"Is that horse what you hear?"
"No, no!" he answered impatiently. "That ain't what I hear. It ain't no
hoss that I hear!"
The hoof-beats grew louder--stopped before the house--steps sounded loud
and rattling on the veranda--a door squeaked and slammed--and Buck
Daniels stood before them. His hat was jammed down so far that his eyes
were almost buried in the shadow of the brim; the bandana at his throat
was twisted so that the knot lay over his right shoulder; he carried a
heavy quirt in a hand that trembled so that the long lash seemed alive;
a thousand bits of foam had dried upon his vest and stained it; the
rowels of his spurs were caked and enmeshed with horsehair; dust covered
his face and sweat furrowed it, and a keen scent of horse-sweat passed
from him through the room. For a moment he stood at the door, bracing
himself with legs spread wide apart, and stared wildly about--then he
reeled drunkenly across the room and fell into a chair, sprawling at
full length.
No one else moved. Joe Cumberland had turned his head; Kate stood with
her hand at her throat; the doctor had placed his hand behind his head,
and there it stayed.
"Gimme smoke--quick!" said Buck Daniels. "Run out of Durham a thousan'
years ago!"
Kate ran into the next room and returned instantly with papers and a
fresh sack of tobacco. On these materials Buck seized frantically, but
his big fingers were shaking in a palsy, and the papers tore, one after
another, as soon as he started to roll his smoke.
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