do."
"Good! Meet me here to-night at eight o'clock," and the old man
walked out.
Edward lingered at the club for a short time, then went to his
boarding-house, where he found his friend Ben waiting for him.
"Ben, I am going to leave the city," he said, after sitting down.
"Going to New York, I suppose," answered the Russian, smiling, and
thinking that Edward had decided to follow Nellie.
"No, sir, I am going West. I have decided to quit the idea of going
on the stage."
"What! Going West? What's the matter; Ed, are you crazy?"
"No, I don't think I am crazy, but I may have been," and then he
explained the whole thing to his astonished friend, who finally
agreed with him, but was sorry to part with Edward, and told him so.
"Never mind, old boy, we will meet again, when we have settled in
life," said Edward, beginning to arrange his trunk for his early
departure.
After supper he and the Russian walked to the Actors' Club, where the
old man was waiting, with a letter addressed to
Mr. Frank Goodnow,
Grass Village,
Montana.
The three sat and talked until late. The Russian took a great fancy
to the old actor, who in turn was favorably impressed by Ben. This
meeting was the beginning of their friendship, and they visited each
other, finding much pleasure in their relations.
It was decided that Edward would leave the next morning, and the old
actor agreed to be at the station to bid him good-by.
When they returned to their room, Ben went to bed, but Edward sat
down writing letters until late in the night. Among these letters,
one was difficult to write satisfactorily, and he wrote many before
he was satisfied with the one he was to send to Nellie. He bad
decided not to let her know his whereabouts; this, at the suggestion
of his friend, the old actor. The letter he decided to mail to
Nellie, read as follows:
"DEAR AND KIND FRIEND NELLIE: After much thinking, I have come to the
conclusion that I was not born to be an actor, and furthermore, that
it would not be right for you and me to carry on our little romance.
Life is not a dream, and while I have greatly enjoyed our little trip
in dreamland, I foresee the day when we would both have to face life
in its reality, and I feel that bright as life has been with you thus
far, the day is not far distant when we both would see the clouds of
unhappiness accumulate over our heads--and I know it is better to
part in sunshine than in the shadow of unhappiness. I cannot find
words to express how grateful I feel toward you for your extreme
kindness to me. I leave it to your kind heart to imagine the
greatness of my gratitude, and the immensity of the sacrifice I now
make. The moments spent in your presence were the happiest of my
life, and my soul never knew how much a human being could enjoy the
happy dreams of life until I came under your influence. I will always
remember you as the brightest star in the firmament of my life, and I
will pray that you may never know the bitterness of misfortune. With
a last loving kiss, good-by, and forgive me! My friend, Ben Oresky,
will some day pay you back the loans you made me.
"Yours, with best wishes for your future happiness, EDWARD."
He could not help but shed tears as he sealed this letter, but at the
same time he felt satisfied. He felt like a man after accomplishing a
hard duty; but it was done and he was almost proud of the fact.
The next morning, at the station where Ben accompanied him, they met
the old actor who, true to his word, was there to bid him good-by.
Once more Edward was carried to an unknown country, but this time he
felt easy. He was strong with the feeling of having sacrificed much
for the sake of his duty, and already there seemed to be much more
room in his heart for Marie Louise, of whom he could not think
without blushing. After a day and a half of fast traveling he arrived
at Grass Village where he was met by Mr. Goodnow, to whom he had
written. This gentleman was a real western type, and Edward was
pleased with the cordial manner in which he was received. After
being taken to the house, Edward gave Mr. Goodnow his letter of
recommendation from his old friend, and went upstairs to a room to
wash himself. When he came down, he met the whole family, and felt at
home from the first.
While Edward was getting acquainted with his new duties, his letter
to Nellie had reached her, and as she read it, she felt hot tears
come to her eyes, and for an instant her heart felt as if pierced by
an arrow. She had never realized until then how much she really loved
that young man. As she eat holding his letter in her hands, she saw
her dream of anticipated happiness crumbled to pieces, and such a
despair as had never before entered her soul came to her. "My God! My
God!" she said, and then closed her eyes.
The heart of a woman is a strange thing, and Nellie's heart was one
of the strangest. Having never before known what love was, she had
all at once felt her whole being infected by a mighty passion, a
passion such as no human being can feel twice, and now the object of
her love had vanished. He was gone without even saying where. Her
sorrow was almost as great as her love, and from this time Nellie
King was a different woman. She broke her engagement in New York and
came back to Chicago, where she tried in vain to learn where Edward
had gone. The Russian had promised Edward not to reveal where he was,
and he was true to his promise, hard as it was to refuse Nellie, to
whom he owed his situation.
For twelve months Edward had lived on Mr. Goodnow's ranch, and his
reputation as the best and most fearless rider on the ranch, as well
as the most graceful, was a recognized fact, and that was enough to
make him popular. His little mare, a perfect type of that class of
horses, called "bronchos;" was the prettiest and swiftest on the
ranch, and he had named her "Nellie," and indeed, any woman would
have been proud to give her name to such a beauty. There were twelve
cowboys on Goodnow's ranch, and every week, one of them had a day
off, which was spent at his own discretion.
Cowboys as a class are a queer lot of men. They are fearless and
brave to excess, and being isolated from society so much, they are
often eccentric; but their eccentricity has its charms.
The fraternal feeling which exists among these men is of the genuine
kind, and they are exceedingly generous in helping each other in case
of misfortune. They practice all sorts of manly sports, and the feats
they can accomplish on horseback are wonderful. It is an easy matter
for some of them to lean on one side of their saddle while going at a
great rate of speed, and pick up a small object on the ground. They
are skillful shots in many ways, and one way that never fails to
impress the "tenderfoot," is the shooting of a clay pipe at a
distance of twenty-five feet, while held in the mouth of one of them,
who apparently does not see much excitement in the act. It is great
fun for them to "break in" a "tenderfoot," by which name they call
any aspirant to the vocation of cowboy.
The meanest bucking bronco is brought to him to ride and behold! if
the poor candidate cannot hold on to the saddle while the kicking
brute is playing circus, the cowboys add to the excitement by their
yells, often throwing small stones at the bucking cayuse.
Edward went through all their initiatory proceedings, and came out
with the respect of the lookers-on; his popularity counted from that
time.
Since his departure from Chicago, Edward had received many letters
from his Russian friend, but very little had been said about Nellie.
He was now a different man, not only in his general appearance, which
was much improved by the open air life, but also morally. He had sent
two hundred dollars to Ben, who paid it over to Nellie, and while he
still felt more than a kindly feeling toward her, it was nothing like
the old passion. On their "day off" cowboys usually go to some
saloon, where they drink and play cards, and generally have as
exciting a time as they can to make up for the monotony of their life
in the field; but Edward preferred spending these days at the home of
his employer, whose daughter Grace showed much partiality for the
French lad, or French Ed, as he was now called by every one on the
ranch.
Mr. Goodnow's only daughter Grace was a splendid young lady of
eighteen, and quite a musician. She was very small and her face was
too baby-like to be called real pretty, but her large blue eyes were
soft and full of melancholy. She was a very interesting talker, and
her horsemanship could not be excelled. She never failed to cause a
smile of satisfaction on her father's face whenever she mounted
Topsy, her spirited little thoroughbred black mare.
Grace always looked ahead to the time when French Ed was to come into
town, because she took much pleasure in his company. It was great fun
for her to ride his mare Nell, while he rode Topsy. Together, they
would take long rides, sometimes taking their lunch with them, and
stopping by some little running brook, where in the shade of some
tree they would eat and enjoy life.
Grace was very much interested in everything that pertained to
Edward's life. She too questioned him about his past, his schooldays,
his folks, and one day she gave him one of her pictures to send to
his sister. She never seemed to tire of hearing him talk, and he
always found much pleasure in talking to her.
She admired him with that admiration that often leads to love, while
he liked her with that feeling that is more than friendship and still
cannot be called love. At times, Edward thought that he would like to
take her little baby face in his hands and kiss her on the lips; but
he knew what the result would be, and he contented himself in
imagining how good it would be. Once, while Edward was singing a new
song with Grace at the piano, he bent to see the notes, until his
face rubbed against hers, and then he felt a strange dizziness come
to his brain, and was raising his arms to put them around her neck,
when she suddenly stood up and looked him straight in the eyes, and
said, "Ed--"
Had she slapped him with her little hand he would not have felt
nearly so bad as he did facing those large blue eyes, so reproachful
and sad.
"Play 'El Diavolo,'" he asked her trying to hide his embarrassment,
and she did.
Early the next morning Edward was on his way to his work. He had a
distance of about twelve miles to ride, and the morning was so
perfect that life seemed a blessing on such a day. It was one of
those mornings that fill the soul with exhilaration, and makes you
think of the greatness of the Creator of this wonderful world. The
little wild flowers along the road were covered with dewdrops, which
glistened under the first sun rays like millions of diamonds. The air
was full of that sweet fragrance found nowhere but on the vast
Western prairies, and Edward was thinking how good life was. He was
nearing the place where thousands of steers were grazing, and was
humming the air of a French song, when all at once he heard a
rumbling noise. It was distant and much like the noise one hears when
approaching the sea. Edward placed his hand to his ear and stopped
the mare, in order to make out what was the meaning of that noise.
Raising himself on his stirrups, he looked in the direction where the
rumbling sound came from and saw a dark spot which kept growing as
the noise increased, until a moment later the ground was actually
trembling, while a big cloud of dust indicated the coming herd of
crazed steers. It was a stampede--and while Edward had never seen one
before, he knew its dangers. His little mare was now rearing and
snorting with great evidence of fright, and Edward hardly knew what
to do. He knew that to try and stop the maddened steers was an utter
impossibility, but felt that it was his duty to try and do something
to prevent the terrible disaster which is always sure to follow a
stampede, when thousands of valuable animals fall of exhaustion and
are trampled to death by the others, or, as sometimes happens, they
dash themselves to death from some high precipice, where the first
ones to reach are pushed over by the oncoming, until thousands have
been sent to destruction. Edward knew this and he also knew that the
stampede was now heading toward a dangerous marsh where thousands
would perish, unless something was done to prevent them from going in
the direction they were then taking. It is a fact that the best way
to stop a stampede is to get the animals circling round, and this is
often done by the cowboys, who ride with the leaders of the stampede,
and lash them on the head until they gradually keep turning; but it
is one of the most dangerous actions that a cowboy can be called to
do. A stumble of the horse and both rider and horse are sure to be
trampled upon by the frenzied herd, and of course, that means
destruction.
Edward could soon distinguish some of the other cowboys, riding
furiously by the side of the running herd, but apparently unable to
reach the leaders, and in a moment he made up his mind to do it
himself, and immediately starting his mare at a rather slow canter,
he let the stampede come nearer and nearer until he could hear their
hard breathing; then, taking his long lasso in his right band, he
half turned himself on his saddle, and while at a very rapid gait, he
kept striking the furious beasts in the face, until they began to
alter their course, and turn to the right, which was exactly what he
wanted. By this time the other cowboys had joined him, and the great
moving mass was now beginning to circle around; but just then
Edward's mare missed her footing and fell forward, turning a complete
somersault and breaking Edward's right arm above the elbow. It was
almost miraculous that he never let go of the reins, which he held
with his left hand, but was again on the saddle as soon as his mare
was on her feet, his right arm banging limp by his side, and causing
the most excruciating pain as it moved with every motion of the mare.
His face was also badly bruised, blood flowed freely from his mouth
and nose, and when some of the cowboys came to his rescue he was
riding on his saddle like a drunken man. They made a sling with a
piece of lasso, and after bathing his face in the water of a near-by
spring, they decided that two of them would go back to the village
with Edward, while the rest would remain and watch the still excited
herd. They started very slowly, knowing that the motion caused by
cantering or galloping would make Edward's arm pain him much more;
but Edward, after inquiring if his mare was badly hurt, and being
told that except for some blood running from her nose, she seemed to
be all right, they were surprised to hear him say: "Boys, let's go a
little faster or we will never reach home."
The ends of the fractured bone could be heard grinding against each
other at the galloping motion; but had it not been for the cold sweat
that covered his pale face, no one would have known that Edward was
suffering intense pain, except for the gritting of his teeth now and
then.
At last they reached Mr. Goodnow's, and when Edward was helped into
the house, he was so exhausted that he could not speak. The two other
cowboys told Mr. Goodnow of the occurrence and of the heroic action
by which Edward had saved many thousands of dollars.
"To hell with the steers!" said the rancher. "I would rather have
lost the whole damned lot of critters than see this boy crippled and
suffering like this."
When the doctor came, he said that Edward had sustained a compound
fracture of the humerus and that it would take many weeks, in fact,
two or three months before he would be able to use the arm. He also
suggested giving chloroform, to reduce the fracture and set the arm,
but Edward smiled faintly and said, "I guess I can stand a little
more, doctor; go on with the job." After the arm was set, the doctor
mentioned that it might be better if his patient was taken to the
hospital, where he could see him every day.
"No, sir--we'll take care of him here, Doc; and don't spare the
expense. Come every day, and I'll stand the bill myself," said
Goodnow, and Edward noticed an expression of satisfaction upon
Grace's face.
She washed his face carefully, and tenderly, and from this time she
was his nurse, and a more faithful nurse never lived.
When the doctor came the next day, he found that Ed ward had not
slept all night, and that while his arm was not very painful, his
head was a source of great suffering. After taking his temperature,
the doctor anxiously examined his head and ordered ice-packs to be
continually kept on it, and taking Mr. Goodnow aside, the doctor
informed him that Edward was suffering from cerebral fever, and that
he would likely become delirious very soon.
Late in the afternoon, while Grace was placing fresh ice upon his
head, he suddenly raised himself in bed, and grasping her hand he
began to talk excitedly; but as he spoke in French, she could not
understand him. Still, from the strange look in his eyes, she knew
that Ed ward was delirious, and she called her father in.
"Lie down, Ed, lie down, like a good fellow," said Mr. Goodnow.
Edward stared at him an instant, and then fell heavily back in bed,
still speaking French. After a while, he sat up again, and this time
excitedly began to talk in English, asking, "Where is Nellie?"
"She is in the stable; lie down, Ed, lie down, my boy; Nellie is all
right," said Mr. Goodnow, carefully pushing him back.
"I want to talk to her--bring her in here-I want her to sing for
me--please bring her in here!"
"Poor fellow, he is completely out of his head--he wants to hear his
mare sing," said Goodnow, who could not help but smile at the idea of
Edward's mare singing.
Then Grace came in, and when Edward saw her, he seemed pleased, and
trying to raise himself, he said: "Please, Nellie, sing me that old
song--I mean that French song, you know?"
Grace looked at him, and tears came to her eyes when she noticed that
tender and pleading expression on his face, and she hurried out of
the room.
"She is mad at me, or she would not refuse to sing for me--oh, just
once--let me hear 'Rendez moi ma patrie'."
From this time Edward was delirious and failed to know any one around
him, and the doctor's prognosis was not very encouraging as to his
ultimate mental recovery.
A great part of the time the poor fellow spoke French. It was much as
if the cruel winds of adversity had blown back the pages of his life
already lived, and he was apparently living them over again.
He spoke of his mother, Marie Louise, Benjamin, Nellie, but seldom
mentioned the name of Grace. During many weeks he remained delirious.
His arm had got well enough to permit him to move it without pain,
but the light of intelligence seemed to have left him forever. His
face was emaciated, and his eyes had lost their old-time brightness.
A strange phenomenon was gradually changing the color of his hair
from brown to white, especially on one side, where he had struck the
ground when his mare stumbled, and his appearance was that of a man
at least ten years older than he was. During all this time many
letters bad been received at his address, but when handed to him, he
never displayed the least interest, or tried to read them.
One day, Mr. Goodnow came back to the house with his friend, the old
actor, who had taken so much interest in Edward, and it was really
pitiful to witness the sorrowful expression on the actor's face as he
held the hand of Edward, who failed to show any sign of recognition.
When later, his old friend Ben came, it was the same thing, and the
Russian cried like a child; but Edward showed no sign of any emotion,
and his case was considered entirely hopeless.
He got well enough to roam around, but he never was allowed to go
alone, and Grace was his most constant companion. She led him to the
most beautiful places on the ranch, and once, while sitting in the
shade near a flowing brook, where she read to him, she felt sure that
he had given sign of returning intelligence when he had said, with a
pleased smile, "Beautiful," but alas, it was only a flash, and his
condition remained the same.
A few days later, during the quiet of the night, the horrible word
"fire" was heard in the Goodnow's house, and the next instant the
flames were coming through some of the windows. It seemed evident
that everybody in the house was doomed to destruction, and when a
great crash was heard, Goodnow leaped from a second-story window,
where he expected his wife to follow; but the poor woman, thinking of
the danger of her daughter, walked to the other part of the house,
reaching the girl's room in time to see her escaping through the
window. Then, already suffocating, she only had strength to reach the
same window, but not enough to raise herself and leap over it, and
the next instant the flames had enveloped her and she died a victim
of her motherly love.
Grace, crazed by her anxiety for her parents, was running around and
calling her mother and father, and when she found her father alone
she knew that her mother was dead, because the part of the house
where she slept was already nothing but a burning mass.
Until then, no one had thought of Edward, as it seemed useless to
think of saving anybody who might still be in the burning house, and
when Grace cried out: "Edward! Edward! where is he?" As his room was
on the ground floor she went near his window, and smashing it, called
him by name, and God knows it was not too soon, as the fire, which
had apparently neglected that part of the house, seemed to come to it
with renewed energy, and a moment later the whole house was wrapped
by the cruel flames. When some of the neighbors, attracted by the
glare, came to offer assistance they saw the most pitiful spectacle
possible.
Grace was crying and running around calling for her mother, while
Goodnow stood by, sobbing like a child. At a little distance from the
house, sitting near a large tree, was Edward, looking strangely at
the burning house, as if fascinated by the sight; and now and then
clapping his hands, he would say, "Good play, is it not, Ben? But why
don't she come back and sing again?"
A most horrible crash was heard, and Goodnow's home was no more. It
was now nothing but a burning pile of cinders and it was with great
difficulty that friends could induce Goodnow and his daughter to come
away from the terrible scene, while Edward himself seemed to want to
linger. At last they all went to the nearest neighbor, two miles from
Goodnow's place. Later, they tried to find something of the remains
of Mrs. Goodnow, but so well bad the fire done its work, that not a
trace of the unfortunate woman could be found, nor anything of the
old actor, who had failed to save himself from the fire.
Goodnow, with the energy which is characteristic of the western
ranchman, decided to rebuild at once, and while doing it, he sent his
daughter to Flatville, the nearest city, where one of his brothers
was living, and Edward to St. Mary's Hospital in the same city.
Edward did not appear to realize that he was in a new place, and
remained the same careless and helpless being, with the difference
that he stayed in bed a great part of his time, while at Goodnow's
home Grace used to make him take long strolls on the ranch. She was
still his faithful friend, and every day she brought him flowers, and
now and then she read to him as she used to.
After he had been in the hospital two or three weeks, a new sister
came, and took charge of Edward, among her other patients. Her name
was Sister Mary, and a sweeter face had never worn a hood. From the
first time she came in Edward's room her voice seemed to have a
peculiar effect upon him, and while she was near him his eyes always
followed her, which fact was rather strange considering that he had,
ever since his illness, paid no attention to any one. The doctor
noticed this fact and jokingly told Sister Mary that she had come in
time to save his patient.
One day, Sister Mary was surprised to hear her patient ask her to
sing, and as she looked at him, he said: "Please, Nellie, sing that
old song, won't you?"
Sister Mary turned pale and would have fallen to the floor, had the
doctor not happened to be coming in.
"Please, Nellie--sing, only once, won't you?" Edward was imploringly
repeating.
"Still wanting his old mare Nellie to sing for him," said the doctor,
before he noticed Sister Mary; then seeing her reeling and ready to
fall, he said: