CHAPTER XXI
THE CRISIS
Brave words are one thing, and inflammation in a gunshot wound isanother. Infection set up in Jerry Boyle's hurt on the day after thatwhich the doctor had marked as the critical point in his battle forlife.
Dr. Slavens was of the opinion that the bullet had carried a piece ofclothing into the wound, which it was not able to discharge of itself.An operation for its removal was the one hope of saving the patient, andthat measure for relief was attended by so many perils as to make itvery desperate indeed.
The doctor viewed this alarming turn in his patient with deep concern,not so much out of sympathy for the sufferer and his parents, perhaps,as on his personal account. The welfare of Jerry Boyle had become themost important thing in life to him, for his own future hinged on thatas its most vital bearing.
Agnes was firm in her adherence to the plan of procedure which she hadannounced. She declared that, as matters stood, she would not become aburden, with all her encumbrances, upon his slender resources. Ifmischance wrested the promised fee out of his hands, then they must gotheir ways separately. She repeated her determination to abide by thaton the morning when Dr. Slavens announced the necessity of theoperation.
Slavens was hurt and disappointed. It seemed that his faith in hersuffered a blighting frost.
"In plain words," he charged, "you will refuse to marry me because I ampoor."
"There's no other way to put it," she admitted. "But I refuse only outof my boundless esteem and tenderness for you and your success. I amputting down happiness when I do this, and taking up an additional loadof pain. But what peace or self-respect would ever be mine again if Ishould consent to add the burden of two helpless old people to what youwill have to carry on your own account?"
"My back is broad enough to be Atlas to your little world," hedeclared.
"But there's no use strangling success," she argued. "It can't be manyyears, at the longest, until time and nature relieve my totteringcharges of their dependence on me. If you would care to wait, and if Imight not be too old----"
"If there's nothing better for it, then we'll wait," he cut in almostsharply. "Do you remember how I showed you to hold that cone?"
She had consented to assist him in the operation to the extent ofkeeping the patient under the ether after he had administered it.
"This way," said she, placing the cotton-filled paper cone over thenostrils.
From the physician's standpoint, the operation was entirely successful.A successful operation, as the doctor defines it, means that the doctorgets what he starts after. Frequently the patient expires during theoperation, but that does not subtract anything from the sum of itssuccess.
In the case of Jerry Boyle the matter wore a brighter aspect all around.The doctor found the bit of coat-lining which the bullet had carried inwith it, and removed it. The seat of inflammation was centered aroundit, as he had foreseen, and the patient was still alive, even though thegreater part of the day had passed since the tormenting piece of clothwas removed.
The camp was hushed in the depression of despair. Until that day theyhad heard Mrs. Boyle's hopeful voice cheering her husband, upon whom theforeboding of disaster seemed to weigh prophetically. Sometimes she hadsung in a low voice as she watched beside her son. But now her courageseemed to have left her, and she sat in the tent with the Governor,huddled like two old tempest-beaten birds hiding under a frail shelterwhich could not shield them from the last bitter blow. They had giventhe care of their son over to the doctor and Agnes entirely, watchingtheir coming and going with tearful eyes, waiting for the word thatwould cut the slender stay of hope.
On the afternoon of the second day after the operation, Agnes enteredthe tent and looked across the patient's cot into Dr. Slavens' tiredeyes. He shook his head, holding the sufferer's wrist, his finger on thefluttering pulse. It seemed to Agnes that Boyle had sunk as deep intothe shadow of the borderland as human ever penetrated and drew breath.From all appearances he was dead even that moment, and the solemn shakeof the head with which the doctor greeted her seemed to tell her it wasthe end.
She went to her own tent and sat in the sun, which still fell hot andbright. The Governor and his wife had let down the flap of their tent,as if they could no longer bear the pain of watching. Tears came intoAgnes' eyes as she waited there in the wreckage of so many human hopes;tears for the mother who had borne that unworthy son, but whose heartwas tender for him as if his soul had been without a stain; tears forthe old man whose spirit was broken, and tears for herself and her owndreams, and all the tender things which she had allowed to spring withinher breast.
After a long time Dr. Slavens came out of the hospital-tent and let theflap down after him. The sun was striking long, slanting shadows acrossthe barrens; the fire was dying out of its touch. Agnes' heart sank asshe saw the doctor draw away a little distance, and then turn and walk alittle beat, back and forth, back and forth, his head bowed, his handsclasped behind him in an attitude of thorough disappointment and deepgloom. She got up and went to him, a feeling that all was over.
"Never mind," she consoled, lifting her tear-streaked face to meet hishaggard look. "You've lost, but I have come to tell you that it makes nodifference between us. We will go on with our life together as weplanned it; we will take up our dreams."
"Agnes, you have come in good time," said he, lifting his hand to hisforehead wearily.
"I am not noble enough to sacrifice my happiness for your good," shecontinued. "I am too weak and common, and womanly frail for that. Icannot carry out my brave resolution, now that you've lost. We will goaway together, according to your plan, and I will live by your plan,always and forever."
"You have come in good time--in good time," said he again, as onespeaking in a daze.
Then he drew her to his breast, where her head lay fair and bright, herstraying hair, spread like a shattered sunbeam, lifting in the youngwind that came from the hills beyond the river.
There she rested against the rock of his strength, his hand caressingher wild tresses, the quiver of her sobbing breast stirring him like awarm and quickening draught.
"You did well to come and tell me this," said he, "for, as I love you,my dear, dear woman, I would not have had you on the other terms. But Ihave not lost. Jerry Boyle has emerged from the shadow. He will live."
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After that day when his adventuring soul strayed so near the portalwhich opens in but one direction, Boyle's recovery was rapid. Ten dayslater they loaded him into a wagon to take him to Comanche, thence tohis father's home by rail.
Young Boyle was full of the interest of life again, and his stock ofaudacity did not appear to be in the least diminished by his melancholyexperience. He treated Dr. Slavens on the footing of an old friend, andif there was any shame in his heart at his past behavior toward Agnes,his colorless cheeks did not betray it.
With the exception of one flying visit to the capital city of the state,Governor Boyle had remained in camp faithfully since the day of thetragedy. But the slow days in those solitudes were galling to his busymind once the safety of his boy's life was assured. He became in ameasure dictatorial and high-handed in his dealings with the doctor, andaltogether patronizing.
Dr. Slavens considered his duty toward the patient at an end on themorning when they loaded him into the spring wagon to take him toComanche. He told the Governor as much.
"He'll be able to get up in a few days more," said the doctor, "andinside of a month he'll be riding his horse as if daylight never hadbeen let through him."
Governor Boyle took this announcement as the signal for him to producehis checkbook, which he did with considerable ostentation and flourish.
"How much did you expect to get out of this pile of rocks?" he asked thedoctor, poising his fountain-pen over the page.
Dr. Slavens colored under the question, which came so sharply andindelicately, although he had rehearsed in his mind for that moment an
uncounted number of times. He said nothing, fumbling as he was for areply.
Jerry, lying back on his cot in the wagon, his head propped up, laughedshortly and answered for him.
"It was about twenty thousand, wasn't it, Doctor?"
"Somewhere around there," admitted Slavens, as if confessing some wildfolly.
"Well, I said I'd give you half as much as you expected to get out of itif you pulled Jerry through, and I'm here to keep my word," said theGovernor, beginning to write.
Agnes looked at the doctor, indignant amazement in her face. Then sheturned to the Governor sharply.
"I beg your pardon, Governor Boyle, but I was present when you made thatpromise; you said you'd pay him _twice_ as much as he hoped to get outof the claim if he saved Jerry's life," said she.
Governor Boyle raised his eyes with a cold, severe look on his beardedface.
"I beg your pardon!" said he with withering rebuke, which carried withit denial and challenge of proof. That said, he bent to his writingagain.
Jerry Boyle laughed.
"Oh, jar loose a little, Governor--be a sport!" he urged.
"Here is my check for ten thousand dollars, Doctor," said the Governor,handing the slip to Slavens; "I consider that pretty good pay for twoweeks' work."
The Governor mounted his horse, and gave the driver the word to proceedslowly to the station.
"And if I croak on the road over the Governor'll stop payment on thecheck," said Jerry facetiously.
"Well, unless you get busy with that little gun of yours and somebodyputs another hole through you on the way," the doctor assured him, "I'llmake it to the bank door with a perfectly good check in my hand."
Young Boyle held out his hand in farewell, his face suddenly sober andserious.
"The gun has been cached," said he. "I promised mother I'd never slingit on a man again, and I'm going to stick to it. I'm going to get a billput through the Legislature making it a felony to pack one, if it can bedone. I'm cured, Doctor, in more ways than one."
The cavalcade moved off down the winding road. Agnes was ablaze withindignation.
"The idea of that man going back on his solemn word, given in the verypresence of death!"
"Never mind; that's the way he made his money, I suppose," said thedoctor. "I've got more out of it than I ever expected to get without arow, and I'm going to make a line for that bank in Cheyenne and get themoney on his check before he changes his mind. He may get to thinkingbefore he gets home that Jerry isn't worth ten thousand dollars."
As they rode up to the rise of the hill, Agnes reined in and stopped.
"Here is where we changed places on the coach that day when Smiththought there was going to be a fight," she recalled.
"Yes, this is the place," he said, looking around with a smile. "Old HunShanklin was up here spying out the land."
"Smith called you to the box to help him, he told me later, because hepicked you out as a man who would put up a fight," said she.
"Well, let us hope that he made a good guess," Slavens said, "for here'swhere we take up the racket with the world again."
"We changed places on the coach that day; you took the post of danger,"she reflected, her eyes roaming the browning hills and coming back tohis face with a caress in their placid depths.
"Yes," he said, slowly, gravely; "where a man belongs."
Dr. Slavens gathered up his reins to go, yet lingered a little, lookingout over the gray leagues of that vast land unfolded with its newadventures at his feet. Agnes drew near, turned in her saddle to viewagain the place of desolation strewn over with its monumental stones.
"This is my Gethsemane," she said.
"It was cursed and unholy when I came to it; I leave it sanctified by mymost precious memory," said he.
He rode on; Agnes, pressing after, came yet a little way behind, contentto have it so, his breast between her and the world. And that was themanner of their going from the place of stones.
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