Читать книгу Giants in the Earth: A Saga of the Prairie - O. E. Rölvaag - Страница 32

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Turning away from the fire, as he stood there enjoying his smoke, he noticed a face on the ground at his side--a face that peered out of the folds of a gaudily coloured blanket, so close to the fire that it startled him. . . . Good Lord! was the man trying to singe himself?

Per Hansa stared down into the face incredulously; the form in the blanket gazed up as fixedly at him in return. It struck him at once that the Indian must be suffering terrible pain; his features were distorted in agony.

"Store-Hans!" he called, hastily. "Come here and ask this fellow what's the matter with him. It looks to me as if he were fighting death itself!"

Again Store-Hans had to try out his meagre stock of newcomer English on the Indians. The face moaned; in a moment it gave answer. The boy repeated his question; a second answer came, and then another long moan.

"He says his hand is hurt," Store-Hans reported.

"Is that it? Too bad! . . . Tell him I'd like to take a look at that hand of his."

But Store-Hans didn't have to repeat the request. The man had been lying there watching them as they spoke together, looking closely and intently at Per Hansa. Now he got up beside him without a word; first he removed the blanket from his arm, and then unwound a bundle of dirty coloured rags that were wrapped around his hand.

When this was done, he held out an ugly-looking claw, swollen to the size of a log; not only the hand, but the wrist and a large part of the arm as well were badly swollen and infected. The evil seemed to have its source in a festering wound in the palm of the hand. . . . Per Hansa examined the hand, felt of it, squeezed it, and turned it over, as if he had done nothing else all the days of his life but tend to such cases. The flesh was as hard to the touch as a block of wood; but the wound itself didn't look serious.

"Sure enough!" he observed, wisely. "If this doesn't end up with blood poisoning my name isn't Per! Maybe it's come to that already. . . . Tell him"--he turned to Store-Hans--"tell him we've got to have some warm water at once--and more rags. But they must be clean--clean white rags, tell him! . . . See what a good job of talking you can do, now!" With these words, he went back to his examination.

The job of talking, however, was more than Store-Hans could handle--he stuck in it halfway. That his father wanted warm water he could make them understand; but the other request for clean white rags was either beyond his English or a little too much for their comprehension.

The sick Indian had kept his eyes intently fixed on the man who was examining his hand with all the assurance of an expert. Others had now risen and come up to them, one by one. A close circle had formed about the little group. The women were also joining it; the children stopped playing and slipped in among their elders; at last the whole camp had gathered in a silent ring around the three. . . . Per Hansa's face wore a sober expression, but all the while he kept drawing long, deep puffs from his pipe.

"Seventeen devils of a claw you've got, man!" he exclaimed at last, when he had finished his diagnosis. . . . "I can't see any way out of it, Store-Hans. You'll have to run home and get mother. Tell her an old chief is lying over here almost ready to die--tell her it's blood poisoning. She must bring the small kettle, and all the clean rags she can spare. Can you remember to say white rags? . . . And she must bring a pinch of salt, too. . . . The man has got to have help this very night, tell her. . . . Now run along. You aren't afraid, are you?"

Certainly Store-Hans wasn't frightened any longer; this was the greatest experience he had ever had or ever expected to have. . . . He had already pressed his way through the throng when his father thought of something which he had forgotten, and called him back.

. . . "Tell Sörrina to go home and see if there isn't a drop left in Hans Olsa's bottle. Even if it isn't more than a thimbleful, we ought to have it; it's a matter of life or death here. . . . And mother must bring some pepper. . . . Let's see, now, how well you can remember everything!"

The boy was off like a flash. As soon as he had gone, Per Hansa began treating the hand. First of all, he made them understand that he needed water to wash his own hands. . . . "Yes, water, water!" he said, going through the motion of dipping his hands and rubbing them. They caught his meaning at once; the word was passed among them, and a woman immediately brought some water in a tin bucket.

Per Hansa washed his hands very carefully; then he poured out the water and motioned for more. . . . "Yes, yes--more, more!" . . . He got it at once and began to wash the wound--first the hand, and then the wrist and the arm, but particularly the hand, and the wound itself most of all. . . . Brown it had been in the beginning, that skin--and brown it remained; Per Hansa couldn't be certain whether he had got it clean. But now he led the man as close to the fire as the heat would allow; there he sat down with him, and began to draw on the great store of experience he had gathered as a fisherman on the Lofoten seas. First he massaged the flesh around the wound for a long time; then he moved upward to the wrist, and afterward to the arm. He rubbed with the palm of his hand, making circular motions, gently for a while, then stronger and firmer; from time to time he bent over the hand, breathed heavily on the wound, and continued the rubbing.

At last Store-Hans returned, bringing his mother, who carried all the articles his father had sent for. Per Hansa noticed that she had put on her Sunday clothes; for some reason, this pleased him. When she stepped within the circle of the camp fire, she paused, greeted the strangers quietly, and dropped a curtsy.

"What do you think you are doing here?" she asked in a low voice; the words seemed to carry more of reproach than fear. . . . He suddenly remembered the incident at supper awhile ago; the wave of bitterness rose again in his heart. . . . What a silly question for a grown woman to ask!

When she received no answer, she continued:

"Kjersti is crying her eyes out--and the rest aren't much better off. . . . These people have got to look after themselves! You must come home at once!"

Per Hansa still remained silent. . . . This speech was so unlike the Beret that he knew, that he glanced up at her quickly.

"Give me that kettle! . . . Yes--water, water?" he shouted at them, pointing to the kettle. But then he remembered Store-Hans. . . . "Tell them that I want clean water--yes, clean, that's it! And it must be hot, too!"

Now he found time to turn to his wife. . . . "Oh, well, Kjersti isn't going to miscarry to-night! . . . But if you don't want to stay here, to help save a human life in dire distress, you'd better go home. . . . Here, give me the rest of the things!" Her words of an hour before were again ringing loud in his ears; his own voice had taken on an added harshness; he knew it and felt glad.

Beret said no more; she stood looking silently at him, flushed and confused.

The kettle had now been placed on the fire.

"Where is the salt? . . . We need salt in the water."

He took the antique whisky bottle that Sörine had sent; it was still a good half full. The pepper, done up in a little package, had been brought over in a cup. Per Hansa looked at it for a moment in grave doubt. . . . "No, it's too much--never in the world can he stand all that! . . . Hold out your apron, Beret, to catch this. . . . There's too much pepper."

"Now, don't be so hasty!" she said. She took the pepper from him, made a funnel of the bag, and held it out for him to pour in as much as he wanted.

Then Per Hansa concocted for the sick Indian that "horse cure" which is famous among all the inhabitants of Nordland. A goodly tablespoonful of pepper lay in the cup; he filled it up with whisky, stirred it around, put the bottle down on the ground, and motioned to the Indian to drink.

The man took the cup, sniffed at it, and smiled; then he put it to his mouth and took a draught, smacking his lips and making a fearful grimace.

"Tell him to drain it off at once, Store-Hans! . . . He'll live through it--though it does kick powerfully to begin with!"

The Indian downed the rest of the mixture without wincing.

As Per Hansa was pouring the whisky from the bottle a couple of the others had suddenly grown restless; as soon as he set it down, one of these rose to his feet with a jerk and sauntered in their direction; the other followed close at his heels.

"They're taking the bottle!" whispered Beret, frightened at their manner.

Per Hansa whirled like a flash and caught hold of a brown arm; he grasped it firmly and gave it a violent twist. A howl of pain echoed through the camp. . . . "What the hell are you doing!" cried Per Hansa, wrenching loose the bottle with his other hand. "That bottle belongs to Hans Olsa. Don't you dare to touch it!" He looked so fiercely at the pair that they slunk off, afraid.

"Now come here and help me, woman! . . . Hold this bottle, and let the liquor drip down on his hand while I rub it in. . . . Right on the wound--only a drop at a time . . . God! did you ever see a nastier-looking hand?"

Beret did as he told her, but her own hand was shaking violently. He looked at her closely. Her face was flushed; tears hung in her eyes. . . . And all at once the loud ringing of bitter words died away in his ears.

He massaged the hand of the Indian for a long while, pouring the whisky on freely. Then he asked for the rags which she had brought. These he dipped in the kettle, where the water was now boiling; he wrung them out slightly and began swathing them around the hand--one rag over the other. The man gasped and moaned in his great agony.

"Now, Beret, we ought to have a clean, dry cloth to wrap around the whole business. . . . But probably you didn't bring anything like that?"

She hesitated for an instant, then untied her apron and handed it over to him. He knew that it was her very best apron. He could not bear to take it, but he did not say so.

"That's just it, Beret-girl--the very thing! If that doesn't help him, I don't know anything in the wide world that would cure his hand! . . . Now, take mother with you and go home, Store-Hans. You can see for yourselves, there's nothing to be afraid of here. I'll bring the cows back with me when I come."

"But when will you come?" she asked with a tremor in her voice.

"Oh, I shall have to stay here part of the night, at least. If we can't make the swelling go down, and that right quick, there's nothing under God's heaven that can save him! I'll have to change the rags every half hour. . . . But you go right along, now, and don't worry!"

Beret paused a moment; she gazed at him, saying not a word, but her mouth quivered. Then she took Store-Hans by the hand and walked away.