Gray was shocked at the change in Ma Briskow. She had failed
surprisingly. Pleasure lit her face, and she fell into a brief flutter
of delight at seeing him; but as soon as their first greeting was over
he led her to her lounge and insisted upon making her comfortable. He
had tricks with cushions and pillows, so he declared; they became his
obedient servants, and there was a knack in arranging them--the same
knack that a robin uses in building its nest. This he demonstrated
quite conclusively.
It was nice to have a great, masterful man like this take charge of
one, and Ma sighed gratefully as she lay back. "It does kinda feel like
a bird's nest," she declared. "And you kinda look like a robin, too;
you're allus dressed so neat."
"Exactly," he chuckled. "Robins are the very neatest dressers of all
the birds. But look! Like a real robin, I've brought spring with me."
He opened a huge box of long-stemmed roses and held their cool, dewy
buds against Ma Briskow's withered face, then, laughing and chatting,
he arranged them in vases where she could see them. Next, he drew down
the shades, shutting out the dreary afternoon, after which he lit the
gas log, and soon the room, whether by reason of his glowing
personality or his deft rearrangement of its contents, or both, became
a warm and cheerful place.
He had brought other gifts than flowers, too; thoughtful, expensive
things that fairly took Ma's breath. No one had ever given her
presents; to be remembered, therefore, with useless, delightful little
luxuries filled her gentle soul with a guilty rapture.
But these were not gifts in the ordinary sense; they were offerings
from the Duke of Dallas, and his manner of presenting them invested
every article with ducal dignity. The Princess Pensacola had not played
for a long time, and so to recline languidly in a beautiful Japanese
kimono, with her feet in a pair of wonderful soft boudoir slippers spun
by the duke's private silkworms and knit by his own oriental knitting
slaves, while he paid court to her, was doubly thrilling.
The duke certainly was a reckless spender, but thank goodness he hadn't
bought things for the house--things just to _look_ at and to share with
other people! He knew enough to buy intimate things, things a woman
could wear and feel rich in. Ma hugged herself and tried to look
beautiful.
Gray was seated on the side of her couch with her cold hand between his
warm palms, and he was telling her about the princess of Wichita Falls
when the summons to dinner interrupted them.
Ma was not hungry, and she had expected to have a bite in her own room;
but her caller was so vigorous in his objections to this plan that she
finally agreed to come downstairs.
The Briskow household was poorly organized as yet, and it was only
natural that it should function imperfectly; nevertheless, Gray was
annoyed at the clumsy manner in which the dinner was served. Being a
meticulous man and accustomed to comfort, incompetent servants
distressed him beyond measure, and he soon discovered that the Briskow
help was as completely incompetent as any he had ever seen. The butler,
for instance, a pleasant-faced colored man, had evidently come straight
from the docks, for he passed the food much as a stoker passes coal to
a boiler, while the sound of a crashing platter in the butler's pantry
gave evidence that the second girl was a house wrecker.
"See here, Ma!" Gray threw down his napkin. "You have a beautiful home,
and you want it to be perfect, don't you?"
"Why, of Course. We bought everything we' could buy--"
"Everything except skillful servants, and they are hard to find. You
are capable of training your cook and teaching your upstairs girl to
sweep and make beds; but the test of a well-run house is a well-served
meal. Dish-breaking ought to be a felony, and when I become President I
propose to make the spoiling of food a capital offense. Now then,
you're not eating a bite, anyhow, and Gus won't mind waiting awhile for
his dinner. With your permission, I'd like to take things in hand and
add a hundred per cent to your future comfort?"
In some bewilderment Ma agreed that she would do anything her guest
suggested, whereupon he rose energetically and called the three
domestics into the dining room.
"We are going to start this dinner all over again," he announced, "and
we are going to begin by swapping places. I am going to serve it as a
dinner should be served, and you are going to eat it as--Well, I dare
say nature will have to take its course. I shall explain, as I go
along, and I want you to remember every word I say, every move I make.
Mr. and Mrs. Briskow are going to look on. After we have finished you
are going to serve us exactly as I served you."
Naturally, this proposition amazed the "help"; in fact, its absurdity
convulsed them. The man laughed loudly; the cook buried her ebony face
in her apron; the second girl bent double with mirth. Here was a quaint
gentleman, indeed, and a great joker. But the gentleman was not joking.
On the contrary, he brought this levity to an abrupt end, then,
gravely, ceremoniously, he seated the trio. They sobered quickly enough
at this; they became, in fact, as funereal as three crows; but their
astonishment at what followed was no greater than that of the Briskows.
Gray played butler with a correctness and a poise deeply impressive to
his round-eyed audience, and as he served the courses he delivered a
lecture upon the etiquette of domestic service, the art of cooking, and
the various niceties of a servant's calling. Nothing could have been
more impressive than being waited upon by a person of his magnificence,
and his lecture, moreover, was delivered in a way that drove
understanding into their thick heads.
It was an uncomfortable experience for all except Gray himself--he
actually enjoyed it--and when the last dish had been removed, and he
had given instructions to serve the meal over again exactly as he had
served it, the three negroes were glad to obey. Of course they made
mistakes, but these Gray instantly corrected, and the results of his
dress rehearsal were, on the whole, surprising.
"There!" he said, when the ordeal had finally come to an end. "A little
patience, a little practice, and you'll be proud of them. Incidentally,
I have saved you a fortune in dishes."
"I wish Allie'd been here. She'd remember everything you said," Ma
declared.
"Lord! Think of Mr. Gray waitin' on them niggers!" Gus was still deeply
shocked.
"You see what a meddlesome busybody I am," the guest laughed. "I don't
know how to mind my own business, and the one luxury I enjoy most of
all is regulating other people's affairs." He was still talking, still
lecturing his hearers upon the obligations prosperity had put upon
them, when he was summoned to the telephone by a long-distance call. He
returned in some agitation to announce: "Well, at last I have business
of my own to attend."
"Was that Buddy talkin'?"
"It was, and he gave me some good news. He says that well on
thirty-five is liable to come in at any minute, and it looks like a big
one." The speaker's eyes were glowing, and he ran on, breathlessly, "He
says they're betting it will do better than ten thousand barrels!"
"_Ten thousand bar'ls!_" Briskow echoed.
"That's what he said. Of course, they can't tell a thing about it.
Buddy's only guessing, but--I haven't had a big well yet." Gray took a
nervous turn about the room.
"Ten thousand barrels! Lord! That would help. That would do the trick.
And to think that it should come now, this very day--" He laughed
triumphantly and ran on as if talking to himself: "'The wicked are
fatted for destruction. Their happiness shall pass away like a
torrent.' Pull out and leave me, eh?" A second time he laughed, more
loudly. "Luck? It isn't luck, it's Destiny. The mills of the Gods are
grinding. Ma Briskow, the fairy ladies danced upon the hearth when I
was born. Do you know what that means?"
"Ten thousand bar'ls a day, an' you buttlin' for three niggers!" gasped
the head of the house.
"I'm going out on to-night's train and see it come in--if it does come
in. I told Buddy to stop work; not to drop another tool until I
arrived. 'Fatted for destruction.' I like the sound of that. Ten
thousand barrels! Ho! I'll write this day in brass. Why, that lease
will sell for a million. It--it may mean the end."
Gray brought himself to with an effort, hastily he kissed Ma Briskow's
faded cheek and wrung her husband's hand. A moment later he was gone.
"Thirty-five," where Buddy was working, was only a few miles from the
Briskow ranch, therefore the boy was able to meet his sister at Ranger
and drive her directly to the old home. The place was much the same as
when they had left it, thanks to the watchful attention of the men in
charge of the Briskow wells, and there they spent the night. Buddy and
his sister had always been close confidants, and their long separation,
their varied experiences, left many things to be discussed.
The ranch house seemed very mean, very insignificant to Allie, but she
slipped into one of her old dresses and prepared the supper while Buddy
straddled a kitchen chair and chattered upon ten thousand topics of
mutual interest.
"Doggone!" he exclaimed, finally. "I hardly knew you when you stepped
off that train, but it seems like old times now, with you hustlin'
around in that gingham."
"I wish it was."
"Hunh?"
"I wish, sometimes, that we'd never struck oil."
"Good Lord! Why?"
"Oh"--Allie turned her back and bent over the stove--"for lots of
reasons! Ma never had a sick day till lately. Now she's failin' fast."
Buddy frowned at this intelligence. "And Pa's as restless as a
squirrel. All the time scared of losing his money."
"Well, _you_ got no kick coming, sis. You've sure made good."
"How?"
"I dunno--You've got rich ways. An' rich _looks_, too!"
Allie lifted an interested face, and her brother undertook, somewhat
awkwardly, to tell her wherein she had improved. She listened with
greedy delight, but when he had finished she shook her head skeptically
and declared: "It sounds nice, and God knows I've tried hard enough,
but-there's a difference, Bud. We're 'trash' and always will be."
Of course young Briskow's mind was full of business, and he could not
long stay off that absorbing topic. When, during their supper, he
announced the fact that the well on thirty-five showed signs of coming
in shortly, and that he intended to send for Calvin Gray, Allie changed
her mind about returning home and decided to wait over until the latter
arrived.
She and Buddy talked until a late hour that night, but although she was
dying to have him tell her about his romance, his dream of love, he
never so much as referred to it, and she could not bring herself to
disregard his reticence. Nor could she bear to discuss with him the
problem that lay nearest her own heart. She had brooded long over that
problem, and her soul was hungry to share its bitter secret;
nevertheless, she could not do so, for it is often easier to bare our
wounds to strangers than to those we love. If her breedings, her
bitterness of spirit manifested themselves, it was in a fixed undertone
of pessimism and in an occasional outburst of recklessness that
bewildered her brother.
On the morning of Gray's coming she rode with Buddy over to
thirty-five. It was a wretched, rainy day, and nothing is more bleak
than a rainy day in a drilling camp. Work had been halted and the men
were loafing in their bunk house. Brother and sister spent the
impatient hours in the mess tent. As usual, they talked a good deal
about Calvin Gray.
"Funny, him comin' here a stranger, an' gettin' to run our whole
family, ain't it?" Buddy said.
Allie nodded. "Funnier thing than that is your working for him." Buddy
was surprised, so she asked him: "Aren't you sore at him for--what he
did? For breaking up that affair?" It was a question that had been upon
her lips more than once; she could not credit her brother with entire
sincerity when he answered, frankly enough:
"Sore? Not the least bit."
"Didn't you--care for her?"
"Why, sure. I was all tore up, at first. But he did me the biggest kind
of a favor."
Allie shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Men are queer things. You
_must_ have loved her, for a while."
"I reckon I did, if you're a mind to call it that. But he says that
sort of thing ain't real love."
"'_He says_'!" the girl cried, scornfully. "My God, Buddy! Would you
let _him_ tell you--? Is he pickin' out women for you like he picks out
a dress for me and a hotel for Ma? How does _he_ know what's the real
thing?"
"She was a--grafter," the brother explained, with a flush of
embarrassment. "She'd of probably took my money an' quit me cold."
"Bah!" The girl rose and, with somber defiance in her smoldering eyes,
stared out at the desolate day. "You'd have had her for a while,
wouldn't you? You'd have lived while it lasted. What's the difference
if she was a grafter? D'you think you're going to fall in love and
marry a duchess, or something? I wish I'd had your chance, that's all."
"What d'you mean by that?" Buddy queried, sharply.
"I mean this," Allie flamed at him. "We're nobodies and we've got
nothing but our money. A counterfeit is as good as ever we'll get--and
it's as good as we're entitled to. I'd rather know what it is to live
for an hour than to go on forever just pretending to live. If I've got
to be unhappy, then give me something to be unhappy over; something to
look back on. I'd rather be--But, pshaw! You don't understand. You
couldn't."
"I dunno what's got into you lately," Buddy declared, with a frown.
"Nothing's got into me. Only, what's the use of starving when the
world's full of good things and you've got the price to buy them? _I_
won't do it. If ever I get my chance, you watch me!"
Gray's trip from the railroad was more like a voyage than a motor
journey, for the creek beds, usually dry, were angry torrents, and the
'dobe flats were quagmires through which his vehicle plowed hub deep;
nevertheless, he was fresh and alert when he arrived. After a buoyant
greeting to Allie, he and Buddy inspected the well, then he issued
orders for work to be resumed.
"We're gettin' close to something," young Briskow declared. "She's
making gas an' rumblin' like she'd let go any minute. We got reservoys
built an' the boiler's moved back, so we can douse the fire when she
starts. I figger she'll drownd us out."
"What are the indications at Nelson's well?" Gray turned his eyes in
the direction of a derrick on the adjoining property, the top of which
showed over the mesquite.
"Nothin' extra. They won't tell us anything, but they're deeper 'n we
are."
"How do you know?"
Buddy winked wisely. "We counted the layers of cable on the bull-wheel
drum. Checked up their casing, too, an' watched their cuttin's. They
got their eye on us, too, an' they'll be over when we blow in."
That was an anxious afternoon, for as the drill bit deeper into the
rock it provoked indications of a terrific force imprisoned far below.
To the observers it seemed as if that sharp-edged tool was tap-tapping
upon the thin shell of some vast reservoir already leaking and charged
to the bursting point with a mighty pressure. An odor of gas escaped
from the casing mouth, occasionally there came hoarse, throaty
gurglings of the thick liquid at the bottom of the well. The bailer was
run frequently.
Word had gone forth that there was something doing on thirty-five, and
from the chaparral emerged muddy motor cars bringing scouts,
neighboring lease owners, and even the members of a near-by casing crew.
Supper was a jumpy meal, and nobody had much to say, Allie Briskow
least of all. She was silent, intense; she curtly refused Buddy's offer
to send her home, and when the meal was over she followed Gray back to
the derrick. He was on edge, of course. It seemed to him that every
blow of that bit was struck upon his naked nerves, for he had a deep
conviction that this was to prove the night of his life, and the strain
of waiting was becoming onerous. This well meant so much. Ten thousand
barrels, fifteen, five--even one thousand; it mattered little how heavy
the flow, for a good-paying well would see him through his immediate
troubles. And this was a well of some sort, or else indications meant
nothing and everybody was greatly mistaken. Of course, a big well,
something to create a furor--that was what he needed, for that not only
would bridge his financial crisis, but also it would mean a frenzy of
quick drilling, new wells crowded close together, hundreds of thousands
of dollars poured into the earth, and the Nelsons couldn't stand that.
It would break them--break them, and he would taste the full sweetness
of revenge. Oh, he had waited long! Nor was that all. Once he had Henry
Nelson down, and his foot on the fellow's throat, he'd have something
to say to Barbara Parker. He could say it then and look her in the
eyes. He wished she was here to-night while he stood on the top of the
world. Ten thousand barrels! Twenty thousand! Twenty-thousand-barrel
gushers were not unknown. A well like that would mean a fortune every
day. But why didn't it start?
They were bailing again and curiosity drew the owner in upon the
derrick floor. This time the flow might begin; at any moment now oil
might come with the water. There is some danger in standing close to a
well during this bailing process, but Gray was like a bit of iron in
the field of a magnet; spellbound, he watched the cable as it ran
smoothly off the drum, flowed up over the crown block and down into the
casing mouth. That heavy, torpedolike weight on the end of the line was
dropping almost half a mile. Up it came swiftly, as if greased; up, up,
until it emerged into the glare of the incandescent overhead and hung
there dripping. It was swung aside and lowered, and out gushed its
muddy contents.
Water! Black and thick as molasses, but water nevertheless.
Buddy Briskow was running the rig, and the dexterity with which he
handled brake and control rod gave him pride. He had seated his sister
on a bench out of the way, where she was protected from the drizzle,
and he felt her eyes upon him. It gave him a sense of importance to
have Allie watching him at such a crisis; he wished his parents were
with her. If this well blew in big, as it seemed bound to do, it would
be a personal triumph, for not many cub drillers could boast of
bringing in a gusher the first time. It was, in fact, no mean
accomplishment to make any sort of a well; to pierce the earth with an
absolutely vertical shaft a half mile deep and line it with tons upon
tons of heavy casing joined air-tight and fitted to a hair's breadth
was an engineering feat in itself. It was something that only an oil
man could appreciate. And he was an oil man; a darn good one, too, so
Buddy told himself.
He eased the brake and the massive bailer slid into the casing as a
heavy shell slips into the breech of a cannon. As he further released
his pressure, the cable began to pour serpentlike from the drum. Buddy
turned his wet, grimy face and flashed a grin at Allie. She smiled back
at him faintly. Some lightninglike change in her expression, or perhaps
some occult sense of the untoward warned him that all was not as it
should be, and he jerked his head back to attention.
There are moments of catastrophe when for a brief interval nature
slows, time stops, and we are carried in suspense. Such an instant
Buddy Briskow experienced now. He knew at first glance what had
happened, and a frightened cry burst from his throat, but it was a cry
too short, too hoarse, to serve as a warning.
During that moment of inattention the bailer had stuck. Perhaps five
hundred feet below, friction had checked its plunge, and meanwhile the
velvet-running drum, spinning at its maximum velocity by reason of the
whirling bull wheel, was unreeling its cable down upon the derrick
platform. Down it poured in giant loops, and within those coils, either
unconscious of his danger or paralyzed by its suddenness, stood Calvin
Gray.
Men schooled in hazardous enterprises carry subconscious mental
photographs of the perils with which their callings are invested and
they react involuntarily to them. Buddy had heard of drillers
decapitated by flying cables, of human bodies caught within those wire
loops and cut in twain as if made of lard, for when a wedged tool
resumes its downward plunge it straightens those coils above ground in
the twinkling of an eye. Instinct, rather than reason, warned Buddy not
to check the blinding revolutions of the bull wheel. Without thought he
leaped forward into the midst of those swiftly forming loops, and as he
landed upon the slippery floor he clenched his fist and struck with all
the power he could put behind his massive arm. Gray's back was to him,
the blow was like that of a walking beam, and it sent the elder man
flying as a tenpin is hurled ahead of a bowling ball. Buddy fell, too.
He went sprawling. As he slid across the muddy floor he felt the steel
cable writhing under him like a thing alive, and the touch of it as it
streamed into the well burned his flesh. He kicked and fought it as he
would have fought the closing folds of a python, for the bailer was
falling again and the wire loops were vanishing as the coils in a
whiplash vanish during its flight.
Buddy's booted legs were thrown high, he was tossed aside like a thing
of paper, but blind, half stunned, he scrambled back to his post. By
this time the whole structure of the derrick was rocking to the mad
gyrations of the bull wheel; the giant spool was spinning with a speed
that threatened to send it flying, like the fragments of a bursting
bomb, but the youth understood dimly the danger of stopping it too
suddenly--to fetch up that plunging weight at the cable end might snap
the line, collapse the derrick, "jim" the well. Buddy weaved dizzily in
his tracks; nevertheless, his hand was steady, and he applied a
gradually increasing pressure to the brake. Nor did he take his eyes
from his task until the drum had ceased revolving and the runaway
bailer hung motionless in the well.
When he finally looked about it seemed to him that he had lived a long
time and was very old. Gray lay motionless where he had fallen, and his
body was twisted into a shockingly unnatural posture. He was bleeding.
Allie Briskow was bending over him. Other dim, dreamlike figures were
swarming out of the gloom and into the radiance of the derrick lights;
there was a far-away clamor of shouting voices. Buddy Briskow felt
himself growing deathly sick.
They carried Gray to the bunk house, and his limbs hung loosely, his
head lolled in a manner terrifying to Buddy and his sister. As they
stumbled along beside the group, the girl cried:
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" She repeated the cry over and over again in a
voice strange to her brother's ears.
"It--it wasn't my fault," he told her, hoarsely. "I aimed to save him."
"You killed him!"
"He ain't--" Buddy choked and clung to her. "He's just stunned like. He
ain't--that!" The youth was amazed when Allie turned and cursed him
with oaths that he himself seldom ventured to employ.
But Gray was not dead. Buddy's blow had well-nigh broken his neck, and
he had suffered a further injury to his head in falling; nevertheless,
he responded to such medical aid as they could supply, and in time he
opened his eyes. His gaze was dull, however, and for a long while he
lay in a sort of coma, quite as alarming as his former condition. They
brought him to at last long enough to acquaint him with what had
happened, and although it was plain that he understood their words only
dimly, he ordered the work resumed.
When for a second time he lapsed into semiconsciousness, it was Allie
Briskow who put his orders into execution. "You ain't doing any good
standing around staring at him and whispering. Bring in that well, as
fast as ever you can, and bring it in _big_. Now, get out and leave him
to me."
Buddy was the last to go. He inquired, miserably: "Honest, he ain't
hurt bad, is he? You don't think--"
"Get out!"
"He won't--die? Ain't no chance of him doin' that, is there?"
"If he does, I'll--" The speaker's face was ashen, but her eyes blazed.
"I'll fix you, Buddy Briskow. I will, so help me God!"
It was late that night when the well came in. It came with a rush and a
roar, drenching the derrick with a geyser of muddy water and driving
both crew and spectators out into the gloom. Up, up the column rose,
spraying itself into mist, and from its iron throat issued a sound
unlike that of any other phenomenon. It was a hoarse, rumbling bellow,
growing in volume and rising in pitch second by second until it finally
attained a shrieking crescendo. Ten thousand safety valves had let go,
and they steadily gathered strength and shrillness as they functioned.
A shocking sound it became, a sound that carried for miles, rocking the
air and stunning the senses. It beat upon the eardrums, pierced them;
men shouted at each other, but heard their own voices only faintly.
Calvin Gray had recovered his senses sufficiently to understand the
meaning of that uproar, and he tried to get up, but Allie held him down
upon his bed. She was still struggling with him when her brother burst
into the house, shouting:
"It's a gasser, Mr. Gray! Biggest I ever seen."
"Gas?" the latter mumbled, indistinctly. "Isn't there any--oil?" His
words were almost like a whisper because of the noise.
"Not yet. May be later. Say, she's a heller, ain't she? I'll bet she's
makin' twenty million feet--"
"Gasser's no good."
"Can't tell yet. We gotta shut her down easy so she don't blow the
casing out--run wild on us, understand?" Buddy was still breathless,
but he plunged out the door and back into that sea of sound.
With a tragic intensity akin to wildness, Gray stared up into Allie
Briskow's face. "Worthless, eh? And they told me ten thousand barrels."
He carried a shaking hand to his bandaged head and tried vainly to
collect his wits. "What's matter?" he queried, thickly. "Everything
whirling--sick--"
"You had an accident, but it's all right; all right--No, no! Please lie
still."
"Running wild, eh? Tha's what hurts my head so. Blown the casing
out--Bad, isn't it? Sometimes they run wild for weeks, years--ruin
everything." He tried again to rise, then insisted, querulously: "Goto
get oil in this well! I've got to! Last chance, Allie. Got to get ten
thousand barrels!"
"Please! You mustn't--" Allie had her strong hands upon his shoulders;
she was arguing firmly but as gently as possible under the
circumstances, when something occurred so extraordinary, so unexpected,
as to paralyze her. Of a sudden the interior of the dim-lit,
canvas-roofed shack was illuminated as if by a searchlight, and she
turned her head to see that the whole out-of-doors was visible and that
the night itself had turned into day.
With a cry that died weakly amid the chaos of sound beating over her,
the girl ran to the window and looked out. What she beheld was a
nightmare scene. The well was afire. It had exploded into flame. Where,
a moment before, it had been belching skyward an enormous stream of
gaseous vapor, all but invisible except at the casing head, now it was
a monstrous blow torch, the flaming crest of which was tossed a hundred
feet high. Nothing in the nature of a conflagration could have been
more awe-inspiring, more confounding to the faculties than that roaring
column of consuming fire. It was a thing incredibly huge, incredibly
furious, incredibly wild. Human figures, black against its glare, were
flying to safety, near-by silhouettes were flinging their arms aloft
and dashing backward and forward; faces upturned to it were white and
terrified. The scattered mesquite stood against the night like a wall,
spotted with inky shadows, and, above, the heavens resembled a boiling
caldron.
It was a hellish picture; it remained indelibly fixed upon Allie
Briskow's mind. As she looked on in horrid fascination, she saw the
derrick change into a latticelike tower of flame, saw its upper part
begin slowly to crumble and disintegrate. The force with which the gas
issued blew the blaze high and held it dancing, tumbling in mid-air, a
phenomenon indescribably weird and impressive. The men who stood
nearest bent their heads and shielded their faces from the heat.
Allie tore her eyes away from the spectacle finally. She turned back to
the bed, then she halted, for it was empty. The door, still ajar from
Buddy's headlong exit, informed her whence her patient had gone, and
she flew after him.
She found him not half a dozen paces away. In fact, she stumbled over
his prostrate body. With an amazon's strength, she gathered him into
her arms, then staggered with him back to his couch, and as she
strained him to herself she loudly called his name. Amid that demoniac
din, amid the shrieking of those million devils, freed from the black
chasms of the rock, her voice was as feeble as the wail of a sick child.
When she had laid her inert burden upon the bed, Allie knelt and took
Gray's head upon her bosom. Then, for the first time, those forces
imprisoned deep within her being ran wild, and under the red glare of
that flaming geyser she kissed his hair, his eyes, his lips. Over and
over again she kissed them with the hungry passion of a woman starved.