CHAPTER XVII
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.