The Night Horseman

MUSIC FOR OLD NICK

A thought is like a spur.  It lifts the head of a man as the spur makes the horse toss his; and it quickens the pace with a subtle addition of strength.  Such a thought came to Buck Daniels as he stepped again on the veranda of the hotel.  It could not have been an altogether pleasant inspiration, for it drained the colour from his face and made him clench his broad hands; and next he loosened his revolver in its holster.  A thought of fighting—­of some desperate chance he had once taken, perhaps.

But also it was a thought which needed considerable thought.  He slumped into a wicker chair at one end of the porch and sat with his chin resting on his chest while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and tossed the butts idly over the rail.  More than once he pressed his hand against his lips as though there were sudden pains there.  The colour did not come back to his face; it continued as bloodless as ever, but there was a ponderable light in his eyes, and his jaws became more and more firmly set.  It was not a pleasant face to watch at that moment, for he seemed to sit with a growing resolve.

Long moments passed before he moved a muscle, but then he heard, far away, thin, and clear, whistling from behind the hotel.  It was no recognisable tune.  It was rather a strange improvisation, with singable fragments here and there, and then wild, free runs and trills.  It was as if some bird of exquisite singing powers should be taken in a rapture of song, so that it whistled snatches here and there of its usual melody, but all between were great, whole-throated rhapsodies.  As the sound of this whistling came to him, Buck raised his head suddenly.  And finally, still listening, he rose to his feet and turned into the dining-room.

There he found the waitress he had met before, and he asked her for the name of the doctor who took care of the wounded Jerry Strann.

“There ain’t no doc,” said the waitress.  “It’s Fatty Matthews, the deputy marshal, who takes care of that Strann—­bad luck to him!  Fatty’s in the barroom now.  But what’s the matter?  You seem like you was hearin’ something?”

“I am,” replied Daniels enigmatically.  “I’m hearin’ something that would be music for the ears of Old Nick.”

And he turned on his heel and strode for the barroom.  There he found Fatty in the very act of disposing of a stiff three-fingers of red-eye.  Daniels stepped to the bar, poured his own drink, and then stood toying with the glass.  For though the effect of red-eye may be pleasant enough, it has an essence which appalls the stoutest heart and singes the most leathery throat; it is to full-grown men what castor oil is to a child.  Why men drink it is a mystery whose secret is known only to the profound soul of the mountain-desert.  But while Daniels fingered his glass he kept an eye upon the other man at the bar.

It was unquestionably the one he sought.  The excess flesh of the deputy marshal would have brought his nickname to the mind of an imbecile.  However, Fatty was humming softly to himself, and it is not the habit of men who treat very sick patients to sing.

“I’ll hit it agin,” said Fatty.  “I need it.”

“Have a bad time of it to-day?” asked O’Brien sympathetically.

“Bad time to-day?  Yep, an’ every day is the same.  I tell you, O’Brien, it takes a pile of nerve to stand around that room expectin’ Jerry to pass out any minute, and the eyes of that devil Mac Strann followin’ you every step you make.  D’you know, if Jerry dies I figure Mac to go at my throat like a bulldog.”

“You’re wrong, Fatty,” replied O’Brien.  “That ain’t his way about it.  He takes his time killin’ a man.  Waits till he can get him in a public place and make him start the picture.  That’s Mac Strann!  Remember Fitzpatrick?  Mac Strann followed Fitz nigh onto two months, but Fitz knew what was up and he never would make a move.  He knowed that if he made a wrong pass it would be his last.  So he took everything and let it pass by.  But finally it got on his nerves.  One time—­it was right here in my barroom, Fatty——­”

“The hell you say!”

“Yep, that was before your time around these parts.  But Fitz had a couple of jolts of red-eye under his vest and felt pretty strong.  Mac Strann happened in and first thing you know they was at it.  Well, Fitz was a big man.  I ain’t small, but I had to look up when I talked to Fitz.  Scotch-Irish, and they got fightin’ bred into their bone.  Mac Strann passed him a look and Fitz come back with a word.  Soon as he got started he couldn’t stop.  Wasn’t a pretty thing to watch, either.  You could see in Fitz’s face that he knew he was done for before he started, but he wouldn’t, let up.  The booze had him going and he was too proud to back down.  Pretty soon he started cussing Mac Strann.

“Well, by that time everybody had cleared out of the saloon, because they knowed that them sort of words meant bullets comin’.  But Mac Strann jest stood there watchin’, and grinnin’ in his ugly way—­damn his soul black!—­and never sayin’ a word back.  By God, Fatty, he looked sort of hungry.  When he grinned, his upper lip went up kind of slow and you could see his big teeth.  I expected to see him make a move to sink ’em in the throat of Fitz.  But he didn’t.  Nope, he didn’t make a move, and all the time Fitz ravin’ and gettin’ worse and worse.  Finally Fitz made the move.  Yep, he pulled his gun and had it damned near clean on Mac Strann before that devil would stir.  But when he did, it was jest a flash of light.  Both them guns went off, but Mac’s bullet hit Fitz’s hand and knocked the gun out of it—­so of course his shot went wild.  But Fitz could see his own blood, and you know what that does to the Scotch-Irish?  Makes some people quit cold to see their own blood.  I remember a kid at school that was a whale at fightin’ till his nose got to bleedin’, or something, and then he’d quit cold.  But you take a Scotch-Irishman and it works just the other way.  Show him his own colour and he goes plumb crazy.

“That’s what happened to Fitz.  When he saw the blood on his hand he made a dive at Mac Strann.  After that it wasn’t the sort of thing that makes a good story.  Mac Strann got him around the ribs and I heard the bones crack.  God!  And him still squeezin’, and Fitz beatin’ away at Mac’s face with his bleedin’ hand.

“Will you b’lieve that I stood here and was sort of froze?  Yes, Fatty, I couldn’t make a move.  And I was sort of sick and hollow inside the same way I went one time when I was a kid and seen a big bull horn a yearlin’.

“Then I heard the breath of Fitz comin’ hoarse, with a rattle in it—­and I heard Mac Strann whining like a dog that’s tasted blood and is starvin’ for more.  A thing to make your hair go up on end, like they say in the story-books.

“Then Fitz—­he was plumb mad—­tried to bite Mac Strann.  And then Mac let go of him and set his hands on the throat of Fitz.  It happened like a flash—­I’m here to swear that I could hear the bones crunch.  And then Fitz’s mouth sagged open and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and Mac Strann threw him down on the floor.  Just like that!  Damn him!  And then he stood over poor dead Fitz and kicked him in those busted ribs and turned over to the bar and says to me:  ‘Gimme!’

“Like a damned beast!  He wanted to drink right there with his dead man beside him.  And what was worse, I had to give him the bottle.  There was a sort of haze in front of my eyes.  I wanted to pump that devil full of lead, but I knowed it was plain suicide to try it.

“So there he stood and ups with a glass that was brimmin’ full, and downs it at a swallow—­gurglin’—­like a hog!  Fatty, how long will it be before there’s an end to Mac Strann?”

But Fatty Matthews shrugged his thick shoulders and poured himself another drink.

“There ain’t a hope for Jerry Strann?” cut in Buck Daniels.

“Not one in a million,” coughed Fatty, disposing of another formidable potion.

“And when Jerry dies, Mac starts for this Barry?”

“Who’s been tellin’ you?” queried O’Brien dryly.  “Maybe you been readin’ minds, stranger?”

Buck Daniels regarded the bartender with a mild and steadfast interest.  He was smiling with the utmost good-humour, but there was that about him which made big O’Brien flush and look down to his array of glasses behind the bar.

“I been wondering,” went on Daniels, “if Mac Strann mightn’t come out with Barry about the way Jerry did.  Ain’t it possible?”

“No,” replied Fatty Matthews with calm decision.  “It ain’t possible.  Well, I’m due back in my bear cage.  Y’ought to look in on me, O’Brien, and see the mountain-lion dyin’ and the grizzly lookin’ on.”

“Will it last long?” queried O’Brien.

“Somewhere’s about this evening.”

Here Daniels started violently and closed his hand hard around his whiskey glass which he had not yet raised towards his lips.

“Are you sure of that, marshal?” he asked.  “If Jerry’s held on this long ain’t there a chance that he’ll hold on longer?  Can you date him up for to-night as sure as that?”

“I can,” said the deputy marshal.  “It ain’t hard when you seen as many go west as I’ve seen.  It ain’t harder than it is to tell when the sand will be out of an hour glass.  When they begin going down the last hill it ain’t hard to tell when they’ll reach the bottom.”

“Ain’t you had anybody to spell you, Fatty?” broke in O’Brien.

“Yep.  I got Haw-Haw Langley up there.  But he ain’t much help.  Just sits around with his hands folded.  Kind of looks like Haw-Haw wanted Jerry to pass out.”

And Matthews went humming through the swinging door.