CHAPTER VII
THE JUDGMENT OF GOD
The man who had entered with such violence upon so violent a scene,stood waiting till the smoke of Pierre's discharge had cleared away,then, still holding his gun in readiness, he stepped across the roomand bent over the fallen man.
"I've killed him!" he said, just above his breath, and addedpresently, "That was the judgment of God." He looked about, taking inevery detail of the scene, the branding iron that had burnt its markdeep into the boards where Pierre had thrown it down, the glowing fireheaped high and blazing dangerously in the small room, the woman boundand burnt, the white night outside the uncurtained window.
Afterwards he went over to the woman, who drooped in her bonds withhead hanging backward over the wounded shoulder. He untied the silkscarf and the rope and carried her, still unconscious, into thebedroom where he laid her on the bed and bathed her face in water.Joan's crown of hair had fallen about her neck and temples. Her baredthroat and shoulder had the firm smoothness of marble, her lifelessface, its pure, full lips fallen apart, its long lids closed,black-fringed and black-browed, owing little of its beauty to color orexpression, was at no loss in this deathlike composure and whiteness.The man dealt gently with her as though she had been a child. He foundclean rags which he soaked in oil and placed over her burn, then hedrew the coarse clothing about her and resumed his bathing of herforehead.
She gave a moaning sigh, her face contracted woefully, and she openedher eyes. The man looked into them as a curious child might look intoan opened door.
"Did you see what happened?" he asked her when she had come fully toherself.
"Yes," Joan whispered, her lips shaking.
"I've killed the brute."
Her face became a classic mask of tragedy, the drawn brows, horrifiedeyes, and widened mouth.
"Pierre? Killed?" Her voice, hardly more than a whisper, filled thehouse with its agony.
"Are you sorry?" demanded her rescuer sternly. "Was he in the habit oftying you up or was this--branding--a special diversion?"
Joan turned her face away, writhed from head to foot, put up her twohands between him and her agonizing memories.
The man rose and left her, going softly into the next room. There hestood in a tense attitude of thought, sat down presently with hislong, narrow jaw in his hands and stared fixedly at Pierre. He wasevidently trying to fight down the shock of the spectacle, grimlytelling himself to become used to the fact that here lay the body of aman that he had killed. In a short time he seemed to be successful,his face grew calm. He looked away from Pierre and turned his mind tothe woman.
"She can't stay here," he said presently, in the tone of a man who hasfallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself. He looked about ina hesitant, doubtful fashion. "God!" he said abruptly and snapped hisfingers and thumb. He looked angry. Again he bent over Pierre,examined him with thoroughness and science, his face becoming more andmore calm. At the end he rose and with an air of authority he went inagain to Joan. She lay with her face turned to the wall.
"It is impossible for you to stay here," said he in a voice ofcommand. "You are not fit to take care of yourself, and I can't stayand take care of you. You must come with me. I think you can managethat. Your husband--if he is your husband--is dead. It may or may notbe a matter for sorrow to you, but I should say that it ought not tobe anything but a merciful release. Women are queer creatures,though.... However, whether you are in grief or in rejoicing, youcan't stay here. By to-morrow or next day you'll need more nursingthan you do now. I don't want to take you to a neighbor, even if therewas one near enough, but I'll take you with me. Will you get readynow?"
His sure, even, commanding voice evidently had a hypnotizing effectupon the dazed girl. Slowly, wincing, she stood up, and with his helpgathered together some of her belongings which he put in the pack hecarried on his shoulders. She wrapped herself in her warmest outdoorclothing. He then put his hand upon her arm and drew her toward thedoor of that outer room. She followed him blindly with no will of herown, but, as he stopped to strap on his snowshoes, her face lightenedwith pain, and she made as if to run to Pierre's body. He stood beforeher, "Don't touch him," said he, and, turning himself, he glanced backat Pierre. In that glance he saw one of the lean, brown hands stir.His face became suddenly suffused, even his eyes grew shot with blood.Standing carefully so as to obstruct her view, he caught at the cornerof an elk hide and threw it over Pierre. Then he went to Joan, whostared at him, white and shaking. He put his arm around her and drewher out, shutting the door of her home and leaning against it.
"You can't go back," said he gently and reasonably. "The man tried tokill you. You can't go back. Surely you meant to go away."
"Yes," said Joan, "yes. I did mean to go away. But--but it's Pierre."
He bent and began to strap on her snowshoes. There was a fightingbrilliance in his eyes and a strange look of hurry about him that hadits effect on Joan. "It's Pierre no longer," said he. "What can you dofor him? What can he do for you? Be sensible, child. Come. Don't wastetime. There will be snow to-day."
In fact it was to-day. The moon had set and a gray dawn possessed theworld. It was not nearly so cold and the great range had vanished in abank of gray-black clouds moving steadily northward under a damp wind.Joan looked at this one living creature with wide, fever-brightenedeyes.
"Come," said the man impatiently.
Joan bent her head and followed him across the snow.
The Branding Iron Page 7