The Girl of the Golden West (19 page)

Instantaneously, the Girl came to life. The unturned cards upon
the table vanished with one lightning movement; the Girl's hand
disappeared beneath her skirts, raised for the moment knee-high;
then the same, swift reverse motion, and the cards were back in
place, while the Girl's eyes trembled shut again, to hide the light
of triumph in them. A smile flickered on her lips as the Sheriff
returned with the glass and bottle.

"Never mind,—I'm better now," her lips shaped weakly.

The Sheriff set down the bottle, and put his arm around the Girl
with a rough tenderness.

"Oh, you only fainted because you lost," he told her.

Averting her gaze, the Girl quietly disengaged herself, rose to
her feet and turned her five cards face upwards.

"No, Jack, it's because I've won,—three aces and a pair."

The Sheriff shot one glance at the girl, keen, searching. Then,
without so much as the twitch of an eyelid, he accepted his defeat,
took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, the flame of the match
revealing no expression other than the nonchalance for which he was
noted; then, picking up his hat and coat he walked slowly to the
door. Here he halted and wished her a polite good-night—so
ceremoniously polite that at any other time it would have compelled
her admiration.

Pale as death and almost on the point of collapse, the Girl
staggered back to the table where the wounded road agent was
half-sitting, half-lying.

Thrusting her hand now into the stocking from which she had
obtained the winning, if incriminating, cards, she drew forth those
that remained and scattered them in the air, crying out
hysterically:

"Three aces an' a pair an' a stockin' full o' pictures—but his
life belongs to me!"

Conscious-stricken at the fraud that she had imposed upon the
gambler, the Girl lived a lifetime in the moments that followed his
departure. With her face buried in her hands she stood lost in
contemplation of her shameful secret.

A sound—the sound of a man in great pain checked her hysterical
sobs. Dazed, she passed her hand over her face as if to clear away
the dark shades that were obstructing her vision. Another groan—and
like a flash she was down on her knees lavishing endearments upon
the road agent.

Never before, it is true, had the Girl had any experience in
gun-shot wounds. She had played the part of nurse, however, more
than once when the boys met with accidents at the mines. For the
women of the California camps at that time had endless calls upon
them. It was a period for sacrifices innumerable, and help and
sympathy were never asked that they were not freely given. So, if
the Girl did not know the very best thing to do, she knew, at
least, what not to do, and it was only a few minutes before she had
cut the coat from his back.

The next thing to be done—the dragging of the unconscious man to
the bed—was hard work, of course, but being strong of arm, as well
as stout of heart, she at last accomplished it.

Now she cut away his shirt in order to find the wound, which
proved to be in his breast. Quickly then she felt with her fingers
in an endeavour to find the ball, but in this she was unsuccessful.
So after a moment's deliberation she made up her mind that the
wound was a flesh one and that the ball was anywhere but in the
man's body—a diagnosis that was largely due to the cheerful
optimism of her nature and which, fortunately, proved to be
true.

Presently she went to a corner of the room and soon returned
with a basin of water and some hastily torn bandages. For a good
fifteen minutes after that she washed the gash and, finally,
bandaged it as well as she knew how. And now, having done all that
her knowledge or instinct prompted, she drew up a chair and
prepared to pass the rest of the night in watching by his side.

For an hour or so he slept the sleep of unconsciousness. In the
room not a sound could be heard, but outside the storm still roared
and raged. It was anything but an easy or cheerful situation: Here
she was alone with a wounded, if not dying, man; and she well knew
that, unless there came an abatement in the fury of the storm, it
might be days before anyone could climb the mountain. True, the
Indians were not far off, but like as not they would remain in
their wigwam until the sun came forth again. In the matter of food
there was a scant supply, but probably enough to tide them over
until communication could be had with The Polka.

For three days she watched over him, and all the time the storm
continued. On the third day he became delirious, and that was the
night of her torture. Despite a feeling that she was taking an
unfair advantage of him, the Girl strained her ears to catch a name
which, in his delirium, was constantly on his lips; but she could
not make it out. All that she knew was that it was not her name
that he spoke, and it pained her. She had given him absolute faith
and trust and, already, she was overwhelmed with the fierce flames
of jealousy. It was a new sensation, this being jealous of anyone,
and it called forth a passionate resentment. In such moments she
would rise and flee to the other end of the room until the
whispered endearments had ceased. Then she would draw near again
with flushes of shame on her cheeks for having heeded the sayings
of an irresponsible person, and she would take his head in her lap
and, caressing him the while, would put cold towels on his heated
brow.

Dawn of the fourth day saw the Girl still pale and anxious,
though despair had entirely left her; for the storm was over and
colour and speech had come back to the man early that morning. Love
and good nursing, not to speak of some excellent whisky that she
happened to have stored away in her cabin, had pulled him through.
With a sigh of relief she threw herself down on the rug for a
much-needed rest.

The man woke just before the sun rose. His first thought, that
he was home in the foothills, was dissipated by the sight of the
snow ranges. Through the window of the cabin, as far as the eye
could see, nothing of green was visible. Snow was everywhere;
everything was white, save at the eastern horizon where silver was
fast changing into rose and rose to a fiery red as the fast-rising
sun sent its shafts over the snow-coated mountains.

And now there came to him a full realisation of what had
happened and where he was. To his amazement, though, he was almost
without pain. That his wound had been dressed he was, of course,
well aware for when he attempted to draw back still further the
curtain at the window the movement strained the tight bandage, and
he was instantly made conscious of a twinge of pain.

Nevertheless, he persevered, for he wisely decided that it would
be well to reconnoitre, to familiarise himself, as much as
possible, with the lay of the land and find out whether the trail
that he had followed to reach the cabin which, he recalled, was
perched high up above a ravine, was the only means of communication
with the valley below. It was a useless precaution, for the snow
would have wholly obliterated any such trail had there been one
and, soon realising the fact, he fell back exhausted by his effort
on the pillows.

A half hour passed and the man began to grow restless. He had,
of course, no idea whatever of the length of time he had been in
the cabin, and he knew that he must be thinking of an immediate
escape. In desperation, he tried to get out of bed, but the task
was beyond his power. At that a terrible feeling of hopelessness
assailed him. His only chance was to reach the valley where he had
little fear of capture; but wounded, as he was, that seemed out of
the question, and he saw himself caught like a rat in a trap. In an
access of rage at the situation in which he was placed he made
another effort to raise himself up on his elbow and peer through
the window at the Sierras. The noise that he made, slight though it
was, awoke the Girl. In an instant she was at his bedside drawing
the curtain over the window.

"What you thinkin' of?" she asked. "At any moment—jest as soon
as the trail can be cleared—there'll be someone of the boys up here
to see how I've pulled through. They mustn't see you…"

Forcibly, but with loving tenderness, she put him back among his
pillows and seated herself by the bed. An awkward silence followed.
For now that the man was in his right senses it was borne in upon
her that he might remember that she had fed him, given him drink
and fondled him. It was a situation embarrassing to both. Neither
knew just what to say or how to begin. At length, the voice from
the bed spoke:

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

"And you have nursed me all that—"

"You mustn't talk," warned the girl. "It's dangerous in more
ways than one. But if you keep still no one'll suspect that you're
here."

"But I must know what happened," he insisted with increasing
excitement. "I remember nothing after I came down the ladder. The
Sheriff—Rance—what's become…?"

The Girl chided him with gentle authority.

"You keep perfectly still—you mustn't say nothin' 'til you've
rested. Everythin's all right an' you needn't worry a bit." But
then seeing that he chafed at this, she added: "Well, then, I'll
tell you all there is to know." And then followed an account of the
happenings of that night. It was not a thoroughly truthful tale,
for in her narrative she told him only what she thought was
necessary and good for him to know, keeping the rest to herself.
And when she had related all that there was to tell she insisted
upon his going to sleep again, giving him no opportunity whatsoever
to speak, since she left his bedside after drawing the
curtains.

Unwillingly the man lay back and tried to force himself to be
patient; but he fretted at the enforced quietude and, as a result,
sleep refused to come to him. From time to time he could hear the
Girl moving noiselessly about the room. The knowledge that she was
there gave him a sense of security, and he began to let his
thoughts dwell upon her. No longer did he doubt but what she was a
real influence now; and the thought had the effect of making him
keenly alive to what his life had been. It was not a pleasant
picture that he looked back upon, now that he had caught a glimpse
of what life might mean with the Girl at his side. From the moment
that he had taken her in his arms he realised to the full that his
cherished dream had come true; he realised, also, that there was
now but one answer to the question of keeping to the oath given to
his father, and that was that gratitude—for he had guessed rightly,
though she had not told him, that she had saved him from capture by
the Sheriff and his posse—demanded that he should put an end to his
vocation and devote his life henceforth to making her happy.

Once or twice while thus communing with himself he fancied that
he heard voices. It seemed to him that he recognised Nick's voice.
But whoever it was, he spoke in whispers, and though the wounded
man strove to hear, he was unsuccessful.

After a while he heard the door close and then the tension was
somewhat relaxed, for he knew that she was keeping his presence in
her cabin a secret with all the wiles of a clever and loving woman.
And more and more he determined to gain an honoured place for her
in some community—an honoured place for himself and her. Vague,
very vague, of course, were the new purposes and plans that had so
suddenly sprang up because of her influence, but the desire to lead
a clean life had touched his heart, and since his old calling had
never been pleasing to him, he did not for a moment doubt his
ability to succeed.

The morning was half gone when the Girl returned to her patient.
Then, in tones that did her best to make her appear free from
anxiety, she told him that it was the barkeeper, as he had
surmised, with whom she had been talking and that she had been
obliged to take him into her confidence. The man made no comment,
for the situation necessarily was in her hands, and he felt that
she could be relied upon not to make any mistake. Four people, he
was told, knew of his presence in the cabin. So far as Rance was
concerned she had absolute faith in his honour, gambler though he
was; there was nothing that Nick would not do for her; and as for
the Indians, the secret was sure to be kept by them, unless
Jackrabbit got hold of some whisky—a contingency not at all likely,
for Nick had promised to see to that. In fact, all could be trusted
to be as silent as the grave.

The invalid had listened intently; nevertheless, he sighed:

"It's hard to lie here. I don't want to be
caught 
now
."

The Girl smiled at the emphasis on the last word, for she knew
that it referred to her. Furthermore, she had divined pretty well
what had been his thoughts concerning his old life; but, being
essentially a woman of action and not words, she said nothing.

A moment or so later he asked her to read to him. The Girl
looked as she might have looked if he had asked her to go to the
moon. Notwithstanding, she got up and, presently, returned with a
lot of old school-books, which she solemnly handed over for his
inspection.

The invalid smiled at the look of earnestness on the Girl's
face.

"Not these?" he gently inquired. "Where is the Dante you were
telling me about?"

Once more the Girl went over to the book-shelf; when she came
back she handed him a volume, which he glanced over carefully
before showing her the place where he wished her to begin to read
to him.

At first the Girl was embarrassed and stumbled badly. But on
seeing that he seemed not to notice it she gained courage and
acquitted herself creditably, at least, so she flattered herself,
for she could detect, as she looked up from time to time, no
expression other than pleasure on his face. It may be surmised,
though, that Johnson had not merely chosen a page at random; on the
contrary, when the book was in his hand he had quickly found the
lines which the Girl had, so to say, paraphrased, and he was
intensely curious to see how they would appeal to her. But now,
apparently, she saw nothing in the least amusing in them, nor in
other passages fully as sentimental. In fact, no comment of any
kind was forthcoming from her—though Johnson was looking for it
and, to tell the truth, was somewhat disappointed—when she read
that Dante had probably never spoken more than twice to Beatrice
and his passion had no other food than the mists of his own
dreaming. However, it was different when,—pausing before each word
after the manner of a child,—she came to a passage of the poet's,
and read:

"'In that moment I say most truly that the spirit of life, which
hath its dwelling in the most secret chambers of the heart, began
to tremble so violently that the least pulse of my body shook
herewith, and in the trembling it said these words: "Here is a
deity stronger than I who, coming shall rule over me."'"

At that the Girl let the book fall and, going down on her knees
and taking both his hands in hers, she raised to him a look so full
of adoring worship that he felt himself awed before it.

"That 'ere Dante ain't so far off after all. I know jest how he
feels. Oh, I ain't fit to read to you, to talk to you, to kiss
you."

Nevertheless, he saw to it that she did.

After this he told her about the Inferno, and she listened
eagerly to his description of the unfortunate characters, though
she declared, when he explained some of the crimes that they had
committed, that they "Got only what was rightly comin' to
them."

The patient could hardly suppress his amusement. Dante was
discarded and instead they told each other how much love there was
in that little cabin on Cloudy Mountain.