Blake's Burden Part 18

"Get on," he said to Clarke and, walking faster, they plunged into the open waste.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CURE

It was noon when Harding returned to camp, ragged and exhausted, with Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The latter had suffered badly from the hurried march, but his conductor would brook no delay and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to the utmost exertion he was capable of. Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"

"The last two days," said Benson. "I'm afraid he's very bad."

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache, he could scarcely hold himself upright, and his heart was heavy. He would miss Blake terribly; it was hard to think of going on without him, but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man, but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.

"Had you much trouble?" Benson asked as he laid out a meal.

"No," said Harding; "I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."

"Then I don't see how you overcame his objections."

Harding broke into a dry smile. "In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends upon how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."

"You mean your life?" said Benson. "I've no doubt you were in some danger, but was it so serious?"

"It would have been if I'd shot him, and I think he saw I meant that.

What's more, I may have to do so yet."

Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that even before he had weakened it by excess his nerve had never been so good as this city drummer's.

"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake and recognize my debt to him, while we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this, but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you.

In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us, but if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."

He called Clarke, who had been busy examining Blake, to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.

"Well," said Benson, "what's your opinion?"

"Your friend's state is dangerous, and he was right in his conclusions about what was the matter with him. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate I can't determine, and after all it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."

"And the remedy?"

"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are risky."

"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly reminded him.

Clarke made a contemptuous gesture which was not without a touch of dignity. His manner was now severely professional.

"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find; it's drastic treatment and sometimes effective, but there's a strong probability of its killing him."

"You had better mention the other."

"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course, and in case of success recovery is slower."

Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.

"I must leave you to decide, but if the result's unfortunate I'll hold you responsible," he said.

"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith why do you put your partner in my charge?"

"I've some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding rejoined. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."

After giving him a curious glance Clarke got up. "I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now. There is no time to lose."

He moved towards Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle, and after carefully letting a few drops fall into a spoon, with some trouble got the sick man to swallow them. Then he sat down and turned to Harding.

"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."

Harding lighted his pipe and though he found it strangely hard to sit still smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humour had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out he had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more, and Harding felt that if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.

Benson, who seemed to find the suspense equally trying, made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impa.s.sive face.

Harding could only wait with all the fort.i.tude he could muster, but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy grey sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence. At length, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke, who glanced at his watch, reopened the small bottle.

"We'll try again," he said gravely, and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.

The dose was given and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming back after a time, he looked at Clarke, who merely shook his head, though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten through. He gathered from the doctor's expression that they would soon know what to expect and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was growing cool; his eyes were very stern and his lips had set in an ominously determined fashion. Benson, who glanced at him once or twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly.

The American had a ruthless air.

At length Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing; and Harding leaned eagerly forward. Blake seemed less restless, his face, which had been furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and sighed, but the sigh was somehow rea.s.suring, and then turning his head weakly, closed his eyes. A few moments later Clarke stood up, stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.

"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said. "He must sleep as long as he is able."

Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the swamp and ploughed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard. When he returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke, who made him a sign demanding silence, was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw that Blake was sound asleep. Then with a sense of thankfulness too deep for expression he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he could eat with appet.i.te.

Before he and Benson had finished their repast Clarke joined them and, answering a question, said, "I believe the worst danger's over, though there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for several days."

"Longer I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your mind to stop while it strikes us as necessary."

"My time's valuable and you run some risk in keeping me. You must recognize that there's a likelihood of the Stonies picking up my trail."

"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have any use for," Harding rejoined. "However, I told our guide, who seems pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions, and I understand he fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find and made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your friends' superst.i.tions, they mayn't find anything remarkable in your disappearing mysteriously."

"You're a capable man," Clarke told him with an air of resignation.

"Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it.

By the way, how long is it since he left India?"

Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's connexion with India.

"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he was afterwards in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for the thing. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or two."