THE LIGHTED LAMP
Diane was by no means satisfied with her small victory. She had gained
her point, it is true, but she had gained it by means which gave no
promise of a happy outcome to her purpose.
Left alone with her patient she had little to do but reflect on her
position, and her thoughts brought her many a sigh, much heart-racking
and anxiety. For herself she allowed little thought. Her mind was made
up as to her future. Her love was to be snatched away while yet the
first sweet glamour of it was upon her. Every hope, every little
castle she had raised in her maiden thoughts, had been ruthlessly
shattered, and the outlook of her future was one dull gray vista of
hopelessness. It was the old order accentuated, and the pain of it
gripped her heart with every moment she gave to its contemplation.
Happily the life she had lived had strengthened her; she was not the
girl to weep at every ill that befell. The first shock had driven her
to tears, but that had passed. She was of a nature that can suffer
bravely, and face the world dry-eyed, gently, keeping the bitterness
of her lot to herself, and hiding her own pain under an earnest
attempt to help others.
Tresler was her all; and that all meant far more than mere earthly
love. To her he was something that must be cherished as a priceless
gem entrusted to her care, and his honor was more sacred to her than
her own. Therefore all personal considerations must be passed over,
and she must give him up.
But if his honor was safe in her keeping, his personal safety was
another matter. In pitting herself against her father's will she fully
realized the danger she was incurring. Therefore she racked her sorely
taxed brain for the best means of safeguarding her charge.
She hardly knew what she feared. There was no real danger she could
think of, but her instinct warned her to watchfulness, to be prepared
for anything. She felt sure that her father would seek some means of
circumventing the sheriff's mandate. What form would his attempt take?
After half an hour's hard thinking she made up her mind to consult her
wise old counselor, Joe, and enlist his aid. With this object in view
she went down-stairs and visited the lean-to. Here she found both
Arizona and Joe. Arizona was waiting a summons from the rancher, who
was still busy with Jake and Fyles. At first she thought of consulting
her adviser privately, but finally decided to take both men into her
confidence; and this the more readily since she knew her lover's
liking for the hot-headed cowpuncher.
Both men stood up as she entered. Arizona dragged his slouch hat off
with clumsy haste.
"Boys," the girl said at once, "I've come to ask you for a little
help."
[Illustration: Left alone with her patient she had little to do but
reflect]
"Makes me glad, missie," said the cowpuncher, with alacrity.
Joe contented himself with an upward glance of inquiry.
Diane nodded with an assumption of brightness.
"Well, it's this," she said. "Jack mustn't be left for the next few
days. Now, I am his nurse, but I have household duties to perform and
shall be forced to leave him at times. You, Arizona, won't be able to
do anything in the daytime, because you are occupied on the ranch. But
I thought you, Joe, could help me by being in the kitchen as much as
possible. You see, in the kitchen you can hear the least sound coming
from up-stairs. The room is directly overhead. In that way I shall be
free to do my house."
"Guess you had trouble fixin' him up-stairs?" Joe inquired slowly.
"Doc. Osler wus sayin' somethin' 'fore he went."
Diane turned away. The shrewd old eyes were reading her like a book.
"Yes, father wanted him put in the bunkhouse."
"Ah." Joe's twisted face took on a curious look. "Yes, I guess I ken
do that. What's to happen o' night time?"
"Oh, I can sit up with him. The night is all right," the girl returned
easily.
"Guess we'd best take it turn about like," Joe suggested.
"No, it wouldn't do."
"Guess it wouldn't do. That's so," the other observed thoughtfully.
"Howsum, I ken set around the kitchen o' nights. I shan't need no
lights. Y' see, wi' the door open right into the hall ther' ain't no
sound but what I'll hear."
The man's meaning was plain enough, but the girl would not take it.
"No," she said, "it's in the daytime I want you."
"Daytime? I guess that's fixed." Joe looked up dissatisfied.
At this juncture Arizona broke in with a scheme for his own
usefulness.
"Say, missie, any time o' night you jest tap hard on that windy I'll
know you want the doc. fetchin'. An' I'll come right along up an' git
orders. I'll be waitin' around."
The girl looked him squarely in the eyes, seeking the meaning that lay
behind his words. But the man's expression was sphinx-like. She felt
that these rough creatures, instead of acting as advisers, had assumed
the responsibilities she had only asked their assistance in.
"You are good fellows both. I can't thank you; but you've taken a
weight off my mind."
"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, assisted 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 choreman
heard a footfall outside his lean-to, and he made a shrewd guess as to
whose it was.
The second and third day passed 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 snatched 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 brimming 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
passage. For an hour she battled with sleep. She kept her eyes open,
but her senses were dull and she passed 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 passed 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 constitution had asserted 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 anticipation 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.
Then came a change, one of those fantastic changes which dreamland
loves, and which drives the dreamer, even in his sleeping thought,
nearly distracted. The dark vista of the prairie suddenly lit. A great
light shone over all, and the dreaming man could see nothing but the
light--that, and the wolf-man. The ghoulish creature stood its ground.
The fingers were still at his throat, but now they moved uncertainly,
groping. There was no longer the deliberate movement of set purpose.
It was as though the light had blinded the cruel scavenger, that its
purpose was foiled through its power of vision being suddenly
destroyed. It was a breathless moment in the dream.
But the tension quickly relaxed. The hands were drawn abruptly away.
The wolf-man stood erect again, and the dreamer heard it addressing
the light. The words were gentle, in contrast with the manner in which
it had spoken to him, and the softness of its tones held him
fascinated.
"He's better, eh? Coming round," he said. And somehow the dreamer
thought that he laughed, and the invisible coyotes laughed with him.
A brief silence followed, which was ultimately broken by another
voice. It was a voice from out of the light, and its tones were a gasp
of astonishment and alarm.
"What are you doing here, father?" the voice asked. There was a
strange familiarity in the tones, and the dreamer struggled for
recollection; but before it came to him the voice went on with a wild
exclamation of horror. "Father! The bandage!"
The dreamer wondered; and something drew his attention to the
wolf-man. He saw that the creature was eyeing the light with ferocious
purpose in its expression. It was all so real that he felt a wild
thrill of excitement as he watched for what was to happen. But the
voice out of the light again spoke, and he found himself listening.
"Go!" it said in a tone of command, and thrilling with horror and
indignation. "Go! or--no, dare to lay a hand on me, and I'll dash the
lamp in your face! Go now! or I will summon help. It is at hand,
below. And armed help."
There was a pause. The wolf-man stared at the light with villainous
eyes, but the contemplated attack was not forthcoming. The creature
muttered something which the dreamer lost. Then it moved away; not as
it had come, but groping its way blindly. A moment later the light
went out too, the cries of the coyotes were hushed, and the moon shone
down on the scene as before. And the dreamer, still feeling himself
imprisoned, watched the great yellow globe until it disappeared below
the horizon. Then, as the darkness closed over him, he seemed to
sleep, for the scene died out and recollection faded away.