It was a lovely morning. The prairie billowed away endlessly to the
south, and heaved away in vastness to the north; and the fresh, sharp
air sent the blood beating through the veins. In the bar-room some early
traveller was talking to Peter Galbraith. A wandering band of Indians
was camped about a mile away, the only sign of humanity in the waste.
Jen sat in the doorway culling dried apples. Though tragedies occur in
lives of the humble, they must still do the dull and ordinary task. They
cannot stop to cherish morbidness, to feed upon their sorrow; they must
care for themselves and labour for others. And well is it for them that
it is so.
The Indian camp brings unpleasant memories to Jen’s mind. She knows it
belongs to old Sun-in-the-North, and that he will not come to see her
now, nor could she, or would she, go to him. Between her and that race
there can never again be kindly communion. And now she sees, for the
first time, two horsemen riding slowly in the track from Fort Desire
towards Galbraith’s Place. She notices that one sits upright, and one
seems leaning forward on his horse’s neck. She shades her eyes with her
hand, but she cannot distinguish who they are. But she has seen men tied
to their horses ride as that man is riding, when stricken with fever,
bruised by falling timber, lacerated by a grizzly, wounded by a bullet,
or crushed by a herd of buffaloes. She remembered at that moment the
time that a horse had struck Val with its forefeet, and torn the flesh
from his chest, and how he had been brought home tied to a broncho’s
back.
The thought of this drove her into the house, to have Val’s bed prepared
for the sufferer, whoever he was. Almost unconsciously she put on the
little table beside the bed a bunch of everlasting prairie flowers, and
shaded the light to the point of quiet and comfort.
Then she went outside again. The travellers now were not far away. She
recognised the upright rider. It was Pretty Pierre. The other--she could
not tell. She called to her father. She had a fear which she did
not care to face alone. “See, see, father,” she said, “Pretty Pierre
and--and can it be Val?” For the moment she seemed unable to stir. But
the old man shook his head, and said: “No, Jen, it can’t be. It ain’t
Val.”
Then another thought possessed her. Her lips trembled, and, throwing
her head back as does a deer when it starts to shake off its pursuers
by flight, she ran swiftly towards the riders. The traveller standing
beside Galbraith said: “That man is hurt, wounded probably. I didn’t
expect to have a patient in the middle of the plains. I’m a doctor.
Perhaps I can be of use here?” When a hundred yards away Jen recognised
the recumbent rider. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain. What
had happened? Why was he dressed in civilian’s clothes? A moment, and
she was at his horse’s head. Another, and her warm hand clasped the
pale, moist, and wrinkled one which hung by the horse’s neck. His coat
at the shoulder was stained with blood, and there was a handkerchief
about his head. This--this was Sergeant Tom Gellatly!
She looked up at Pierre, an agony of inquiry in her eyes, and pointing
mutely to the wounded man. Pierre spoke with a tone of seriousness not
common to his voice: “You see, Jen Galbraith, it was brave. Sergeant Tom
one day resigns the Mounted Police. He leaves the Riders of the Plains.
That is not easy to understand, for he is in much favour with the
officers. But he buys himself out, and there is the end of the Sergeant
and his triple chevron. That is one day. That night, two men on a ferry
are crossing the Saskatchewan at Fort Desire. They are fired at from the
shore behind. One man is hit twice. But they get across, cut the ferry
loose, mount horses, and ride away together. The man that was hit--yes,
Sergeant Tom. The other that was not hit was Val Galbraith.”
Jen gave a cry of mingled joy and pain, and said, with Tom Gellatly’s
cold hand clasped to her bosom: “Val, our Val, is free, is safe.”
“Yes, Val is free and safe-quite. The Riders of the Plains could not
cross the river. It was too high. And so Tom Gellatly and Val got away.
Val rides straight for the American border, and the other rides here.”
They were now near the house, but Jen said, eagerly: “Go on. Tell me
all.”
“I knew what had happened soon, and I rode away, too, and last night I
found Tom Gellatly lying beside his horse on the prairie. I have brought
him here to you. You two are even now, Jen Galbraith.”
They were at the tavern door. The traveller and Pierre lifted, down
the wounded and unconscious man, and brought him and laid him on Val
Galbraith’s bed.
The traveller examined the wounds in the shoulder and the head, and
said: “The head is all right. If I can get the bullet out of the
shoulder he’ll be safe enough--in time.”
The surgery was skilful but rude, for proper instruments were not at
hand; and in a few hours he, whom we shall still call Sergeant Tom, lay
quietly sleeping, the pallor gone from his face and the feeling of death
from his hand.
It was near midnight when he waked. Jen was sitting beside him. He
looked round and saw her. Her face was touched with the light that shone
from the Prairie Star. “Jen,” he said, and held out his hand.
She turned from the window and stood beside his bed. She took his
outstretched hand. “You are better, Sergeant Tom”? she said, gently.
“Yes, I’m better; but it’s not Sergeant Tom I am any longer, Jen.”
“I forgot that.”
“I owed you a great debt, Jen. I couldn’t remain one of the Riders of
the Plains and try to pay it. I left them. Then I tried to save Val, and
I did. I knew how to do it without getting anyone else into trouble. It
is well to know the trick of a lock and the hour that guard is changed.
I had left, but I relieved guard that night just the same. It was a new
man on watch. It’s only a minute I had; for the regular relief watch was
almost at my heels. I got Val out just in time. They discovered us, and
we had a run for it. Pretty Pierre has told you. That’s right. Val is
safe now--”
In a low strained voice, interrupting him, she said, “Did Val leave you
wounded so on the prairie?”
“Don’t let that ate at your heart. No, he didn’t. I hurried him off, and
he didn’t know how bad I was hit. But I--I’ve paid my debt, haven’t I,
Jen?” With eyes that could not see for tears, she touched pityingly,
lovingly, the wounds on his head and shoulder, and said: “These pay a
greater debt than you ever owed me. You risked your life for me--yes,
for me. You have given up everything to do it. I can’t pay you the great
difference. No, never!”
“Yes--yes, you can, if you will, Jen. It’s as aisy! If you’ll say what I
say, I’ll give you quit of that difference, as you call it, forever and
ever.”
“First, tell me. Is Val quite, quite safe?”
“Yes, he’s safe over the border by this time; and to tell you the truth,
the Riders of the Plains wouldn’t be dyin’ to arrest him again if he
was in Canada, which he isn’t. It’s little they wanted to fire at us, I
know, when we were crossin’ the river, but it had to be done, you see,
and us within sight. Will you say what I ask you, Jen?”
She did not speak, but pressed his hand ever so slightly.
“Tom Gellatly, I promise,” he said.
“Tom Gellatly, I promise--”
“To give you as much--”
“To give you as much--”
“Love--”
There was a pause, and then she falteringly said, “Love--”
“As you give to me-”
“As you give to me--”
“And I’ll take you poor as you are--”
“And I’ll take you poor as you are--”
“To be my husband as long as you live--”
“To be my husband as long as you live--”
“So help me, God.”
“So help me, God.”
She stooped with dropping tears, and he kissed her once. Then what
was girl in her timidly drew back, while what was woman in her, and
therefore maternal, yearned over the sufferer.
They had not seen the figure of an old man at the door. They did not
hear him enter. They only knew of Peter Galbraith’s presence when he
said: “Mebbe--mebbe I might say Amen!”