by Zane Grey
Night fell, and the wind moaned the threatening storm. Coyotes ranged the park and yelped a staccato whining protest at the camp fire. Weird flickering shadows played on the cabin and the improvised tent. Molly sat close to her brother, leaning against the wall, silent and watchful. The only way she could ascertain that Dunn still lived was by touch, and when his pulse grew imperceptible and his hands cold she laid her head on his breast to listen to his heart.
Jim stayed up with her, and seldom left her, except to replenish the fire and take a look at the inside of the cabin, where the prisoners slept. Curly lay across the opening and every time Jim stepped near, though ever so noiselessly, he would awaken. The dead men had been moved to a corner of the cabin and covered with canvas.
Sometimes Jim paced up and down, finding action helpful to the surcharged condition of his mind. He never closed an eye, and seldom indeed was there an interval of any length when he was not watching Molly. In the dead of night there in that lonely forest he came to full appreciation of her sterling worth and a deep respect for the primitive life that had developed her. Many things considered by civilized people as necessary were merely superficial. Molly had the great qualities, virtue, courage, and love.
When he would approach her, as he did often, and sink down on one knee to peer at the pale Slinger, Molly would take hold of him. By the firelight he could see the big eyes, black as night, rest upon him with a glance that made him wonder how life had come to reward him so beautifully.
Towards dawn the wind ceased and, despite the overhanging clouds, the air chilled until it grew bitter cold. Jim wrapped his coat round Molly and laid his saddle blanket over Slinger. He kept the fire going, and stood close to it, burning his palms, turning from front to back.
It grew very black and still, the formidable hour before dawn when even the life of the forest seemed at lowest ebb. Slinger would go soon, Jim thought.
Molly called him. “He whispered somethin’ just now,” she said. “I think he called for Seth’s sister. He was sweet on her...She’ll hate even his memory now.”
Jim sat with her then, silently awaiting the end, holding her against him. It seemed the most melancholy and poignant of all the long night hours. How welcome the first gray streaks! Something ghastly and ghostly stole away into the forest. A fine misty rain began to fall. Daylight at last with Slinger Dunn still not dead!
Curly appeared around the corner of the cabin, yawning, and stretching his lithe length.
“Mawnin’, you babes in the woods,” he said, and dropped beside them, to lean over Dunn. “Wal, Slinger, old man, I reckoned you’d belong where the blue flags an’ the cornflowers blow.”
“Curly, not yet,” replied Jim. “All night we’ve been expecting him to die. And every moment the last hour.”
“It takes so long,” said Molly, sadly.
Curly placed his ear over Dunn’s heart and listened.
“Wal, you both got the willies,” he declared, as he rose with a glad smile. “He ain’t goin’ to croak.”
“What!” ejaculated Jim.
“Oh, Curly!” cried Molly, in an agony of hope.
“Shore he’ll live. I ain’t no doctor, but I’ve seen a heap of fellars pass out. An’ Slinger don’t show no earmarks of thet this mawnin’.”
Molly’s little remaining strength eked out here and she collapsed in Jim’s arms. He let her gently down on the bed of spruce and covered her over. “Go to sleep, honey,” he said.
“Boss, it’s goin’ to rain,” announced Curly, when indeed it was raining already. “Let’s rig up another tarp heah fer Slinger...Look! Molly asleep all in a jiffy. Poor kid!...I don’t see how I kin give her up to you.”
“Don’t you? Well, please be reasonable about it,” replied Jim, dryly.
They stretched a tarpaulin over the makeshift canvas shelter. “Thet’ll do fer a spell. Mebbe we kin move him into the cabin after Doc Shields looks him over...But say, boss, how aboot them stiffs in there?”
“They’ll have to be buried, of course.”
“Wal, the Haverlys ought to have decent burial, I s’pose, but thet Hack Jocelyn, —— , he ought to be throwed to the coyotes.”
Jim followed Curly inside. He stripped the scant covering off the bodies. It was not a pretty spectacle. Jim recoiled. But Curly viewed it differently.
“Daid centre on thet left vest pocket,” he muttered, bending over Jocelyn. “Slinger’s fancy shot, I’ve heahed say. Wal, I’m durned if I want the jasper slingin’ one at me.”
Jim went back to rouse the three prisoners.
“Roll out, you buckaroos, and help get breakfast.”
Matty lumbered up cheerfully, and the others followed with an alacrity that presupposed a desire to please. Probably they did not hold themselves guilty of the deal hatched by the Haverlys and Jocelyn.
“Say, you Cibeque duffers,” said Curly, facetiously, “I fell asleep purpose last night so you could sneak off.”
“Prentiss, I’d hate to of tried it. But all we own in the world is this pack outfit,” explained Matty.
“Wal, thet ain’t a hell uv a lot.”
While they ate breakfast the rain ceased and blue sky showed overhead, soon to be obscured, however, by fast scudding clouds out of the south-west.
Molly slept on, and even the bells of the Diamond pack-horses ringing down the slope did not wake her. Jim did not recall ever being so glad to see cowboys as then.
“The whole night long!” sang out Bud. “The whole night long!”
“Say, Bud, if it was long for you, what do you suppose it was for Molly and me?” retorted Jim.
“I see you haven’t covered Slinger’s face, so he mustn’t hey croaked yet,” replied Bud, practically.
“Howdy, boys! Sure glad to see you,” said Jim, running his eye over the group. “Where’s Hump and Uphill?”
“Don’t know. Cherry will tell you What he thinks, an’ it ain’t no cheerful news,” announced Bud. “We left some uv the hosses an’ packs. Jeff is comin’ somewhere back. He shore hates a saddle.”
“What’s up, Cherry?” queried Jim, approaching Winters, who was dismounting.
“Boss, I reckon Stevens an’ Frost hey struck somethin’ out at the head of Derrick. We left a note fer them to hit our trail. An’ I reckon they’ll be along, mebbe tonight.”
Jim did not see in Cherry’s words much to be worried about. But still less did he like Cherry’s expression than the hint in Bud’s remark.
“Well, unpack and make camp,” he ordered. “If Dunn pulls through we’ll have to stay here for days. Put up the little tent for Molly, if you fetched it. But first thing after you unpack bury these dead men.”
One by one, Bud leading, the cowboys went up to have a look at Slinger and Molly. Strange to say, no remarks were forthcoming, which was probably owing to solicitude for the girl. Then, after the fashion of cowboys, they set to work. Jeff Davis rode down into camp, and added his efficient hands to the task.
The rain held off till early in the afternoon, when it began to fall in earnest. Molly slept on through it all, dry and snug under shelter and blanket. Slinger showed no change. The three Cibeque men had been unceremoniously moved out of the cabin, which the cowboys had thoroughly cleaned. Jim, after a short stay beside Molly and her brother, watchful to see any change in the latter, went inside the cabin to wait. There was nothing much to do now but wait.
Bud appeared to be industriously working over something. It was a section of aspen tree, split in half, on the white surface of which he had carved some words. Jim bent over Curly, who was intent on the artist.
Hackamore Jocelyn, N. G. Drift Fence Cutter Died with his boots on, Sept. 1889.
“I clean forgit the date,” said Bud, viewing his work with satisfaction.
“Reckon it’s aboot the twenty-third. Towards the end of September, anyhow. An’ what’s the date amount to? Jocelyn should never hey bin borned. All we aim to celebrate with this heah tombstone is thet he’s damn good an
’ daid,” replied Curly.
The other cowboys noted Bud’s work with quite different points of view.
“Bud, anyone could see you onct worked in a graveyard,” said Cherry.
“What’s the idee — cuttin’ out a haidpiece fer thet greaser?” inquired Lonestar, scornfully. “There’d be sum sense in it if we’d buried Slinger.”
“Shore. But it’s good practice in case Slinger croaks,” observed Bud.
“Hey I gotta tell you fellars any more thet Slinger will live?” queried Curly, annoyed that his judgment was questioned.
“He might, Curly. Life is darn oncertain. I’ll bet you Slinger croaks,” returned Bud, much animated at the prospect of a wager.
“Aw hell!”
“Wal, then, I’ll bet you he croaks before Doc Shields gits hyar,” went on Bud.
“You’d gamble on your grandma’s coffin,” asserted Curly, in supreme disgust. “Funniest thing, too. You always lose.”
“Like hob I do! Right this minnit your spurs an’ chaps belong to me. You’d be naked ‘most but fer my magnanimity.”
“Bud, it shore ain’t no wonder no gurl will stick to you,” replied Curly.
“Woes a gurl got to do with games uv chance? I’m a born better, as you know to your cost.”
“But you’ll bet on anythin’ in Gawd’s world,” protested Curly.
“Thet’s the secret. How much did I clean up when the boss licked you — an’ Cherry an’ Up an’ Lonestar? Huh! I got it all down, an’ if we live to reach Flag ag’in, I’ll be rich.”
“Shore. An’ you’ll be drunk, too.”
“Curly, you make me orful tired. If I wasn’t so all-fired fond uv you — fer no reason thet any human bein’ could see — I’d be riled at your insults...Now listen. Money talks. Put up or shet up. Hyar’s my roll.”
Bud exhibited a roll of greenbacks that made Curly’s eyes stick out and likewise excited Lonestar and Cherry.
“Where’n hell’d you git thet?”
“I bin holdin’ out. Now produce your roll. It’ll look like a peapod thet a hors stepped on...Wal, mebbe not so flat,” added Bud, as Curly retaliated by surprising him. “Now, hyar’s a bet thet’ll show how game I am. My roll ag’in’ yours thet Slinger won’t croak!”
Curly’s face was saved, and the risk of his money, too, by the arrival of lack Way and Dr. Shields. The latter was a little man, lost in a heavy slicker. From the exchange of greetings he was well acquainted with several of the Diamond. He got off, and out of the slicker, then removed a small medicine- satchel and a parcel from the saddle-bag.
“Where’s your man?” he queried, after being introduced to Jim. “Fetch clean hot water.”
Jim did not think it necessary to awaken Molly. The job would be gruesome and she would insist on helping. Dr. Shields felt Dunn’s pulse and heart, and said, “Hum!” which meant little to Jim. Then he cut open Dunn’s blood-caked garments, and first removed the bandages from the wound in the abdomen. At sight of this he shook his head. When he saw that the bullet had gone clear through he nodded his head. So Jim inferred it was both bad and good. Cherry fetched a pan of hot water. Whereupon the doctor went to work, and, with Jim’s assistance, in an hour had all six wounds dressed.
To Jim’s amaze, Slinger opened his eyes. No doubt all the while he had been conscious.
“You ought to be a boss-doctor,” he said. “Hurtin’ me wuss’n the bullets...Am I goin’ to cash?”
“Dunn, that shot in your belly ought to have killed you long ago,” replied the doctor. “The one in your hip is bad, but not critical. The others just gun-shots.”
“Did you fetch any whisky?”
Shields made haste to supply this evident pressing need. “Jim,” said Slinger, “I knowed you gave me some whisky of Jocelyn’s. But I shore didn’t want to live on thet.”
Suddenly Molly sat up, wide-eyed and bewildered.
“Hullo, wood-mouse! You’ve shore slept a lot,” said Dunn. “Oh, Arch! — Jim!”
“Molly, this is Dr. Shields from Flag. He has just attended to your brother’s wounds, and—”
But Jim could not reply to Molly’s mutely questioning eves. And Dr. Shields, blunt as he was, shrank from their wonderful eager look.
“Molly, I’m further from bein’ daid than last night,” spoke up Slinger for himself.
“Don’t talk. Don’t move,” admonished the doctor, and he led Jim and Molly away. “Very likely he told the truth,” continued Shields, presently. “I can’t make predictions. He ought to have passed out long ago. Some of these cowboys are like Indians, to whom bullet holes and knife-cuts are nothing. Your Curly Prentiss is one...Miracles happen. This man might live. If he lasts till tomorrow I’d say there was hope. I’ll stay.”
The rain dripped through the roof of the old cabin, in some places in little streams, one of which happened to go down Bud Chalfack’s neck. It had the effect of a lighted match dropped in gunpowder.
“Bud, why don’t you git used to water?” complained Curly, when the explosion had subsided.
Molly had dinner in the cabin and she was the object of much solicitude. She went back to her shelter, claiming it dry, at least. The three Cibeque men became restless as the afternoon grew late. Boyd Flick did not return. All the cowboys save Bud passed the time playing cards. Bud had evidently become enamoured of his carving ability, for he spent hours over the other half of the aspen log. When he exhibited his latest bit of sculptural genius the cowboys were spellbound. Bud had hewn out a masterpiece of a wooden headpiece for a grave. And he had engraved upon it: “Curly Prentiss. Died —— . Unmarried.” This he presented to Curly, before the bursting cowboys.
“You bow-legged, kangaroo-rat!” declared Curly, who could not see the joke. “I could of married a hundred gurls.”
And so the day passed, every minute of it with less strain for Jim. He was attentive to Molly, who began another vigil over her brother. The rain roared on the canvas, but Molly was comfortable.
“Traft, you look fagged out,” said Dr. Shields, when night fell. “Go to bed. I’ll keep tab on Dunn and wake you if there’s any turn for the worse. He simply amazes me.”
Jim slipped under Molly’s shelter to encourage her and say good-night. In the dark he was feeling round for her when she tugged at him.
“Ssh! He’s asleep,” she whispered.
“Molly, you’ll not sit up all night again? Dr. Shields said he’d watch.”
“I’ll lay down when I get sleepy,” she said. “Jim, I’m beginnin’ to hope.”
“So am I,” replied Jim, and put his arms around her. Molly gave a start and then slowly relaxed. Jim waited to see what she would do. After a long moment she stirred, and in the dim light of the smouldering camp fire he saw her head come up. Then shyly and sweetly, but surely, she returned his embrace, and just brushed his cheek with her lips. Thrilled and utterly grateful and content, he bade her good-night.
He sought his own bed in the stall behind which Seth Haverly had met his death. Once stretched out, Jim discovered how weary he actually was, and that was the extent of his conscious mental activity for this trying day. He slept till the ring of axe and stirring of men roused him. It was a dark, wet, gray dawn, but evidently the rain had ceased. While pulling on his boots, he heard Curly speak:
“Wal, Doc, how’s your patient this mawnin’?”
“I give up, Prentiss. You cowboys are not made of flesh and blood. Dunn just asked for a cigarette,” replied the doctor. Jim went to the fire in a hurry.
“Then he must be — be—” he faltered, just overcome with hope for Molly.
“Traft, I reckon he’ll pull through. I’ll look him over after breakfast. Then you can send a man with me. I left my horses tied in a corral over here where the road ends. Guess they’ll be all right, but I’d like to hurry.”
“Boss, it shore is good,” said Curly. “My hunch was all right. But I was scared stiff fer the little gurl.”
Jim felt too grateful for express
ion and had to restrain himself from rushing in to Molly. At the breakfast call she appeared pale, yet somehow glowing, and to Jim’s delight she chose a seat beside him.
The morning showed a prospect of clearing weather. A bit of sunlight tipped the spear-pointed spruces on the ridge. Jays and squirrels were noisily in attendance upon the cabin.
Dr. Shields seemed vastly relieved, and not a little glad.
“Miss Molly, you can rest easy,” he said. “Your brother will live...Traft, I’m leaving only a few instructions. Give. Dunn a little whisky and water now and then, for a couple of days. If fever sets in send for me. But there’s no sign of that or other complications. His wounds have closed clean in this forest air. Then begin to feed him nourishing soups, beef tea, and presently light food. But don’t overdo. In about ten days make a canvas litter and have four men pack him to the road, where you can safely haul him in a wagon to Flag.”
When the genial doctor had said good-bye to all and ridden away with his guide, Bud ejaculated plaintively: “Nourishin’ soup! Beef tea! I need somethin’ like thet myself.”
“My Gawd!” added Curly, his loyal champion, at times. “So do I. This heah fence-buildin’ has run me down to skin an’ bones.”
“I’ll bet a two-dollar bill thet if I got shot up our deaf-an’dumb cook would feed me salt mackerel,” ended Bud, in disgust.
Long since Jim had learned this apparent discontent and garrulousness were just their perennial spirit of fun, but he still found occasion to pretend he did not understand them.
“Curly, you and Bud are so darn full of energy — suppose you split some shingles and repair the cabin roof,” he suggested, dryly.
“Boss, it ain’t a-goin’ to rain no more,” replied Bud.