The Night Horseman. Max Brand

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СКАЧАТЬ his train of thoughts aloud: "Though the verity of the feminine intuition has already been thrown in a shade of doubt by many thinkers, as you will undoubtedly agree."

      The man thus addressed allowed his lower jaw to drop but after a moment he ejaculated: "Now what in hell d'you mean by that?"

      The doctor already turned away, intent upon his thoughts, but he now paused and again faced the cowboy. He said, frowning: "There is unnecessary violence in your remark, sir."

      "Duck your glasses," said the worthy in question. "You ain't talkin' to a book, you're talking to a man."

      "And in your attitude," went on the doctor, "there is an element of offense which if carried farther might be corrected by physical violence."

      "I don't foller your words," said the cattleman, "but from the drift of your tune I gather you're a bit peeved; and if you are—"

      His voice had risen to a ringing note as he proceeded and he now slipped from his chair and faced Randall Byrne, a big man, brown, hard-handed. The doctor crimsoned.

      "Well?" he echoed, but in place of a deep ring his words were pitched in a high squeak of defiance.

      He saw a large hand contract to a fist, but almost instantly the big man grinned, and his eyes went past Byrne.

      "Oh, hell!" he grunted, and turned his back with a chuckle.

      For an instant there was a mad impulse in the doctor to spring at this fellow but a wave of impotence overwhelmed him. He knew that he was white around the mouth, and there was a dryness in his throat.

      "The excitement of imminent physical contest and personal danger," he diagnosed swiftly, "causing acceleration of the pulse and attendant weakness of the body—a state unworthy of the balanced intellect."

      Having brought back his poise by this quick interposition of reason, he went his way down the long veranda. Against a pillar leaned another tall cattleman, also brown and lean and hard.

      "May I inquire," he said, "if you have any information direct or casual concerning a family named Cumberland which possesses ranch property in this vicinity?"

      "You may," said the cowpuncher, and continued to roll his cigarette.

      "Well," said the doctor, "do you know anything about them?"

      "Sure," said the other, and having finished his cigarette he introduced it between his lips. It seemed to occur to him instantly, however, that he was committing an inhospitable breach, for he produced his Durham and brown papers with a start and extended them towards the doctor.

      "Smoke?" he asked.

      "I use tobacco in no form," said the doctor.

      The cowboy stared with such fixity that the match burned down to his fingertips and singed them before he had lighted his cigarette.

      "'S that a fact?" he queried when his astonishment found utterance. "What d'you do to kill time? Well, I been thinking about knocking off the stuff for a while. Mame gets sore at me for having my fingers all stained up with nicotine like this."

      He extended his hand, the first and second fingers of which were painted a bright yellow.

      "Soap won't take it off," he remarked.

      "A popular but inexcusable error," said the doctor. "It is the tarry by-products of tobacco which cause that stain. Nicotine itself, of course, is a volatile alkaloid base of which there is only the merest trace in tobacco. It is one of the deadliest of nerve poisons and is quite colourless. There is enough of that stain upon your fingers—if it were nicotine—to kill a dozen men."

      "The hell you say!"

      "Nevertheless, it is an indubitable fact. A lump of nicotine the size of the head of a pin placed on the tongue of a horse will kill the beast instantly."

      The cowpuncher pushed back his hat and scratched his head.

      "This is worth knowin'," he said, "but I'm some glad that Mame ain't heard it."

      "Concerning the Cumberlands," said the doctor, "I—"

      "Concerning the Cumberlands," repeated the cattleman, "it's best to leave 'em to their own concerns." And he started to turn away, but the thirst for knowledge was dry in the throat of the doctor.

      "Do I understand," he insisted, "that there is some mystery connected with them?"

      "From me," replied the other, "you understand nothin'." And he lumbered down the steps and away.

      Be it understood that there was nothing of the gossip in Randall Byrne, but now he was pardonably excited and perceiving the tall form of Hank Dwight in the doorway he approached his host.

      "Mr. Dwight," he said, "I am about to go to the Cumberland ranch. I gather that there is something of an unusual nature concerning them."

      "There is," admitted Hank Dwight.

      "Can you tell me what it is?"

      "I can."

      "Good!" said the doctor, and he almost smiled. "It is always well to know the background of a case which has to do with mental states. Now, just what do you know?"

      "I know—" began the proprietor, and then paused and eyed his guest dubiously. "I know," he continued, "a story."

      "Yes?"

      "Yes, about a man and a hoss and a dog."

      "The approach seems not quite obvious, but I shall be glad to hear it."

      There was a pause.

      "Words," said the host, at length, "is worse'n bullets. You never know what they'll hit."

      "But the story?" persisted Randall Byrne.

      "That story," said Hank Dwight, "I may tell to my son before I die."

      "This sounds quite promising."

      "But I'll tell nobody else."

      "Really!"

      "It's about a man and a hoss and a dog. The man ain't possible, the hoss ain't possible, the dog is a wolf."

      He paused again and glowered on the doctor. He seemed to be drawn two ways, by his eagerness to tell a yarn and his dread of consequences.

      "I know," he muttered, "because I've seen 'em all. I've seen"—he looked far, as though striking a silent bargain with himself concerning the sum of the story which might safely be told—"I've seen a hoss that understood a man's talk like you and me does—or better. I've heard a man whistle like a singing bird. Yep, that ain't no lie. You jest imagine a bald eagle that could lick anything between the earth and the sky and was able to sing—that's what that whistlin' was like. It made you glad to hear it, and it made you look to see if your gun was in good workin' shape. It wasn't very loud, but it travelled pretty far, like it was comin' from up above you."

      "That's the way СКАЧАТЬ