Jake was closeted with the rancher at the coming of the doctor and his companions; but their confabulation was brought to an abrupt termination at once.
The doctor went to the wounded man, who still remained unconscious, while Fyles joined the rancher and his foreman in a discussion of the night’s doings. And while these things were going on Arizona and Joe shared the hospitality of the lean-to.
The meeting in the rancher’s den had not proceeded far when a summons from up-stairs cut it short. Diane brought a message from the doctor asking her father and the sheriff to join him. Marbolt displayed unusual alacrity, and Fyles followed him as he tapped his way up to the sick-room. Here the stick was abandoned, and he was led to his seat by his daughter. Diane was pale, but alert and determined; while her father wore a gentle look of the utmost concern. The doctor was standing beside the window gazing out over the pastures, but he turned at once as they came in.
“A nasty case, Mr. Marbolt,” he said, the moment the rancher had taken up his position. “A very nasty case.” He was a brusque little man with a pair of keen black eyes, which he turned on the blind man curiously. “An artery cut by bullet. Small artery. Your daughter most cleverly stopped bleeding. Many thanks to her. Patient lost gallons of blood. Precarious position—very. No danger from wound now. Exhaustion only. Should he bleed again—death. But he won’t; artery tied up securely. Miss Marbolt says you desire patient removed to usual quarters. I say no! Remove him—artery break afresh—death. Sheriff, I order distinctly this man remains where he is. Am I right? Have I right?”
“Undoubtedly.” Then Fyles turned upon the blind man. “His orders are your law, Mr. Marbolt,” he said. “And you, of course, will be held responsible for any violation of them.”
The blind man nodded in acquiescence.
“Good,” said the doctor, rubbing his hands. “Nothing more for me now. Return to-morrow. Miss Marbolt, admirable nurse. Wish I was patient. He will be about again in two weeks. Artery small. Health good—young. Oh, yes, no fear. Only exhaustion. Hope you catch villains. Good-morning. Might have severed jugular—near shave.”
Doc. Osler bowed to the girl and passed out muttering, “Capital nurse—beautiful.” His departure brought the rancher to his feet, and he groped his way to the door. As he passed his daughter he paused and gently patted her on the back.
“Ah, child,” he said, with a world of tolerant kindness in his voice, “I still think you are wrong. He would have been far better in his own quarters, his familiar surroundings, and amongst his friends. You are quite inexperienced, and these men understand bullet wounds as well as any doctor. However, have your way. I hope you won’t have cause to regret it.”
“All right, father,” Diane replied, without turning her eyes from the contemplation of her sick lover.
And Fyles, standing at the foot of the bed watching the scene, speculated shrewdly as to the relations in which the girl and her patient stood, and the possible parental disapproval of the same. Certainly he had no idea of the matters which had led up to the necessity for his official services to enforce the doctor’s orders.
* * *
CHAPTER XVII
THE LIGHTED LAMP
Diane was by no means satisfied with her small victory. She had gained her point, it is true, but she had gained it by means which gave no promise of a happy outcome to her purpose.
Left alone with her patient she had little to do but reflect on her position, and her thoughts brought her many a sigh, much heart-racking and anxiety. For herself she allowed little thought. Her mind was made up as to her future. Her love was to be snatched away while yet the first sweet glamour of it was upon her. Every hope, every little castle she had raised in her maiden thoughts, had been ruthlessly shattered, and the outlook of her future was one dull gray vista of hopelessness. It was the old order accentuated, and the pain of it gripped her heart with every moment she gave to its contemplation. Happily the life she had lived had strengthened her; she was not the girl to weep at every ill that befell. The first shock had driven her to tears, but that had passed. She was of a nature that can suffer bravely, and face the world dry-eyed, gently, keeping the bitterness of her lot to herself, and hiding her own pain under an earnest attempt to help others.
Tresler was her all; and that all meant far more than mere earthly love. To her he was something that must be cherished as a priceless gem entrusted to her care, and his honor was more sacred to her than her own. Therefore all personal considerations must be passed over, and she must give him up.
But if his honor was safe in her keeping, his personal safety was another matter. In pitting herself against her father’s will she fully realized the danger she was incurring. Therefore she racked her sorely taxed brain for the best means of safeguarding her charge.
She hardly knew what she feared. There was no real danger she could think of, but her instinct warned her to watchfulness, to be prepared for anything. She felt sure that her father would seek some means of circumventing the sheriff’s mandate. What form would his attempt take?
After half an hour’s hard thinking she made up her mind to consult her wise old counselor, Joe, and enlist his aid. With this object in view she went down-stairs and visited the lean-to. Here she found both Arizona and Joe. Arizona was waiting a summons from the rancher, who was still busy with Jake and Fyles. At first she thought of consulting her adviser privately, but finally decided to take both men into her confidence; and this the more readily since she knew her lover’s liking for the hot-headed cowpuncher.
Both men stood up as she entered. Arizona dragged his slouch hat off with clumsy haste.
“Boys,” the girl said at once, “I’ve come to ask you for a little help.”
Left alone with her patient she had little to do but reflect
“Makes me glad, missie,” said the cowpuncher, with alacrity.
Joe contented himself with an upward glance of inquiry.
Diane nodded with an assumption of brightness.
“Well, it’s this,” she said. “Jack mustn’t be left for the next few days. Now, I am his nurse, but I have household duties to perform and shall be forced to leave him at times. You, Arizona, won’t be able to do anything in the daytime, because you are occupied on the ranch. But I thought you, Joe, could help me by being in the kitchen as much as possible. You see, in the kitchen you can hear the least sound coming from up-stairs. The room is directly overhead. In that way I shall be free to do my house.”
“Guess you had trouble fixin’ him up-stairs?” Joe inquired slowly. “Doc. Osler wus sayin’ somethin’ ’fore he went.”
Diane turned away. The shrewd old eyes were reading her like a book.
“Yes, father wanted him put in the bunkhouse.”
“Ah.” Joe’s twisted face took on a curious look. “Yes, I guess I ken do that. What’s to happen o’ night time?”
“Oh, I can sit up with him. The night is all right,” the girl returned easily.
“Guess we’d best take it turn about like,” Joe suggested.
“No, it wouldn’t do.”
“Guess it wouldn’t do. That’s so,” the other observed thoughtfully. “Howsum, I ken set around the kitchen o’ nights. I shan’t need no lights. Y’ see, wi’ the door open right into the hall ther’ ain’t no sound but what I’ll hear.”
The man’s meaning was plain enough, but the girl would not take it.
“No,” she said, “it’s in the daytime I want you.”
“Daytime? I guess that’s fixed.” Joe looked up dissatisfied.
At this juncture Arizona broke in with a scheme for his own usefulness.
“Say, missie, any time o’ night you jest tap hard on that windy I’ll know you want the doc. fetchin’. An’ I’ll come right along up an’ git orders. I’ll be waitin’ around.”
The girl looked him squarely in the eyes, seeking the meaning that lay behind his words. But the man’s expression was sphinx-like. She felt that these rough creatures, inst
ead of acting as advisers, had assumed the responsibilities she had only asked their assistance in.
“You are good fellows both. I can’t thank you; but you’ve taken a weight off my mind.”
“Ther’ ain’t no thanks, missie. I figger as a doc. is an a’mighty ne’sary thing when a feller’s sick,” observed Arizona, quietly.
“Spec’ally at night time,” put in Joe, seriously.
“I’ll get back to my patient,” Diane said abruptly. And as she flitted away to the house the men heard the heavy tread of Jake coming round the lean-to, and understood the hastiness of her retreat.
The next minute the foreman had summoned Arizona to the rancher’s presence.
Diane had done well to enlist the help of these men. Without some aid it would have been impossible to look after Tresler. She feared her father, as well she might. What would be easier than for him to get her out of the way, and then have Jake deport her patient to the bunkhouse? Doc. Osler’s threats of life or death had been exaggerated to help her carry her point, she knew, and, also, she fully realized that her father understood this was so. He was not the man to be scared of any bogey like that. Besides, his parting words, so gentle, so kindly; she had grown to distrust him most in his gentler moods.
All that day, assisted by Joe, she watched at the sickbed. Tresler was never left for long; and when it was absolutely necessary to leave him Joe’s sharp ears were straining for any alarming sound, and, unauthorized by Diane, his eyes were on the hallway, watching the rancher’s bedroom door. He had no compunction in admitting his fears to himself. He had wormed the whole story of the rancher’s anger at Tresler’s presence in the house from his young mistress, and, also, he understood that Diane’s engagement to her patient was known to her father. Therefore his lynx eyes never closed, his keen ears were ever strained, and he moved about with a gun in his hip-pocket. He didn’t know what might happen, but his movements conveyed his opinion of the man with whom they had to deal. Arizona had been despatched with Fyles to Willow Bluff. There were wounded men there to be identified, and the officer wanted his aid in examining the battlefield.
“But he’ll git around to-night,” Joe had said, after bringing the news to Diane. “Sure—sure as pinewood breeds bugs.”
And the girl was satisfied. The day wore on, and night brought no fresh anxiety. Diane was at her post, Joe was alert, and though no one had heard of Arizona’s return, twice, in the small hours, the choreman heard a footfall outside his lean-to, and he made a shrewd guess as to whose it was.
The second and third day passed satisfactorily, but still Tresler displayed no sign of life. He lay on the bed just as he had been originally placed there. Each day the brusque little doctor drove out from Forks, and each day he went back leaving little encouragement behind him. Before he went away, after his third visit, he shook his head gravely in response to the nurse’s eager inquiries.
“He’s got to get busy soon,” he said, as he returned his liniments and medical stores to his bag. “Don’t like it. Bad—very bad. Nature exhausting. He must rouse soon—or death. Three days——Tut, tut! Still no sign. Cheer up, nurse. Give him three more. Then drastic treatment. Won’t come till he wakes—no use. Send for me. Good girl. Stick to it. Sorry. Good-bye.”
And patting Diane on the back the man bustled out in his jerky fashion, leaving her weeping over the verdict he had left behind.
It was the strain of watching that had unnerved her. She was bodily and mentally weary. Her eyes and head ached with the seemingly endless vigil. Three days and nights and barely six hours’ sleep over all, and those only snatched at broken intervals.
And now another night confronted her. So overwrought was she that she even thought of seeking the aid old Joe had proffered. She thought quite seriously of it for some moments. Could she not smuggle him up-stairs after her father had had his supper and retired to his bedroom? She had no idea that Joe had, secretly, spent almost as much time on the watch as she had done. However, she came to no actual decision, and went wearily down and prepared the evening meal. She waited on the blind man in her usual patient, silent manner, and afterward went back to the kitchen and prepared to face the long dreary night.
Joe was finishing the washing-up. He was longer over it than usual, though he had acquired a wonderful proficiency in his culinary duties since he was first employed on the ranch. Diane paid little heed to him, and as soon as her share of the work was finished, prepared to retire up-stairs.
“There’s just the sweeping up, Joe,” she said. “When you’ve finished that we are through. I must go up to him.”
Joe glanced round from his washing-trough, but went on with his work.
“He ain’t showed no sign, Miss Dianny?” he asked eagerly.
“No, Joe.”
The girl spoke almost in a whisper, leaning against the table with a deep sigh of weariness.
“Say, Miss Dianny,” the little man suggested softly, “that doc. feller said mebbe he’d give him three days. It’s a real long spell. Seems to me you’ll need to be up an’ around come that time.”
“Oh, I shall be ‘up and around,’ Joe.”
The grizzled old head shook doubtfully, and he moved away from his trough, drying his hands, and came over to where she was standing.
“Say, I jest can’t sleep noways. I’m like that, I guess. I git spells. I wus kind o’ thinkin’ mebbe I’d set around like. A good night’s slep ’ud fix you right. I’ve heerd tell as folks kind o’ influences their patiences some. You bein’ tired, an’ sleppy, an’ miser’ble, now mebbe that’s jest wot’s keppin’ him back——”
Diane shook her head. She saw through his round-about subterfuge, and its kindliness touched her.
“No, no, Joe,” she said almost tenderly. “Not on your life. You would give me your last crust if you were starving. You are doing all, and more than any one else would do for me, and I will accept nothing further.”
“You’re figgerin’ wrong,” he retorted quite harshly. “’Tain’t fer you. No, no, it’s fer him. Y’ see we’re kind o’ dependin’ on him, Arizona an’ me——”
“What for?” the girl asked quietly.
“Wal, y’ see—wal—it’s like this. He’s goin’ to be a rancher. Yes, don’t y’ see?” he asked, with a pitiful attempt at a knowing leer.
“No, I don’t.”
“Say, mebbe Arizona an’ me’ll git a nice little job—a nice little job. Eh?”
“You are talking nonsense, and you know it.”
“Eh? What?”
The little man stood abashed at the girl’s tone.
“You’re only saying all this to get me to sleep to-night, instead of sitting up. Well, I’m not going to. You thinking of mercenary things like that. Oh, Joe, it’s almost funny.”
Joe’s face flushed as far as it was capable of flushing.
“Wal,” he said, “I jest thought ther’ wa’n’t no use in two o’ us settin’ up.”
“Nor is there. I’m going to do it. You’ve made me feel quite fresh with your silly talk.”
“Ah, mebbe. Guess I’ll swep up.”
Diane took the hint and went up-stairs, her eyes brimming with tears. In her present state of unhappiness Joe’s utter unselfishness was more than she could bear.
She took her place at the bedside, determined to sit there as long as she could keep awake, afterward she would adopt a “sentry-go” in the passage. For an hour she battled with sleep. She kept her eyes open, but her senses were dull and she passed the time in a sort of dream, a nasty, fanciful dream, in which Tresler was lying dead on the bed beside her, and she was going through the agony of realization. She was mourning him, living on in the dreary round of her life under her father’s roof, listening to his daily sneers, and submitting to his studied cruelties. No doubt this waking dream would have continued until real sleep had stolen upon her unawares, but, after an hour, something occurred to fully arouse her. There was a distinct movement on the bed. Tresler had suddenly
drawn up one arm, which, almost immediately, fell again on the coverlet, as though the spasmodic movement had been uncontrolled by any power either mental or physical.
She was on her feet in an instant, bending over him ready to administer the drugs Doc. Osler had left with her. And by the light of the shaded lamp she saw a distinct change in the pallor of his face. It was no longer death-like; there was a tinge of life, however faint, in the drawn features. And as she beheld it she could have cried aloud in her joy.
She administered the restoratives and returned to her seat with a fast-beating heart. And suddenly she remembered with alarm how near sleep she had been. She rose abruptly and began to pace the room. The moment was a critical one. Her lover might regain consciousness at any time. And with this thought came an access of caution. She went out on the landing and looked at the head of the stairs. Then she crept back. An inspiration had come to her. She would barricade the approach, and though even to herself she did not admit the thought, it was the recollection of her father’s blindness that prompted her.
Taking two chairs she propped them at the head of the stairs in such a position that the least accidental touch would topple them headlong. The scheme appealed to her. Then, dreading sleep more than ever, she took up her “sentry-go” on the landing, glancing in at the sick-room at every turn in her walk.
The hours dragged wearily on. Tresler gave no further sign. It was after midnight, and the girl’s eyes refused to keep open any longer; added to which she frequently stumbled as she paced to and fro. In desperation she fetched the lamp from the sick-room and passed into her own, and bathed her face in cold water. Then she busied herself with tidying the place up. Anything to keep herself awake. After a while, feeling better, she sat on the edge of her bed to rest. It was a fatal mistake. Her eyes closed against all effort of will. She was helpless. Nothing could have stopped her. Exhausted nature claimed her—and she slept.
The Night Riders Page 24
