Читать книгу Bruce of the Circle A - Titus Harold - Страница 8

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"Now, this is fine, Uncle," Bayard said, as he stood erect and surveyed the lax body he had deposited on the bed.

His great height made the low, tiny room seem lower, smaller, and in the pale lamplight the fat hotel proprietor peered up into his face with little greedy green eyes, chewing briskly with his front teeth, scratching the fringe of red whiskers speculatively.

"Well, Bayard, you're all right," he blurted out, huskily, as if he had reached that decision only after lengthy debate. "Th' room's a dollar, but I'll wait till mornin' as a favor to you. I wouldn't trust most cowboys, but your reputation's gild-edged, fine!"

"Thanks! Seein' nobody's around to overhear, I'll take a chance an' return th' compliment."

And as the other, turning in the doorway, looked back to determine, if he could, the meaning of that last remark, Bayard stooped and gingerly lifted the wounded forearm from which the sleeve had been rolled back.

"What a lookin' human bein'!" he whispered slowly, a moment later, shaking his head and letting his whole-hearted disgust find expression in deep lines about his mouth, as he scanned the bloated, bruised, muddied face below him. "You've got just about as low down, Pardner, as anybody can get! Lord, that face of yourn would scare the Devil himself ... even if it is his own work!"

He kicked out of his chaps, flung off jumper and vest, rolled up his sleeves and, turning to the rickety washstand, sloshed water into the bowl from the cracked pitcher and vigorously applied lather to his hands and forearms. From the next room came the sounds of a person moving; the creak of a board, the tinkle of a glass, even the low brushing of a garment being hung on a hook, for the partitions were of inch boards covered only by wallpaper.

"Th' privacies of this here establishment ain't exactly perfect, are they?" the man asked, raising his voice and smiling. "I've got a friend here who needs to have things done for him an' he may wake up and object, but it ain't nothin' serious so don't let us disturb your sleep any more'n you can help," he added and paused, stooped over, to listen for an answer.

None came; no further sound either; the person in the other room seemed to be listening, too. Bayard, after the interval of silence, shrugged his shoulders, filled the bowl with clean water, placed it on a wooden-bottomed chair which held the lamp and sat down on the edge of the bed with soap and towels beside him.

"I'll wash out this here nick, first," he muttered. "Then, I'll scrub up that ugly mug.... Ugh!" He made a wry face as he again looked at the distorted, smeared countenance.

He bathed the forearm carefully, then centered his attention on the wound.

"Ho-ho! Went deeper than I thought.... Full of dirt an' ... clot ... an'...."

He stopped his muttering and left off his bathing of the wound suddenly and clamped his fingers above the gash, for, as he had washed away the clotted blood and caked dirt, a thin, sharp stream of blood had spurted out from the ragged tear in the flesh.

"He got an artery, did he? Huh! When you dropped, you laid on that arm or you'd be eatin' breakfast to-morrow in a place considerable hotter than Arizona," Bayard muttered.

He looked about him calculatingly as though wondering what was best to do first, and the man on the bed stirred uneasily.

"Lay still, you!"

The other moaned and squirmed and threatened to jerk his arm free.

"You don't amount to much, Pardner, but I can't hold you still and play doctor by myself if ...

"Say, friend,"—raising his voice. "You, in th' next room; would you mind comin' in here a minute? I've took down more rope than I handle right easy."

He turned his head to listen better and through the thin partition came again the sound of movements. Feet stepped quickly, lightly, on the noisy floor; a chair was shoved from one place to another, a door opened, the feet came down the hall, the door of the room in which Bayard waited swung back ... and Ann Lytton stood in the doorway.

For a moment their eyes held on one another. The woman's lips were compressed, her nostrils dilated in excitement, her blue eyes wide and apprehensive, although she struggled to repress all these evidences of emotional disturbance. The man's jaw slacked in astonishment, then tightened, and his chest swelled with a deep breath of pleased surprise; he experienced a strange tremor and subconsciously he told himself that she was as rare looking as he had thought she must be from the impression he had received down in the dark hallway.

"Why ... why, I didn't think you ... it might be a lady in there, Miss," he said in slow astonishment. "I thought it was a man ... because ladies don't often get in here. I ... this is a nasty mess an' maybe you better not tackle it ... if ... if you could call somebody to help me.... Nora, th' girl downstairs, would come, Miss—"

"I can help you," she said, and a flush rushed into her cheeks, which at once relieved and accentuated their pallor. It was as though he had accused her of a weakness that she resented.

Bayard looked her over through a silent moment; then moved one foot quickly and, eyes still holding her gaze, his left hand groped for a towel, found it, shook it out and spread it over the face of the drunken, wounded man he had called her to help him tend.

"He ain't a beauty, Miss," he explained, relieved that the countenance was concealed from her. "I hate to look at him myself an' I'd hate to have a girl ... like you have to look at him ... I'm sure he would, too,"—as though he did not actually mean the last.

The woman moved to his side then, eyes held on the wound by evident effort. It was as if she were impelled to turn her gaze to that covered face and fought against the desire with all the will she could muster.

"You see, Miss, this artery's been cut an' I've got my thumb shut down on it here," he indicated. "This gent got shot up a trifle to-night an' we—you an' me—have got to fix him up. I can't do it alone because he's bleedin' an' he's lost more than's healthy for him now.

"It sure is fine of you to come, Miss."

He looked at her curiously and steadily yet without giving offense. It was as though he had characterized this woman for himself, was thinking more about the effect on her of the work they were to do than of that work itself. He was interested in this newcomer; he wanted to know about her. That was obvious. He watched her as he talked and his manner made her know that he was very gentle, very considerate of her peace of mind, in spite of the quality about him which she could not understand, which was his desire to know how she would act in this unfamiliar, trying situation.

"Now, you take that towel and roll it up," he was saying. "Yes, th' long way.... Then, bring that stick they use to prop up th' window—"

"It's a tourniquet you want," she broke in.

He looked up at her again.

"Tourniquet.... Tourniquet," he repeated, to fix the new word in his mind. "Yes, that's what I want: to shut off the blood."

She folded the towel and brought the stick. From her audible breathing Bayard knew that she was excited, but, otherwise, she had ceased to give indication of the fact.

"Loop it around and tie a knot," he said.

"Is that right?" she asked, in a voice that was too calm, too well controlled for the circumstances.

"Yes, it's all right, Miss. How about you?"—a twinkle in his eye. "If this ... if you don't think you can stand it to fuss with him—" he began, but she cut him off with a look that contained something of a quality of reassurance, but which was more obviously a rebuff.

"I said I could help you. Why do you keep doubting me?"

"I don't; I'm tryin' to be careful of your feelings,"—averting his eyes that she might not see the quick fire of appreciation in them. "Will you tighten it with that stick, now, Miss?"

The man on the bed breathed loudly, uncouthly, with now and then a short, sharp moan. The sour smell of stale liquor was about him; the arm and hand that had been washed were the only clean parts of his body.

"Now you twist it," Bayard said, when she was ready, although he could have done it easily with his free hand.

She grasped the stick with determination and, as she turned it quickly to take up the slack in the loop, Bayard leaned back, part of his weight on the elbow which kept the legs of the unconscious man from threshing too violently as the contrivance shut down on his arm. His attention, however, was not for their patient; it was centered on the girl's hands as they manipulated stick and towel. They were the smallest hands, the trimmest, he had ever seen. The fingers were incredibly fine-boned and about them was a nicety, a finish, that was beyond his experience; yet, they were not weak hands; rather, competent looking. He watched their quick play, the spring of the tendons in her white wrist and, with a new interest, detected a smooth white mark about the third finger of her left hand where a ring had been. He looked into her intent face again, wondering what sort of ring that had been and why it was no longer there; then, forgot all about it in seeing the tight line of her mouth and finding delight in the splendid curve of her chin.

"You hate to do it," he thought, "but you're goin' to see it through!"

"There!" she said, under her breath. "Is that tight enough?"

He looked quickly away from her face to the wound and released the pressure of his thumb.

"Not quite. It oozes a little."

He liked the manner in which she moved her head forward to indicate her resolve, when she forced the cloth even more tightly about the arm. The injured man cried aloud and sought to roll over, and Bayard saw the girl's mouth set in a firmer cast, but in other ways she bore herself as if there had been no sound or movement to frighten or disturb her.

"That'll do," he told her, watching the result of the pressure carefully. "Now, would you tear that pillow slip into strips wide enough for a bandage?" She shook the pillow from the casing. "That'll tickle Uncle, downstairs," he added. "It's worth two bits, but he can charge me a dollar for it."

She did not appear to hear this last; just went on tearing strips with hands that trembled ever so little and his gray eyes lighted with a peculiar fire. Weakness was present in her, the weakness of inexperience, brought on by the sight of blood, the presence of a strange man of a strange type, the proximity of that muttering, filthy figure with his face shrouded from her; but, behind that weakness, was an inherent strength, a determination that made her struggle with all her faculties to hide its evidences; and that courage was the quality which Bayard had sought in her. Only, he could not then appreciate its true proportions.

"Is this enough?" she asked.

"Plenty. I can manage alone now, if—"

"But I might as well help you through with this!"

She had again detected his doubt of her, discerned his motive in giving her an avenue of graceful escape from the unpleasant situation; she thought that he still mistrusted her stamina and her stubborn refusal to give way to any weakness set the words on her lips to cut him short.

"Well, if you want to," he said, soberly, "you can keep this thing tight, while I wash this hole out an' bind it up.... I wouldn't look at it, if I was you; you ain't used to it, you know."

He looked her in the eye, on that last advice, for a moment. She understood fully and, as she took the stick in her hand to keep the blood flow checked, she averted her face. For a breath he looked at the stray little hairs about the depression at the back of her neck. Then, to his work.

He was gentle in cleansing the wound, but he could not touch the raw flesh without giving pain and still accomplish his end, and, on the first pressure of his fingers, the man writhed and twitched and jerked at the arm, drawing his knees up spasmodically.

"I'll have to set on him, Miss," Bayard said.

He did so, straddling the man's thighs and leaning to the right, close against the woman's stooping body. He grasped the cold wrist with one hand and washed the jagged hurt quickly, thoroughly. The man he held protested inarticulately and struggled to move about. Once, the towel that hid his face was thrown off and Bayard replaced it, glad that the girl's back had been turned so she did not see.

It was the crude, cruel surgery of the frontier and once, towards the end, the tortured man lifted his thick, scarcely human voice in a cursing phrase and Bayard, glancing sharply at the woman, murmured,

"I beg your pardon, Miss ... for him."

"That's not necessary," she answered, and her whisper was thin, weak.

"You ain't goin' to faint, are you?" he asked, in quick apprehension, ceasing his work to peer anxiously at her.

"No.... No, but hurry, please; it is very unpleasant."

He nodded his head in assent and began the bandaging, hurriedly. He made the strips of cloth secure with deft movements and then said,

"There, Miss, it's all over!"

She straightened and turned from him and put a hand quickly to her forehead, drew a deep breath as of exasperation and moved an uncertain step or two toward the door.

"All right," she said, with a half laugh, stopping and turning about. "I was afraid ... you see! I'm not accustomed...."

Bayard removed his weight from the other man and sat again on the edge of the bed.

"Lots of men, men out here in this country, would have felt the same way ... only worse," he said, reassuringly. "It takes lots of sand to fuss with blood an' man meat until you get used to it. You've got the sand, Miss, an' I sure appreciate what you've done. He will, too."

She turned to meet his gaze and he saw that her face was colorless and strained, but she smiled and asked,

"I couldn't do less, could I?"

"You couldn't do more," he said, staring hard at her, giving the impression that his mind was not on what he was saying. "More for me or more for ... a carcass like that." A tremor of anger was in his voice, and resentment showed in his expression as he turned to look at the covered face of the heavily breathing man. "It's a shame, Miss, to make your kind come under the same roof with a ... a thing like he is!"

After a moment she asked,

"Is he so very bad, then?"

"As bad as men get ... and the best of us are awful sinful."

"Do you ... do you think men ever get so bad that anyone can be hurt by being ... by coming under the same roof with them?"

He shook his head and smiled again.

"I'd say yes, if it wasn't that I'd picked this hombre out of th' ditch an' brought him here an' played doctor to-night. You never can tell what you'll believe until the time comes when you've got to believe something."

A silent interval, which the woman broke.

"Is there anything else I can do for you now?"

He knew that she wanted to go, yet some quality about her made him suspect that she wanted to stay on, too.

"No, Miss, nothin' ..." he answered. "I've got to go tend to my horse. He's such a baby that he won't leave his tracks for anybody so long's he knows I'm here, so I can't send anybody else to look after him. But you've done enough. I'll wait a while till somebody else comes along to watch—"

"No, no! let me stay here ... with him."

"But—"

"I came here to help you. Won't you let me go through with it?"

He thought again that it was her pride forcing her on; he could not know that the prompting in her was something far deeper, something tragic. He said:

"Why if you want to, of course you can. I won't be gone but a minute. I've let up on this pressure a little; we'll keep letting up on it gradual ... I've done this thing before. He's got to be watched, though, so he don't pull the bandages off and start her bleeding again."

The woman seated herself on the chair as he turned to go.

"It'll only be a minute," he assured her again, hesitating in the doorway. "I wouldn't go at all, only, when my horse is the kind of a pal he is, I can't let him go hungry. See?"

"I see," she said, but her tone implied that she did not, that such devotion between man and beast was quite incomprehensible ... or else that she had given his word no heed at all, had only waited impatiently for him to go.

He strode down the hallway and she marked his every footfall, heard him go stumping and ringing down the stairs two at a time, heard him leave the porch and held her breath to hear him say,

"Well, Old Timer, I didn't plan to be so long."

Then, the sound of shod hoofs crossing the street at a gallop.

She closed her eyes and let her head bow slowly and whispered,

"Oh, God ... there is manhood left!"

She sat so a long interval, suffering stamped on her fine forehead, indicated in the pink and white knots formed from her clenched hands. Then, her lips partly opened and she lifted her head and looked long at the covered face of the man on the bed. Her breath was swift and shallow and her attitude that of one who nerves herself for an ordeal. Once, she looked down at the hand on the bed near her and touched with her own the hardened, soiled fingers, then gave a shake to her head that was almost a shudder, straightened in her chair and muttered aloud,

"He said ... I had the sand...."

She leaned forward, stretched a hand to the towel which covered the man's face, hesitated just an instant, caught her breath, lifted the shrouding cloth and gave a long, shivering sigh as she sat back in her chair.

At that moment Bruce Bayard in the corral across the street, pulled the bridle over his sorrel's ears. He slung the contrivance on one arm and held the animal's hot, white muzzle in his hands a moment. He squeezed so tightly that the horse shook his head and lifted a fore foot in protest and then, alarmed, backed quickly away.

"... I didn't intend it, Abe," the man muttered. "... I was thinkin' about somethin' else."