"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 my son before I die." "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.