It was a week after this before Olaf could see properly again. The
doctor was wild to take Olaf back East and hold doin’s with him; but
Olaf wouldn’t listen to it. He hated to have people take him for a
freak, and said it wasn’t any fault of his that he saw the way he did.
The doctor said ’at what Olaf saw was called the aurora; he said that
science had been tryin’ to locate it, but hadn’t found any way to do
it, and that it was some sort o’ rays shootin’ out from this which had
put the inflammation into Olaf’s eyes.
Olaf had had one of his teeth filled when he was young, and ever since
that he’d been suspicious o’ science; so he just clouded up his face
when they tried to devil him into bein’ an experiment, and they
couldn’t do anything with him. The Friar might have been able to, but
the Friar would have sent his own eyes East by freight before he’d
have asked Olaf to do a single thing he didn’t want to do. The
ignorant allus scoff at the idee of Olaf seein’ the soul-flame; but
the edicated allus take a serious interest which seems mighty
funny—don’t it?
From the very moment Janet opened her eyes and smiled up at the Friar
that mornin’ she continued to improve. The doctor listened to all that
was told him about her havin’ pains in the top of her head and not
bein’ right intellectually, and he said she must have had a blow there
at some former time which had probably formed a tumor on the brain or
knocked off a few splinters of bone into it, and that in removin’ the
pressure, she had been put into perfect order again.
She had the smoothest voice I had ever heard, and I just doted on
hearin’ her speak the Friar’s name, John Carmichael. I had a legal
right to use the name John, myself; but it allus had the feel of a
stiff collar to me, so I was glad enough to have it forgotten. But
when Janet spoke the words John Carmichael, why, it cleared up the
atmosphere and started a little breeze. She didn’t recall how she had
come to Cross Crick, nor anything much which had happened to her since
the night in Berlin. She said she had took singin’ lessons in a place
called Italy, and had expected to reach grand opery.
She had sung for pay whenever she got a chance, in order to get money
enough to go on with her studies, and was gettin’ what I’d call mighty
lucrative wages at the Winter Garden; but was all the time bothered by
a lot o’ foreign dudes who had the desire to make love, but not the
capacity. She said her manager had introduced an Austrian count for
advertizin’ purposes, and she had finally consented to eat a meal with
him; but had been taken sick and had fallen. This was when she had
bumped her head and she never got clear in it again until that morning
when she had hovered between goin’ out with the night or comin’ back
with the dawn.
She said she had a hazy, dreamlike remembrance of havin’ tried all
kinds o’ work after this; but couldn’t tell the real from the unreal;
and she didn’t have any recollection of how she had come to the ranch.
We never mentioned Ty Jones to her for she was comin’ along like a
colt on grass, and we didn’t want to risk any set-back. She said she
still had it on her mind that she had lost something precious; but she
couldn’t make out what it could have been, and the Friar allus told
her not to worry, but to just rest herself back to complete strength.
Oscar and Tom Simpson had turned the corner, and it was only a
question of time when they’d be all right again—which was true of all
the others except Ty and Prometheus. Ty wouldn’t speak to us at all,
though he didn’t seem to suffer to amount to anything. The doctor said
he might live for years, or he might slip away at a moment’s notice;
but either way, he was doomed to be paralyzed for the rest of his
life; while the’ wasn’t any hope for Promotheus at all.
He had been shot through the liver, which pleased him a lot as bein’
so in keepin’ with his name; but we couldn’t see why a feller who had
survived bein’ shot in so many other places, should have to give in on
account of an extra hole in his liver. Horace divided his time between
waitin’ on The and spurrin’ up the doctor to try some new treatment.
He read aloud to The out o’ Ty’s books, and he seemed as fond o’ those
old Greek fellers as Horace was himself. He was also mighty pleased to
have the Friar read and talk to him, and it softened us all a lot to
see how patient and gentle Promotheus had become. Humanity is about
the finest thing the’ is about a human; and all humans have a showin’
growth of it, if ya can just scratch the weeds away and give it a
chance.
The prisoners bothered us a heap; we feared they might have some
leanin’s toward revenge; so we didn’t dare turn ’em loose until they
showed some decided symptoms of repentance. Finally we got to bringin’
’em up two at a time to talk with The. At first it didn’t do any good,
as Ty sat propped up in a bunk, grinnin’ scornful, while The lay flat
on his back lookin’ mighty weak and wan; but after several trials at
it, they seemed to pay more heed to what The told ’em. We figured that
Ty must have ten or a dozen men still out on the range somewhere; but
they never showed up.
In about two weeks, or it might ’a’ been three, all the wounded were
able to walk about except Promotheus, Ty Jones, and Oscar. Oscar was
doin’ fine; but the noise of the other men bothered The a little at
night, though he denied it up and down. Still, we thought best to move
him and Ty to a couple o’ cots at the east end of the mess-hall, which
was large and airy, with a big fireplace for cool nights. By this time
Janet was able to take short walks, leanin’ on the Friar’s arm; but
the Friar hadn’t come any closer to findin’ out what it was she had
lost, nor whether or not she was Ty’s wife. The only reply Ty ever
made to questions, was to skin back his lips in a wolf-grin.
The used to lay with his eyes fixed on Ty’s face and a look of
hopeless sadness in his own. When we’d come and talk to him, his face
would light up; but as soon as we left him, he would look at Ty again
with a sorrow that fair wrung a feller’s heart. I wanted to separate
’em; but when I suggested this to The, he shook his head. “Nope,” he
said, “he may speak to me before the vultures finish with my liver;
and if ever the mood crosses his mind for a second, I want to be so
handy ’at he won’t have time to change his mind.”
I told The ’at what was worryin’ the Friar most was that all the
fightin’ had been on his account; but that next to this, it was
because he didn’t know whether or not Ty was married to Janet.
That evenin’ just when the thinky time o’ twilight came along, I was
settin’ by the fire in the mess-hall, where I could see Ty, and his
face didn’t have quite so much the eagle look to it as common. The’s
eyes rested on Ty’s face most o’ the time, and he, too, noticed it
bein’ a little less fierce than usual.
“Ty,” he said in a low tone, “I was drove into turnin’ again’ ya. Not
by force, ya understand, nor by fear; but by something which has crept
into me durin’ the last few years, and which I can’t understand,
myself. Horace and the Friar have been mighty good to me—they saved
my life, ya know, after I had forfeited it by raidin’ ’em durin’ the
night. I told ’em I wouldn’t be a spy on you about anything else
except the woman. You haven’t much excuse to bear me any ill will,
seein’ as it was your own hand which shot the move-on order into me.
I’m goin’ to slip out yonder before long; but the’s no knowin’ how
long you’ll have to sit penned up in a chair.”
The’s voice gave out here, and he stopped a few minutes to cough. Ty’s
face hadn’t changed, and his eyes looked out through the south window
to where the western sky was still lighted into glory by the rays o’
the sun, which had already sunk.
“I’ve been locked up in a stone prison, Ty,” said Promotheus as soon
as he had quieted down again; “and I want to tell you that the minutes
drag over ya like a spike-tooth harrow, when you haven’t nothin’ to
look at but four gray walls and the pictures on your memory. A feller
feeds himself on bitter recollections in order to keep his hate lusty;
but all this pilin’ up o’ hate is just one parchin’ hot day after
another—like we’ve had this summer. Everything green and pleasant in
a feller’s nature is burned down to the roots, and in tryin’ to hate
all the world, he ends by hatin’ himself worst of all. Every kindly
deed he’s done seems like a soothin’ shower, and counts a lot in
keepin’ him from fallin’ down below the level o’ snakes and coyotes.
“I’m not preachin’ at ya, I’m tellin’ you just what I know to be so
from actual experience. I don’t bear you no ill will, Ty, whether you
tell me what I want to know, or not; but you have it in your power to
give me more content than airy other man in all the world. Are you
married to the woman, Ty?”
For a moment Ty didn’t move, and then his lips tightened and he nodded
his head. Promotheus gave a sigh and settled back. He stayed quiet for
some time and then said in a weak voice: “Thank ya, Ty. I’m purty
certain that at such a time as this, you wouldn’t deceive me. I’m
sorry you are married to her—on the Friar’s account, understand—but
I’m mightily obliged to you for tellin’ me the truth. The Friar is a
square man, and he’s a strong man. He’ll be able to fight what he has
to fight; but none of us can fight uncertainty, without losin’ our
nerve in the end. I wish you would talk to me, Ty. I thought more o’
you than of airy other man I ever knew, except Horace and the Friar;
and I wish, just for old time’s sake, you’d talk to me a little before
I slip away. You can talk, can’t ya?”
“Yes, I can talk,” sez Ty Jones, facin’ The with a scowl; “but I
haven’t any talk I want to waste on traitors. If I was to speak at
all, it would be to ask ’em to separate me from your sloppy yappin’.
You may think ’at you sound as saintly as a white female angel when
you whine about duty and forgiveness and such-like rubbish; but the
more oil you put on your voice, the more I know you to be a sneak, a
hypocrite, and a traitor. I won’t ask ’em to move me; because I’m not
in the habit of _askin’_ any man. When I had two legs to stand
on, I gave orders. Now that I can’t give orders, I don’t speak at all;
but every time you try to speak like a hen-missionary, you can know
that I’m sayin’ to myself—sneak, hypocrite, traitor!”
One thing you’ll have to say about Ty Jones, an’ that is, that when he
started north, he didn’t wobble off to the east or west much, let what
would come in his path. The only reply The made was to sigh; but what
I wanted to do, was to lull Promotheus into a deep sleep, and then to
fasten Ty Jones’s neck to a green bronco, and let them two settle it
out between ’em which was the tougher beast. What I did do, was to
steal out and tell Horace what had been said, and I also told him not
to separate Ty and Promotheus as I thought The would set him an
example which might finally soften him a little and make him more fit
to die, when the time came ’at some quick tempered individual lost
patience and tried to knock a little decent conversation out of him
with an ax.
Horace, though, thought only o’ The, and he hurried in and sat beside
him. I also went in and took my seat by the fire again. Horace took
The’s hand in one of his and patted it with the other. Horace didn’t
have any upliftin’ words to match the Friar’s; but he had some chirky
little ways which were mighty comfortin’ to The, and when Horace would
be with him, all the sadness would leave his eyes, and he would talk
as free as he thought—which, to my mind, is the final test of
genuwine courage.
Mighty few of us can do it. I know I can’t. Time and again, I have had
deep feelin’s for some one in trouble; but when I’d try to put ’em
into words, the knees o’ my tongue would allus knock together, and I’d
growl out somethin’ gruff, cough, blow my nose, and get into a corner
as soon as possible. The Friar was the first man who ever showed me
’at a feller could speak out his softness without losin’ any of his
strength, and I have honestly tried to do it myself; but I generally
had to dilute it down over half, and even then, it allus sounded as
though I had wrote it out and learned it by heart.
The asked Horace to either move him or Ty, said he didn’t feel quite
comfortable beside Ty, and made out that it was his own wish; but
Horace vetoed the motion, and pertended to scold The for not havin’ a
more forgivin’ nature. The thought he had been as circumspect as a
land agent, and when his request rebounded back on him, he found
himself without any dry powder.
He lay quiet for some time, and then spoke in so low a tone I could
hardly hear him. “I can understand the real Promotheus purty well,
Horace,” sez he; “and I’ve tried to be as game as he was; but I can’t
quite understand the One the Friar tells about. I have thought of Him
a heap since I’ve been laid up this time; but I don’t believe I could
bring myself to forgive them who had nailed me on a cross for doin’
nothin’ but good—I don’t believe I could do that.
“I can feel things clearer now ’n I ever could before; and when I
picture my own self as hangin’ from nails drove through my hands and
feet, it just about takes my breath away. I’ve been handled purty
rough in my time, but allus when my blood was hot, and pain don’t
count then; but to have nails drove—My God, Horace, that’s an awful
thought! That’s an awful thought.
“Then, too, I don’t feel that any one has ill used me lately. The
treatment I got in the army, and in the pen, was consid’able hellish;
but I haven’t had much chance to try forgivin’ any one for the last
few years. Horace, you can’t imagine all the joy the last part of my
life has been to me. I didn’t know what life really was, until you and
the Friar pointed it out to me. I’ve been so happy sometimes it has
hurt me in the throat; and now that I’m goin’ on, I don’t want to
cause any one any bother. I asked Ty to tell me if he was married to
the woman, and he did tell me. I’m sorry to say ’at he is married to
her, Horace; but I’m thankful to Ty for tellin’ me. He don’t feel easy
near me; so I wish you’d move me back to the bunk-shack.”
It was some minutes before Horace could speak, and when he did, he had
to put on pressure to keep his voice steady. “I don’t care one single
damn what Ty Jones wants,” sez he. “Let him stay right where he is and
learn the meanin’ of friendship from the best friend a man ever had.”
After which Horace gave The’s hand a grip and hurried out of the room.