The Night Horseman

BUCK MAKES HIS GET-AWAY

Straight from the room of the dead man, Fatty Matthews had hurried down to the bar, and there he stepped into the silence and found the battery of eyes all turned upon that calm figure at the end of the room.  Upon this man he trotted, breathing hard, and his fat sides jostled up and down as he ran.  According to Brownsville, there were only two things that could make Fatty run:  a gun or the sight of a drink.  But all maxims err.  When he reached Barry he struck him on the shoulder with a heavy hand.  That is, he struck at the shoulder, but as if the shadow of the falling hand carried a warning before it, at the same time that it dropped Barry swerved around in his chair.  Not a hurried movement, but in some mysterious manner his shoulder was not in the way of the plump fist.  It struck, instead, upon the back of the chair, and the marshal cursed bitterly.

“Stranger,” he said hotly, “I got one thing to say:  Jerry Strann has just died upstairs.  In ten seconds Mac Strann will be down here lookin’ for you!”

He stepped back, humming desperately to cover his wheezing, but Barry continued to braid the horsehair with deft fingers.

“I got a double knot that’s kind of new,” he said.  “Want to watch me tie it?”

The deputy sheriff turned on the crowd.

“Boys,” he exclaimed, waving his arms, “he’s crazy.  You heard what he said.  You know I’ve give him fair warning.  If we got to dig his grave in Brownsville, is it my fault?  It ain’t!” He stepped to the bar and pounded upon it.  “O’Brien, for God’s sake, a drink!”

It was a welcome suggestion to the entire nervous crowd, but while the glasses spun across the bar Buck Daniels walked slowly down the length of the barroom towards Barry.  His face was a study which few men could have solved; unless there had been someone present who had seen a man walk to his execution.  Beside Dan Barry he stopped and watched the agile hands at work.  There was a change in the position of Barry now, for he had taken the chair facing the door and the entire crowd; Buck Daniels stood opposite.  The horsehair plied back and forth.  And Daniels noted the hands, lean, tapering like the fingers of a girl of sixteen.  They were perfectly steady; they were the hands of one who had struggled, in life, with no greater foe than ennui.

“Dan,” said Buck, and there was a quiver of excitement in his voice, like the tremor of a piano string long after it has been struck.  “Dan, I been thinking about something and now I’m ready to tell you what it is.”

Barry looked up in slow surprise.

Now the face of Buck Daniels held what men have called a “deadly pallor,” that pallor which comes over one who is cornered and about to fight for his life.  He leaned closer, resting one hand upon the edge of the table, so that his face was close to Dan Barry.

“Barry,” he said, “I’m askin’ you for the last time:  Will you get your hoss and ride back to Kate Cumberland with me?”

Dan Barry smiled his gentle, apologetic smile.

“I don’t no ways see how I can, Buck.”

“Then,” said Buck through his teeth, “of all the lyin’ hounds in the world you’re the lyin’est and meanest and lowest.  Which they ain’t words to tell you what I think of you.  Take this instead!”

And the hand which rested on the table darted up and smote Dan Barry on the cheek, a tingling blow.  With the same motion which started his hand for the blow, Buck Daniels turned on his heel and stepped a pace or two towards the centre of the room.

There was not a man in the room who had not heard the last words of Buck Daniels, and not a man who had not seen the blow.  Everyone of them had seen, or heard accurately described, how the slender stranger beat Jerry Strann to the draw and shot him down in that same place.  Such a moan came from them as when many men catch their breath with pain, and with a simultaneous movement those who were in line with Buck Daniels and Barry leaped back against the bar on one side and against the wall on the other.  Their eyes, fascinated, held on the face of Barry, and they saw the pale outline which the fingers of Daniels had left on the cheek of the other.  But if horror was the first thing they felt, amazement was the next.  For Dan Barry sat bolt erect in his chair, staring in an astonishment too great for words.  His right hand hung poised and moveless just above the butt of his gun; his whole posture was that of one in the midst of an action, suspended there, frozen to stone.  They waited for that poised hand to drop, for the slender fingers to clutch the butt of the gun, for the convulsive jerk that would bring out the gleaming barrel, the explosion, the spurt of smoke, and Buck Daniels lurching forward to his face on the floor.

But that hand did not move; and Buck Daniels?  Standing there with his back to the suspended death behind him, he drew out Durham and brown papers, without haste, rolled a cigarette, and reached to a hip pocket.

At that move Dan Barry started.  His hand darted down and fastened on his gun, and he leaned forward in his chair with the yellow glimmering light flaring up in his eyes.  But the hand of Buck Daniels came out from his hip bearing a match.  He raised his leg, scratched the match, there was a blue spurt of flame, and Buck calmly lighted his cigarette and started towards the door, sauntering.

The instant the swinging doors closed Barry started from his chair with a strange cry—­none of them had ever heard the like from human lips—­for there was grief in it, and above all there was a deadly eagerness.  So a hungry man might cry out at the sight of food.  Down the length of the barroom he darted and was drawing his gun as he whipped through the doors.  A common rush followed him, and those who reached the open first saw Buck Daniels leaning far forward in his saddle and spurring desperately into the gloom of the night.  Instantly he was only a twinkling figure in the shadows, and the beat of the hoofs rattled back at them.  Dan Barry stood with his gun poised high for a second or more.  Then he turned, dropped the gun into the holster, and with the same strange, unearthly cry of eagerness, he raced off in the direction of the barns.

There were some who followed him even then, and this is what they reported to incredulous ears when they returned.  Barry ran straight for the left hand corral and wrenched at the gate, which appeared to be secured by a lock and chain.  Seeing that it would not give way he ran around to the barn, and came out again carrying a saddle and bridle.  These he tossed over the high fence into the corral.  Then he picked up a loose scantling and with it pried and wrenched off the top bar of the fence in one section and vaulted into the enclosure.

The black stallion had whinnied once or twice during this time and the great black, shaggy dog had come snarling and whining about the feet of his master.  Now the stranger tossed on the saddle and cinched it with amazing speed, sprang onto his mount, and urged it across to the other side of the corral.  Up to that moment no one in the little crowd of watchers had suspected the intention of the rider.  For the fence, even after the removal of the top bar, was nearly six feet in height.  But when Barry took his horse to the far side of the corral and then swung him about facing the derailed section, it was plain that he meant to attempt to jump at that place.  Even then, as O’Brien explained later, and many a time, the thing was so impossible that he could not believe his eyes.  There was a dreamlike element to the whole event.  And like a phantom in a vision he saw the black horse start into a sharp gallop; saw the great dog sail across the fence first; saw the horse and rider shoot into the air against the stars; heard the click of hoofs against the top rail; heard the thud of hoofs on the near side of the fence, and then the horseman flashed about the corner of the barn and in an instant his hoofs were beating a far distant tattoo.

As for the watchers, they returned in a dead silence to the barroom and they had hardly entered when Mac Strann stalked through the doors behind them; he went straight to O’Brien.

“Somewhere about,” he said in his thick, deep voice, “they’s a man named Dan Barry.  Where is he?”

And O’Brien answered:  “Mac, he was sittin’ down there at that table until two minutes ago, but where he is now I ain’t any idea.”

The tall, skeleton form of Haw-Haw Langley materialised behind Mac Strann, and his face was contorted with anger.

“If he was here two minutes ago,” he said, “he ain’t more than two minutes away.”

“Which way?” asked Mac Strann.

“North,” answered a score of voices.

O’Brien stepped up to Mac Strann.  He said:  “Mac, we know what you got in your mind.  We know what you’ve lost, and there ain’t any of us that ain’t sorry for Jerry—­and for you.  But, Mac, I can give you the best advice you ever heard in your life:  Keep off’n the trail of Barry!”

Haw-Haw Langley added at the ear of Mac Strann:  “That was Jerry’s advice when he lay dyin’.  An’ it’s my advice, too.  Mac, Barry ain’t a safe man to foller!”

“Haw-Haw,” answered Mac Strann, “Will you gimme a hand saddlin’ my hoss?  I got an appointment, an’ I’m two minutes late already.”