Palos of the Dog Star Pack Read online

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  All-Story Weekly

  _July 13-August 10, 1918_

  PALOS OF THE DOG

  STAR PACK

  by J. U. Giesy

  * * * * *

  1. OUT OF THE STORM

  It was a miserable night which brought me first in touch with JasonCroft. There was a rain and enough wind to send it in gusty dashesagainst the windows. It was the sort of a night when I always feltglad to cast off coat and shoes, don a robe and slippers, and sit downwith the curtains drawn, a lighted pipe, and the soft glow of a lampfalling across the pages of my book. I am, I admit, always strangelysusceptible to the shut-in sense of comfort afforded by a pipe, thesteady yellow of a light, and the magic of printed lines at a time ofelemental turmoil and stress.

  It was with a feeling little short of positive annoyance that I heardthe door-bell ring. Indeed, I confess, I was tempted to ignore italtogether at first. But as it rang again, and was followed by a rapidtattoo of rapping, as of fists pounded against the door itself, Irose, laid aside my book, and stepped into the hall.

  First switching on a porch-light, I opened the outer door, to revealthe figure of an old woman, somewhat stooping, her head covered by ashawl, which sloped wetly from her head to either shoulder, and wascaught and held beneath her chin by one bony hand.

  "Doctor," she began in a tone of almost frantic excitement. "Dr.Murray--come quick!"

  Perhaps I may as well introduce myself here as anywhere else. I am Dr.George Murray, still, as at the time of which I write, in charge ofthe State Mental Hospital in a Western State. The institution was notthen very large, and since taking my position at the head of its staffI had found myself with considerable time for my study along the linesof human psychology and the various powers and aberrations of themind.

  Also, I may as well confess, as a first step toward a betterunderstanding of my part in what followed, that for years beforecoming to the asylum I had delved more or less deeply into suchstudies, seeking to learn what I might concerning both the normal andthe abnormal manifestations of mental force.

  There is good reading and highly entertaining, I assure you, in thevarious philosophies dealing with life, religion, and the severalbeliefs regarding the soul of man. I was therefore fairly conversantnot only with the Occidental creeds, but with those of the Orientalraces as well. And I knew that certain of the Eastern sects hadadvanced in their knowledge far beyond our Western world. I had evenendeavored to make their knowledge mine, so far as I could, in certainlines at least, and had from time to time applied some of thatknowledge to the treatment of cases in the institution of which I wasthe head.

  But I was not thinking of anything like that as I looked at theshawl-wrapped face of the little bent woman, wrinkled and wry enoughto have been a very part of the storm which beat about her and blewback the skirts of my lounging-robe and chilled my ankles. I lived ina residence detached from the asylum buildings proper, but none theless a part of the institution; and, as a matter of fact, my solethought was a feeling of surprise that any one should have come hereto find me, and despite the woman's manifest state of anxiety andhaste, a decided reluctance to go with her quickly or otherwise onsuch a night.

  I rather temporized: "But, my dear woman, surely there are otherdoctors for you to call. I am really not in general practice. I amconnected with the asylum--" "And that is the very reason I alwayssaid I would come for you if anything happened to Mr. Jason," she cutin.

  "Whom?" I inquired, interested in spite of myself at this plainlypremeditated demand for my service.

  "Mr. Jason Croft, sir," she returned. "He's dead maybe--I dunno. Buthe's been that way for a week."

  "Dead?" I exclaimed in almost an involuntary fashion, startled by herwords.

  "Dead, or asleep. I don't know which."

  Clearly there was something here I wasn't getting into fully, and myinterest aroused. The whole affair seemed to be taking on anatmosphere of the peculiar, and it was equally clear that the gustydoorway was no place to talk. "Come in," I said. "What is your name?"

  "Goss," said she, without making any move to enter. "I'm house-keeperfor Mr. Jason, but I'll not be comin' in unless you say you'll go."

  "Then come in without any more delay," I replied, making up my mind. Iknew Croft in a way--by sight at least. He was a big fellow with lighthair and a splendid physique, who had been pointed out to me shortlyafter my arrival. Once I had even got close enough to the man to lookinto his eyes. They were gray, and held a peculiar something in theirgaze which had arrested my attention at once. Jason Croft had the eyesof a mystic--of a student of those very things I myself had studiedmore or less.

  They were the eyes of one who saw deeper than the mere objectivesurface of life, and the old woman's words at the last had waked up myinterest in no uncertain degree. I had decided I would go with her toCroft's house, which was not very far down the street, and see, if Imight, for myself just what had occurred to send her rushing to methrough the night.

  I gave her a seat, said I would get on my shoes and coat, and wentback into the room I had left some moments before. There I dressedquickly for my venture into the storm, adding a raincoat to my otherattire, and was back in the hall inside five minutes at most.

  * * * * *

  We set out at once, emerging into the wind-driven rain, my longraincoat flapping about my legs and the little old woman totteringalong at my side. And what with the rain, the wind, and the unexpectedsummons, I found myself in a rather strange frame of mind. The wholething seemed more like some story I had read than a happening of reallife, particularly so as my companion kept pace with me and uttered nosound save at times a rather rasping sort of breath. The whole thingbecame an almost eery experience as we hastened down the storm-sweptstreet.

  Then we turned in at a gate and went up toward the large house I knewto be Croft's, and the little old woman unlocked a heavy front doorand led me into a hall. It was a most unusual hall, too, its wallsdraped with rare tapestries and rugs, its floor covered with otherrugs such as I had never seen outside private collections, lighted bya hammered brass lantern through the pierced sides of which the raysof an electric light shone forth.

  Across the hall she scuttered, still in evident haste, and flung opena door to permit me to enter a room which was plainly a study. It waslined with cases of books, furnished richly yet plainly with chairs, aheavy desk, and a broad couch, on which I saw in one swift glance thestretched-out body of Croft himself.

  He lay wholly relaxed, like one sunk in heavy sleep, his eyelidsclosed, his arms and hands dropped limply at his sides, but no visiblesign of respiration animating his deep full chest.

  Toward him the little woman gestured with a hand, and stood watching,still with her wet shawl about her head and shoulders, while Iapproached and bent over the man.

  I touched his face and found it cold. My fingers sought his pulse andfailed to find it at all. But his body was limp as I lifted an arm anddropped it. There was no rigor, yet there was no evidence of decay,such as must follow once rigor has passed away. I had broughtinstruments with me as a matter of course. I took them from my pocketand listened for some sound from the heart. I thought I found thebarest flutter, but I wasn't sure. I tested the tension of the eyeballunder the closed lids and found it firm. I straightened and turned toface the little old woman.

  "Dead, sir?" she asked in a sibilant whisper. Her eyes were wide intheir sockets. They stared into mine.

 
I shook my head. "He doesn't appear to be dead," I replied. "See here,Mrs. Goss, what did you mean by saying he ought to have been backthree days ago? What do you mean by back?"

  She fingered at her lips with one bony hand. "Why--awake, sir," shesaid at last.

  "Then why didn't you say so?" I snapped. "Why use the word back?"

  "Because, sir," she faltered, "that's what he says when he wakes up.'Well, Mary, I'm back.' I--I guess I just said it because he does,doctor. I--was worrit when he didn't come back--when he didn't wakeup, to-night, an' it took to rainin'. I reckon maybe it was th' stormscared me, sir."

  Her words had, however, given me a clue. "He's been like this before,then?"

  "Yes, sir. But never more than four days without telling me he would.Th' first time was months ago--but it's