Friar Tuck Part 53

He walked over and put his hand on the Friar's shoulder. "You might as well all go to sleep, now," he said, gently. "There is nothing more to do."

"Are you positive?" asked the Friar.

"Positive," said the doctor. "There is no heart action, and when I held a mirror to her lips no vapor was formed."

"She is still alive," said the deep voice of Olaf, and we all gave a little start.

The doctor took a silver quarter and held it to the woman's nose for a minute, and then looked at it. A puzzled look came to his face, and he went back and sat down in the corner again.

"Was it discolored?" asked the Friar.

"No," sez the doctor slowly; "but I am sure there is no life remaining. I have seen several cases of suspended animation, but nothin' like this."

"She lives, and the light is getting stronger," said Olaf.

Kit took the handkerchief from her eyes which were still full o'

tears. She wiped them away, and looked first at the woman and then at Olaf, and then she gave a sigh. The Friar's hands were opening and shutting. He had fought his fight out on the porch; but the suspense was beginnin' to undermine him again.

I went back to the porch and stayed a while. When I went in again, they were all as I had left them; and after a few minutes I made my rounds, found everything all right, and came back. I went into the room several times, and just as I caught the first whiff o' the dawn breeze, I went in once more, determined to coax the Friar to lie down and try to sleep.

They were still in the same positions. Not a line had changed in the woman's face, the Friar was almost as white as she was but still stood at the foot o' the bed lookin' down at her; while the wrinkles on Olaf's set face seemed carved in stone.

I had just put my hand on the Friar's arm to get his attention when Olaf rose to his feet, pressed his hand to his blinkin' eyes, and said wearily: "The blue color is givin' way to pink. She will get well."

"Don't say it unless you're sure!" cried the Friar, his voice like a sob.

For answer Olaf pointed down at the woman's face. A faint color stole into her cheeks, and as we looked her eyes opened. The first thing they rested upon was the Friar's face bent above her, and her lips parted in a wonderin' smile-a smile which lighted her face like the mornin' sun on ol' Mount Savage, and made her beautiful, to me an' to all who've ever seen her.

"Is it you?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"

A warm, rosy beam of sunshine slipped in through the window and fell across the bed, and the rest of us tiptoed out, leavin' the Friar alone with the gift of life which the Dawn had brought back to him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

TY JONES NODS HIS HEAD

It was a week after this before Olaf could see properly again. The doctor was wild to take Olaf back East and hold doin's with him; but Olaf wouldn't listen to it. He hated to have people take him for a freak, and said it wasn't any fault of his that he saw the way he did.

The doctor said 'at what Olaf saw was called the aurora; he said that science had been tryin' to locate it, but hadn't found any way to do it, and that it was some sort o' rays shootin' out from this which had put the inflammation into Olaf's eyes.

Olaf had had one of his teeth filled when he was young, and ever since that he'd been suspicious o' science; so he just clouded up his face when they tried to devil him into bein' an experiment, and they couldn't do anything with him. The Friar might have been able to, but the Friar would have sent his own eyes East by freight before he'd have asked Olaf to do a single thing he didn't want to do. The ignorant allus scoff at the idee of Olaf seein' the soul-flame; but the edicated allus take a serious interest which seems mighty funny-don't it?

From the very moment Janet opened her eyes and smiled up at the Friar that mornin' she continued to improve. The doctor listened to all that was told him about her havin' pains in the top of her head and not bein' right intellectually, and he said she must have had a blow there at some former time which had probably formed a tumor on the brain or knocked off a few splinters of bone into it, and that in removin' the pressure, she had been put into perfect order again.

She had the smoothest voice I had ever heard, and I just doted on hearin' her speak the Friar's name, John Carmichael. I had a legal right to use the name John, myself; but it allus had the feel of a stiff collar to me, so I was glad enough to have it forgotten. But when Janet spoke the words John Carmichael, why, it cleared up the atmosphere and started a little breeze. She didn't recall how she had come to Cross Crick, nor anything much which had happened to her since the night in Berlin. She said she had took singin' lessons in a place called Italy, and had expected to reach grand opery.

She had sung for pay whenever she got a chance, in order to get money enough to go on with her studies, and was gettin' what I'd call mighty lucrative wages at the Winter Garden; but was all the time bothered by a lot o' foreign dudes who had the desire to make love, but not the capacity. She said her manager had introduced an Austrian count for advertizin' purposes, and she had finally consented to eat a meal with him; but had been taken sick and had fallen. This was when she had b.u.mped her head and she never got clear in it again until that morning when she had hovered between goin' out with the night or comin' back with the dawn.

She said she had a hazy, dreamlike remembrance of havin' tried all kinds o' work after this; but couldn't tell the real from the unreal; and she didn't have any recollection of how she had come to the ranch.

We never mentioned Ty Jones to her for she was comin' along like a colt on gra.s.s, and we didn't want to risk any set-back. She said she still had it on her mind that she had lost something precious; but she couldn't make out what it could have been, and the Friar allus told her not to worry, but to just rest herself back to complete strength.

Oscar and Tom Simpson had turned the corner, and it was only a question of time when they'd be all right again-which was true of all the others except Ty and Prometheus. Ty wouldn't speak to us at all, though he didn't seem to suffer to amount to anything. The doctor said he might live for years, or he might slip away at a moment's notice; but either way, he was doomed to be paralyzed for the rest of his life; while the' wasn't any hope for Promotheus at all.

He had been shot through the liver, which pleased him a lot as bein'

so in keepin' with his name; but we couldn't see why a feller who had survived bein' shot in so many other places, should have to give in on account of an extra hole in his liver. Horace divided his time between waitin' on The and spurrin' up the doctor to try some new treatment.

He read aloud to The out o' Ty's books, and he seemed as fond o' those old Greek fellers as Horace was himself. He was also mighty pleased to have the Friar read and talk to him, and it softened us all a lot to see how patient and gentle Promotheus had become. Humanity is about the finest thing the' is about a human; and all humans have a showin'

growth of it, if ya can just scratch the weeds away and give it a chance.

The prisoners bothered us a heap; we feared they might have some leanin's toward revenge; so we didn't dare turn 'em loose until they showed some decided symptoms of repentance. Finally we got to bringin'

'em up two at a time to talk with The. At first it didn't do any good, as Ty sat propped up in a bunk, grinnin' scornful, while The lay flat on his back lookin' mighty weak and wan; but after several trials at it, they seemed to pay more heed to what The told 'em. We figured that Ty must have ten or a dozen men still out on the range somewhere; but they never showed up.

In about two weeks, or it might 'a' been three, all the wounded were able to walk about except Promotheus, Ty Jones, and Oscar. Oscar was doin' fine; but the noise of the other men bothered The a little at night, though he denied it up and down. Still, we thought best to move him and Ty to a couple o' cots at the east end of the mess-hall, which was large and airy, with a big fireplace for cool nights. By this time Janet was able to take short walks, leanin' on the Friar's arm; but the Friar hadn't come any closer to findin' out what it was she had lost, nor whether or not she was Ty's wife. The only reply Ty ever made to questions, was to skin back his lips in a wolf-grin.

The used to lay with his eyes fixed on Ty's face and a look of hopeless sadness in his own. When we'd come and talk to him, his face would light up; but as soon as we left him, he would look at Ty again with a sorrow that fair wrung a feller's heart. I wanted to separate 'em; but when I suggested this to The, he shook his head. "Nope," he said, "he may speak to me before the vultures finish with my liver; and if ever the mood crosses his mind for a second, I want to be so handy 'at he won't have time to change his mind."

I told The 'at what was worryin' the Friar most was that all the fightin' had been on his account; but that next to this, it was because he didn't know whether or not Ty was married to Janet.

That evenin' just when the thinky time o' twilight came along, I was settin' by the fire in the mess-hall, where I could see Ty, and his face didn't have quite so much the eagle look to it as common. The's eyes rested on Ty's face most o' the time, and he, too, noticed it bein' a little less fierce than usual.

"Ty," he said in a low tone, "I was drove into turnin' again' ya. Not by force, ya understand, nor by fear; but by something which has crept into me durin' the last few years, and which I can't understand, myself. Horace and the Friar have been mighty good to me-they saved my life, ya know, after I had forfeited it by raidin' 'em durin' the night. I told 'em I wouldn't be a spy on you about anything else except the woman. You haven't much excuse to bear me any ill will, seein' as it was your own hand which shot the move-on order into me.

I'm goin' to slip out yonder before long; but the's no knowin' how long you'll have to sit penned up in a chair."

The's voice gave out here, and he stopped a few minutes to cough. Ty's face hadn't changed, and his eyes looked out through the south window to where the western sky was still lighted into glory by the rays o'

the sun, which had already sunk.

"I've been locked up in a stone prison, Ty," said Promotheus as soon as he had quieted down again; "and I want to tell you that the minutes drag over ya like a spike-tooth harrow, when you haven't nothin' to look at but four gray walls and the pictures on your memory. A feller feeds himself on bitter recollections in order to keep his hate l.u.s.ty; but all this pilin' up o' hate is just one parchin' hot day after another-like we've had this summer. Everything green and pleasant in a feller's nature is burned down to the roots, and in tryin' to hate all the world, he ends by hatin' himself worst of all. Every kindly deed he's done seems like a soothin' shower, and counts a lot in keepin' him from fallin' down below the level o' snakes and coyotes.

"I'm not preachin' at ya, I'm tellin' you just what I know to be so from actual experience. I don't bear you no ill will, Ty, whether you tell me what I want to know, or not; but you have it in your power to give me more content than airy other man in all the world. Are you married to the woman, Ty?"

For a moment Ty didn't move, and then his lips tightened and he nodded his head. Promotheus gave a sigh and settled back. He stayed quiet for some time and then said in a weak voice: "Thank ya, Ty. I'm purty certain that at such a time as this, you wouldn't deceive me. I'm sorry you are married to her-on the Friar's account, understand-but I'm mightily obliged to you for tellin' me the truth. The Friar is a square man, and he's a strong man. He'll be able to fight what he has to fight; but none of us can fight uncertainty, without losin' our nerve in the end. I wish you would talk to me, Ty. I thought more o'

you than of airy other man I ever knew, except Horace and the Friar; and I wish, just for old time's sake, you'd talk to me a little before I slip away. You can talk, can't ya?"

"Yes, I can talk," sez Ty Jones, facin' The with a scowl; "but I haven't any talk I want to waste on traitors. If I was to speak at all, it would be to ask 'em to separate me from your sloppy yappin'.

You may think 'at you sound as saintly as a white female angel when you whine about duty and forgiveness and such-like rubbish; but the more oil you put on your voice, the more I know you to be a sneak, a hypocrite, and a traitor. I won't ask 'em to move me; because I'm not in the habit of _askin'_ any man. When I had two legs to stand on, I gave orders. Now that I can't give orders, I don't speak at all; but every time you try to speak like a hen-missionary, you can know that I'm sayin' to myself-sneak, hypocrite, traitor!"

One thing you'll have to say about Ty Jones, an' that is, that when he started north, he didn't wobble off to the east or west much, let what would come in his path. The only reply The made was to sigh; but what I wanted to do, was to lull Promotheus into a deep sleep, and then to fasten Ty Jones's neck to a green bronco, and let them two settle it out between 'em which was the tougher beast. What I did do, was to steal out and tell Horace what had been said, and I also told him not to separate Ty and Promotheus as I thought The would set him an example which might finally soften him a little and make him more fit to die, when the time came 'at some quick tempered individual lost patience and tried to knock a little decent conversation out of him with an ax.

Horace, though, thought only o' The, and he hurried in and sat beside him. I also went in and took my seat by the fire again. Horace took The's hand in one of his and patted it with the other. Horace didn't have any upliftin' words to match the Friar's; but he had some chirky little ways which were mighty comfortin' to The, and when Horace would be with him, all the sadness would leave his eyes, and he would talk as free as he thought-which, to my mind, is the final test of genuwine courage.

Mighty few of us can do it. I know I can't. Time and again, I have had deep feelin's for some one in trouble; but when I'd try to put 'em into words, the knees o' my tongue would allus knock together, and I'd growl out somethin' gruff, cough, blow my nose, and get into a corner as soon as possible. The Friar was the first man who ever showed me 'at a feller could speak out his softness without losin' any of his strength, and I have honestly tried to do it myself; but I generally had to dilute it down over half, and even then, it allus sounded as though I had wrote it out and learned it by heart.

The asked Horace to either move him or Ty, said he didn't feel quite comfortable beside Ty, and made out that it was his own wish; but Horace vetoed the motion, and pertended to scold The for not havin' a more forgivin' nature. The thought he had been as circ.u.mspect as a land agent, and when his request rebounded back on him, he found himself without any dry powder.

He lay quiet for some time, and then spoke in so low a tone I could hardly hear him. "I can understand the real Promotheus purty well, Horace," sez he; "and I've tried to be as game as he was; but I can't quite understand the One the Friar tells about. I have thought of Him a heap since I've been laid up this time; but I don't believe I could bring myself to forgive them who had nailed me on a cross for doin'

nothin' but good-I don't believe I could do that.