The Climax
Lightning had just reached the barn with his team. His horses stood
timidly regarding the thing that held the man aghast. Perhaps they were
mildly wondering at the extraordinary situation that held them up just
as they were about to pass into the barn for their midday feed.
But Lightning was no longer concerned for their needs. He was startled,
horrified, and he stared in helpless wonder at the litter of hay
sprawled at the entrance to the barn, and the prone figure lying
huddled upon it.
It was Molly--the seemingly dead body of Molly. Her eyes were half
closed. Her face was ashen, with that dreadful pallor that to Lightning
looked like death. There was an abrasure on her forehead, a slight
wound that disfigured her face and suggested the cause of the tragic
thing he had discovered.
In the first rush of his horror Lightning believed the girl to be dead.
And he stood and stared in a queer sort of daze. But it was only for a
moment. All of a sudden he dropped upon his knees beside her, unable
any longer to withstand the tide of incoherent pleading that broke from
him.
There was no response to his pleading, nor to the tender chafing of
her cold hands. And after a moment the man looked up and gazed about
him. The heat of the sun was furious. The air was without movement,
and alive with the hum of flies. There was not a creature to whom he
could appeal for help. In that moment an agony of doubt assailed him.
She was a girl. She was his young mistress. He was a rough uncultured
creature, without knowledge or refinement. She might be dead. It looked
like it. And then again, there might be something he could do to save
her. What must he do?
Of a sudden his mind made itself up. He stood up. Then, bending down,
he gathered the helpless girl into his arms and strode off towards the
house.
As Lightning moved on to the house he remembered Blanche’s urging. A
doctor--if there was one in Hartspool. Yes. That was it. Of course,
there was Doc Blanchard, the man he had years ago brought out to the
farm at the time of another disaster. Yes. He would get him. He would
get him right away. But first of all--first of all he must ascertain
the worst.
So he carried the unconscious girl into the house. He passed into the
living-room, where food was cooking just as Molly had left it. But
his purpose did not end there. He moved across to the door of Molly’s
bedroom and pushed it open. Just for an instant he hesitated. Never in
his life had he passed the threshold of that room, and the act of doing
so now filled him with a queer sensation of sacrilege. But he thrust
his feelings aside. It was no time for scruple. He carried his burden
in and laid it on the neat white bed-cover.
Having plunged once, the nature of the man reasserted itself. He
possessed no knowledge, but his sympathy was infinite. It was this that
served him now. He went back to the living-room and obtained a towel
and cold water. Then he went back to his charge. He propped the girl
up; he unfastened the clothing about her soft white neck with clumsy,
hesitating fingers. Then, with one arm supporting her, he bathed her
temples and forehead with the water, and talked to her unconscious
form like a half-demented mother crooning over her sick babe. It was
everything his distracted mind could suggest.
His reward was far beyond his expectations. It is almost doubtful
that he had any expectations at all. Nothing that he did or said was
calculated. He was beyond calculation. The first result of the water
was to wash away the ooze of blood upon the girl’s forehead, and it
became quickly evident that the wound was little beyond a scratch, and
a disfiguring bruise on the soft white flesh. Then, in less than five
minutes, he beheld a movement of those half-closed eyelids. It was
only a flicker, but it was sufficient. His dread lightened. He almost
smiled. And certainly his curious jargon as he talked changed its tone
to one of something like jocularity.
“Why, Molly, gal, that’s just great,” he muttered, as he plied the
cold water with renewed zest. “I guess cold water’s the greatest
proposition ever. ’Tain’t all folk figger that way. Now, Rye seems to
me to hev more snap to it. But I guess that must be jest a notion. I
wouldn’t guess Rye could bring life back to your pore body same as
this darn water’s doin’. Jest get it. You was dead a minit back, an’
now you surely ain’t. Ken you beat it? An’ water’s done it. Darn cold
water, that I’d hate to hand out to better’n a yeller dawg. Still,
ther’ it is. Now you get them dandy eyes right open. An’ set a bit o’
colour right into them cheeks. Why, I b’lieve you was handin’ out a
sigh, one o’ them things you mostly hand out when you’re grievin’. You
ain’t grievin’ gal? You ain’t grievin’ I bin dopin’ you wi’ water?” He
chuckled. “Say, that’s fine. Ther’s colour in them cheeks now, same
as I told you ’bout. Now them eyes. Jest open ’em. That’s it, sure,”
he went on delightedly, as the eyelids were slowly raised, and Molly
stared straight up into his face with just a dawning of intelligence.
“My, but we’ll hev you right in awhile. Then I’ll go get right after
that blamed Doc.”
He laid the girl’s head gently back on the pillow and stood up from
the bed. Somehow he wanted to get out of that room. He hated the
thought that he had sort of forced his way into it. Now that Molly was
coming round he felt shame at being there. Besides, he wanted to be off
for the doctor.
But he knew he dared not leave her yet. He must hear her speak first.
He must have her reassurance. He watched her for some moments, and
realised her rapid advance towards complete consciousness. Then, quite
suddenly, she struggled to sit up.
“Wha--what happened?” she demanded dazedly.
“You’re sick, an’ I’m goin’ right off fer Doc Blanchard. But first
you’re needin’ food an’ tea. Mebbe that’ll set you feelin’ good, an’ I
ken quit you fer awhiles.”
Without waiting for any reply, the old man passed out to the
cook-stove, and he felt happier in his familiar surroundings. He set
beans enough for a starving man on Molly’s plate. He buttered some
bread, and then he dipped out a mug of tea, which he duly sweetened.
After that he returned to the girl’s bedroom, careful to knock on the
door before entering.
The girl was sitting up. She was still looking ill. But her fainting
had passed, and she looked very little different from her usual self.
She protested at his offer of food, but accepted the tea eagerly.
Lightning set the rest on the chair beside her bed.
“You jest got to eat that, Molly, gal,” he said, with a bluffness that
was only a mask. “You surely hev. You’re sick. An’ you need food.
That’s so. Now, gal, you eat, jest to make me feel good. I’m going
right along to fix things.”
He took himself off before the girl could refuse him, and he knew his
going was a cowardly retreat. He passed down to the barn and saddled
his horse, and fed and looked to his team. Then he returned to the
house to snatch his own food. He would go in and see Molly before he
went. He remembered he had mentioned getting the doctor to her when she
was still dazed, and he hoped and feared for the foolishness of doing
so. He hated deceiving her, but he knew he must do so. If he told her
now he intended to get the doctor she would in all probability refuse
her sanction. Blanche had warned him of the necessity. So his mind was
irrevocably made up, and he approached her again with considerable
trepidation.
Molly’s food was untouched. The girl was sitting on the side of her bed
when Lightning entered the room. She had re-fixed her waist where the
old man’s fingers had loosened it. And when he appeared she looked up
and shook her head unsmilingly.
“I’m all right, Lightning,” she said quietly. “Guess it must have been
the sun. I don’t know. Anyway, don’t worry for me. You’ve been so good
to me. I--say, I’ll fix these things. I’ll----”
She passed a hand wearily across her forehead. It was a gesture of
mental rather than bodily weariness.
Lightning saw the gesture. He saw the weary spirit looking out of the
tired eyes, and his heart bled for her.
“Then I’ll get along, Molly, gal,” he said eagerly. “You won’t be
needin’ me in awhile. I’ll get along in to supper. Ther’ ain’t a thing
else you need, sure?”
“Not a thing.”
Lightning left her with a readiness that seemed unusual. But again it
was a retreat. He feared for his purpose. And his fear remained with
him until he was safely in the saddle and beyond the possibility of
recall.
* * * * *
The moment Lightning had withdrawn Molly started up and began to pace
the narrow limits of the room with nervous, uneven strides. Once she
paused before her little mirror. But it was only for a moment. She
turned away sharply, as though her reflection were repugnant to her,
and continued her agitated pacing.
At last, however, she halted before the plate of food which Lightning
had provided for her consumption, and the needs of the moment seemed to
force themselves upon her. She picked up the plate and her tea-mug, and
passed out into the living-room.
She set to work with a will. The energy she threw into clearing up the
midday meal seemed wholly unnecessary. It was almost as though she
dared not stop, or permit herself to think. When the work was completed
she looked about her to see that nothing had been undone. Then she
passed out of the house, her head enveloped in a linen sun-bonnet.
Lightning was harvesting the oat crop. There should be no more
weakness. She would go out to him and do the stooking it was her work
to do. But first she would do those chores that needed doing.
She hurried down to the corral and loaded her arms with new hay, and
returned to the barn. And as she passed in through the open doorway she
was greeted by the gentle whinny of the great team that should have
been out cutting oats.
Molly stood for a moment staring at the two great roan bodies.
Lightning had gone to his work more than an hour ago. Then why were
Jane and Blue Pete still here in the barn? Why----? She passed up
into the stalls and filled the mangers. Then she left the beasts, and
glanced down at the other stalls. Her pinto was there. But where was
Lightning’s saddle-horse? It was gone. So was his old saddle, and his
bridle.
The girl passed out of the barn and into the sunlight. She stood for a
few moments gazing about her. Then, on a sudden impulse, she went back
into the barn and looked again at the stalls, as though to reassure
herself. Then she sat herself on the edge of the iron corn-bin, gazing
at the huge bulk of the team.
She was thinking furiously. She was struggling with memory. Lightning
had taken his saddle-horse and ridden off somewhere. Where? She had
some sort of feeling he had been talking when she awoke to find him
beside her in her bedroom. She seemed to remember he had been talking
of going somewhere. What was it he had been talking about? Where was he
going? He was going to fetch someone. He was----
A cry broke from her. She started up from the corn-bin.
“Doc Blanchard!”
She remembered. Yes. That was it. He said he was going to get Doc
Blanchard. He was going to bring him to see her. Her! Doc Blanchard!
He--he---- She dared not see him! She would not see him! Oh, God! And
Lightning had gone to fetch him! What could she do? Where--where----?
Her pinto! Yes! That was it! Her mare! She snatched her saddle and
flung it on the little creature’s back.