by Max Brand
CHAPTER XXXIX
LEGAL MURDER
As Drew entered his bedroom he found the doctor in the act of restoringthe thermometer to its case. His coat was off and his sleeves rolled upto the elbow; he looked more like a man preparing to chop wood than aphysician engaging in a struggle with death; but Dr. Young had thefighting strain. Otherwise he would never have persisted in Eldara.
Already the subtle atmosphere of sickness had come upon the room. Theshades of the windows were drawn evenly, and low down, so that theincreasing brightness of the morning could only temper, not whollydismiss the shadows. Night is the only reality of the sick-bed; the dayis only a long evening, a waiting for the utter dark. The doctor'slittle square satchel of instruments, vials, and bandages lay open onthe table; he had changed the apartment as utterly as he had changed hisface by putting on great, horn-rimmed spectacles. They gave an owl-likelook to him, an air of omniscience. It seemed as if no mortal ailmentcould persist in the face of such wisdom.
"Well?" whispered Drew.
"You can speak out, but not loudly," said the doctor calmly. "He'sdelirious; the fever is getting its hold."
"What do you think?"
"Nothing. The time hasn't come for thinking."
He bent his emotionless eye closer on the big rancher.
"You," he said, "ought to be in bed this moment."
Drew waved the suggestion aside.
"Let me give you a sedative," added Young.
"Nonsense. I'm going to stay here."
The doctor gave up the effort; dismissed Drew from his mind, and focusedhis glance on the patient once more. Calamity Ben was moving his headrestlessly from side to side, keeping up a gibbering mutter. It rose nowto words.
"Joe, a mule is to a hoss what a woman is to a man. Ever notice? Thedifference ain't so much in what they do as what they don't do. Mespeakin' personal, I'll take a lot from any hoss and lay it to jestplain spirit; but a mule can make me mad by standin' still and doin'nothing but wablin' them long ears as if it understood things it wasn'tgoin' to speak about. Y' always feel around a mule as if it knewsomethin' about you--had somethin' on you--and was laughin' soft anddeep inside. Damn a mule! I remember--"
But here he sank into the steady, voiceless whisper again, the shadow ofa sound rather than the reality. It was ghostly to hear, even bydaylight.
"Will it keep up long?" asked Drew.
"Maybe until he dies."
"I've told you before; it's impossible for him to die."
The doctor made a gesture of resignation.
He explained: "As long as this fever grows our man will steadily weaken;it shows that he's on the downward path. If it breaks--why, that meansthat he will have a chance--more than a chance--to get well. It willmean that he has enough reserve strength to fight off the shock of thewound and survive the loss of the blood."
"It will mean," said Drew, apparently thinking aloud, "that the guilt ofmurder does not fall on Anthony."
"Who is Anthony?"
The wounded man broke in; his voice rose high and sharp: "Halt!"
He went on, in a sighing mumble: "Shorty--help--I'm done for!"
"The shooting," said the doctor, who had kept his fingers on the wristof his patient; "I could feel his pulse leap and stop when he saidthat."
"He said 'halt!' first; a very clear sign that he tried to stop Bardbefore Bard shot. Doctor, you're witness to that?"
He had grown deeply excited.
"I'm witness to nothing. I never dreamed that you could be so interestedin any human being."
He nodded to himself.
"Do you know how I explained your greyness to myself? As that of a manennuied with life--tired of living because he had nothing in the worldto occupy his affections. And here I find you so far from being ennuiedthat you are using your whole strength to keep the guilt of murder awayfrom another man. It's amazing. The boys will never believe it."
He continued: "A man who raised a riot in your own house, almost burneddown your place, shot your man, stole a horse--gad, Drew, you aresublime!"
But if he expected an explanatory answer from the rancher he wasdisappointed. The latter pulled up a chair beside the bed and bent hisstern eyes on the patient as if he were concentrating all of a greatwill on bringing Calamity Ben back to health.
He worked with the doctor. Every half hour a temperature was taken, andit was going up steadily. Drew heard the report each time with atightening of the muscles about his jaws. He helped pack the wounded manwith wet cloths. He ran out and stopped a wrangling noise of thecowpunchers several times. But mostly he sat without motion beside thebed, trying to will the sufferer back to life.
And in the middle of the morning, after taking a temperature, the doctorlooked to the rancher with a sort of dull wonder.
"It's dropping?" whispered Drew.
"It's lower. I don't think it's dropping. It can't be going down sosoon. Wait till the next time I register it. If it's still lower then,he'll get well."
The grey man sagged forward from his chair to his knees and took thehands of Calamity, long-fingered, bony, cold hands they were. There heremained, moveless, his keen eyes close to the wandering stare of thedelirious man. Out of the exhaustless reservoir of his will he seemed tobe injecting an electric strength into the other, a steadying and evenflow of power that passed from his hands and into the body of Calamity.
When the time came, and Young stood looking down at the thermometer,Drew lifted haggard eyes, waiting.
"It's lower!"
The great arms of the rancher were thrown above his head; he rose,changed, triumphant, as if he had torn his happiness from the heart ofthe heavens, and went hastily from the room, silent.
At the stable he took his great bay, saddled him, and swung out on thetrail for Eldara, a short, rough trail which led across theSaverack--the same course which Nash and Bard had taken the day before.
But the river had greatly fallen--the water hardly washed above theknees of the horse except in the centre of the stream; by noon hereached the town and went straight for the office of Glendin. The deputywas not there, and the rancher was referred to Murphy's saloon.
There he found Glendin, seated at a corner table with a glass of beer infront of him, and considering the sun-whitened landscape lazily throughthe window. At the sound of the heavy footfall of Drew he turned, rose,his shoulders flattened against the wall behind him like a cornered manprepared for a desperate stand.
"It's all right," cried Drew. "It's all over, Glendin. Duffy won't pressany charges against Bard; he says that he's given the horse away. AndCalamity Ben is going to live."
"Who says he will?"
"I've just ridden in from his bedside. Dr. Young says the crisis ispast. And so--thank God--there's no danger to Bard; he's free from thelaw!"
"Too late," said the deputy.
It did not seem that Drew heard him. He stepped closer and turned hishead.
"What's that?"
"Too late. I've sent out men to--to apprehend Bard."
"Apprehend him?" repeated Drew. "Is it possible? To murder him, youmean!"
He had not made a threatening move, but the deputy had his grip on thebutt of his gun.
"It was that devil Nash. He persuaded me to send out a posse with him incharge."
"And you sent him?"
"What could I do? Ain't it legal?"
"Murder is legal--sometimes. It has been in the past. I've an idea thatit's going to be again."
"What d'you mean by that?"
"You'll learn later. Where did they go for Bard?"
He did not seem disappointed. He was rather like a man who had alreadyheard bad news and now only finds it confirmed. He knew before. Now thefact was simply clinched.
"They went out to your old place on the other side of the range. Drew,listen to me--"
"How many went after him?"
"Nash, Butch Conklin, and five more. Butch's gang."
"Conklin!"
"I was in a hole; I need
ed men."
"How long have they been gone?"
"Since last night."
"Then," said Drew, "he's already dead. He doesn't know the mountains."
"I give Nash strict orders not to do nothin' but apprehend Bard."
"Don't talk, Glendin. It disgusts me--makes my flesh crawl. He's alone,with seven cutthroats against him."
"Not alone. Sally Fortune's better'n two common men."
"The girl? God bless her! She's with him; she knows the country. Theremay be a hope; Glendin, if you're wise, start praying now that I findBard alive. If I don't--"
The swinging doors closed behind him as he rushed through toward hishorse. Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor. Then hemoved automatically toward the bar. Murphy hobbled down the length ofthe room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before thedeputy.
"Well?" he queried.
Glendin poured his drink with a shaking hand, spilling much liquoracross the varnished wood. He drained his glass at a gulp.
"I dunno; what d'you think, Murphy?"
"You heard him talk, Glendin. You ought to know what's best."
"Let's hear you say it."
"I'd climb the best hoss I owned and start west, and when I come to thesea I'd take a ship and keep right on goin' till I got halfway aroundthe world. And then I'd climb a mountain and hire a couple of dead-shotsfor guards and have my first night's sleep. After that I'd beginthinkin' of what I could do to get away from Drew."
"Murphy," said the other, "maybe that line of talk would sound sort ofexaggerated to some, but I ain't one of them. You've got a wooden leg,but your brain's sound. But tell me, what in God's name makes him sothick with the tenderfoot?"
He waited for no answer, but started for the door.
