The Night Horseman

At the age of six Randall Byrne could name and bound every state in the Union and give the date of its admission; at nine he was conversant with Homeric Greek and Caesar; at twelve he read Aristophanes with perfect understanding of the allusions of the day and divided his leisure between Ovid and Horace; at fifteen, wearied by the simplicity of Old English and Thirteenth Century Italian, he dipped into the history of Philosophy and passed from that, naturally, into calculus and the higher mathematics; at eighteen he took an A.B. from Harvard and while idling away a pleasant summer with Hebrew and Sanscrit he delved lightly into biology and its kindred sciences, having reached the conclusion that Truth is greater than Goodness or Beauty, because it comprises both, and the whole is greater than any of its parts; at twenty-one he pocketed his Ph.D. and was touched with the fever of his first practical enthusiasm—­surgery.  At twenty-four he was an M.D. and a distinguished diagnostician, though he preferred work in his laboratory in his endeavor to resolve the elements into simpler forms; also he published at this time a work on anthropology whose circulation was limited to two hundred copies, and he received in return two hundred letters of congratulation from great men who had tried to read his book; at twenty-seven he collapsed one fine spring day on the floor of his laboratory.  That afternoon he was carried into the presence of a great physician who was also a very vulgar man.  The great physician felt his pulse and looked into his dim eyes.

“You have a hundred and twenty horsepower brain and a runabout body,” said the great physician.

“I have come,” answered Randall Byrne faintly, “for the solution of a problem, not for the statement thereof.”

“I’m not through,” said the great physician.  “Among other things you are a damned fool.”

Randall Byrne here rubbed his eyes.

“What steps do you suggest that I consider?” he queried.

The great physician spat noisily.

“Marry a farmer’s daughter,” he said brutally.

“But,” said Randall Byrne vaguely.

“I am a busy man and you’ve wasted ten minutes of my time,” said the great physician, turning back to his plate glass window.  “My secretary will send you a bill for one thousand dollars.  Good-day.”

And therefore, ten days later, Randall Byrne sat in his room in the hotel at Elkhead.

He had just written (to his friend Swinnerton Loughburne, M.A., Ph.D., L.L.D.):  “Incontrovertibly the introduction of the personal equation leads to lamentable inversions, and the perceptive faculties when contemplating phenomena through the lens of ego too often conceive an accidental connotation or manifest distortion to be actuality, for the physical (or personal) too often beclouds that power of inner vision which so unerringly penetrates to the inherent truths of incorporeity and the extramundane.  Yet this problem, to your eyes, I fear, not essentially novel or peculiarly involute, holds for my contemplative faculties an extraordinary fascination, to wit:  wherein does the mind, in itself a muscle, escape from the laws of the physical, and wherein and wherefore do the laws of the physical exercise so inexorable a jurisdiction over the processes of the mind, so that a disorder of the visual nerve actually distorts the asomatous and veils the pneumatoscopic?

“Your pardon, dear Loughburne, for these lapses from the general to the particular, but in a lighter moment of idleness, I pray you give some careless thought to a problem now painfully my own, though rooted inevitably so deeply in the dirt of the commonplace.

“But you have asked me in letter of recent date for the particular physical aspects of my present environment, and though (as you so well know) it is my conviction that the physical fact is not and only the immaterial is, yet I shall gladly look about me—­a thing I have not yet seen occasion to do—­and describe to you the details of my present condition.”

Accordingly, at this point Randall Byrne removed from his nose his thick glasses and holding them poised he stared through the window at the view without.  He had quite changed his appearance by removing the spectacles, for the owlish touch was gone and he seemed at a stroke ten years younger.  It was such a face as one is glad to examine in detail, lean, pale, the transparent skin stretched tightly over cheekbones, nose, and chin.  That chin was built on good fighting lines, though somewhat over-delicate in substance and the mouth quite colourless, but oddly enough the upper lip had that habitual appearance of stiff compression which is characteristic of highly strung temperaments; it is a noticeable feature of nearly every great actor, for instance.  The nose was straight and very thin and in a strong sidelight a tracery of the red blood showed through at the nostrils.  The eyes were deeply buried and the lower lids bruised with purple—­weak eyes that blinked at a change of light or a sudden thought—­distant eyes which missed the design of wall paper and saw the trees growing on the mountains.  The forehead was Byrne’s most noticeable feature, pyramidal, swelling largely towards the top and divided in the centre into two distinct lobes by a single marked furrow which gave his expression a hint of the wistful.  Looking at that forehead one was strangely conscious of the brain beneath.  There seemed no bony structure; the mind, undefended, was growing and pushing the confining walls further out.

And the fragility which the head suggested the body confirmed, for he was not framed to labor.  The burden of the noble head had bowed the slender throat and crooked the shoulders, and when he moved his arm it seemed the arm of a skeleton too loosely clad.  There was a differing connotation in the hands, to be sure.  They were thin—­bones and sinews chiefly, with the violet of the veins showing along the backs; but they were active hands without tremor—­hands ideal for the accurate scalpel, where a fractional error means death to the helpless.

After a moment of staring through the window the scholar wrote again:  “The major portion of Elkhead lies within plain sight of my window.  I see a general merchandise store, twenty-seven buildings of a comparatively major and eleven of a minor significance, and five saloons.  The streets—­”

The streets, however, were not described at that sitting, for at this juncture a heavy hand knocked and the door of Randall Byrne’s room was flung open by Hank Dwight, proprietor of Elkhead’s saloon—­a versatile man, expert behind the bar or in a blacksmith shop.

“Doc,” said Hank Dwight, “you’re wanted.”  Randall Byrne placed his spectacles more firmly on his nose to consider his host.

“What—­” he began, but Hank Dwight had already turned on his heel.

“Her name is Kate Cumberland.  A little speed, doc.  She’s in a hurry.”

“If no other physician is available,” protested Byrne, following slowly down the stairs, “I suppose I must see her.”

“If they was another within ten miles, d’you s’pose I’d call on you?” asked Hank Dwight.

So saying, he led the way out onto the veranda, where the doctor was aware of a girl in a short riding skirt who stood with one gloved hand on her hip while the other slapped a quirt idly against her riding boots.