Lester took the reins. "Send 'em south, Aglar," and at his chirp the
team sprang forward out upon the road into the coolness and silence of
the midnight plain.
Fan, clutching Lester's arm, shook with laughter. "It's like
eloping--ain't it?"
The tone of her voice irritated him. "Good Heaven! how vulgar she is!
And she is my wife," was his thought; and he took no pleasure in her
nearness.
Wild whoops reached them from the ranch-house now hid in the valley
behind them, and a few moments later the yells broke out again
perceptibly nearer.
"They're after us!" cried Fan, vastly excited and pleased. "It's a race
now," and, catching the whip from his hand, she lashed the horses into a
gallop.
He said: "I'll turn into the Sun-Fish Trail; we'll throw 'em off the
track."
"No use," she laughed. "No use, Dell; they can read a trail like Injuns;
besides, they're overtaking us. We might as well turn and go back."
His only answer was a shout to the horses. He was burning with fury now.
All his hidden contempt, his concealed hatred of the vulgarians behind
him, filled his heart. It was like them, the savages, to give chase.
With shrill whoops in imitation of Comanches the cowboys came on, riding
their swift and tireless ponies; like skimming hawks they swept down the
swells, and the bride, clinging to her husband's arm, called each of
them by his name.
"Link Compton is in the lead. Pull up!" She reached a firm hand and laid
it on the lines. "Pull up, Dell; it's no use."
He tried to shake off her grasp, but could not. Her voice changed to
command. "Don't be a fool!" she called, sharply, and, laying both hands
upon the reins, she brought the horses into a trot in spite of his
furious objection, just as the first of the pursuing cowboys rode
alongside and, seizing one of the horses by the bit, cried out:
"Come back. We need you!"
Even as he spoke a whistling rope settled round the fleeing couple and
the team came to a stand, surrounded by a hooting mob of mounted men.
The noose, tight-drawn, was like a steel embrace, and Compton called:
"Thought you'd give us the slip, did ye? Well, I don't think!"
"Leave us alone, you ruffians," shouted Lester, "or it'll be the worse
for you!"
They all laughed at this, and Compton drew the rope tighter, pinning
Lester's arms to his side.
"Boys--" began Fan in appeal, but she got no further.
Lester, wrenching his right arm loose, began to shoot. What happened
after that no one ever clearly knew, but the team sprang wildly forward,
and Compton's pony reared and fell backward, and the bride and groom
were thrown violently to the ground.
* * * * *
When Fan opened her eyes she saw the big stars above her and felt a
sinewy arm beneath her head. Compton was fanning her with his hat and
calling upon her to speak, his voice agonized with fear and remorse.
Slowly it all came back to her, and, struggling to a sitting position,
she called piteously: "Dell, where are you? Dell!" Her voice rose in
fear, a tone no man had ever heard in it before. She staggered to her
feet and dazedly looked about her. A group of awed, silenced, dismounted
men stood not far away, and on the ground, lying in a crumpled,
distorted heap, was her husband. With a shriek of agony she fell on her
knees beside him, calling upon him to open his eyes, to speak to her.
Then at last, as the conviction of his death came to her, she lifted her
head and with a voice of level, hoarse-throated hate, she imprecated her
murderers. "I'll kill you, every one of you! I'll kill you for this--you
cowardly wolves--I'll kill--"
V
They lifted them both up for dead, and Compton, taking Fan in his strong
arms, held her like a child as they drove slowly back to the ranch. All
believed Lester dead; but Compton, who held his ear to Fan's lips,
insisted that she was breathing, and indeed she recovered from her swoon
before they reached the house.
Blondell, more powerfully moved than ever before in his life, after a
swift curse upon the culprits took his girl to his bosom and carried her
to her bed.
As her brain cleared, Fan rose and, staggering across the room, took her
husband's head in her arms. "Bring some water. Dell is hurt. Don't you
see he is hurt? Be quick!"
"Has somebody gone for the doctor?" asked the mother, to whom this was
the raving of dementia. "Somebody go."
No one had, for all believed the man to be dead; but Compton exclaimed,
"I'll go!" turning to vault his horse, glad of something to do, eager to
escape the sight of Fan's agonized face.
The dash of cold water on his bruised face brought a flutter of life to
Lester's eyelids, and in triumph the bride cried out:
"I told you so! He is alive! Oh, Dell, can't you speak to me?"
He could not so much as lift his eyelids, but his breathing deepened,
and with that sign of returning vitality Fan was forced to be content.
She was perfectly composed now, and helped to bathe his crushed and
bleeding head and his broken shoulder with a calmness very impressive to
all those who were permitted to glance within the room.
Slowly the guests departed. The cowboys, low-voiced and funereal of
mien, rode away in groups of three or four.
The doctor came hurrying down the slope about ten of the morning, his
small roan mustang galloping, his case of instruments between his feet.
He was very young, and, luckily, very self-confident, and took charge of
"the case" with thrilling authority.
"The coma was induced," he explained, "by the concussion of the brain.
The shoulder is also badly contused and the collar-bone broken, but if
brain fever does not set in the man will live. The treatment so far as
it has gone is admirable."
Compton returned with him, or a little before him, and seemed to be
waiting for arrest. He was a lean, brown young fellow with good, gray
eyes and a shapely nose. "Yes, I threw the rope," he confessed to every
one. "It was all in fun, but he shot my horse, and as he reared up he
jerked the people out of the buggy. I guess the broncos jumped ahead at
the same time. But it was my fault. I had no business to rope 'em. In
fact, we had no business chasing 'em up at all."
At last Blondell gruffly told him to go home. "If the man dies we'll
come after you," he added, with blunt ferocity.
"All right," responded the young fellow, with lofty spirit. "I'll be
there--but I want to see Fan a moment before I leave. I want to know if
there is anything I can do for her or him."
Blondell was for refusing this utterly, but his wife said: "You didn't
mean nothing, Link--I'm sure of that--and I've always liked you, and so
has Fan. She won't lay it up against you, I know. I'll tell her you're
here."
Fan, sitting beside Lester's bed, turned at her mother's word and saw
the young fellow standing in the doorway in mute appeal. Her glance was
without anger, but it was cold and distant. She shook her head, and the
young rancher turned away, shaken with sobs. That look was worse than
her curse had been.
* * * * *
From the dim, grim region of his delirium and his deathlike
unconsciousness George Lester struggled slowly back to life. His
reawakening was like a new birth. He seemed born again, this time an
American--a Western American. In the measure of a good old homely
phrase, some sense (a sense of the fundamental oneness of humanity) had
been beaten into his head.
As he lay there, helpless and suffering, he was first of all aware of
Fan, whose face shone above him like the moon, and was soon able to
understand her unwearying devotion and to remember that she was his
wife. She was always present when he woke, and he accepted her presence
as he accepted sunshine, knowing nothing of the sleeplessness and toil
which her attendance involved--a knowledge of this came later.
At times gruff old Blondell himself bent his shaggy head above his bed
to ask how he felt, and no mother could have been more considerate than
Mrs. Blondell.
"What right have I to despise these people?" he asked himself one day.
"What have I done to lift myself above them?" (And this question
extended to the neighbors, to the awkward ranchers who came stiffly and
with a sort of awe into his room to "pass a good word," as they said.)
"They are a good sort, after all"--his heart prompted him to admit.
But his deepest penitence, his tenderest gratitude, rose to Fan, whom
care and love had marvelously refined. He was able to forget her
careless speech and to look quite through her untidy ways to the golden,
good heart which beat beneath her unlovely gowns. Nothing was too hard,
too menial, for her hands, and her smile warmed his midnight sick-room
like sunshine.
He was curiously silent even after his strength was sufficient for
speech. Content to lie on his bed and watch her as she moved about him,
he answered only in monosyllables, while the deep current of his love
gathered below his reticence. As he came to a full understanding of what
he had been and to a sense of his unworthy estimate of her and her
people, his passion broke bounds.
"Fan!" he called out one morning, "I'm not fit to receive all your care
and devotion--but I'm going to try to be; I'm going to set to work in
earnest when I get up. Your people shall be my people, your cares my
cares." He could not go on, and Fan, who was looking down at him in
wonder, stooped and laid a kiss on his quivering lips.
"You get well, boy; that's all you need to worry about," she said, and
her face was very sweet--for she smiled upon him as if he were a child.