The Night Horseman

DOCTOR BYRNE SHOWS THE TRUTH

On this day of low-lying mists, this day so dull that not a shadow was cast by tree or house or man, there was no graver place than the room of old Joe Cumberland; even lamp light was more merciful in the room, for it left the corners of the big apartment in obscurity, but this meagre daylight stripped away all illusion and left the room naked and ugly.  Those colours of wall and carpet, once brighter than spring, showed now as faded and lifeless as foliage in the dead days of late November when the leaves have no life except what keeps them clinging to the twig, and when their fallen fellows are lifted and rustled on the ground by every faint wind, with a sound like breathing in the forest.  And like autumn, too, was the face of Joe Cumberland, with a colour neither flushed nor pale, but a dull sallow which foretells death.  Beside his bed sat Doctor Randall Byrne and kept the pressure of two fingers upon the wrist of the rancher.

When he removed the thermometer from between the lips of Cumberland the old man spoke, but without lifting his closed eyelids, as if even this were an effort which he could only accomplish by a great concentration of the will.

“No fever to-day, doc?”

“You feel a little better?” asked Byrne.

“They ain’t no feelin’.  But I ain’t hot; jest sort of middlin’ cold.”

Doctor Byrne glanced down at the thermometer with a frown, and then shook down the mercury.

“No,” he admitted, “there is no fever.”

Joe Cumberland opened his eyes a trifle and peered up at Byrne.

“You ain’t satisfied, doc?”

Doctor Randall Byrne was of that merciless modern school which believes in acquainting the patient with the truth.

“I am not,” he said.

“H-m-m!” murmured the sick man.  “And what might be wrong?”

“Your pulse is uneven and weak,” said the doctor.

“I been feelin’ sort of weak since I seen Dan last night,” admitted the other.  “But that news Kate brought me will bring me up!  She’s kept him here, lad, think of that!”

“I am thinking of it,” answered the doctor coldly.  “Your last interview with him nearly—­killed you.  If you see him again I shall wash my hands of the case.  When he first came you felt better at once—­in fact, I admit that you seemed to do better both in body and mind.  But the thing could not last.  It was a false stimulus, and when the first effects had passed away, it left you in this condition.  Mr. Cumberland, you must see him no more!”

But Joe Cumberland laughed long and softly.

“Life,” he murmured, “ain’t worth that much!  Not half!”

“I can do no more than advise,” said the doctor, as reserved as before.  “I cannot command.”

“A bit peeved, doc?” queried the old man.  “Well, sir, I know they ain’t much longer for me.  Lord, man, I can feel myself going out like a flame in a lamp when the oil runs up.  I can feel life jest makin’ its last few jumps in me like the flame up the chimney.  But listen to me——­” he reached out a long, large knuckled, claw-like hand and drew the doctor down over him, and his eyes were earnest—­“I got to live till I see ’em standin’ here beside me, hand in hand, doc!”

The doctor, even by that dim light, had changed colour.  He passed his hand slowly across his forehead.

“You expect to see that?”

“I expect nothin’.  I only hope!”

The bitterness of Byrne’s heart came up in his throat.

“It will be an oddly suited match,” he said, “if they marry.  But they will not marry.”

“Ha!” cried Cumberland, and starting up in bed he braced himself on a quaking elbow.  “What’s that?”

“Lie down!” ordered the doctor, and pressed the ranchman back against the pillows.

“But what d’you mean?”

“It would be a long story—­the scientific explanation.”

“Doc, where Dan is concerned I got more patience than Job.”

“In brief, then, I will prove to you that there is no mystery in this Daniel Barry.”

“If you can do that, doc, you’re more of a man than I been guessing you for.  Start now!”

“In primitive times,” said Doctor Randall Byrne, “man was nearly related to what we now call the lower animals.  In those days he could not surround himself with an artificial protective environment.  He depended on the unassisted strength of his body.  His muscular and sensuous development, therefore, was far in advance of that of the modern man.  For modern man has used his mind at the expense of his body.  The very quality of his muscles is altered; and the senses of sight and hearing, for instance, are much blunted.  For in the primitive days the ear kept guard over man even when he slept in terror of a thousand deadly enemies, each stronger than he; and the eye had to be keenly attuned to probe the shadows of the forest for lurking foes.

“Now, sir, there is in biology the thing known, as the sport.  You will have heard that all living organisms undergo gradual processes of change.  Season by season and year by year, environment affects the individual; yet these gradual changes are extremely slow.  Between steps of noticeable change there elapse periods many times longer than the life of historic man.  All speed in changes such as these comes in what we call ‘sports’.  That is, a particular plant, for instance, gradually tends to have fewer leaves and a thicker bark, but the change is slight from age to age until suddenly a single instance occurs of plant which realises suddenly in a single step the ‘ideal’ towards which the species has been striving.  In a word, it has very, very few leaves, and an extraordinarily thick bark.

“For a particular instance, one species of orange tended to have few and fewer seeds.  But finally came an orange tree whose fruit had no seeds at all.  That was the origin of the navel orange.  And that was a typical ‘sport’.

“Now, there is the reverse of the sport.  Instead of jumping long distance ahead, an individual may lapse back towards the primitive.  That individual is called an atavism.  For instance, in this mountain-desert there has, for several generations, been a pressure of environment calling for a species of man which will be able to live with comparative comfort in a waste region—­a man, in a word, equipped with such powerful organisms that he will be as much at home in the heart of the desert as an ordinary man would be in a drawing-room.  You gather the drift of my argument.

“I have observed this man Barry carefully.  I am thoroughly convinced that he is such an atavism.

“Among other men he seems strange.  He is different and therefore he seems mysterious.  As a matter of fact, he is quite a common freak.  I could name you others like him in differing from common men, though not differing from them in exactly the same manner.

“You see the result of this?  Daniel Barry is a man to whom the desert is necessary, because he was made for the desert.  He is lonely among crowds—­you have said it yourself—­but he is at home in a mountain wilderness with a horse and a dog.”

“Doc, you talk well,” broke in Joe Cumberland, “but if he ain’t human, why do humans like him so much?  Why does he mean so much to me—­to Kate?”

“Simply because he is different.  You get from him what you could get from no other man in the world, perhaps, and you fail to see that the fellow is really more akin to his wolf-dog than he is to a man.”

“Supposin’ I said you was right,” murmured the old man, frowning, “how d’you explain why he likes other folks.  According to you, the desert and the mountains and animals is what he wants.  Then how is it that he took so much care of me when he come back this time?  How is it that he likes Kate, enough to give up a trail of blood to stay here with her?”

“It is easy to explain the girl’s attraction,” said the doctor.  “All animals wish to mate, Mr. Cumberland, and an age old instinct is now working out in Dan Barry.  But while you and Kate may please him, you are not necessary to him.  He left you once before and he was quite happy in his desert.  And I tell you, Mr. Cumberland, that he will leave you again.  You cannot tame the untameable.  It is not habit that rules this man.  It is instinct a million years old.  The call which he will hear is the call of the wilderness, and to answer it he will leave father and wife and children and ride out with his horse and his dog!”

The old man lay quite motionless, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to believe you,” he said slowly, “but before God I think you’re right.  Oh, lad, why was I bound up in a tangle like this one?  And Kate—­what will she do?”

The doctor was quivering with excitement.

“Let the man stay with her.  In time she will come to see the brute nature of Daniel Barry.  That will be the end of him with her.”

“Brute.  Doc.  They ain’t nobody as gentle as Dan!”

“Till he tastes blood, a lion can be raised like a house-dog,” answered the doctor.

“Then she mustn’t marry him?  Ay, I’ve felt it—­jest what you’ve put in words.  It’s livin’ death for Kate if she marries him!  She’s kept him here to-day.  To-morrow something may cross him, and the minute he feels the pull of it, he’ll be off on the trail—­the blow of a man, the hollering out of the wild geese—­God knows what it’ll take to start him wild again and forget us all—­jest the way a child forgets its parents!”

A voice broke in upon them, calling far away:  “Dan!  Dan Barry!”