CHAPTER XI
"OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY"
Recognition--or some other more potent instantaneous force--brought thewoman to a sitting position. The man drew back to give her freedom ofaction, as she lifted herself on her hands. It was moments beforecomplete consciousness of her situation came to her; the surprise wasyet too great. She saw things dimly through a whirl of driving rain, ofa rushing mighty wind, of a seething sea of water, but presently it wasall plain to her again. She had caught no fair view of the man who hadshot the bear as he splashed through the creek and tramped, across therocks and trees down the canyon, at least she had not seen his frontface, but she recognized him immediately. The thought tinged with colorfor a moment, her pallid cheek.
"I fell into the torrent," she said feebly, putting her hand to her headand striving by speech to put aside that awful remembrance.
"You didn't fall in," was the answer. "It was a cloud burst, you werecaught in it."
"I didn't know."
"Of course not, how should you."
"And how came I here?"
"I was lucky enough to pull you out."
"Did you jump into the flood for me?"
The man nodded.
"That's twice you have saved my life this day," said the girl, forcingherself woman-like to the topic that she hated.
"It's nothing," deprecated the other.
"It may be nothing to you, but it is a great deal to me," was theanswer. "And now what is to be done?"
"We must get out of here at once," said the man. "You need shelter,food, a fire. Can you walk?"
"I don't know."
"Let me help you." He rose to his feet, reached down to her, took herhands in the strong grasp of his own and raised her lightly to her feetin an effortless way which showed his great strength. She did not morethan put the weight of her body slightly on her left foot when a spasmof pain shot through her, she swerved and would have fallen had he notcaught her. He sat her gently on the rock.
"My foot," she said piteously. "I don't know what's the matter with it."
Her high boots were tightly laced of course, but he could see that herleft foot had been badly mauled or sprained, already the slender anklewas swelling visibly. He examined it swiftly a moment. It might be asprain, it might be the result of some violent thrust against the rocks,some whirling tree trunks might have caught and crushed her foot, butthere was no good in speculating as to causes; the present patent factwas that she could not walk, all the rest was at that momentunimportant. This unfortunate accident made him the more anxious to gether to a place of shelter without delay. It would be necessary to takeoff her boot and give the wounded member proper treatment. For thepresent the tight shoe acted as a bandage, which was well.
When the man had withdrawn himself from the world, he had inwardlyresolved that no human being should ever invade his domain or share hissolitude, and during his long sojourn in the wilderness hisdetermination had not weakened. Now his consuming desire was to get thiswoman, whom fortune--good or ill!--had thrown upon his hands, to hishouse without delay. There was nothing he could do for her out there inthe rain. Every drop of whiskey was gone; they were just twohalf-drowned, sodden bits of humanity cast up on that rocky shore, andone was a helpless woman.
"Do you know where your camp is?" he asked at last.
He did not wish to take her to her own camp, he had a strange instinctof possession in her. In some way he felt he had obtained a right todeal with her as he would; he had saved her life twice, once by chance,the other as the result of deliberate and heroic endeavor, and yet hishonor and his manhood obliged him to offer to take her to her own peopleif he could. Hence the question, the answer to which he waited soeagerly.
"It's down the canyon. I am one of Mr. Robert Maitland's party."
The man nodded. He didn't know Robert Maitland from Adam, and he carednothing about him.
"How far down?" he asked.
"I don't know; how far is it from here to where you--where--where we--"
"About a mile," he replied quickly, fully understanding her reason forfaltering.
"Then I think I must have come at least five miles from the camp thismorning."
"It will be four miles away then," said the man.
The girl nodded.
"I couldn't carry you that far," he murmured half to himself. "Iquestion if there is any camp left there anyway. Where was it, down bythe water's edge?"
"Yes."
"Every vestige will have been swept away by that, look at it," hepointed over to the lake.
"What must we do?" she asked instantly, depending upon his greaterstrength, his larger experience, his masculine force.
"I shall have to take you to my camp."
"Is it far?"
"About a mile or a mile and a half from here."
"I can't walk that far."
"No, I suppose not. You wouldn't be willing to stay here while I wentdown and hunted for your camp?"
The girl clutched at him.
"I couldn't be left here for a moment alone," she said in sudden feverof alarm. "I never was afraid before, but now--"
"All right," he said, gently patting her as he would a child, "we'll goup to my camp and then I will try to find your people and--"
"But I tell you I can't walk!"
"You don't have to walk," said the man.
He did not make any apology for his next action, he just stooped downand disregarding her faint protests and objections, picked her up inhis arms. She was by no means a light burden, and he did not run awaywith her as the heroes of romances do. But he was a man far beyond theaverage in strength, and with a stout heart and a resolute courage thathad always carried him successfully through whatever he attempted, andhe had need of all his qualities, physical and mental, before hefinished that awful journey.
The woman struggled a little at first, then finally resigned herself tothe situation; indeed, she thought swiftly, there was nothing else todo; she had no choice, she could not have been left alone there in therocks in that rain, she could not walk. He was doing the only thingpossible. The compulsion of the inevitable was upon them both.
They went slowly. The man often stopped for rest, at which times hewould seat her carefully upon some prostrate tree, or some roundedboulder, until he was ready to resume his task. He did not bother herwith explanation, discussion or other conversation, for which she wasmost thankful. Once or twice during the slow progress she tried to walk,but the slightest pressure on her wounded foot nearly caused her tofaint. He made no complaint about his burden and she found it after allpleasant to be upheld by such powerful arms; she was so sick, so tired,so worn out, and there was such assurance of strength and safety in hisfirm hold of her.
By and by, in the last stage of their journey, her head dropped on hisshoulder and she actually fell into an uneasy troubled sleep. He did notknow whether she slumbered or whether she had fainted again. He did notdare to stop to find out, his strength was almost spent; in this lasteffort the strain upon his muscles was almost as great as it had been inthe whirlpool. For the second time that day the sweat stood out on hisforehead, his legs trembled under him. How he made the last five hundredfeet up the steep wall to a certain broad shelf perhaps an acre inextent where he had built his hut among the mountains, he never knew;but the last remnant of his force was spent when he finally opened theunlatched door with his foot, carried her into the log hut and laid herupon the bed or bunk built against one wall of the cabin.
Yet the way he put her down was characteristic of the man. That lastvestige of strength had served him well. He did not drop her as a lessthoughtful and less determined man might have done; he laid her there asgently and as tenderly as if she weighed nothing, and as if he hadcarried her nowhere. So quiet and easy was his handling of her that shedid not wake up at once.
So soon as she was out of his arms, he stood up and stared at her ingreat alarm which soon gave way to reassurance. She had not fainted;there was a little tinge of
color in her cheek that had rubbed upagainst his rough wet shoulder; she was asleep, her regular breathingtold him that. Sleep was of course the very best medicine for her andyet she should not be allowed to sleep until she had got rid of her wetclothing and until something had been done for her wounded foot. It wasindeed an embarrassing situation.
He surveyed her for a few moments wondering how best to begin. Thenrealizing the necessity for immediate action, he bent over and woke herup. Again she stared at him in bewilderment until he spoke.
"This is my house," he said, "we are home."
"Home!" sobbed the girl.
"Under shelter, then," said the man. "You are very tired and verysleepy, but there is something to be done. You must take off those wetclothes at once, you must have something to eat, and I must have a lookat that foot, and then you can have your sleep out."
The girl stared at him; his program, if a radical one under thecircumstances, was nevertheless a rational one, indeed the only one. Howwas it to be carried out? The man easily divined her thoughts.
"Wait! I am a woman, absolutely alone, entirely at yourmercy"]
"There is another room in this house, a store room, I cook in there," hesaid. "I am going in there now to get you something to eat, meanwhileyou must undress yourself and go to bed."
He went to a rude set of box-like shelves draped with a curtain,apparently his own handiwork, against the wall, and brought from it along and somewhat shapeless woolen gown.
"You can wear this to sleep in," he continued. "First of all, though, Iam going to have a look at that foot."
He bent down to where her wounded foot lay extended on the bed.
"Wait!" said the girl, lifting herself on her arm and as she did so helifted his head and answered her direct gaze with his own. "I am awoman, absolutely alone, entirely at your mercy, you are stronger thanI, I have no choice but to do what you bid me. And in addition to thenatural weakness of my sex I am the more helpless from this foot. Whatdo you intend to do with me? How do you mean to treat me?"
It was a bold, a splendid question and it evoked the answer it merited.
"As God is my judge," said the man quietly, "just as you ought to betreated, as I would want another to treat my mother, or my sister, ormy wife--" she noticed how curiously his lips suddenly tightened at thatword--"if I had one. I never harmed a woman in my life," he continuedmore earnestly, "only one, that is," he corrected himself, and onceagain she marked that peculiar contraction of the lips. "And I could nothelp that," he added.
"I trust you," said the girl at last after gazing at him long and hardas if to search out the secrets of his very soul. "You have saved mylife and things dearer will be safe with you. I have to trust you."
"I hope," came the quick comment, "that it is not only for that. I don'twant to be trusted upon compulsion."
"You must have fought terribly for my life in the flood," was theanswer. "I can remember what it was now, and you carried me over therocks and the mountains without faltering. Only a man could do what youhave done. I trust you anyway."
"Thank you," said the man briefly as he bent over the injured footagain.
The boot laced up the front, the short skirt left all plainly visible.With deft fingers he undid the sodden knot and unlaced it, then stoodhesitatingly for a moment.
"I don't like to cut your only pair of shoes," he said as he made aslight motion to draw it off, and then observing the spasm of pain, hestopped. "Needs must," he continued, taking out his knife and slittingthe leather.
He did it very carefully so as not to ruin the boot beyond repair, andfinally succeeded in getting it off without giving her too much pain.And she was not so tired or so miserable as to be unaware of hisgentleness. His manner, matter-of-fact, business-like, if he had been adoctor one would have called it professional, distinctly pleased her inthis trying and unusual position. Her stocking was stained with blood.The man rose to his feet, took from a rude home-made chair a lightMexican blanket and laid it considerately across the girl.
"Now if you can manage to get off your stocking, yourself, I will seewhat can be done," he said turning away.
It was the work of a few seconds for her to comply with his request.Hanging the wet stocking carefully over a chair back, he drew back theblanket a little and carefully inspected the poor little foot. He saw atonce that it was not an ordinary sprained ankle, but it seemed to himthat her foot had been caught between two tossing logs, and had beenbadly bruised. It was very painful, but would not take so long to healas a sprain. The little foot, normally so white, was now black and blueand the skin had been roughly torn and broken. He brought a basin ofcold water and a towel and washed off the blood, the girl fighting downthe pain and successfully stifling any outcry.
"Now," he said, "you must put on this gown and get into bed. By the timeyou are ready for it I will have some broth for you and then we willbandage that foot. I shall not come in here for some time, you will bequite alone and safe."
He turned and left the room, shutting the door after him as he went out.For a second time that day Enid Maitland undressed herself and this timenervously and in great haste. She was almost too excited andapprehensive to recall the painful circumstances attendant upon herfirst disrobing. She said she trusted the man absolutely, yet she wouldnot have been human if she had not looked most anxiously toward thatclosed door. He made plenty of noise in the other room, bustling aboutas if to reassure her.
She could not rest the weight of her body on her left foot and gettingrid of her wet clothes was a somewhat slow process in spite of herhurry, made more so by her extreme nervousness. The gown he gave her wasfar too big for her, but soft and warm and exquisitely clean. It drapedher slight figure completely. Leaving her sodden garments where they hadfallen, for she was not equal to anything else, she wrapped herself inthe folds of the big gown and managed to get into bed. For all its rudeappearance it was a very comfortable sleeping place, there were springsand a good mattress. The unbleached sheets were clean; although they hadbeen rough dried, there was a delicious sense of comfort and rest in herposition. She had scarcely composed herself when he knocked loudly uponher door.
"May I come in?" he asked.
When she bade him enter she saw he had in his hand a saucepan full ofsome steaming broth. She wondered how he had made it in such a hurry,but after he poured it into a granite ware cup and offered it to her,she took it without question. It was thick, warming and nourishing. Hestood by her and insisted that she take more and more. Finally sherebelled.
"Well, perhaps that will do for to-night," he said, "now let's have alook at your foot."
She observed that he had laid on the table a long roll of white cloth;she could not know that he had torn up one of his sheets to makebandages, but so it was. He took the little foot tenderly in his hands.
"I am going to hurt you," he said, "I am going to find out if there isanything more than a bruise, any bones broken."
There was no denying that he did pain her exquisitely.
"I can't help it," he said as she cried aloud. "I have got to see what'sthe matter, I am almost through now."
"Go on, I can bear it," she said faintly. "I feel so much better anywaynow that I am dry and warm."
"So far as I can determine," said the man at last, "it is only a badugly bruise; the skin is torn, it has been battered, but it is neithersprained nor broken and I don't think it is going to be very serious.Now I am going to bathe it in the hottest water you can bear, and then Iwill bandage it and let you go to sleep."
He went out and came back with a kettle of boiling water, with which helaved again and again, the poor, torn, battered little member. Never inher life had anything been so grateful as these repeated applications ofhot water. After awhile he applied a healing lotion of some kind, thenhe took his long roll of bandage and wound it dexterously around herfoot, not drawing it too close to prevent circulation, but just tightenough for support, then as he finished she drew it back beneath thecover.
&nbs
p; "Now," said he, "there is nothing more I can do for you to-night, isthere?"
"Nothing."
"I want you to go to sleep now, you will be perfectly safe here. I amgoing down the canyon to search--"
"No," said the girl apprehensively. "I dare not be left alone here;besides I know how dangerous it would be for you to try to descend thecanyon in this rain. You have risked enough for me, you must wait untilthe morning. I shall feel better then."
"But think of the anxiety of your friends."
"I can't help it," was the nervous reply. "I am afraid to be left alonehere at night."
Her voice trembled, he was fearful she would have a nervous breakdown.
"Very well," he said soothingly, "I will not leave you till themorning."
"Where will you stay?"
"I'll make a shakedown for myself in the store room," he answered. "Ishall be right within call at any time."
It had grown dark outside by this time and the two in the log hut couldbarely see each other.
"I think I shall light the fire," continued the man; "it will be sort ofcompany for you and it gets cold up here of nights at this season. Ishouldn't wonder if this rain turned into snow. Besides, it will dryyour clothes for you."
Then he went over to the fireplace, struck a match, touched it to thekindling under the huge logs already prepared, and in a moment acheerful blaze was roaring up through the chimney. Then he picked upfrom the floor where she had cast them in a heap, her bedraggledgarments. He straightened them out as best he could, hung them over thebacks of chairs and the table which he drew as near to the fire as wassafe. Having completed this unwonted task he turned to the woman who hadwatched him curiously and nervously the while.
"Is there anything more that I can do for you?"
"Nothing; you have been as kind and as gentle as you were strong andbrave."
He threw his hand out with a deprecating gesture.
"Are you quite comfortable?"
"Yes."
"And your foot?"
"Seems very much better."
"Good night then, I will call you in the morning."
"Good night," said the girl gratefully, "and God bless you for a trueand noble man."
The Chalice Of Courage: A Romance of Colorado Page 15
