The Max Brand Megapack (364 page)

“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.

CHAPTER XXI

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 comprehension.

“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.”

“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 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 half way 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.

CHAPTER XXII

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, storing 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.