The Night Horseman | Page 4

on the doctor, "there is an element of
offense which if carried farther might be corrected by physical
violence."
"I don't foller your words," said the cattleman, "but from the drift of
your tune I gather you're a bit peeved; and if you are--"
His voice had risen to a ringing note as he proceeded and he now
slipped from his chair and faced Randall Byrne, a big man, brown,
hard-handed. The doctor crimsoned.
"Well?" he echoed, but in place of a deep ring his words were pitched
in a high squeak of defiance.
He saw a large hand contract to a fist, but almost instantly the big man
grinned, and his eyes went past Byrne.
"Oh, hell!" he grunted, and turned his back with a chuckle.
For an instant there was a mad impulse in the doctor to spring at this
fellow but a wave of impotence overwhelmed him. He knew that he
was white around the mouth, and there was a dryness in his throat.
"The excitement of imminent physical contest and personal danger," he
diagnosed swiftly, "causing acceleration of the pulse and attendant
weakness of the body--a state unworthy of the balanced intellect."
Having brought back his poise by this quick interposition of reason, he
went his way down the long veranda. Against a pillar leaned another

tall cattleman, also brown and lean and hard.
"May I inquire," he said, "if you have any information direct or casual
concerning a family named Cumberland which possesses ranch
property in this vicinity?"
"You may," said the cowpuncher, and continued to roll his cigarette.
"Well," said the doctor, "do you know anything about them?"
"Sure," said the other, and having finished his cigarette he introduced it
between his lips. It seemed to occur to him instantly, however, that he
was committing an inhospitable breach, for he produced his Durham
and brown papers with a start and extended them towards the doctor.
"Smoke?" he asked.
"I use tobacco in no form," said the doctor.
The cowboy stared with such fixity that the match burned down to his
fingertips and singed them before he had lighted his cigarette.
"'S that a fact?" he queried when his astonishment found utterance.
"What d'you do to kill time? Well, I been thinking about knocking off
the stuff for a while. Mame gets sore at me for having my fingers all
stained up with nicotine like this."
He extended his hand, the first and second fingers of which were
painted a bright yellow.
"Soap won't take it off," he remarked.
"A popular but inexcusable error," said the doctor. "It is the tarry
by-products of tobacco which cause that stain. Nicotine itself, of course,
is a volatile alkaloid base of which there is only the merest trace in
tobacco. It is one of the deadliest of nerve poisons and is quite
colourless. There is enough of that stain upon your fingers--if it were
nicotine--to kill a dozen men."

"The hell you say!"
"Nevertheless, it is an indubitable fact. A lump of nicotine the size of
the head of a pin placed on the tongue of a horse will kill the beast
instantly."
The cowpuncher pushed back his hat and scratched his head.
"This is worth knowin'," he said, "but I'm some glad that Mame ain't
heard it."
"Concerning the Cumberlands," said the doctor, "I--"
"Concerning the Cumberlands," repeated the cattleman, "it's best to
leave 'em to their own concerns." And he started to turn away, but the
thirst for knowledge was dry in the throat of the doctor.
"Do I understand," he insisted, "that there is some mystery connected
with them?"
"From me," replied the other, "you understand nothin'." And he
lumbered down the steps and away.
Be it understood that there was nothing of the gossip in Randall Byrne,
but now he was pardonably excited and perceiving the tall form of
Hank Dwight in the doorway he approached his host.
"Mr. Dwight," he said, "I am about to go to the Cumberland ranch. I
gather that there is something of an unusual nature concerning them."
"There is," admitted Hank Dwight.
"Can you tell me what it is?"
"I can."
"Good!" said the doctor, and he almost smiled. "It is always well to
know the background of a case which has to do with mental states.
Now, just what do you know?"

"I know--" began the proprietor, and then paused and eyed his guest
dubiously. "I know," he continued, "a story."
"Yes?"
"Yes, about a man and a hoss and a dog."
"The approach seems not quite obvious, but I shall be glad to hear it."
There was a pause.
"Words," said the host, at length, "is worse'n bullets. You never know
what they'll hit."
"But the story?" persisted Randall Byrne.
"That story," said Hank Dwight, "I may tell to