The Ranch at the Wolverine

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER XVIII

  FORTUNE KICKS AGAIN

  It was past noon when Ward rode down the steep slope to the creek bankjust above his cabin. He was sunk deep in that mental depression whichso often follows close upon the heels of a great outburst of passion.Mechanically he twitched the reins and sent Rattler down the last shelfof bank--and he did not look up to see just where he was. Rattler wasa well-trained horse, since he was Ward's. He obeyed the rein signaland stepped off a two-foot bank into a nest of loose-piled rocks thatslid treacherously under his feet. Sure-footed though he was, hestumbled and fell; and it was sheer instinct that took Ward's feet fromthe stirrups in time.

  Ward sprawled among the rocks, dazed. The shock of the fall took himout of his fit of abstraction, and he pulled away from Rattler as thehorse scrambled up and stood shaking before him. He tried to scrambleup also....

  Ward sat and stared stupidly at his left leg where, midway between hisknee and his foot, it turned out at an unnatural angle. He thoughtresentfully that he had had enough trouble for once, without having abroken leg on top of it all.

  "Now this is one hell of a fix!" he stated dispassionately, when painhad in a measure cooled his first anger. He looked around him like aman who is taking stock of his resources. He was not far from thecabin. He could get there by crawling. But what then?

  Ward looked at Rattler, standing docilely within reach of his hand. Heconsidered getting on--if he could, and riding--well, the nearest placewas fifteen miles. And that was a good, long way from a doctor. Heglanced again at the cabin and tried to study the situationimpersonally. If it were some other fellow, now, what would Wardadvise him to do under the circumstances?

  He reached down and felt his leg gingerly. So far as he could tell, itwas a straight, simple break--snapped short off against a rock, hejudged. He shook his head over the thought of riding fifteen mileswith those broken bones grinding their edges together. And still, whatelse could he do?

  He reached out, took the reins, and led Rattler a step nearer, so thathe could grasp the stirrup. With his voice he held the horse quietwhile he pulled himself upright upon his good leg. Then, withpain-hurried, jerky movements, he pulled off the saddle, glanced aroundhim, and flung it behind a buck-brush. He slipped off the bridle,flung that after the saddle, and gave Rattler a slap on the rump. Thehorse moved away, and Ward stared after him with set lips. "Anyway,you can look after yourself," he said and balanced upon his right legwhile he swung around and faced the cabin. It was not far--to a manwith two sound legs. A hundred yards, perhaps.

  Ward crawled there on his hands and one knee, dragging the broken legafter him. It was not a nice experience, but it served one goodpurpose: It wiped from his mind all thought of that black past whereinBuck had figured so shamefully. He had enough to think of with hispresent plight, without worrying over the past.

  In half an hour or so Ward rested his arms upon his own doorstep anddropped his perspiring face upon them. He lay there a long while, in adead faint.

  After awhile he moved, lifted his head, and looked about him dully atfirst and then with a certain stoical acceptance of his plight. Helooked into the immediate future and tried to forecast its demands uponhis strength and to prepare for them. He crawled farther up on thestep, reached the latch, and opened the door. He crawled in, pulledhimself up by the foot of his bunk, and sat down weakly with his headin his hands. Like a hurt animal, he had obeyed his instinct and hadcrawled home. What next?

  If Ward had been a weaker man, he would have answered that questionspeedily with his gun. He did think of it contemptuously as an easyway out. If he had never met Billy Louise, he might possibly havechosen that way. But Ward had changed much in the past two years, andat the worst he had never been a coward. His hurt was sending waves ofnausea over him, so that he could not concentrate his mind uponanything. Then he thought of the bottle of whisky he kept in his bunkfor emergencies. Ward was not a man who drank for pleasure, but he hadthe Western man's faith in a good jolt of whisky when he felt a coldcoming on or a pain in his stomach--or anything like that. He alwayskept a bottle on hand. A quart lasted him a long time.

  He felt along the footboard of the bunk till his fingers touched thebottle, drew it out from its hiding-place--he hid it because straycallers would have made short work of it--and, placing the uncorkedbottle to his trembling lips, swallowed twice.

  He was steadier now, and the sickness left him like fog before a stiffbreeze. His eyes went slowly around the cabin, measuring hisresources, and his needs and limitations. He pulled his one chairtoward him--the chair which Buck Olney had occupied so unwillingly--andplaced his left knee upon it. It hurt terribly, but the whisky hadsteadied him so that he could bear the pain. He managed to reach thecupboard where he kept his dishes, and took down a bottle of linimentand a box of carbolized vaseline which he happened to have. He wasnear the two big, zinc water pails which he had filled that morningjust to show Buck Olney how cool he was over his capture, and hebethought him that water was going to be precious in the next few weeks.

  He lifted down one pail and swung it forward as far as he could, andset it on the floor ahead of him. Then he swung the other pail besideit. Painfully he hitched his chair alongside, lifted the pails and setthem forward again. He did that twice and got them beside his bunk.He went back and inspected the tea-kettle, found it half full, andcarried that also beside the bunk. Then he took another drink ofwhisky and rested awhile.

  Bandages! Well, there was a new flour-sack hanging on a nail. Hestood up, leaned and got it, and while he was standing, he reached forthe cigar-box where he kept his bachelor sewing outfit; two spools ofvery coarse thread, some large-eyed needles to carry it, an assortmentof buttons, and a pair of scissors. He cut the flour-sack into stripsand sewed the strips together; his stitches were neater than you mightthink.

  When the bandage was long enough, he rolled it as he had seen doctorsdo, and fished some pins out of the cigar-box and laid them where hecould get his fingers on them quickly. He stood up again, reachedacross to a box of canned milk, and pried off the lid. "I'm liable toneed you, too," he muttered to the rows of cans, and pulled the boxclose. He took Buck Olney's knife and whittled some very creditablesplints from the thin boards, and rummaged in his "warbag" under thebunk for handkerchiefs with which to wrap the splints.

  When he had done all that he could do to prepare for the long siege ofpain and helplessness ahead of him, he moved along the bunk until hewas sitting near the head of it with his broken leg extended beforehim, and took a last look to make sure that everything was ready. Hefelt his gun at his hip, removed belt and all, and threw it back uponthe bed. Then he turned his head and stared, frowning, at the blackbutt where it protruded from the holster suggestively ready to hishand. He reached out and took the gun, turned it over, and hesitated.No telling what insane impulse fever might bring upon him--andstill--no telling what Buck Olney might do when he discovered that hewas not in any immediate danger of hanging.

  If Buck came back to have it out with him, he would certainly need thatgun. He knew Buck, a broken leg wouldn't save him. On the other hand,if the fever of his hurt hit him hard enough-- "Oh, fiddlesticks!" hetold himself at last. "If I get crazy enough for that, the gun won'tcut much ice one way or the other. There are other ways of bumpingoff--" So he tucked the gun under the mattress at the head of his bedwhere he could put his hand upon it if the need came.

  Then he removed his boots by the simple method of slitting the legswith Buck's knife, bared his broken leg in the same manner, swallowedagain from the bottle, braced himself mentally and physically, grittedhis teeth, and went doggedly to work.

  A man never knows just how much he can endure or what he can do untilhe is making his last stand in the fight for self-preservation. Wardhad no mind to lie there and die of blood-poisoning, for instance, andbroken bones do not set themselves. So, sweating and swearing with theagony of it, he set his leg and bound the splin
ts in place, and thankedthe Lord it was a straight, clean break and that the flesh was not torn.

  Then he dropped back upon the bed and didn't care whether he lived ornot.

  Followed days of fever, through which Ward lived crazily and lost countof the hours as they passed. Days when he needed good nursing, and didnot get so much as a drink of water, except through pain and effort.Hours when he cursed Buck Olney and thought he had him bound to thechair in the cabin. Hours when he watched for him, gun in hand,through the window beside the bunk.

  It was while he was staring glassy-eyed through the window that hisattention wandered to the big, white bowl of stewed prunes. Theylooked good, with their shiny, succulent plumpness standing up likelittle wrinkled islands in the small sea of brown juice. Ward reachedout with his left hand--he was gripping the gun in his right, ready forBuck when he showed up--and picked a prune out of the dish. It was hisfirst morsel of food since the morning when he had tried to eat hisbreakfast while Buck Olney stared at him with the furtive malevolenceof a trapped animal. That was three days ago. The prune tasted evenbetter than it looked. Ward picked out another and another.

  He forgot his feverish hallucination that Buck Olney was waitingoutside there until he caught Ward off his guard. He lay back on hispillow, his fingers relaxed upon the gun. He closed his eyes and layquiet. Perhaps he slept a little.

  When he opened his eyes he was in the dark. The window was atransparent black square sprinkled with stars. Ward watched themawhile. He thought of Billy Louise; he would like to know how hermother was getting along and how much longer they expected to stay inBoise. He thought of the times she had kissed him--twice, and of herown accord. She would not have done it, either time, if he had askedher; he knew her well enough for that. She must be left free to obeythe impulses of that big, brave heart of hers. A girl with a smallersoul and one less fine would have blushed and simpered and acted thefool generally at the mere thought of kissing a man of her own accord.Billy Louise had been tender as Christ Himself, and as sweet and pure.Was there another girl like her in the world? Ward looked at the starsand smiled. There was never such another, he told himself. And she"liked him to pieces"; she had said so. Ward laughed a little in spiteof his throbbing leg. "Some other girl would have said, 'Ward, Ilo-ove you,'" he grinned. "Wilhemina is different."

  He lay there looking up at the stars and thinking, thinking. Once hislips moved. He was saying "Wilhemina-mine" softly to himself. Hiseyes, shining in the starlight, were very tender. After a long whilehe fell asleep, still thinking of her. A late moon came up and touchedhis face and showed it thin and sunken-eyed, yet with the little smilehidden behind his lips, for he was dreaming of Billy Louise.

  Some time after daylight Ward woke and wanted a cigarette, which was asign that he was feeling a little more like himself. He was feverishstill, and the beating pain in his leg was maddening. But his brainwas clear of fever-fog. He smoked a little of the cigarette he madefrom the supply on the shelf behind the bunk, and after that he lookedabout him for something to eat.

  He had made a final trip to Hardup two weeks before, and had broughtback supplies for the winter. And because his pay streak ofgravel-bank had yielded a fair harvest, he had not stinted himself onthe things he liked to eat. He lay looking over the piled boxesagainst the farther wall, and wondered if he could reach the box ofcrackers and drag it up beside the bunk. He was weak, and to move hisleg was agony. Well, there was the dish of prunes on the window-sill.

  Ward ate a dozen or so--but he wanted the crackers. He leaned as faras he could from the bed, and the box was still two feet from hisoutstretched fingers. He lay and considered how he might bring the boxwithin reach.

  At the head of the bunk stood the case of peaches and beneath that thecase of canned tomatoes, the two forming a stand for his lantern. Heeyed them thoughtfully, chewing a corner of his underlip. He did notwant peaches or tomatoes just then; he wanted those soda-crackers.

  He took Buck Olney's knife--he was finding it a most useful souvenir ofthe encounter!--and pried off a board from the peach box. Two nailsstuck out through each end of the board. He leaned again from the bed,reached out with the board, and caught the nails in a crack on theupper edge of the cracker-box. He dragged the box toward him until itcaught against a ridge in the rough board floor, when the nails bentoutward and slipped away from the crack. Ward lay back, exhausted withthe effort he had made and tormented with the pain in his leg.

  After awhile he took the piece of hoard and managed to slide it underthe box, lifting a corner of it over the ridge. That was hard work,harder than you would believe unless you tried it yourself after lyingthree days fasting, with a broken leg and a fever. He had to restagain before he took the other end of the board, that had the goodnails, and pulled the box up beside the bunk.

  In a few minutes he made another effort and pried part of the cover offthe cracker-box with the knife. Then he pulled out half a dozencrackers and ate them, drank half a dipper of water, and felt better.

  In an hour or so he believed he could stand it to fix up his leg alittle. There was one splint that was poorly wrapped, or something.It felt as though it were digging slivers into his leg, and he couldn'tstand it any longer.

  He pulled himself up until he was sitting with his back against thewall at the head of his bunk and smoked a cigarette before he went anyfarther. Then he unwrapped the bandage carefully, removed the splintthat hurt the worst, and gently massaged the crease in the bruised,swollen flesh where the narrow board had pressed so cruelly.

  The crease itched horribly, and it was too sore to scratch. Wardcussed it and then got the carbolized vaseline and rubbed that on,wincing at the pain of his lightest touch. He did not hurry; he hadall the time there was, and it was a relief to get the bandage off hisleg for awhile. You may be sure he was very careful not to move thosebroken bones a hair's breadth!

  He rubbed on the vaseline, fearing the liniment would blister andincrease his discomfort, and replaced splint and bandage. He wasterribly tired afterwards and lay in a half stupor for a long while.He realized keenly that he had a tough pull ahead of him, unlesssomeone chanced to ride that way and so discovered his plight; whichwas so unlikely that he did not build any hopes upon it.

  He had held himself aloof from the men of the country. He knew theSeabeck riders by sight; he had talked a little with Floyd Carson twoor three times, and had met Seabeck himself. He knew Charlie Fox in apurely casual way, as has been related; and Peter Howling Dog the same.

  None of these men were likely to ride out of their way to see him. Andnow that his mind worked rationally, he had no fear of Buck Olney'svengeful return. Buck Olney, he guessed shrewdly, was extremely busyjust now, putting as many miles as possible between himself and thatpart of Idaho. Unless Billy Louise should come or send for him, hewould in all probability lie alone there until he was able to walk.Ward did not try to comfort himself with any delusions of hope.

  As the days passed, he settled himself grimly to the business ofgetting through the ordeal as comfortably as possible. He had foodwithin his reach, and a scant supply of water. He worked out thequestion of diet and of using his resources to the best advantage. Hehad nothing else to do, and his alert mind seized upon the situationand brought it down to a fine system.

  For instance, he did not open a can of fruit until the prunes weregone. Then he emptied a can of tomatoes into the bowl as a safeguardagainst ptomaine poisoning from the tin, and set the empty can on thefloor. During the warm part of each day he slid open the window by hisbunk and lay with the fresh air fanning his face and lifting the hairfrom his aching temples.

  He tried to eat regularly and to make the fruit juice save his watersupply. Sometimes he chewed jerked venison from the bag over his head,but not very often; the salt in the meat made him drink too much. Onthe whole, his diet was healthful and in a measure satisfying. He didnot suffer from the want of any real necessity, at any rate. He smokeda g
ood many cigarettes, but he was wise enough to leave the bottle ofwhisky alone after that first terrible time when it helped him througha severe ordeal.

  He had his few books within reach. He read a good deal, to keep fromthinking too much, and he tried to meet the days with philosophic calm.He might easily be a great deal worse off than he was, he frequentlyreminded himself. For instance, if he had been able to build anotherroom on to his cabin, his bunk and his food supply would have been sowidely separated as to cause him much hardship. There were, headmitted to himself, certain advantages in living in one small room.He could lie in bed and reach nearly everything he really needed.

  But he was lonesome. So lonesome that there were times when lifelooked absolutely worthless; when the blue devils made him theirplaything, and he saw Billy Louise looking scornfully upon him andloving some other man better; when he saw his name blackened by thesuspicion that he was a rustler--preying upon his neighbors' cattle;when he saw Buck Olney laughing in derision of his mercy and fixingfresh evidence against him to confound him utterly.

  He had all those moods, and they left their own lines upon his face.But he had one thing to hearten him, and that was the steady progressof his broken leg toward recovery. A long, tedious process it was, ofnecessity; but as nearly as he could judge, the bone was knittingtogether and would be straight and strong again, if he did not try tohurry it too much. He tried to keep count of the weeks as they passed.When the days slid behind him until he feared he could not remember, hecut a little notch on the window-sill each morning with Buck's knife,with every seventh day a longer and deeper notch than the others tomark the weeks. The first three days had been so hazy that he thoughtthem only two and marked them so; but that put him only one day out ofhis reckoning.

  He lay there and saw snow slither past his window, driven by a whoopingwind. It worried him to know that his calves were unsheltered andunfed while his long stack of hay stood untouched--unless the cattlebroke down his fence and reached it. He hoped they would; but he was athorough workman, and in his heart he knew that fence would stand.

  He saw cold rains and sleet. Then there were days when he shiveredunder his blankets and would have given much for a cup of hot coffee;days when the water froze in the pails beside the bed--what littlewater was left--and he chipped off pieces of ice and sucked them toquench his thirst. Days when the tomatoes and peaches were frozen inthe cans, so that he chewed jerked venison and ate crackers rather thanchill his stomach with the icy stuff.

  Day by day the little notches and the longer ones reached farther andfarther along the window-sill, until Ward began to foresee the timewhen he must start a new row. Day by day his cheek-bones grew moreclearly defined, his eyes bigger and more wistful. Day by day hisknuckles stood up sharper when he closed his hands, and day by dayNature worked upon his hurt, knitting the bones together.

  But, though he was lean to the point of being skinny, his eyes wereclear, and what little flesh he had was healthy flesh. Though he waslonesome and hungry for action and for sight of Billy Louise, his mindhad not grown morbid. He learned more of the Bobbie Burns verses, andhe could repeat _The Rhyme of the Three Sealers_ in his sleep, and mostof _The Lady of the Lake_. He used to lie and sing at the top of hisvoice, sometimes: _The Chisholm Trail_--unexpurgated--and _Sam Bass_and that doleful ditty about the _Lone Prairie_, and quaint oldScottish songs he had heard his mother sing, long and long ago. Hisleg would heal of itself if he let it alone long enough, he remindedhimself often. His mind he must watch carefully, if he would keep ithealthy. He knew that, and each day had its own little battle-ground.Sometimes he won, and sometimes the fight went against him--as is theway with the world.