by Zane Grey
At last a step—a knock—her father’s voice: “Lenore . . . come.”
Her ordeal of waiting was over. All else she could withstand. That moment ended her weakness. Her blood leaped with the irresistible, revivifying current of her spirit. Unlocking the door, Lenore stepped out. Her father stood there with traces of extreme worry fading from his tired face. At sight of her they totally vanished.
“Good! You’ve got nerve. You can see him now alone. He’s unconscious. But he’s not been greatly weakened by the trip. His vitality is wonderful. He comes to once in a while. Sometimes he’s rational. Mostly, though, he’s out of his head. An’ his left arm is gone.”
Anderson said all this rapidly and lowly while they walked down the hall toward the end room that had not been used since Mrs. Anderson’s death. The door was ajar. Lenore smelled strong, pungent odors of antiseptics.
Anderson knocked softly. “Come out, you men, an’ let my girl see him!” he called.
Dr. Lowell, the village practitioner Lenore had known for years, tiptoed out, important and excited. “Lenore, it’s too bad,” he said kindly, and he shook his head.
Another man glided out with the movements of a woman. He was not young. His aspect was pale, serious. “Lenore, this is Mister Jarvis, the nurse . . . Now . . . go in, an’ don’t forget what I said.”
She closed the door and leaned back against it, conscious of the supreme moment of her life. Dorn’s face, strange yet easily recognizable, appeared against the white background of the bed. That moment was supreme because it showed him there alive, justifying the spiritual faith that had persisted in her soul. If she had ever, in moments of distraction, doubted God, she could never doubt again.
The large room had been bright, with white curtains softly blowing inward from the open windows. As she crept forward, not sure on her feet, all seemed to blur, so that, when she leaned over the still face to kiss it, she could not see clearly. Her lips quivered with that kiss and with her sob of thankfulness.
“My soldier.”
She prayed then, with her head beside his on the pillow, and through that prayer and the strange stillness of her lover she received a subtle shock. Sweet it was to touch him as she bent with eyes hidden. Terrible it would be to look—to see how the war had wrecked him. She tried to linger there, all tremulous, all gratitude, all woman and mother. But an incalculable force lifted her up from her knees.
“Ah!” she gasped as she saw him with cleared sight. A knife blade was at her heart. Kurt Dorn lay before her gaze—a man, and not the boy she had sacrificed to war—a man by a larger frame, and by older features, and by a change difficult to grasp.
These features seemed a mask, transparent, unable to hide a beautiful, sad, stern, and ruthless face beneath, which in turn slowly gave to her startled gaze sloping lines of pain and shades of gloom, and the pale, set muscles of forced manhood, and the faint hectic flush of fever and disorder and derangement. A livid, angry scar, smooth yet scarcely healed, ran from his left temple back as far as she could see. That established his identity as a wounded soldier brought home from the war. Otherwise to Lenore his face might have been that of an immortal suddenly doomed with the curse of humanity, dying in agony. She had expected to see Dorn bronzed, haggard, gaunt, starved, bearded and rough-skinned, bruised and battered, blinded and mutilated, with gray in his fair hair. But she found none of these. Her throbbing heart sickened and froze at the nameless history recorded in his face. Was it beyond her to understand what had been his bitter experience? Would she never suffer his ordeal? Never! That was certain. An insupportable sadness pervaded her soul. It was not his life she thought of, but the youth, the nobility, the splendor of him that war had destroyed. No intuition, no divination, no power so penetrating as a woman’s love. By that piercing light she saw the transformed man. He knew. He had found out all of physical life. His hate had gone with his blood. Deeds—deeds of terror had left their imprint upon his brow, in the shadows under his eyes that resembled blank walls potent with invisible meaning. Lenore shuddered through all her soul as she read the merciless record of the murder he had dealt, of the strong and passionate duty that had driven him, of the eternal remorse. But she did not see or feel that he had found God, and, stricken as he seemed, she could not believe he was near to death.
This last confounding thought held her transfixed and thrilling, gazing down at Dorn, until her father entered to break the spell and lead her away.
Chapter Thirty
It was night. Lenore should have been asleep, but she sat up in the dark by the window. Underneath on the porch, her father, with his men as audience, talked like a torrent. And Lenore, hearing what otherwise would never have gotten to her ears, found listening irresistible. Slow, dragging footsteps and the clinking of spurs attested to the approach of cowboys.
“Howdy, boys! Sit down an’ be partic’lar quiet. Here’s some smokes. I’m wound up an’ gotta go off or bust,” Anderson said. “Well, as I was sayin’, we folks don’t know there’s a war, from all outward sign here in the Northwest. But in that New York town I just come from . . . God Almighty, what goin’s-on! Boys, I never knew before how grand it was to be American. New York’s got the people, the money, an’ it’s the outgoin’ an’ incomin’ place of all pertainin’ to this war. The Liberty Loan drive was on. The streets were crowded. Bands an’ parades, grand-opera stars singin’ on the corners, famous actors sellin’ bonds, flags an’ ribbons an’ banners everywhere, an’ every third man you bumped into wearin’ some kind of uniform. An’ the women were runnin’ wild, like a stampede of two-year-olds . . . I rode down Fifth Avenue on one of them high-topped buses with seats on. Talk about your old stagecoach . . . why, these buses had ’em beat by a mile. I’ve rode some in my day, but this was the ride of my life. I couldn’t hear myself think. Music at full blast, roar of traffic, voices like whisperin’ without end, flash of red an’ white an’ blue, shine of a thousand automobiles down that wonderful street that’s like a canon. An’ up overhead a huge cigar-shaped balloon, an’ then an airplane sailin’ swift an’ buzzin’ like a bee. Them was the first air ships I ever seen. No wonder . . . Jim wanted to . . .”
Anderson’s voice broke a little at this juncture and he paused. All was still except the murmur of the running water and the song of the insects. Presently Anderson cleared his throat and resumed: “I saw five hundred Australian soldiers just arrived in New York by way of Panama. Lean, wiry boys like Arizona cowboys. Looked good to me. You ought to have heard the cheerin’. Roar an’ roar, everywhere they marched along. I saw United States sailors, marines, soldiers, air men, English officers, an’ Scotch soldiers. Them last sure got my eye. Funny plaid skirts they wore . . . an’ they had bare legs. Three I saw walked lame. An’ all had medals. Someone said the Germans called these Scotch ‘Ladies from hell.’ When I heard that I had to ask questions, an’ I learned these queer-lookin’ half-women-dressed fellows were simply hell with cold steel. An’ after I heard that I looked again an’ wondered why I hadn’t seen it. I ought to know men. Then I saw the outfit of Blue Devil Frenchmen that was sent over to help stimulate the Liberty Loan. An’ when I seen them, I took off my hat. I’ve knowed a heap of tough men an’ bad men an’ handy men an’ fightin’ men in my day, but I reckoned I’d never seen the like of the Blue Devils. I can’t tell you why, boys. Blue Devils is another German name for a regiment of French soldiers. They had it on the Scotchmen. Any Western man, just to look at them, would think of Wild Bill an’ Billy the Kid an’ Geronimo an’ Custer, an’ see that mebbe the whole four mixed in one might have made a Blue Devil.
“My young friend Dorn, that’s dyin’ upstairs, now he had a name given him. ’Pears that this wartime is like the old days when we used to hit on right pert names for everybody . . . Demon Dorn they called him, an’ he got that handle before he ever reached France. The boys of his outfit gave it to him because of the way he run wild with a bayonet. I don’t want my girl Lenore ever to know that.
�
�A soldier named Owens told me a lot. He was the corporal of Dorn’s outfit, a sort of foreman, I reckon. Anyway, he saw Dorn every day of the months they were in the service, an’ the shell that done Dorn made a cripple of Owens. This fellow Owens said Dorn had not got so close to his bunkmates until they reached France. Then he begun to have influence over them. Owens didn’t know how he did it . . . in fact, never knew it at all until the outfit got to the front, somewhere in northern France, in the first line. They were days in the first line, close up to the Germans, watchin’ an’ sneakin’ all the time, shootin’ an’ dodgin’, but they never had but one real fight.
“That was when one mornin’ the Germans came pilin’ over on a charge, far outnumberin’ our boys. Then it happened. Lord, I wish I could remember how Owens told that scrap! Boys, you never heard about a real scrap. It takes war like this to make men fighters . . . Listen, now, an’ I’ll tell you some of the things that come off durin’ this German charge. I’ll tell them just as they come to mind. There was a boy named Griggs who ran the German barrage . . . an’ that’s a gantlet . . . seven times to fetch ammunition to his pards. Another boy, on the same errand, was twice blown off the road by explodin’ shells, an’ then went back. Owens told of two of his company who rushed a bunch of Germans, killed eight of them, an’ captured their machine-gun. Before that German charge a big shell came over an’ kicked up a hill of mud. Next day the Americans found their sentinel buried in mud, dead at his post, with his bayonet presented.
“Owens was shot just as he jumped up with his pards to meet the chargin’ Germans. He fell an’ dragged himself against a wall of bags, where he lay watchin’ the fight. An’ it so happened that he faced Dorn’s squad, which was attacked by three times their number. He saw Dorn shot, go down, an’ thought he was done . . . but no! Dorn came up with one side of his face all blood. Dixon, a college football man, rushed a German who was about to throw a bomb. Dixon got him, an’ got the bomb, too, when it went off. Little Rogers, an Irish boy, mixed it with three Germans, an’ killed one before he was bayoneted in the back. Then Dorn, like the demon they’d named him, went on the stampede. He had a different way with a bayonet, so Owens claimed. An’ Dorn was heavy, powerful, an’ fast. He lifted an’ slung those two Germans, one after another, quick as that . . . like you’d toss a couple of wheat sheaves with your pitchfork, an’ he sent them rollin’, with blood squirtin’ all over. An’ then four more Germans were shootin’ at him. Right into their teeth Dorn run . . . laughin’ wild an’ terrible, Owens said, an’ the Germans couldn’t stop that flashin’ bayonet. Dorn ripped them all open, an’, before they’d stopped floppin’, he was on the bunch that’d killed Brewer an’ were makin’ it hard for his other pards . . . Whew! Owens told it all as if it’d took lots of time, but that fight was like lightnin’ an’ I can’t remember how it was. Only Demon Dorn laid out nine Germans before they retreated. Nine! Owens seen him do it, like a mad bull loose. Then the shell came over that put Dorn out, an’ Owens, too.
“Well, Dorn had a mangled arm an’ many wounds. They amputated his arm in France, patched him up, an’ sent him back to New York with a lot of other wounded soldiers. They expected him to die long ago. But he hangs on. He’s full of lead now. What a hell of a lot of killin’ some men take! My boy Jim would have been like that.
“So there, boys, you have a little bit of American fightin’ come home to you, straight an’ true. I say that’s American. I’ve seen that in a hundred men. An’ that’s what the Germans have roused. Well, it was a bad day for them when they figgered everythin’ on paper, had it all cut an’ dried, but failed to see the spirit of men.”
Lenore tore herself away from the window so that she could not hear any more, and in the darkness of her room she began to pace to and fro, beginning to undress for bed, shaking in some kind of a frenzy, scarcely knowing what she was about, until sundry knocks from furniture and the falling over a chair awakened her to the fact that she was in a tumult.
“What . . . am I . . . doing?” she panted in bewilderment, reaching out in the dark to turn on the light.
Like awakening from a nightmare, she saw the bright light flash up. It changed her feeling. Who was this person whose image stood reflected in the mirror? Lenore’s recognition of herself almost stunned her. What had happened? She saw that her hair fell wildly over her bare shoulders—her face shone white, with red spots in her cheeks—her eyes seemed balls of fire—her lips had a passionate, savage curl—her breast, bare and heaving, showed a throbbing, tumultuous heart. And as she realized how she looked, it struck her that she felt an inexplicable passion. She felt intense as steel, hot as fire, quivering with the pulsation of rapid blood, a victim to irrepressible thrills that rushed over her from the very soles of her feet to the roots of her hair. Something glorious, terrible, and furious possessed her. When she understood what it was, she turned out the light and fell upon the bed, where, as the storm slowly subsided, she thought and wondered and sorrowed, and whispered to herself.
The tale of Dorn’s tragedy had stirred to the depths the primitive, hidden, and unplumbed in the unknown nature of her. Just now she had looked at herself, at her two selves—the white-skinned and fair-haired girl that civilization had produced—and the blazing, panting, savage woman of the bygone ages. She could not escape from either. The story of Demon Dorn’s terrible fight had retrograded her, for the moment, to the female of the species, more savage and dangerous than the male. No use to lie. She had gloried in his prowess. He was her man, gone out with club, to beat down the brutes that would steal her from him.
“Alas . . . what are we? What am I?” she whispered. “Do I know myself? What could I not have done a moment ago?”
She had that primitive thing in her, and, although she shuddered to realize it, she had no regret. Life was life. That Dorn had laid low so many enemies was grand to her, and righteous, since these enemies were as cavemen come for prey. Even now the terrible thrills chased over her. Demon Dorn! What a man! She had known just what he would do—and how his spiritual life would go under. The woman of her gloried in his fight and the soul of her sickened at its significance. No hope for any man or any woman except in God!
These men, these boys, like her father and Jake, like Dorn and his comrades—how simple, natural, inevitable, elemental they were. They loved a fight. They might hate it, too, but they loved it most. Life of men was all strife, and the greatness in them came out in war. War searched out the best and the worst in men. What were wounds, blood, mangled flesh, agony, and death to men—to those who went out for liberation of something unproven in themselves? Life was only a breath. The secret must lie in the beyond, for men could not act that way for nothing. Some hidden purpose through the ages.
* * * * *
Anderson had summoned a great physician, a specialist of world renown. Lenore, of course, had not been present when the learned doctor examined Kurt Dorn, but she was in her father’s study when the report was made. To Lenore this little man seemed all intellect, all science, all electric current.
He stated that Dorn had upward of twenty-five wounds, some of them serious, most trivial, and all of them combined not necessarily fatal. Many soldiers with worse wounds had totally recovered. Dorn’s vitality and strength had been so remarkable that great loss of blood and almost complete lack of nourishment had not brought about the present grave condition.
“He will die, and that is best for him,” said the specialist. “His case is not extraordinary. I saw many like it in France during the first year of war when I was there. But I will say that he must have been both physically and mentally above the average before he went to fight. My examination extended through periods of his unconsciousness and aberration. Once, for a little time, he came to, apparently sane. The nurse said he had noticed several periods of this rationality during the last forty-eight hours. But these, and the prolonged vitality, do not offer any hope.
“An emotion of exceeding intensity and duration has produced lesion
s in the kinetic organs. Some passion has immeasurably activated his brain, destroying brain cells that might not be replaced. If he happened to live, he might be permanently impaired. He might be neurasthenic, melancholic, insane at times, or even grow permanently so . . . It is very sad. He appears to have been a fine young man. But he will die, and that really is best for him.”
Thus the man of science summed up the biological case of Kurt Dorn. When he had gone, Anderson wore the distressed look of one who must abandon his last hope. He did not understand, though he was forced to believe. He swore characteristically at the luck, and then at the great specialist.
“I’ve known Indian medicine men who could give that doctor cards an’ spades,” he exploded with gruff finality.
Lenore understood her father perfectly and imagined she understood the celebrated scientist. The former was just human and the latter was simply knowledge. Neither had that which caused her to go out alone into the dark night and look up beyond the slow-rising slope to the stars. These men, particularly the scientist, lacked something. He possessed all the wonderful knowledge of body and brain, of the metabolism and chemistry of the organs, but he knew nothing of the source of life. Lenore accorded science its place in progress, but she hated its elimination of the soul. Stronger than ever, strength to endure and to trust pervaded her spirit. The dark night encompassing her, the vast, lonely heave of wheat slope, the dim sky with its steady stars—these were voices as well as tangible things of the universe, and she was in mysterious harmony with them. “Lift thine eyes to the hills from whence cometh thy help!”
* * * * *
The day following the specialist’s visit Dorn surprised the family doctor, the nurse, Anderson, and all except Lenore by awakening to a spell of consciousness that seemed to lift, for the time at least, the shadow of death.
