“This sounds quite promising.”
“But I’ll tell nobody else.”
“Really!”
“It’s about a man and a hoss and a dog.
The man ain’t possible, the hoss ain’t
possible, the dog is a wolf.”
He paused again and glowered on the doctor. He
seemed to be drawn two ways, by his eagerness to tell
a yarn and his dread of consequences.
“I know,” he muttered, “because
I’ve seen ’em all. I’ve seen”—he
looked far, as though striking a silent bargain with
himself concerning the sum of the story which might
safely be told—“I’ve seen a
hoss that understood a man’s talk like you and
me does—or better. I’ve heard
a man whistle like a singing bird. Yep, that
ain’t no lie. You jest imagine a bald eagle
that could lick anything between the earth and the
sky and was able to sing—that’s what
that whistlin’ was like. It made you glad
to hear it, and it made you look to see if your gun
was in good workin’ shape. It wasn’t
very loud, but it travelled pretty far, like it was
comin’ from up above you.”
“That’s the way this strange man of the
story whistles?” asked Byrne, leaning closer.
“Man of the story?” echoed the proprietor,
with some warmth. “Friend, if he ain’t
real, then I’m a ghost. And they’s
them in Elkhead that’s got the scars of his
comin’ and goin’.”
“Ah, an outlaw? A gunfighter?” queried
the doctor.
“Listen to me, son,” observed the host,
and to make his point he tapped the hollow chest of
Byrne with a rigid forefinger, “around these
parts you know jest as much as you see, and lots of
times you don’t even know that much. What
you see is sometimes your business, but mostly it
ain’t.” He concluded impressively:
“Words is worse’n bullets!”
“Well,” mused Byrne, “I can ask
the girl these questions. It will be medically
necessary.”
“Ask the girl? Ask her?” echoed the
host with a sort of horror. But he ended with
a forced restraint: “That’s your
business.”
THE DOCTOR RIDES
Hank Dwight disappeared from the doorway and the doctor
was called from his pondering by the voice of the
girl. There was something about that voice which
worried Byrne, for it was low and controlled and musical
and it did not fit with the nasal harshness of the
cattlemen. When she began to speak it was like
the beginning of a song. He turned now and found
her sitting a tall bay horse, and she led a red-roan
mare beside her. When he went out she tossed
her reins over the head of her horse and strapped
his valise behind her saddle.
“You won’t have any trouble with that
mare,” she assured him, when the time came for
mounting. Yet when he approached gingerly he was
received with flattened ears and a snort of anger.
“Wait,” she cried, “the left side,
not the right!”
He felt the laughter in her voice, but when he looked
he could see no trace of it in her face. He approached
from the left side, setting his teeth.
