CHAPTER XXI—A MAN FACES DEATH

Taylor’s last shot, when he had been automatically pressing the

trigger after Carrington had struck him viciously with his fist, had

brought down the last of the three men who had ambushed him. And one

of his last bullets had struck Carrington, who had recovered

consciousness and staggered out of the house in time to see the end of

the fight. And the big man, in a black, malignant fury of hatred, was

staggering toward Taylor, lifting a foot to kick him, when from the

direction of the clearing in front of the house came a voice, hoarse

and vibrant with a cold, deadly rage:

“One kick an’ I blow the top of your head off!” Carrington stopped

short and wheeled, to face Ben Mullarky.

The Irishman’s eyes were blazing with wrath, and as he came forward,

peering at the figures lying on the ground near the house, Carrington

retreated, holding up his hands.

“Three of ye pilin’ on one, eh?” said Mullarky as he looked down at

Taylor, huddled against the side of the house. “An’ ye got him, too,

didn’t ye? I’ve a domn big notion to blow the top of your head off,

anny way. Ye slope, ye big limb of the divvle, or I’ll do it!”

Mullarky watched while Carrington mounted his horse and rode up the

river trail toward Dawes, and the instant Carrington was out of sight,

Mullarky was down on his knees beside Taylor, taking a lightning

inventory of his wounds.

“Four of them, looks like!” he muttered thickly, his voice shaking

with pity for the slack, limp, smoke-blackened figure that lay silent,

the trace of a smile on its face. “An’ two of them through the

shoulder!” He paused, awed. “Lord, what a shindy!”

Then, swiftly gulping down his sympathy and his rage, Mullarky ran to

his horse, which he had left at the edge of the wood when he had heard

the shooting. He led the animal back to where Taylor lay, tenderly

lifted Taylor in his arms, walked to the horse, and after much labor

got Taylor up in front of him on the horse, Taylor’s weight resting on

his legs, the man’s head and shoulders resting against him, to ease

the jars of the journey.

Then he started, traveling as swiftly as possible down the big slope

toward his own house, not so very far away.

Spotted Tail, jealously watching his master, saw him lifted to the

back of the other horse. Shrewdly suspecting that all was not going

well, and that his master would need him presently, Spotted Tail

trotted after Mullarky.

In this manner, with Spotted Tail a few paces in his rear, Mullarky,

still tenderly carrying his burden, reached his cabin.

He stilled Mrs. Mullarky’s hysterical questions with a short command:

“Hitch up the buckboard while I’m gettin’ him in shape!”

And then, while Mrs. Mullarky did as she was bidden, Mullarky carried

Taylor inside the cabin, bathed his wounds, stanching the flow of

blood as best he could—and came out again, carrying Taylor, and placed

him in the bed of the light spring-wagon, upon some quilts—and upon a

pillow that Mrs. Mullarky ran into the house to get, emerging with the

reproach:

“You’d be lettin’ him ride on them hard boards!”

Following Mullarky’s instructions, Mrs. Mullarky climbed to the

driver’s seat and sent the buckboard toward the Arrow, driving as fast

as she thought she dared. And Ben Mullarky, on Spotted Tail, turned

his face toward Dawes, riding as he had never ridden before.

* * * * *

Parsons had reached the Arrow shortly after Taylor had departed for

Dawes. The man had stopped at the Mullarky cabin to inquire the way

from the lady, and she had frankly commented upon Parsons’ battered

appearance.

“So it was Carrington that mauled you, eh?” she said. “Well, he’s a

mighty evil man—the divvle take his sowl!”

Parsons concurred in this view of Carrington, though he did not tell

Mrs. Mullarky so. He went on his way, refusing the good woman’s

proffer of a horse, for he wanted to go afoot to the Arrow. He felt

sure of Marion’s sympathy, but he wanted to make himself as pitiable

an object as possible. And as he walked toward the Arrow he mentally

dramatized the moment of his appearance at the ranchhouse—a bruised

and battered figure dragging itself wearily forward, dusty,

thirst-tortured, and despairing. He knew that spectacle would win the

girl’s swift sympathy. The fact that the girl herself had been through

almost the same experience did not affect him at all—he did not even

think of it.

And when Parsons reached the Arrow the scene was even as he had

dreamed it—Marion Harlan had seen him from afar, and came running to

him, placing an arm about him, helping him forward, whispering words

of sympathy in his ears, so that Parsons really began to look upon

himself as a badly abused martyr.

Marion cared for him tenderly, once she got him into the ranchhouse.

She bathed his bruised face, prepared breakfast for him, and later,

learning from him that he had not slept during the night, she sent him

off to bed, asking him as he went into the room if he had seen Ben

Mullarky.

“For,” she added, “he came here early this morning, after Mr. Taylor

left, and I sent him to the big house to get some things for me.”

But Parsons had not seen Mullarky.

And at last, when the morning was nearly gone, and Marion saw a

horse-drawn vehicle approaching the Arrow from the direction of Dawes,

she ran out, thinking Ben Mullarky had brought her “things” in his

buckboard. But it was not Ben who was coming, but Mrs. Mullarky. The

lady’s face was very white and serious, and when the girl came close

and she saw the look on the good woman’s face, she halted in her

tracks and stood rigid, her own face paling.

“Why, Mrs. Mullarky, what has happened?”

“Enough, deary.” Mrs. Mullarky waved an eloquent hand toward the rear

of the buckboard, and slowly approaching, the girl saw the huddled

figure lying there, swathed in quilts.

She drew her breath sharply, and with pallid face, swaying a little,

she walked to the rear of the buckboard and stood, holding hard to the

rim of a wheel, looking down at Taylor’s face with its closed eyes and

its ghastly color.

She must have screamed, then, for she felt Mrs. Mullarky’s arms around

her, and she heard the lady’s voice, saying: “Don’t, deary; he ain’t

dead, yet—an’ he won’t die—we won’t let him die.”

She stood there by the buckboard for a time—until Mrs. Mullarky,

running to one of the outbuildings, returned with Bud Hemmingway.

Then, nerved to the ordeal by Bud’s businesslike methods, and the

awful profanity that gushed from his clenched teeth, she helped them

carry Taylor into the house.

They took Taylor into his own room and laid him on the bed; a long,

limp figure, pitifully shattered, lying very white and still.

The girl stayed in the room while Mrs. Mullarky and Bud ran hither and

thither getting water, cloths, stimulants, and other indispensable

articles. And during one of their absences the girl knelt beside the

bed, and resting her head close to Taylor’s—with her hands stroking

his blackened face—she whispered:

“O Lord, save him—save him for—for me!”