The Night Horseman

VICTORY

The grey light which Buck Daniels saw that morning, hardly brightened as the day grew, for the sky was overcast with sheeted mist and through it a dull evening radiance filtered to the earth.  Wung Lu, his celestial, slant eyes now yellow with cold, built a fire on the big hearth in the living-room.  It was a roaring blaze, for the wood was so dry that it flamed as though soaked in oil, and tumbled a mass of yellow fire up the chimney.  So bright was the fire, indeed, that its light quite over-shadowed the meagre day which looked in at the window, and every chair cast its shadow away from the hearth.  Later on Kate Cumberland came down the backstairs and slipped into the kitchen.

“Have you seen Dan?” she asked of the cook.

“Wung Lu make nice fire,” grinned the Chinaman.  “Misser Dan in there.”

She thought for an instant.

“Is breakfast ready, Wung?”

“Pretty soon quick,” nodded Wung Lu.

“Then throw out the coffee or the eggs,” she said quickly.  “I don’t want breakfast served yet; wait till I send you word.”

As the door closed behind her, the eye-brows of Wung rose into perfect Roman arches.

“Ho!” grunted Wung Lu, “O ho!”

In the hall Kate met Randall Byrne coming down the stairs.  He was dressed in white and he had found a little yellow wildflower and stuck it in his button-hole.  He seemed ten years younger than the day he rode with her to the ranch, and now he came to her with a quick step, smiling.

“Doctor Byrne,” she said quietly, “breakfast will be late this morning.  Also, I want no one to go into the living-room for a while.  Will you keep them out?”

The doctor was instantly gone.

“He hasn’t gone, yet?” he queried.

“Not yet.”

The doctor sighed and then, apparently following a sudden impulse, he reached his hand to her.

“I hope something comes of it,” he said.

Even then she could not help a wan smile.

“What do you mean by that, doctor?”

The doctor sighed again.

“If the inference is not clear,” he said, “I’m afraid that I cannot explain.  But I’ll try to keep everyone from the room.”

She nodded her thanks, and went on; but passing the mirror in the hall the sight of her face made her stop abruptly.  There was no vestige of colour in it; and the shadow beneath her eyes made them seem inhumanly large and deep.  The bright hair, to be sure, waved over her head and coiled on her neck, but it was like a futile shaft of sunlight falling on a dreary moor in winter.  She went on thoughtfully to the door of the living-room but there she paused again with her hand upon the knob; and while she stood there she remembered herself as she had been only a few months before, with the colour flushing in her face and a continual light in her eyes.  There had been little need for thinking then.  One had only to let the wind and the sun strike on one, and live.  Then, in a quiet despair, she said to herself:  “As I am—­I must win or lose—­as I am!” and she opened the door and stepped in.

She had been cold with fear and excitement when she entered the room to make her last stand for happiness, but once she was in, it was not so hard.  Dan Barry lay on the couch at the far end of the room with his hands thrown under his head, and he was smiling in a way which she well knew; it had been a danger signal in the old days, and when he turned his face and said good-morning to her, she caught that singular glimmer of yellow which sometimes came up behind his eyes.  In reply to his greeting she merely nodded, and then walked slowly to the window and turned her back to him.

It was a one-tone landscape.  Sky, hills, barns, earth, all was a single mass of lifeless grey; in such an atmosphere old Homer had seen the wraiths of his dead heroes play again at the things they had done on earth.  She noted these things with a blank eye, for a thousand thoughts were leaping through her mind.  Something must be done.  There he lay in the same room with her.  He had turned his head back, no doubt, and was staring at the ceiling as before, and the yellow glimmer was in his eyes again.  Perhaps, after this day, she should never see him again; every moment was precious beyond the price of gold, and yet there she stood at the window, doing nothing.  But what could she do?

Should she go to him and fall on her knees beside him and pour out her heart, telling him again of the old days.  No, it would be like striking on a wooden bell; no echo would rise; and she knew beforehand the deadly blackness of his eyes.  So Black Bart lay often in the sun, staring at infinite distance and seeing nothing but his dreams of battle.  What were appeals and what were words to Black Bart?  What were they to Dan Barry?  Yet once, by sitting still—­the thought made her blood leap with a great, joyous pulse that set her cheeks tingling.

She waited till the first impulse of excitement had subsided, and then turned back and sat down in a chair near the fire.  From a corner of her eye she was aware that Whistling Dan had turned his head again to await her first speech.  Then she fixed her gaze on the wall of yellow flame.  The impulse to speak to him was like a hand tugging to turn her around, and the words came up and swelled in her throat, but still she would not stir.

In a moment of rationality she felt in an overwhelming wave of mental coldness the folly of her course, but she shut out the thought with a slight shudder.  Silence, to Dan Barry, had a louder voice and more meaning than any words.

Then she knew that he was sitting up on the couch.  Was he about to stand up and walk out of the room?  For moment after moment he did not stir; and at length she knew, with a breathless certainty, that he was staring fixedly at her!  The hand which was farthest from him, and hidden, she gripped hard upon the arm of the chair.  That was some comfort, some added strength.

She had now the same emotion she had had when Black Bart slunk towards her under the tree—­if a single perceptible tremor shook her, if she showed the slightest awareness of the subtle approach, she was undone.  It was only her apparent unconsciousness which could draw either the wolf-dog or the master.

She remembered what her father had told her of hunting young deer—­how he had lain in the grass and thrust up a leg above the grass in sight of the deer and how they would first run away but finally come back step by step, drawn by an invincible curiosity, until at length they were within range for a point blank shot.

Now she must concentrate on the flames of the fireplace, see nothing but them, think of nothing but the swiftly changing domes and walls and pinnacles they made.  She leaned a little forward and rested her cheek upon her right hand—­and thereby she shut out the sight of Dan Barry effectually.  Also it made a brace to keep her from turning her head towards him, and she needed every support, physical and mental.

Still he did not move.  Was he in truth looking at her, or was he staring beyond her at the grey sky which lowered past the window?  The faintest creaking sound told her that he had risen, slowly, from the crouch.  Then not a sound, except that she knew, in some mysterious manner, that he moved, but whether towards her or towards the door she could not dream.  But he stepped suddenly and noiselessly into the range of her vision and sat down on a low bench at one side of the hearth.  If the strain had been tense before, it now became terrible; for there he sat almost facing her, and looking intently at her, yet she must keep all awareness of him out of her eyes.  In the excitement a strong pulse began to beat in the hollow of her throat, as if her heart were rising.  She had won, she had kept him in the room, she had brought him to a keen thought of her.  A Pyrrhic victory, for she was poised on the very edge of a cliff of hysteria.  She began to feel a tremor of the hand which supported her cheek.  If that should become visible to him he would instantly know that all her apparent unconsciousness was a sham, and then she would have lost him truly!

Something sounded at one of the doors—­and then the door opened softly.  She was almost glad of the interruption, for another instant might have swept away the last reserve of her strength.  So this, then, was the end.

But the footfall which sounded in the apartment was a soft, padding step, with a little scratching sound, light as a finger running on a frosty window pane.  And then a long, shaggy head slipped close to Whistling Dan.  It was Black Bart!

A wave of terror swept through her.  She remembered another scene, not many months before, when Black Bart had drawn his master away from her and led him south, south, after the wild geese.  The wolf-dog had come again like a demoniac spirit to undo her plans!

Only an instant—­the crisis of a battle—­then the great beast turned slowly, faced her, slunk with his long stride closer, and then a cold nose touched the hand which gripped the arm of her chair.  It gave her a welcome excuse for action of some sort; she reached out her hand, slowly, and touched the forehead of Black Bart.  He winced back, and the long fangs flashed; her hand remained tremulously poised in air, and then the long head approached again, cautiously, and once more she touched it, and since it did not stir, she trailed the tips of her fingers backwards towards the ears.  Black Bart snarled again, but it was a sound so subdued as to be almost like the purring of a great cat.  He sank down, and the weight of his head came upon her feet.  Victory!

In the full tide of conscious power she was able to drop her hand from her face, raise her head, turn her glance carelessly upon Dan Barry; she was met by ominously glowing eyes.  Anger—­at least it was not indifference.

He rose and stepped in his noiseless way behind her, but he reappeared instantly on the other side, and reached out his hand to where her fingers trailed limp from the arm of the chair.  There he let them lie, white and cool, against the darkness of his palm.  It was as if he sought in the hand for the secret of her power over the wolf-dog.  She let her head rest against the back of the chair and watched the nervous and sinewy hand upon which her own rested.  She had seen those hands fixed in the throat of Black Bart himself, once upon a time.  A grim simile came to her; the tips of her fingers touched the paw of the panther.  The steel-sharp claws were sheathed, but suppose once they were bared, and clutched.  Or she stood touching a switch which might loose, by the slightest motion, a terrific voltage.  What would happen?

Nothing!  Presently the hand released her fingers, and Dan Barry stepped back and stood with folded arms, frowning at the fire.  In the weakness which overcame her, in the grip of the wild excitement, she dared not stay near him longer.  She rose and walked into the dining-room.

“Serve breakfast now, Wung,” she commanded, and at once the gong was struck by the cook.

Before the long vibrations had died away the guests were gathered around the table, and the noisy marshal was the first to come.  He slammed back a chair and sat down with a grunt of expectancy.

“Mornin’, Dan,” he said, whetting his knife across the table-cloth, “I hear you’re ridin’ this mornin’?  Ain’t going my way, are you?”

Dan Barry sat frowning steadily down at the table.  It was a moment before he answered.

“I ain’t leavin,” he said softly, at length, “postponed my trip.”