The Rustler of Wind River Part 38

"And leave him all to you!"

The words flashed from Nola, as if they had sprung out of her mouth before her reason had given them permission to depart.

"Of course with me; he's mine!"

"If he's going to die, Frances, can't I share him with you till the end--can't I have just a little share in the care of him here with you?"

Nola laid her hand on Frances' arm as she pleaded, turning her white face appealingly in the dim light.

"Don't talk that way, girl!" said Frances, roughly; "you have no part in him at all--he is nothing to you."

"He is all to me--everything to me! Oh, Frances! If you knew, if you knew!"

"What? If I knew what?" Frances caught her arm in fierce grip, and shook her savagely.

"Don't--don't--hurt me, Frances!" Nola cringed and shrank away, and lifted her arms as if to ward a blow.

"What did you mean by that? Tell me--tell me!"

"Oh, the way it came to me, the way it came to me as he carried me in his arms and sang to me so I wouldn't be afraid!" moaned Nola, her face hidden in her hands. "I never knew before what it was to care for anybody that way--I never, never knew before!"

"You can't have this man, nor any share in him, living or dead! I gave up Major King to you; be satisfied."

"Oh, Major King!"

"Poor shadow that he is in comparison with a man, he'll have to serve for you. Living or dead, I tell you, this man is mine. Now go!"

Nola was shaking again with sudden gust of weeping. She had sunk to the floor at the head of the couch, a white heap, her bare arms clasping her head.

"It breaks my heart to see him die!" she moaned, rocking herself in her grief like a child.

And child Frances felt her to be in her selfishness, a child never denied, and careless and unfeeling of the rights of others from this long indulgence. She doubted Nola's sincerity, even in the face of such demonstrative evidence. There was no pity for her, and no softness.

"Get up!" Frances spoke sternly--"and go to your room."

"He must not be allowed to die--he must be saved!" Nola reached out her hands, standing now on her knees, as if to call back his struggling soul.

"Belated tears will not save him. Get up--it's time for you to go."

Nola bent forward suddenly, her hair sweeping the wounded man's face, her lips near his brow. Frances caught her with a sound in her throat like a growl, and flung her back.

"You'll not kiss him--you'll never kiss him!" she said.

Nola sprang up, not crying now, but hot with sudden anger.

"If you were out of the way he'd love me!"

"Love _you!_ you little cat!"

"Yes, he'd love me--I'd take him away from you like I've taken other men! He'd love me, I tell you--he'd love _me!_"

Frances looked at her steadily a moment, contempt in her eloquent face. "If you have no other virtue in you, at least have some respect for the dying," she said.

"He's not dying, he'll not die!" Nola hotly denied. "He'll live--live to love me!"

"Go! This room--"

"It's my house; I'll go and come in it when I please."

"I'm a prisoner in it, not a guest. I'll force you out of the room if I must. This disgraceful behavior must end, and end this minute. Are you going?"

"If you were out of the way, he'd love me," said Nola from the door, spiteful, resentful, speaking slowly, as if pressing each word into Frances' brain and heart; "if you were out of the way."

CHAPTER XXI

THE MAN IN THE DOOR

When the doctor from the agency arrived at dawn, hours after Mrs.

Mathews, he found everything done for the wounded man that skill and experience could suggest. Mrs. Mathews had carried instruments, antiseptics, bandages, with her, and she had no need to wait for anybody's directions in their use. So the doctor, who had been reinforced by the same capable hands many a time before, took a cup of hot coffee and rode home.

Mrs. Mathews moved about as quietly as a nun, and with that humility and sense of self-effacement that comes of penances and pains, borne mainly for others who have fallen with bleeding feet beside the way.

She was not an old woman, only as work and self-sacrifice had aged her. Her abundant black hair--done up in two great braids which hung in front of her shoulders, Indian-wise, and wrapped at their ends with colored strings--was salted over with gray, but her beautiful small hands were as light and swift as any girl's. Good deeds had blessed them with eternal youth, it seemed.

She wore a gray dress, sprinkled over with twinkling little Indian gauds and bits of finery such as the squaws love. This barbaric adornment seemed unaccountable in the general sobriety of her dress, for not a jewel, save her wedding-ring alone, adorned her. Frances did not marvel that she felt so safe in this gentle being's presence, safe for herself, safe for the man who was more to her than her own soul.

When the doctor had come and gone, Mrs. Mathews pressed Frances to retire and sleep. She spoke with soft clearness, none of that hesitation in her manner that Frances had marked on the day that they rode up and surrounded her where the Indians were waiting their rations of beef.

"You know how it happened--who did it?" Frances asked. She was willing to leave him with her, indeed, but reluctant to go until she had given expression to a fear that hung over her like a threat.

"Banjo told me," Mrs. Mathews said, nodding her graceful little head.

"I'm afraid that when Chadron comes home and finds him here, he'll throw him out to die," Frances whispered. "I've been keeping Mr.

Macdonald's pistols ready to--to--make a fight of it, if necessary.

Maybe you could manage it some other way."

Frances was on her knees beside her new friend, her anxiety speaking from her tired eyes, full of their shadows of pain. Mrs. Mathews drew her close, and smoothed back Frances' wilful, redundant hair with soothing touch. For a little while she said nothing, but there was much in her delicate silence that told she understood.

"No, Chadron will not do that," she said at last. "He is a violent, bl.u.s.tering man, but I believe he owes me something that will make him do in this case as I request. Go to sleep, child. When he wakes he'll be conscious, but too weak for anything more than a smile."

Frances went away a.s.sured, and stole softly up the stairs. The sun was just under the hill; Mrs. Chadron would be stirring soon. Nola was up already, Frances heard with surprise as she pa.s.sed her door, moving about her room with quick step. She hesitated there a moment, thinking to turn back and ask Mrs. Mathews to deny her the hospital room. But such a request would seem strange, and it would be difficult to explain. She pa.s.sed on into the room that she had lately occupied.

Soothed by her great confidence in Mrs. Mathews, she fell asleep, her last waking hope being that when she stood before Alan Macdonald's couch again it would be to see him smile.

Frances woke toward the decline of day, with upbraidings for having yielded to nature's ministrations for so long. Still, everything must be progressing well with Alan Macdonald, or Mrs. Mathews would have called her. She regretted that she hadn't something to put on besides her torn and soiled riding habit to cheer him with the sight of when he should open his eyes to smile.