The Night Riders Part 38

"Ther' ain't no thanks, missie. I figger as a doc. is an a'mighty ne'sary thing when a feller's sick," observed Arizona, quietly.

"Spec'ally at night time," put in Joe, seriously.

"I'll get back to my patient," Diane said abruptly. And as she flitted away to the house the men heard the heavy tread of Jake coming round the lean-to, and understood the hastiness of her retreat.

The next minute the foreman had summoned Arizona to the rancher's presence.

Diane had done well to enlist the help of these men. Without some aid it would have been impossible to look after Tresler. She feared her father, as well she might. What would be easier than for him to get her out of the way, and then have Jake deport her patient to the bunkhouse? Doc. Osler's threats of life or death had been exaggerated to help her carry her point, she knew, and, also, she fully realized that her father understood this was so. He was not the man to be scared of any bogey like that. Besides, his parting words, so gentle, so kindly; she had grown to distrust him most in his gentler moods.

All that day, a.s.sisted by Joe, she watched at the sickbed. Tresler was never left for long; and when it was absolutely necessary to leave him Joe's sharp ears were straining for any alarming sound, and, unauthorized by Diane, his eyes were on the hallway, watching the rancher's bedroom door. He had no compunction in admitting his fears to himself. He had wormed the whole story of the rancher's anger at Tresler's presence in the house from his young mistress, and, also, he understood that Diane's engagement to her patient was known to her father. Therefore his lynx eyes never closed, his keen ears were ever strained, and he moved about with a gun in his hip-pocket. He didn't know what might happen, but his movements conveyed his opinion of the man with whom they had to deal. Arizona had been despatched with Fyles to Willow Bluff. There were wounded men there to be identified, and the officer wanted his aid in examining the battlefield.

"But he'll git around to-night," Joe had said, after bringing the news to Diane. "Sure--sure as pinewood breeds bugs."

And the girl was satisfied. The day wore on, and night brought no fresh anxiety. Diane was at her post, Joe was alert, and though no one had heard of Arizona's return, twice, in the small hours, the ch.o.r.eman heard a footfall outside his lean-to, and he made a shrewd guess as to whose it was.

The second and third day pa.s.sed satisfactorily, but still Tresler displayed no sign of life. He lay on the bed just as he had been originally placed there. Each day the brusque little doctor drove out from Forks, and each day he went back leaving little encouragement behind him. Before he went away, after his third visit, he shook his head gravely in response to the nurse's eager inquiries.

"He's got to get busy soon," he said, as he returned his liniments and medical stores to his bag. "Don't like it. Bad--very bad. Nature exhausting. He must rouse soon--or death. Three days----Tut, tut!

Still no sign. Cheer up, nurse. Give him three more. Then drastic treatment. Won't come till he wakes--no use. Send for me. Good girl.

Stick to it. Sorry. Good-bye."

And patting Diane on the back the man bustled out in his jerky fashion, leaving her weeping over the verdict he had left behind.

It was the strain of watching that had unnerved her. She was bodily and mentally weary. Her eyes and head ached with the seemingly endless vigil. Three days and nights and barely six hours' sleep over all, and those only s.n.a.t.c.hed at broken intervals.

And now another night confronted her. So overwrought was she that she even thought of seeking the aid old Joe had proffered. She thought quite seriously of it for some moments. Could she not smuggle him up-stairs after her father had had his supper and retired to his bedroom? She had no idea that Joe had, secretly, spent almost as much time on the watch as she had done. However, she came to no actual decision, and went wearily down and prepared the evening meal. She waited on the blind man in her usual patient, silent manner, and afterward went back to the kitchen and prepared to face the long dreary night.

Joe was finishing the washing-up. He was longer over it than usual, though he had acquired a wonderful proficiency in his culinary duties since he was first employed on the ranch. Diane paid little heed to him, and as soon as her share of the work was finished, prepared to retire up-stairs.

"There's just the sweeping up, Joe," she said. "When you've finished that we are through. I must go up to him."

Joe glanced round from his washing-trough, but went on with his work.

"He ain't showed no sign, Miss Dianny?" he asked eagerly.

"No, Joe."

The girl spoke almost in a whisper, leaning against the table with a deep sigh of weariness.

"Say, Miss Dianny," the little man suggested softly, "that doc.

feller said mebbe he'd give him three days. It's a real long spell.

Seems to me you'll need to be up an' around come that time."

"Oh, I shall be 'up and around,' Joe."

The grizzled old head shook doubtfully, and he moved away from his trough, drying his hands, and came over to where she was standing.

"Say, I jest can't sleep noways. I'm like that, I guess. I git spells.

I wus kind o' thinkin' mebbe I'd set around like. A good night's slep 'ud fix you right. I've heerd tell as folks kind o' influences their patiences some. You bein' tired, an' sleppy, an' miser'ble, now mebbe that's jest wot's keppin' him back----"

Diane shook her head. She saw through his round-about subterfuge, and its kindliness touched her.

"No, no, Joe," she said almost tenderly. "Not on your life. You would give me your last crust if you were starving. You are doing all, and more than any one else would do for me, and I will accept nothing further."

"You're figgerin' wrong," he retorted quite harshly. "'Tain't fer you.

No, no, it's fer him. Y' see we're kind o' dependin' on him, Arizona an' me----"

"What for?" the girl asked quietly.

"Wal, y' see--wal--it's like this. He's goin' to be a rancher. Yes, don't y' see?" he asked, with a pitiful attempt at a knowing leer.

"No, I don't."

"Say, mebbe Arizona an' me'll git a nice little job--a nice little job. Eh?"

"You are talking nonsense, and you know it."

"Eh? What?"

The little man stood abashed at the girl's tone.

"You're only saying all this to get me to sleep to-night, instead of sitting up. Well, I'm not going to. You thinking of mercenary things like that. Oh, Joe, it's almost funny."

Joe's face flushed as far as it was capable of flushing.

"Wal," he said, "I jest thought ther' wa'n't no use in two o' us settin' up."

"Nor is there. I'm going to do it. You've made me feel quite fresh with your silly talk."

"Ah, mebbe. Guess I'll swep up."

Diane took the hint and went up-stairs, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

In her present state of unhappiness Joe's utter unselfishness was more than she could bear.

She took her place at the bedside, determined to sit there as long as she could keep awake, afterward she would adopt a "sentry-go" in the pa.s.sage. For an hour she battled with sleep. She kept her eyes open, but her senses were dull and she pa.s.sed the time in a sort of dream, a nasty, fanciful dream, in which Tresler was lying dead on the bed beside her, and she was going through the agony of realization. She was mourning him, living on in the dreary round of her life under her father's roof, listening to his daily sneers, and submitting to his studied cruelties. No doubt this waking dream would have continued until real sleep had stolen upon her unawares, but, after an hour, something occurred to fully arouse her. There was a distinct movement on the bed. Tresler had suddenly drawn up one arm, which, almost immediately, fell again on the coverlet, as though the spasmodic movement had been uncontrolled by any power either mental or physical.

She was on her feet in an instant, bending over him ready to administer the drugs Doc. Osler had left with her. And by the light of the shaded lamp she saw a distinct change in the pallor of his face.

It was no longer death-like; there was a tinge of life, however faint, in the drawn features. And as she beheld it she could have cried aloud in her joy.

She administered the restoratives and returned to her seat with a fast-beating heart. And suddenly she remembered with alarm how near sleep she had been. She rose abruptly and began to pace the room. The moment was a critical one. Her lover might regain consciousness at any time. And with this thought came an access of caution. She went out on the landing and looked at the head of the stairs. Then she crept back.

An inspiration had come to her. She would barricade the approach, and though even to herself she did not admit the thought, it was the recollection of her father's blindness that prompted her.

Taking two chairs she propped them at the head of the stairs in such a position that the least accidental touch would topple them headlong.

The scheme appealed to her. Then, dreading sleep more than ever, she took up her "sentry-go" on the landing, glancing in at the sick-room at every turn in her walk.

The hours dragged wearily on. Tresler gave no further sign. It was after midnight, and the girl's eyes refused to keep open any longer; added to which she frequently stumbled as she paced to and fro. In desperation she fetched the lamp from the sick-room and pa.s.sed into her own, and bathed her face in cold water. Then she busied herself with tidying the place up. Anything to keep herself awake. After a while, feeling better, she sat on the edge of her bed to rest. It was a fatal mistake. Her eyes closed against all effort of will. She was helpless. Nothing could have stopped her. Exhausted nature claimed her--and she slept.

And Tresler was rousing. His const.i.tution had a.s.serted itself, and the restorative Diane had administered was doing the rest. He moved several times, but as yet his strength was insufficient to rouse him to full consciousness. He lay there with his brain struggling against his overwhelming weakness. Thought was hard at work with the mistiness of dreaming. He was half aware that he was stretched out upon a bed, yet it seemed to him that he was bound down with fetters of iron, which resisted his wildest efforts to break. It seemed to him that he was struggling fiercely, and that Jake was looking on mocking him. At last, utterly weary and exhausted he gave up trying and called upon Arizona. He shouted loudly, but he could not hear his own voice; he shouted again and again, raising his screams to a fearful pitch, but still no sound came. Then he thought that Jake went away, and he was left utterly alone. He lay quite still waiting, and presently he realized that he was stretched out on the prairie, staked down to the ground by shackles securing his hands and feet; and the moon was shining, and he could hear the distant sound of the coyotes and prairie dogs. This brought him to a full understanding. His enemies had done this thing so that he should be eaten alive by the starving scavengers of the prairie. He pondered long; wondering, as the cries of the coyotes drew nearer, how long it would be before the first of the loathsome creatures would attack him. Now he could see their forms in the moonlight. They came slowly, slowly. One much bigger than the rest was leading; and as the creature drew near he saw that it had the face of the rancher, whose blind eyes shone out like two coals of fire in the moonlight. It reared itself on its hind legs, and to his utter astonishment, as this man-wolf stood gazing down upon him, he saw that it was wearing the dressing-gown in which the rancher always appeared.

It was a weird apparition, and the shackled man felt the force of those savage, glowing eyes, gazing so cruelly into his. But there could be no resistance, he was utterly at the creature's mercy. He saw the gleaming teeth bared in antic.i.p.ation of the meal awaiting it, but, with wolf-like cunning, it dissembled. It moved around, gazing in every direction to see that the coast was clear, it paused and stood listening; then it came on. Now it was standing near him, and he could feel the warmth of its reeking breath blowing on his face. Lower drooped its head, and its front feet, which he recognized as hands, were placed upon his neck. Then a faint and distant voice reached him, and he knew that this man-wolf was speaking. "So you'd marry her," it said. "You! But we'll take no chances--no chances. I could tear your throat out, but I won't; no, I won't do that. A little blood--just a little." And then the dreaming man felt the fingers moving about his throat. They felt cold and clammy, and the night air chilled him.