 CHAPTER 40 The Arroyo He disappeared instantly in that shivering curtain of greyness. Max Trann sat by the ruined house alone. Now, in a time of danger, a child will give courage to the strong man. There is a wonderful communion between any two in time of crises, and when Ha Ha Langley disappeared through the rain, it was to Max Trann as it was to Patrocolis when Apollo struck the base of his neck and his armor of proof fell from him. Not only was there a singular sense of nakedness, but it seemed to him also that the roaring of the rain became a hostile voice of threatening at the same instant. He had never in his life feared any living thing. But now there was a certain hollowness in the region of his stomach, and his heart fluttered like a bird in the air, with appalling lightness, any wish to be far away. With a clear heaven above him, I, that would be different, but God had arranged this day, and had set the earth like a stage in readiness for a death. And that was why the rain lashed the earth, though fiercely. He looked down. After his death the wind would still continue to beat that muddy water to foam. I in that very place all would be as it was at this moment. He would be gone, but the sky and the senseless earth would remain unchanged. A sudden yearning seized him for the cabin among the mountains, with the singing of the coffee pot over the fire, the good warm yellow fire that smoked between the rocks, and the skins he had left leaning against the wall of the cabin to dry. He remembered them all in one glance of memory. Why was he here, then, when he should have been so far away, making his roof snug against his torrent of rain? Now, there would be no rain, surely, in those kindly mountains. Their tall peaks would shut out the storm clouds. Only this plain, these low hills, were the place of hell. He swung the head of his horse to one side, drove deep the spurs, and leaning his head to the volleying of the rain. He raced in a direction opposite to that in which Ha Ha Langley had disappeared, in a direction that led as straight as the line of a flying bird towards that cabin in the mountains. Now and then the forefeet of his great horse smashed into a pool and sent a muddy shower of rain flying up. It crackled against his slicker, yet beat like hands against his face. Everything was striving, all the elements of wind and rain, to hold him back. Yet flight brought a blessed sense of relief and of safety. He eased the pace of his horse to a moderate gallop, and no longer driving blindly through the hills. He made out, by peering into the blast of rain, some of the pools which lay in his path, and swung aside to avoid them. The rain lightened again about him. He caught a view of the kindly sheltering hills on all sides. But as he urged his horse on towards them, a shrill flight of whistling fell upon his ears from behind. He drew his horse at once to a halt, and listened with his heart knocking at his teeth. It was impossible, manifestly, that the fellow could have followed his track through the rain. For that matter, if the wolf-fiend could follow traces over a plain awash with water, why might they not as well follow the tracks of ho-ho-langly? There was no good reason. The whistling? Well, the whistler was far away in the heart of the storm, and the sound was merely blown against the wind by a chance echo. Yet he remained, holding his rain-taunt, and listening with all his might. It came again suddenly as before, sharp and keen, as a shaft of light in the blackest heart of night, and Max Strand leaned over the pommel of his saddle with a groan, and drove his spurs home. At the same instant the rain shut in over the hills again, a fresher wind sprang up and drove the downpour into his face. Also its roar shut out the possibility of any sound reaching him from behind. He was the worst for that. As long as the whistling might reach him, he could tell how near the pursuer rode. But in this common roar of the rain, the man might be at any distance behind him. On his very heels, indeed, I, Dan Berry, might rush up upon him from behind. He had seen that black stallion, and he would never forget those graceful, agile lines, that generous breast wide for infinite wind and the great heart. If the stallion were exerted, it could overtake his own mount as if he were standing still. Not on good footing, perhaps, but in this mucky ground the weight of his horse was terribly against him. He drove the spurs home again. He looked back again and again, piercing the driving mist of rain with starting eyes. He was safe still. The destroyer was not in sight, yet he might be riding close behind that wall of rain. His horse came to a sudden halt, sliding on all four feet and driving up a rush of dirty water before him. Even then he had stopped barely in time, for his four feet were buried to the knees in water. Before Max ran lay a wide arroyo. In ordinary weather it was dry as all the desert around, but now it had cupped the water from miles around and ran bankful, a roaring torrent. On its surface the rain beat with a continual crashing, like axes falling on brittle glass, and the downpour was now so fearful that Max ran, for all his peering, could not look to the other side. He judged the current to see if he might swim his horse across. But even while he stared the stump of a cottonwood went whirling down the stream, struck a rock, perhaps on the bottom, flung its entire bulk out of the water with the impact, and then floundered back into the stream again, and whirled instantly out of sight in the sheeted rain. No horse in the world could live through such a current. But the arroyo might turn. He swung his horse and spurred desperately along the bank, keeping his eye upon the bank. No, the stream cut back in a sharp curve and headed him farther and farther in the direction of the pursuer. He brought the mighty horse to another sliding halt and swung about in the opposite direction. For surely there must lie the point of escape. Desperately he rode, for the detour had cost him priceless time. Yet it might be made up. Aye, the stream sloped sharply into the direction in which he wished to ride. For distance he could not judge, since seconds were longer than minutes to max strand now. And then the edge of the stream curved back again. He thought it must be a short twist in the line of the arroyo, but following it a little further he came to realize the truth. The arroyo described a wide curve and a sharp one, and to ride down its banks on either side was merely to throw himself into the arms of Whistling Dan. Once he struck his fleshy forehead and then turned with gritting teeth and galloped back for the point at which he had first arrived. To his maddened brain it occurred that the current of the arroyo might by this have somewhat abated. He might now make his way across it. So he halted once more on the bank at that point where the stream doubled back on its course, and once more in an agony studied the force of the current. It seemed so placid at the first glance that he was on the verge of spurring the horse into the wide brown stream. But even as he loosened the reins, a gap opened in the middle of the water, widened, whirling at the brim, and drew swiftly into a fierce vortex with a black deep bottom. Max strand tightened his reins again, and then turned his horse and waited. Back the various cowered against the wall and he becomes formidable, and Max strand was one who had never feared before either man or beast or the powers of the storm. Even now he dreaded no reality. But there dwelt in his mind the memory of how Dan Berry had glared at him in the Gilead's saloon, and how a flicker of yellow light had glowed in the man's eyes, a strange and phosphorescent glimmer that might be seen in the darkness of night. When he turned the head of his horse away from the arroyo, he waited as one waits for the coming of a ghost. There was the same chill tingling in his blood. Now the blanket of rain lifted and shook away to comparative clearness. Lifted, and for the first time he could look far away across the plains. Nothing but gray rain-washed desert met his eyes, and then the whistling broke once more upon him at the crest of a trilling run. Max Trann strained his eyes through the mist of the storm, and then he saw vaguely, as a phantom, the form of a horseman rushing swiftly into the very teeth of the wind. The whistle wavered, ended, and its place the long yell of a wolf cut the air. Max Trann branished a ponderous fist in defiance that was half hysterical. Man or beast alone he would meet. But a wolfman? He whirled the horse again and urged him heedlessly into the water. The whirlpool no longer opened before him. It had passed on down the arroyo, and left in its wake a comparative calm. So that when the horse took the water he made good progress for some distance, until Max Trann could see clearly the farther bank of the stream. In his joy he shouted to his horse and swung himself clear from his saddle to lighten the burden. At the same time they struck a heavier current, and it struck them down like a blow from above, until the water closed over their heads. It was only for a moment, however, then they emerged, the horse with courageously pricking ears, and snorting nostrils just above the flood. Max Trann swung clear, gripping the horn of the saddle with one hand, while with the other he hastily divested himself of all superfluous weight. His slicker went first, ripped away from the throat and the shoulders, and whipped off his body by one tug of the current. Next he fumbled at his belt, and tossed this also guns and all away, striking out with his legs and his free arm to aid the progress that now forged ahead with noticeable speed. The current, to be sure, was carrying them farther down the stream. But they were now almost to the center of the arroyo, and though the water boiled furiously over the back of the horse, they forged steadily closer and closer to the safe shore. It was chance that defeated Max Trann. It came shooting down the river, and he saw it only an instant too late, a log whipping through the surface of the stream, as though impelled by a living force. And with arroyo straightness it lunged at them. Max Trann heaved himself high. He screamed at the horse, as though the poor brute could understand his warning. And then the tree trunk was upon them. Fair and square it struck the head of the horse with a thud audible, even through the rushing of the stream. The horse went down like lead, and Max Trann was dragged down beneath the surface. He came up fighting grimly and hopelessly for life. For he was in the very center of the stream now, and the current swept him relentlessly down. There seemed to be hands in the middle of the arroyo, and when he strove the battle his way to the edge of the water the current tangled at his legs and pulled him back. Yet even then he did not fear. It was death, he knew, but at least it was a death fighting against the force of nature rather than destruction at the hands of some weird and unhuman agency. His arms began to grow numb. He raised his head to pick out the nearest point on the shore, and made his last struggle for life. What he saw was a black head cutting the water just above him, and beside the horse one hand upon the beast's mane swam a man. At the same instant a hand fastened on his collar, and he was drawn slowly against the force of the river. In the stunning surprise of the first moment he could make no effort to save himself, and as a result all three were washed hopelessly down the current. But a shrill warning from his rescuer said him fighting again with all the power of his great limbs. After that they forged steadily towards the shore. The black horse swam with amazing strength, and breaking the force of the current for the men, they soon passed from the full grip of the torrent and forged into the smoother shallows at the side of the stream. In a moment firm land was beneath the feet of Max Trann, and he turned his dull eyes of amazement upon Danbury. The latter stood beside the panting black horse. He had not even thrown off his slicker in the forting of the stream. There had been no time for even that small delay if he wished to save Trann, and now he was throwing back the folds of the garment to leave free play for his arms. He panted from the fierce effort of the forting, but his head was high, a singular smile lingered about the corners of his mouth, and in his eyes Max Trann saw the gleam of yellow, a signal of unfantonable danger. From his holsters Barry drew two revolvers, one he retained, the other he tossed towards Max Trann, and the latter caught it automatically. Now said the soft voice of Barry, we're equally armed. Down Bart, for the wolf dog was slinking with ominous intent toward the giant. And there's the dog you shot. If you drop me, you can send your next shot in the Bart. If I drop you, the teeth of Bart will be in your throat. Make your own terms. Fight in the way you want, knives, if you like them, better than guns, or—and hear the yellow flame terribly in Barry's eyes, bare hand to hand. The grim truth sank slowly home in the dull mind of Max Trann. The man had saved him from the water to kill him on dry land. Barry, he said slowly, it was your bullet that brung down Jerry, but you've paid me back here. There's nothing left on earth worth fighting for. There's your gun. And he threw the revolver into the mud at Barry's feet, and turned on his heel, and lumbered off into the rain. There was no voice of answer behind him, except the shrill wine of rage from Black Bart, and then a sharp command down from the master. As the blanket of rain shut over him, Max Trann looked back. There stood the strange man with the wolf crouched at his feet, and the teeth of Bart were bared, and the hum of his horrible snorling carried the Trann through the beat of the rain. Max Trann turned again, and plod it slowly through the storm. And Dan Barry? Twice men had stood before him, armed, and twice he had failed to kill. Wonder rose in him. Wonder and a great fear. Was he losing the desert? Was the desert losing him? Were the chains of humanity falling about him to drag him down to the tamed and soared life? The sudden hatred for all men, Max Trann, Daniels, Kate, and even poor Joe Cumberland, welled hot in the breast of whistling Dan. The strength of men could not conquer him. But how could their very weakness disarm him? He leaped again on the back of Satan, and rode furiously back into the storm. CHAPTER 41 THE FALLING OF NIGHT It had been hard to gauge the falling of night on this day, and even the careful eyes of the watchers on the Cumberland Ranch could not tell when the grayness of the sky was being darkened by the coming of the evening. All day there had been swift alterations of light and shadow, comparatively speaking, as the clouds grew thick or thin before the wind. But at length, indudably, the night was there. Little by little the sky was overcast, and even the lines of the falling rain were no longer visible. Before the gloom of the darkness had fully settled over the earth, moreover, there came a change in the wind, and the watchers at the rain-beaten windows of the ranch house saw the clouds roll apart and split in the fragments that were driven from the face of the sky. And from the clean, washed face of heaven the stars shone bright and serene, and still Dan Berry had not come. After the tumult of that long day the sudden silence of that windless night had more ill omen in it than thunder and lightning. For there was something watching and waiting in silence. In the living room the three did not speak. Now that the storm was gone they had allowed the fire to fall away until the hearth showed merely fragmentary dances of flame, and a wide bed of dull red coals growing dimmer from moment to moment. Wang Lu had brought in a lamp, a large lamp with a circular wick, that cast a bright white light, but Kate had turned down the wick, and now it made only a brief circle of yellow in one corner of the room. The main illumination came from the fireplace, and struck on the faces of Kate and Buck Daniels, while Joe Cumberland on the couch at the end of the room was only plainly visible, when there was an extraordinarily high leap of the dying flames. But usually his face was merely a glimmering hint in the darkness, his face and that long hands which were folded upon his breast. Often when the flames leapt there was a crackling of the embers and the last of the log, and the two nearer the fire would start and flash a glance of one accord towards the prostrate figure on the couch. The silence had lasted so long that when at length the dull voice of Joe Cumberland broke in there was a ring of a most prophetic solemnity about it. He ain't come, said the old man, Dan ain't here. The others exchanged glances, but the eyes of Kate dropped sadly and fastened again upon the hearth. Buck Daniels cleared his throat like an orator. Nobody but a fool, he said, would have started out a Velkette in a storm like this. Weather makes no difference to Dan, said Joe Cumberland. But he'd think of his hauls. Weather makes no difference to Satan, answered the faint orcular voice of Joe Cumberland. Kate? Yes? Is he coming? She did not answer. Instead she got up slowly from her place by the fire and took another chair far away in the gloom where hardly a glimmer of light reached to her, and there she let her head rest as if exhausted against the back of the seat. He promised, said Buck Daniels, striving desperately to keep his voice cheerful, and he never busts his promises. I said the old man, he promised to be back, but he ain't here. If he started after the storm, said Buck Daniels, he didn't start after the storm, announced the oracle. He was out in it. What was that, cried Buck Daniels sharply. The wind said, Kate, for it's rising, it will be a cold night tonight. And he ain't here, said the old man, monotonously. Ain't there things that might hold him up, asked Buck, with a touch of irritation? I said the old rancher, they say things that'll hold him up, say things that'll turn a wild dog, too, and the taste of blood is one of them. The silence fell again. There was an old clock standing against the wall. It was one of those tall wooden frames, in which, behind the glass, the heavy polished disc of the pendulum alternated slowly back and forth with a wearisome precision, and with every stroke of the seconds there was a faint metallic clanger in the clock. The falter, like that, which comes in the voice of a very old man. And the sound of this clock took possession of every silence, until it seemed like the voice of a doomsman counting off the seconds. I, every one in the room, again and again, took up the tail of those seconds and would count them slowly, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, and on and on, waiting for the next speech, or for the next popping of the wood upon the hearth, or the next wail of the wind that would break upon the deadly expectancy of that count. And while they counted, each looked straight before him with wide and widening eyes. Into one of these pauses the voice of Buck Daniels broke at length, and it was a cheerless and lonely voice in that large room in the dull darkness and the duller lights. Do you remember Shorty Martin, Kate? I remember him. He turned in his chair and hitched it a little closer to her, until he could make out her face dimly among the shadows. The flames jumped on the hearth, and he saw a picture that knocked at his heart. The little bold-egged fellow, I mean. Yes, I remember him very well. Once more the flames had sputtered, and he saw how she looked wistfully before her and above. She had never seemed so lovely to Buck Daniels. She was pale, indeed, but there was no ugly pinching of her face, and if there were shadows beneath her eyes, they only served to make her eyes seem marvelously large and bright. She was pallid, and the firelight stained her skin with touches of tropic gold and cast a halo of the golden hair about her face. She seemed like one of those statues wrought in the glory and the rich days of Athens in ivory and in gold. Some goddess, who has heard the tidings of the coming fall, the change of the old order, and sits passive in her throne, waiting the doom from which there is no escape. Something of this filtered through to the sad heart of Buck Daniels. He, too, had no hope, nay. He had not even her small hope. But somehow he was able to pit her and cherish the picture of her in that gloomy place. It seemed to Buck Daniels that he would give ten years from the best of his life to see her smile as he had once seen her in those old bright days. He went on with his tail. You would have busted laughing if you had seen him at the circle why bar round up the way I seen him. Shorty ain't so bad with a rope. He's always talking about what he can do and how he can dive a rope on anything that's got horns. He ain't so bad, but then again he ain't so good either. Especially ain't so good at riding. You know what bold legs he got, Kate. I remember Buck. She was looking at him at last, and he talked eagerly to turn that look into a smile. Well, if there was the three of us got after one two-year-old, a bull, and a badden, Shorty was on one side and me and Cuddle was on the other side. Shorty dived his rope and made a fair catch. But when his horse set back the rope busted plum in two. Now, Shorty, he had an idea that he could ease the work of his horse a whole pile if he laid hold of the rope whenever his horse set down to flop a cow. So Shorty, he had hold on this rope and was pulling back hard when the rope busted. And Shorty, he spilled backwards out in that saddle like he'd been kicked out. Whilst he's laying there, the bull that had took a header when the rope busted come up on his feet again. And I'll tell him man he was rare and mad. He's seen Shorty lying on the ground. And he took a run for Shorty. Me and Cuddle was laughing so hard we couldn't barely swing our ropes. But I made a throw and managed to get that bull around both horns. So my Betty sits down and braces herself for the tug. In the meantime, little Shorty, he sits up and he lays a hand to his head. And same time he sees that bull come tearing for him up he jumps. And just then the bull comes to the end of the line and wonk down he goes head over heels and hits the sand with a bang that must have jostled his liver some I'll be saying. Well Shorty, he sees that bull fly up in the air and he lets out a yell like the world was coming to an end and starts running. If he'd run straight back the other way the bull couldn't have run a step because I had him fast with my rope. But Shorty's seen me and he comes tearing from my horse to get behind him. The bull was like a cat getting to his feet. And he cites Shorty tearing and lights out after him. There they went lickety split. That bull was puffing on the seat of Shorty's trousers and tossing his horns and just missing Shorty by inches. And Shorty had his mouth so wide open hollering that you could have thrown the side of beef down his throat. And his eyes were bugging out. And bull legs of his was stretching 10 yards at a clip, most like, and the boys say that they could hear him hollering a mile away. But that bull stretch himself all he could couldn't gain an inch on Shorty and Shorty couldn't gain an inch on the bull. To the bull come to the other end of that 40 foot rope and then wang goes up the heels of the bull and down goes his head. And his heels come over, wonk, and hits Shorty right square on the head. Then ordinary fella, who wouldn't have lived to talk about it afterwards, saying it was Shorty, he just goes up in the air and lands about 10 yards away, rolls over, and hits his feet without once getting off his stride. And then he did start running and he didn't stop running nor hollering till he got plumbed back to the house. Buck Daniels sat back in his chair and got fouled at the memory. In the excitement of the tale, he had quite forgotten Kate. But when he remembered her, she sat with her head craned a little to one side, her hand raised for silence and a smile indeed upon her lips. But never a glance for Buck Daniels. He knew it once. Is it him he whispered? Do you hear him? Hush commanded two voices. And then he saw that old Joe Cumberland was also listening. No, said the girl, suddenly, it was only the wind. As if an answer, a far faint whistling broke upon them. She drew her hand slowly towards her breast, as if indeed she drew the sound in with him. He's coming, she cried. Oh, Dad, listen, don't you hear? I do answer the rancher. But what I'm hearing, don't warm my blood none. Kate, if you're wise, you'll get up and go to your room and don't pay no heed to anything you might be hearing tonight. End of Chapter 41 Chapter 42 of the Night Horseman This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Night Horseman by Max Brand, Chapter 42 The Journey Into Night There was no doubting the meaning of Joe Cumberland. It grew upon them with amazing swiftness, as if the Black Stallion were racing upon the house at a swift gallop, and the whistling rose and rang and soared in a wild outburst. Give the eagle the throat of the lark, and after he has struck down his prey in the center of the sky, and sent the ragged feathers and the slain body falling down the earth, what would be the song of the eagle rising again and dwindling out of sight in the heart of the sky? What terrible pin would he send whistling down to the dull earth far below? And such was the music that came before the coming of Dan Berry. It did not cease as usual, at a distance, but it came closer and closer, and it swelled around them. Buck Daniels had risen from his chair and stolen to a corner of the room, were not a solitary shaft of light could possibly reach him, and Kate Cumberland slipped farther into the depths of the big chair. So that in their utter silence, in spite of the whistling that blew in upon them, they could hear the dull ticking of the tall clock, and by a wretched freak of fate, the ticking fell exactly in with the soaring rhythm of the whistle, and each had a part in the deadliness of the other. Very near upon them the music ceased abruptly. The footfall swept down the hall. A weight struck the door and cast it wide, and Black Bart glided into the room. He cast not a glance on either side. He turned his head neither to right nor to left. But he held straight on until he came to Kate Cumberland, and there he stood before her. She leaned forward. Bart, she said softly, and stretched out her hands to him. A deep snarl stopped the gesture. And at the flash of the long fangs she sank into the chair. Old Joe Cumberland, with fearful labor, dragged himself to a sitting position upon the couch. And sitting up in this fashion, the light fell fully upon his white face, and his white hair, and his white beard, so that he made a ghostly picture. Then an outer door slammed, and a light step, at almost a running pace, speeded down the hall. The door was swung wide again, and Dan was before them. He seemed to bring with him the keen, fresh air of the light. And at the opening of the door, the flame in the lamp jumped in its chimney, shook, and fell slowly back to its original dimness. But by that glow of light, they saw that the sombrero upon Dan Berry's head was a shapeless mass. His bandana had been torn away, leaving his throat bare. His slicker was a mass of wrenches, and at the neck had been crumpled and torn in a thousand places, as though strong teeth had worried it to a rag. Spots of mud were everywhere on his boots, even on his sombrero with its sagging brim. And on one side of his face there was a darker stain. He had ceased his whistling, indeed, but now he stood at the door and hummed as he gazed about the room. Straight to Kate Cumberland he walked, took her hands and raised her from the chair. He said and there was a fiber and a ring in his voice that made them catch their breaths. There's something outside that I'm following tonight. I don't know what it is. It is the taste of the wind and the feel of the air and the smell of the ground. And I've got to be riding. I'm saying goodbye for a bit, Kate. Dan, she cried, what's happened? What's on your face? The mark of the night he answered. I don't know what else. Will you come with me, Kate? For how long? Where are you going, Dan? I don't know where or how long. All I know is I've got to be going. Come to the window. Take the air on your face. You'll understand. He drew her after him and cast up the window. Do you feel it in the wind he called to her, turning with a transfigured face? Do you hear it? She could not speak but stood with her face lifted, trembling. Look at me, he commanded, and turned her roughly towards him. There he stood leaning close to her and the yellow light flickered and waned and burned again in his eyes. He held her hands while he stared. Now he dropped them with an exclamation. You're blank, he said angrily. You've seen nothing and heard nothing. He turned on his heel, Bart he called, and walked from the room, and they heard the panning of his soft step down the hall and on the porch and then silence. Black Bart slunk to the door and into the hall, but instantly he was back and peering into the gloom of that silent place like an evil eyed specter. The sharp whistle rang from outside and Black Bart started. Still he glided on until he stood before Kate, then turned and stalked slowly towards the door, looking back after her. She did not move and with a snarl the wolf dog whirled again and trotted back to her. This time he called a fold of her skirt in his teeth and pulled on it, and under the pressure she made a step. Kate called Joe Cumberland, are you mad girl to dream of going out in a night like this? I'm not going, she answered hurriedly. I'm afraid, and I won't leave you dead. She had stopped as she spoke, but Black Bart snarling terribly, threw his weight back and dragged her a step forward. Buck cried old Joe Cumberland, and he dragged himself up and stood tottering, shoot that damned wolf for God's sake, for my sake. Still the wolf dog drew the girl in that snarling progress towards the door. Kate cried her father, and the agony in his voice made it young and sent it ringing through the room. Will you go out to wander between heaven and hell on a night like this? I'm not going, she answered. I won't leave you, but old dad. He opened his lips for a fresh appeal, but the chorus of the wild geese swept in upon the wind, blown loud and clear and jangling as distant bells out of tune. And Kate Cumberland buried her face in her hands and stumbled blindly out of the room and down the hall, and then they heard the wild name of a horse outside. Buck, commanded Joe Cumberland, he's stealing my girl, my Kate, go out, call up the boys, tell them to stop Dan from saddling a horse for Kate. Wait and listen, cut in Buck Daniels. Do you hear that? On the wet ground outside they heard a patter of galloping hoofs, and then a wild whistling, sweet and keen and high, came ringing back to them. It diminished rapidly, with a distance. He's carrying her off on Satan, groaned Joe Cumberland staggering as he tried to step forward. Buck, call out the boys. Even Satan can't beat my horses when he's carrying a double. Call him out, if you bring her back. His voice choked, and he stumbled, and would have fallen to his knees had not Buck Daniels sprang forward and caught him and carried him back to the couch. What's happened? There ain't no man can stop, said Buck Horsley. God's work, or the devil's work, I don't know. But I know there ain't no place for a man between Dan and Kate. Turn up the lights, commanded Joe Cumberland sharply. Got to see. I got to think. Do you hear? Buck Daniels ran to the big lamp and turned up the wick. It once a clear light flooded every nook of the big room and showed all its emptiness. Can't you make the lamp work? asked the old branchman angrily. Ain't there any oil in it? Why, Buck, there ain't enough light for me to see your face hardly. But I'll do without the light, Buck. How far will they go? Kate's a good girl. She won't leave me lad. She won't, agreed Buck Daniels. Just gone with Dan for a bit of a canter. The devil was come back into his eyes, muttered the old man. God knows where he's heading for, Buck. I bought him in off the range and made him a part of my house. I took him into my heart, and now he's gone out again and taken everything that I love along with him. Buck, why did he go? He'll come back, said the big cow-puncher softly. It's getting darker and darker, said Joe Cumberland. And there's a kind of ringing in my ears. Talk louder. I don't hear you none too well. I said they was coming back, said Buck Daniels. Something like a light showed on the face of Joe Cumberland. Aye, lad, he said eagerly. I can hear Dan Whistlin coming back nearer and nearer. Most like he was just playing a joke on me, huh, Buck? Most like, said Buck, brokenly. And there it's ringing at the door of the house. Was that a footstep on the hall? It was, said Buck. They's coming down the hall. But far, far away he heard the whistling of Dan Berry dying among the hills. You let the lamp go out, said Joe Cumberland, and now I can't see nothing. Are they in the room? They're here, said Buck Daniels, coming towards you now. Dan cried the old man, shading his eyes and peering anxiously. No, I can't see a thing. Can you find me, lad? And Buck Daniels, softening his voice as much as he could, answered, I can find you. Then give me your hand. Buck Daniels slipped his own large hand into the cold fingers of the dying cattleman. An expression of surpassing joy lay on the face of Joe Cumberland. Whistlin' Dan, my Dan, he murmured faintly. I'm kind of sleepy. But before I go to sleep tonight, I got to tell you that I forgive you for your joke, pretending to take Kate away. There's nothing but sleep worth wild. And going to sleep, holding your hand, lad, Buck Daniels dropped upon his knees and stared into the wide, dead eyes. Through the open window a sound of whistling blew to him. It was a sweet, faint music, and, being so light, it seemed like a chorus of singing voices among the mountains, for it was as pure and as sharp as the starlight. Buck Daniels lifted his head to listen, but the sound faded, and the murmur of the night wind came between. END OF CHAPTER 42 by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. END OF THE NIGHT HORSEMAN by Max Brand.