Then he said: “Seems like if Jerry Strann
dies I owe somebody something. Who? Mac
Strann, I reckon. I sort of got to stay and give
him his chance.”
“I hope to God,” burst out Daniels, smashing
his hands together, “that Mac Strann beats you
to a pulp! That’s what I hope!”
The eyes of Dan Barry widened.
“Why d’you hope that?” he asked
gently.
It brought Daniels again to speechlessness.
“Is it possible?” he growled to himself.
“Are you a human bein’ and yet you think
more of your hoss and your damned wolf-dog than you
do of the life of a man? Dan, I’m askin’
you straight, is that a square thing to do?”
The fragile hands went out to him, palm up.
“Don’t you see, Buck? I don’t
want to be this way. I jest can’t help
it!”
“Then the Lord help poor old Joe Cumberland—him
that took you in out of the desert—him
that raised you from the time you was a kid—him
that nursed you like you was his own baby—him
that loved you more’n he loved Kate—him
that’s lyin’ back there now with fire in
his eyes, waitin’, waitin’, waitin’,
for you to come back. Dan, if you was to see him
you’d go down on your knees and ask him to forgive
you!”
“I s’pose I would,” murmured Barry
thoughtfully.
“Dan, you’re goin’ to go with me!”
“I don’t somehow think its my time for
movin’, Buck.”
“Is that all you got to say to me?”
“I guess maybe it is, Buck.”
“If I was to beg you to come for old-time’s
sake, and all we been through together, you and me,
wouldn’t it make no difference to you?”
The large, gentle eyes focused far beyond Buck Daniels,
somewhere on a point in the pale, hazy blue of the
spring sky.
“I’m kind of tired of talkin’, Buck,”
he said at length.
And Buck Daniels rose and walked slowly away, with
his head fallen. Behind him the stallion neighed
suddenly and loud, and it was so much like a blast
of defiant triumph that Buck whirled and shook his
clenched fist at Satan.
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.
