THE HOWL OF STRANGE DOGS
Sleep trifled with him--beckoned him on, only to elude him
maddeningly. He spoke sternly to himself in language favoured by the
cowboys. The fact was that he was frightened, and he knew it. A
sense of impending events held his body tense and his ears strained.
Reasoning with himself that it was only the result of the night's
rapid sequence of mysterious incidents did not calm him.
For minutes he strained away to the west after those strange hoof
beats, only to relax, disgusted at himself for yielding to the
imaginings of his tingling nerves.
From the direction of the bunk-house he imagined he could hear at
intervals Imp's muffled bark--and then the gripping silences of the
most silent places in the world.
After a long time the coyotes gave tongue again in their long,
shuddering yaps. Strange how reassuring they were that night--that
hideous yelping that always before made him shiver! Stamford sank
into a sense of momentary security. He slept.
He wakened to find himself seated upright in bed, trembling,
straining with eyes and ears. Something terrible was happening
outside. Yet there was not a sound. In a flash he knew. His
sensitised ears were still echoing with the comforting yelps of the
coyotes, but at the moment it was as silent as if not another force
but himself existed in all the world. He knew that he had wakened at
the moment when a great hand seemed to have gripped a thousand wild
throats to silence. A hundred times before he had heard the same
uncanny burst of silence. But now----
On his elbow he rested, scarcely breathing.
Outside--in the house--even down in the corrals where several
restless bronchos always hitherto in these startling moments of peace
had spoken audibly of life, was a breathlessness as strained as his
own. The world was waiting--waiting.
Suddenly into the hush burst a solitary howl, a shattering roar that
seemed to mass all the wild things of the prairie behind one
tremendous throat.
Stamford's blood ran tingling to his scalp. Every muscle was tense
against the inclination to shut the awful thing from his ears. And
as the howl pulsed through the listening night, a second joined it.
Taking a deep breath, Stamford bounded from the bed.
He knew that cry. It was the night-baying of huge dogs gone wild on
the trail, of such dogs as he had never seen. Shivering before the
window, he listened. They were running swiftly across the prairie
above the house, drawing nearer and nearer, their clamour shutting
everything else from Stamford's mind. What were they doing there?
Where were they making for?
A commotion in the bunk-house brought his eyes in that direction. A
pair of figures, trailing saddles, flashed out and ran to the
corrals. And even in their haste their movements were furtive. As
they galloped madly up the slope toward the oncoming dogs, Stamford
heard Dakota Fraley curse under his breath. The hoofs of the horses
struck the prairie at first with only the hiss of dead grass, and
then the thud-thud of distant galloping.
The dogs were coming fast from the upper side of the house. Stamford
braced his trembling legs, climbed through the window, and ran to the
back of the house where he could see the slope upward to the prairie.
Yard by yard he could follow their advance. Almost as vividly he
pictured the rushing of Dakota and his companion to meet them. Half
the world then for Hobbles beneath him!
Across the broken howls cut Dakota's bellow, and silence fell like a
blow. A few seconds later came two sharp yelps of pain, and then
nothing more.
Stamford still stood in the cold night air, one hand pressed against
the wall of the house. It was that hand warned him of movement
within the house. With a vivid memory of Cockney's warning only an
hour before, he darted back for his window.
As he turned the corner a flicker of movement passed between him and
the lighted prairie beyond; but it was too quick to place. Dragging
his fingers along the wall as he ran, his hand struck something that
gave before him. Without stopping, he glanced upward.
A rope ladder was hanging from Professor Bulkeley's window.
A crunch on the gravel walk before the house sent Stamford on,
scarcely pausing to think. Throwing himself over the window-sill, he
straightened up within his room and waited in panting excitement.
Fear crowded him in--threatened to stifle him. Someone was out there
before the house--his ears told him that. But a more thrilling sense
warned him that someone was in his room--that if he but reached out
his hand he would touch a living body.
"Sh-sh!" The low hiss from beside him dissipated every element of
personal fear. "It's Bulkeley!"
Stamford gasped. Most prominent in the medley of feelings gripping
him was a desire to laugh hysterically. It was so like the big
innocent fellow to present himself like that, as if they were meeting
in a game of hide-and-seek--nothing more.
"I'm f-frightened," came the stammering whisper again, as the
Professor's huge hand fell on Stamford's arm.
The steps before the house moved lightly round to the window.
"Are you awake, Mr. Stamford?"
Close to the house, just beyond range of the window, Mary Aikens was
standing, terrified, pleading for companionship and comfort. The
Professor's grip tightened so convulsively that Stamford almost cried
out.
She must have heard the movement.
"What is it, Mr. Stamford, oh, what is it?"
Stamford wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her like a big
brother.
"It's only dogs, Mrs. Aikens--somebody's dogs on a coyote or antelope
trail."
He was trying to reassure her with his tone even more than with his
words.
"But it was so terrible--so threatening!"
"It's the way of dogs at night. They're apt to revert to type at an
hour like this." The Professor's grip relaxed. "To tell the truth,
I'm far more thrilled than I sound. It reminds me of sheep-hunting
dogs back East."
A low sob broke from her. At the same instant the Professor hissed a
warning.
"But there are no dogs on the Red Deer," she sobbed, "none like that."
"The night magnifies them. But where's your husband?"
"He went out--long ago----"
A gruff voice from the corner of the house stopped her with a gasp.
"Mary, when you've finished your midnight conversation with a man
through his bedroom window, we'll go to bed."
"Oh, Jim! I was frightened. I couldn't stay in there alone." A
double terror was in her voice now.
Stamford ground his teeth in his impotence. Cockney's big bulk
loomed before the window.
"Go to bed," he ordered. "I've something to say to this
fellow--right now."
She moved quickly before the moonlit square of the window and threw
her arms about the big man. Cockney made no resistance.
"Don't, Jim, please. Come to bed. Can't you see that I----"
The Professor's lips were close to Stamford's ear.
"For God's sake get him away; he'll murder us."
Stamford stepped to the window.
"Cockney," he said, "whatever you think of me is no reason for
forgetting yourself. I'll be here in the morning."
The big rancher turned his head to look down on the small figure of
his pleading wife, took her arm without a word, and started away.
Stamford stood listening as they crossed the sitting-room and closed
their bedroom door behind them.
"Now," he demanded, turning on the Professor, "perhaps you'll explain
at least _one_ of the night's mysteries. A little light might help."
He was fumbling about the dresser for the matches.
"No, no, please!" pleaded the Professor. "There might be others
around. I'll go back to my room in the dark."
"First of all you'll explain why you're here."
In the darkness his five-feet-four was not dwarfed by the extra foot
or so of the Professor, and the smaller man was in his own room and
had himself under better control.
"I'm afraid you'll--you'll laugh at me, Mr. Stamford. I have
my--ah--little fancies. We all have. I suppose I'm more sensitive
to ridicule."
"There's a good deal more of you to be sensitive," Stamford sneered.
"Perhaps that's it. Would it be--ah--too much to beg of you not to
insist? You don't suspect me of intentions on your purse, I suppose.
As a matter of fact"--he giggled in a silly way--"I was on my way to
the furthest corner under your bed when you came in."
"Considering the fact that I found you in my room in the dark when
you are supposed to be in bed," persisted Stamford, "you'll agree
that not insisting is little likely to dismiss the affair."
The Professor cleared his throat gently.
"I throw myself on your mercy, Mr. Stamford. I don't believe you'll
betray me. When a lad of eight my home was burnt down. My little
dog, Tony, and a pet kitten went with it. It was terrible to me.
The fear of fire has clung to me ever since. At home I always sleep
downstairs. When I travel I carry a rope ladder. If you look you
will see it dangling now from my window."
"Yes," said Stamford drily, "I did notice it."
"I know it's disgustingly foolish, but--ah--I was practising on it.
I've done it once or twice before since we came. And then those
awful dogs--or were they wolves?--completely unnerved me. I must
have lost my head. You see, I've always with me such valuable papers
on my work, the destruction of which would be a loss to the whole
nation----"
"It doesn't happen to be _my_ nation," Stamford broke in coldly.
"Mr. Stamford, can I trust you?"
"That depends."
"I was going to crave that you'd take the responsibility of looking
after my notes--in this room." He laughed apologetically, "In case
of fire they could be saved here."
Stamford had a sudden idea.
"And your sister--does she share your fears and--and practise on the
rope ladder?"
"Never, never! Fear is a matter of mind, and to Isabel is not that
peculiar delicacy of mind that----"
A slight scraping sound against the side of the house stopped him.
There was a dull thud on the ground, and Isabel Bulkeley came swiftly
before the window.
"Mr. Stamford, I can't find my brother." She was almost as agitated
as Mary Aikens had been a few minutes before. "He's not in his
room----"
"Here I am, Isabel."
The Professor stepped quickly to the window and touched her on the
arm. She laughed, with a tinge of hysteria none would have connected
with her. Then the chaperone came uppermost.
"Amos Bulkeley, you come right to bed! Don't you know you never
could stand the night air? You'll catch your death of cold. Is it
any wonder, Mr. Stamford, that I lose patience with him sometimes?
No, not a word, Amos! You march!"
And Amos marched as he was told, his long, awkward legs struggling
through the window with ludicrous contortions. Stamford, watching
with a smile in which was amusement and contempt, saw him carefully
place his feet in the ladder rungs, test the ropes, and begin to
climb ponderously upward.
He could not resist the opportunity. Isabel was holding the ladder
for her brother to ascend.
"Miss Bulkeley, I'm so glad you came to me for help. This is the
second time I've seen you to-night. It's been a lovely night. If
ever I can----"
"Thank you," she whispered back. "I'll remember."
"Isabel, Isabel!" The Professor was leaning through his window.
"Come right along now. I'll hold the ladder. Don't be a bit afraid,
dear. Nothing can happen. Just close your eyes and climb."
Stamford snarled up at the cooing voice.