Then the _Wanderer_ for days became a hospital ship, for with the end
of Brack, his crew, including Garvin and Riordan, fled promptly out of
the Hidden Country into the vast Alaskan wilderness that lay beyond
the gap in the mountains, and with the sudden release from danger came
the inevitable collapse of the wounded members of our company.
Wilson now had a bullet-wound through each leg and another through his
great chest, and for the time being was helpless. Pierce told me
afterward how Wilson, suddenly shot down on the after-deck, had
borrowed a chew from Black Sam and, lying flat on his back, had
reloaded the rifles in the fight that followed.
Pierce, now that the excitement of danger was gone, discovered that
Riordan’s boot had broken one of his ribs in the battle at Chanler’s
state-room; Black Sam had lost so much blood that he collapsed and was
content to sit basking in the sun like a sick bear; and Dr. Olson was
a nervous and physical wreck. Only Chanler had escaped disablement. He
was scarred and bruised, but he was up and around while the rest of us
lay helpless.
Dr. Olson ordered me back to bed and filled me up with opiates. My
affair with Brack had not been good for my wounds, and absolute quiet
was necessary to repair the damage which had been done to them. Slade
and Harris remained on board, making themselves useful with the skill
and adaptability of pioneers. And George, in his right mind, and Betty
were together.
My days and nights for a space then were a series of semi-lucid
moments alternated with nightmares. In the former I was at times
conscious that Betty was sitting at my side. Occasionally I caught her
studying me anxiously. When I returned her scrutiny she looked away.
Next it would be Slade or Harris who was with me, then George. Always
there seemed to be some one.
The nightmares were rather trying. Two things ran through them
consistently: the sound of Betty’s voice as she had cried out
passionately for Captain Brack, and the spectacle of Brack dragging
her to the rail. Then I would wake up raving and presently some one
would be holding me down, urging me to be quiet.
On one of these occasions, after midnight, it was George who held me
in bed and soothed me.
“It’s all right, Gardy old man; it’s all right, I tell you,” he was
saying. “She’s all right; safe and sound asleep in her room.”
“Brack—Brack’s got her!” I moaned.
“No, no, no! Can’t you hear me? She’s all right. Gardy! Old man. You
know me, don’t you?”