne till his dying day.
23. HOW MAC STRANN KEPT THE LAW
FOR WHEN THE dog sprang, Mac Strann fired, and the wolf was jerked up in the midst of his leap by the tearing impact of the bullet. It was easy for Strann to dodge the beast, and the great black body hurtled past him and struck heavily on the floor of the barn. It missed Mac Strann, indeed, but it fell at the very feet of Haw-Haw Langley, and a splash of blood
flirted across his face. He was too terrified to shriek, but fell back against the wall of the barn, gasping. There he saw Black Bart struggle to regain his feet, vainly, for both of the animal’s forelegs seemed paralyzed. Now the yellow light of the fire rose brightly, and by it Haw-Haw marked the terrible eyes and the lolling, slavering tongue of the great beast, and the fangs like ivory daggers. It could not regain its feet, but it thrust itself forward by convulsive efforts of the hind legs towards Mac Strann.
Haw-Haw Langley stared for a single instant in white-faced fear, but when he realised that Black Bart was helpless as a toothless old dog, the tall cowpuncher twisted his lean fingers with a silent joy. Once more Bart pushed himself towards Mac Strann, and then Haw-Haw Langley stepped forward, and with all the force of his long leg smashed his heavy riding boot into the face of the dog. Black Bart toppled back against the base of the manger, struggled vainly to regain his poise, and it was then that he pointed his nose up, and wailed like a lost soul, wailed with the fury of impotent hate. Mac Strann caught Haw-Haw by the arm and dragged him back towards the door.
“I don’t want to kill the dog,” he repeated. “Get out of here, Haw-Haw. Barry’ll be comin’ any minute.”
He could have used no sharper spur to urge on the laggard. Haw-Haw Langley raced out of the barn a full stride before Mac Strann. They hurried together to the little rise of ground behind which they had left their horses, and as they ran the scream which had curdled the blood of Randall Byrne rang through the night. In a thousand years he could never have guessed from what that yell issued; his nearest surmise would have been a score of men screaming in unison under the torture. But Mac Strann and Haw-Haw Langley knew the sound well enough.
When they mounted their saddles they could look over the top of the little hill and observe everything easily without being seen, for the hill-top commanded a range of the corrals and a view of the fronts of the barns and sheds which opened upon the fenced enclosures. The largest and longest of these buildings was now plainly visible, for a long arm of fire reached above the roof on one side of the low shed and by this growing light the other barns, the glimmering-eyed horses and cattle of the corrals, the trees about the house, the house itself, were in turn visible, though vaguely, and at times, as the flame lapsed, all were lost in a flood of swift darkness. Once more that unhuman shriek echoed from hill to hill and from building to building. It was Satan in his box stall. The flames were eating through the partition, and the stallion was mad with fear.