The Night Horseman

“SWEET ADELINE”

Fatty Matthews came panting through the doors.  He was one of those men who have a leisurely build and a purely American desire for action; so that he was always hurrying and always puffing.  If he mounted a horse, sweat started out from every pore; if he swallowed a glass of red-eye he breathed hard thereafter.  Yet he was capable of great and sustained exertions, as many and many a man in the Three B’s could testify.  He was ashamed of his fat.  Imagine the soul of a Bald Eagle in the body of a Poland China sow and you begin to have some idea of Fatty Matthews.  Fat filled his boots as with water and he made a “squnching” sound when he walked; fat rolled along his jowls; fat made his very forehead flabby; fat almost buried his eyes.  But nothing could conceal the hawk-line of his nose or the gleam of those half-buried eyes.  His hair was short-cropped, grey, and stood on end like bristles, and he was in the habit of using his panting breath in humming—­for that concealed the puffing.  So Fatty Matthews came through the doors and his little, concealed eyes darted from face to face.  Then he kneeled beside Strann.

He was humming as he opened Jerry’s shirt; he was humming as he pulled from his bag—­for Fatty was almost as much doctor as he was marshal, cowpuncher, miner, and gambler—­a roll of cotton and another roll of bandages.  The crowd grouped around him, fascinated, and at his directions some of them brought water and others raised and turned the body while the marshal made the bandages; Jerry Strann was unconscious.  Fatty Matthews began to intersperse talk in his humming.

“You was plugged from in front—­my beauty—­was you?” grunted Fatty, and then running the roll of bandage around the wounded man’s chest he hummed a bar of: 

   “Sweet Adeline, my Adeline,
   At night, dear heart, for you I pine.”

“Was Jerry lookin’ the other way when he was spotted?” asked Fatty of the bystanders.  “O’Brien, you seen it?”

O’Brien cleared his throat.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” he said mildly, and began to mop his bar, which was already polished beyond belief.

“Well,” muttered Fatty Matthews, “all these birds get it.  And Jerry was some overdue.  Lew, you seen it?”

“Yep.”

“Some drunken bum do it?”

Lew leaned to the ear of the kneeling marshal and whispered briefly.  Fatty opened his eyes and cursed until his panting forced him to break off and hum.

“Beat him to the draw?” he gasped at length.

“Jerry’s gun was clean out before the stranger made a move,” asserted Lew.

“It ain’t possible,” murmured the deputy, and hummed softly: 

   “In all my dreams, your fair face beams.”

He added sharply, as he finished the bandaging:  “Where’d he head for?”

“No place,” answered Lew.  “He just now went out the door.”

The deputy swore again, but he added, enlightened; “Going to plead self-defense, eh?”

Big O’Brien leaned over the bar.

“Listen, Fatty,” he said earnestly, “There ain’t no doubt of it.  Jerry had his war-paint on.  He tried to kill this feller Barry’s wolf.”

“Wolf?” cut in the deputy marshal.

“Dog, I guess,” qualified the bartender.  “I dunno.  Anyway, Jerry made all the leads; this Barry simply done the finishing.  I say, don’t put this Barry under arrest.  You want to keep him here for Mac Strann.”

“That’s my business,” growled Fatty.  “Hey, half a dozen of you gents.  Hook on to Jerry and take him up to a room.  I’ll be with you in a minute.”

And while his directions were being obeyed he trotted heavily up the length of the barroom and out the swinging doors.  Outside, he found only one man, and in the act of mounting a black horse; the deputy marshal made straight for that man until a huge black dog appeared from nowhere blocking his path.  It was a silent dog, but its teeth and eyes said enough to stop Fatty in full career.

“Are you Barry?” he asked.

“That’s me.  Come here, Bart.”

The big dog backed to the other side of the horse without shifting his eyes from the marshal.  The latter gingerly approached the rider, who sat perfectly at ease in the saddle; most apparently he was in no haste to leave.

“Barry,” said the deputy, “don’t make no play when I tell you who I am; I don’t mean you no harm, but my name’s Matthews, and—­” he drew back the flap of his vest enough to show the glitter of his badge of office.  All the time his little beady eyes watched Barry with bird-like intentness.  The rider made not a move.  And now Matthews noted more in detail the feminine slenderness of the man and the large, placid eyes.  He stepped closer and dropped a confidential hand on the pommel of the saddle.

“Son,” he muttered, “I hear you made a clean play inside.  Now, I know Strann and his way.  He was in wrong.  There ain’t a doubt of it, and if I held you, you’d get clear on self-defense.  So I ain’t going to lay a hand on you.  You’re free:  but one thing more.  You cut off there—­see?—­and bear away north from the Three B’s.  You got a boss that is, and believe me, you’ll need him before you’re through.”  He lowered his voice and his eyes bulged with the terror of his tidings:  “Feed him the leather; ride to beat hell; never stop while your hoss can raise a trot; and then slide off your hoss and get another.  Son, in three days Mac Strann’ll be on your trail!”

He stepped back and waved his arms.

“Now, vamos!”

The black stallion flicked back its ears and winced from the outflung hands, but the rider remained imperturbed.

“I never heard of Mac Strann,” said Barry.

“You never heard of Mac Strann?” echoed the other.

“But I’d like to meet him,” said Barry.

The deputy marshal blinked his eyes rapidly, as though he needed to clear his vision.

“Son,” he said hoarsely.  “I c’n see you’re game.  But don’t make a fall play.  If Mac Strann gets you, he’ll California you like a yearling.  You won’t have no chance.  You’ve done for Jerry, there ain’t a doubt of that, but Jerry to Mac is like a tame cat to a mountain-lion.  Lad, I c’n see you’re a stranger to these parts, but ask me your questions and I’ll tell you the best way to go.”

Barry slipped from the saddle.

He said:  “I’d like to know the best place to put up my hoss.”

The deputy marshal was speechless.

“But I s’pose,” went on Barry, “I can stable him over there behind the hotel.”

Matthews pushed off his sombrero and rubbed his short fingers through his hair.  Anger and amazement still choked him, but he controlled himself by a praiseworthy effort.

“Barry,” he said, “I don’t make you out.  Maybe you figure to wait till Mac Strann gets to town before you leave; maybe you think your hoss can outrun anything on four feet.  And maybe it can.  But listen to me:  Mac Strann ain’t fast on a trail, but the point about him is that he never leaves it!  You can go through rain and over rocks, but you can’t never shake Mac Strann—­not once he gets the wind of you.”

“Thanks,” returned the gentle-voiced stranger.  “I guess maybe he’ll be worth meeting.”

And so saying he turned on his heel and walked calmly towards the big stables behind the hotel and at his heels followed the black dog and the black horse.  As for deputy marshal Matthews, he moistened his lips to whistle, but when he pursed them, not a sound came.  He turned at length into the barroom and as he walked his eye was vacant.  He was humming brokenly: 

   “Sweet Adeline, my Adeline,
   At night, dear heart, for you I pine.”

Inside, he took firm hold upon the bar with both pudgy hands.

“O’Brien,” he said, “red-eye.”

He pushed away the small glass which the bartender spun towards him and seized in its place a mighty water-tumbler.

“O’Brien,” he explained, “I need strength, not encouragement.”  And filling the glass nearly to the brim he downed the huge potion at a single draught.