"CAUGHT IT JUST IN TIME"
At exactly ten-thirty the next morning The Spider was at the
information desk of the General Hospital, inquiring for Andover.
"He's in the operating-room," said the clerk.
"Then I'll wait." The Spider sidled across to the reception-room and
sat nervously fingering the arm of his chair. Nurses passed and
repassed the doorway, going quietly through the hall. From somewhere
came the faint animal-like wail of a newly born babe. The Spider had
gripped the arm of his chair. A well-gowned woman stopped at the
information desk and left a great armful of gorgeous roses wrapped in
white tissue paper. Presently a man--evidently a laborer--hobbled past
on crutches, his foot bandaged; a huge, grotesque white foot that he
held stiffly in front of him and which he seemed to be following,
rather than guiding. A nurse walked slowly beside him. The Spider
drummed the chair-arm with nervous fingers. His little beady eyes were
constantly in motion, glancing here and there,--at the empty chairs in
the room, at the table with its neatly piled magazines, at a large
picture of the hospital, and a great group of nurses standing on the
stone steps, and then toward the doorway. Presently a nurse came in
and told him that Dr. Andover would be unable to see him for some time:
that the patient just operated on was doing as well as could be
expected.
"He--he's come through all right?"
"Yes. You might call up in an hour or so."
The Spider rose stiffly and put on his hat.
"Thanks," he said and hobbled out and across the lobby. A cab was
waiting for him, and the driver seemed to know his destination, for he
whipped up his horse and drove south toward the Mexican quarter,
finally stopping at an inconspicuous house on a dingy side street that
led toward the river. The Spider glanced up and down the street before
he alighted. Then he gave the driver a bill quite out of proportion to
his recent service. "You can come about the same time to-morrow," said
The Spider, and he turned and hobbled to the house.
About noon he came out, and after walking several blocks stopped at a
corner grocery and telephoned to the hospital, asking for Andover, who
informed him that the operation had been successful, as an operation,
but that the patient was in a critical condition--that it would be
several hours before they would dare risk a definite statement as to
his chances of recovery. The surgeon told The Spider that they were
using oxygen, which fact in itself was significant.
The Spider crossed the street to a restaurant, drank several cups of
coffee, and on his way out bought a supply of cigars. He played
solitaire in his room all that afternoon, smoking and muttering to
himself until the fading light caused him to glance at his watch. He
slipped into his coat and made his way uptown.
Shortly after seven he entered the hospital. Andover had left word
that he be allowed to see Pete. And again The Spider stood beside
Pete's cot, gazing down upon a face startlingly white in contrast to
his dark hair and black eyebrows--a face drawn, the cheeks pinched, and
the lips bloodless. "You taking care of him?"--and The Spider turned
to Doris. She nodded, wondering if this queer, almost deformed
creature were "The Spider" that Pete had so often talked to when
half-conscious. Whoever he was, her quick, feminine intuition told her
that this man's stiff and awkward silence signified more than any
spoken solicitude; that behind those beady black eyes was a soul that
was tormented with doubt and hope, a soul that had battled through dark
ways to this one great unselfish moment . . . How could one know that
this man risked his life in coming there? Yet she did know it. The
very fact that he was Pete's friend would almost substantiate that.
Had not the papers said that Peter Annersley was a hired gunman of The
Spider's? And although this man had not given his name, she knew that
he was The Spider of Pete's incoherent mutterings. And The Spider,
glancing about the room, gazed curiously at the metal oxygen tank and
then at the other cot.
"You staying here right along?" he queried.
"For a while until he is out of danger."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know. But I do know that he is going to live."
"Did the doc say so?"
Doris shook her head. "No, Dr. Andover thinks he has a chance, but I
_know_ that he will get well."
"Does Pete know that I been here?"
"No. The doctor thought it best not to say anything about that yet."
"I reckon that's right."
"Is he your son?" asked Doris.
"No. Just a kid that used to--work for me."
And without further word, The Spider hobbled to the doorway and was
gone.
Hour after hour Doris sat by the cot watching the faintly flickering
life that, bereft of conscious will, fought for existence with each
deep-drawn breath. About two in the morning Pete's breathing seemed to
stop. Doris felt the hesitant throb of the pulse and, rising, stepped
to the hall and telephoned for the house-surgeon.
"Caught it just in time," he said to the nurse as he stepped back and
watched the patient react to the powerful heart-stimulant. Pete's
breathing became more regular.
The surgeon had been gone for a few minutes when Pete's heavy lids
opened.
"It--was gittin'--mighty dark--down there," he whispered. And Pete
stared up at her, his great dark eyes slowly brightening under the
artificial stimulant. Doris bent over him and smoothed his hair back
from his forehead. "I'm the--the Ridin' Kid--from--Powder River," he
whispered hoarsely. "I kin ride 'em comin' or goin'--but I don't wear
no coat next journey. My hand caught in the pocket." He glanced
toward the doorway. "But we fooled 'em. Ed got away, so I reckon I'll
throw in with you, Spider." Pete tried to lift himself up, but the
nurse pressed him gently back. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his
forehead. Doris put her hand on the back of his. At the touch his
lips moved. "Boca was down there--in the dark--smilin' and tellin' me
it was all right and to come ahead," he whispered. "I was tryin' to
climb out--of that there--cañon . . . Andy throwed his rope . . .
Caught it just in time . . . And Andy he laughs. Reckon he didn't
know--I was--all in . . ." Pete breathed deeply, muttered, and drifted
into an easy sleep. Doris watched him for a while, fighting her own
desire to sleep. She knew that the crisis was past, and with that
knowledge came a physical let-down that left her worn and desperately
weary: not because she had been on duty almost twenty-four hours
without rest--she was young and could stand that--but because she had
given so much of herself to this case from the day Pete had been
brought in--through the operation which was necessarily savage, and up
to the moment when he had fallen asleep, after having passed so close
to the border of the dark Unknown. And now that she knew he would
recover, she felt strangely disinterested in her work at the hospital.
But being a rather practical young person, never in the least morbid,
she attributed this unusual indifference to her own condition. She
would not allow herself to believe that the life she had seen slipping
away, and which she had drawn back from the shadows, could ever mean
anything to her, aside from her profession. And why should it? This
dark-eyed boy was a stranger, an outcast, even worse, if she were to
believe what the papers said of him. Yet he had been so patient and
uncomplaining that first night when she knew that he must have been
suffering terribly. Time and again she had wiped the red spume from
his lips, until at last he ceased to gasp and cough and lay back
exhausted. And Doris could never forget how he had tried to smile as
he told her, whispering hoarsely, "that he was plumb ashamed of makin'
such a doggone fuss." Then day after day his suffering had grown less
as his vitality ebbed. Following, came the operation, an almost
hopeless experiment . . . and that strange creature, The Spider . . .
who had paid for the operation and for this private room . . . Doris
thought of the thousand dollars in bills that she had found and
returned to Andover; and while admiring his skill as a surgeon, she
experienced a sudden dislike for him as a man. It seemed to her that
he had been actually bribed to save Pete's life, and had pocketed the
bribe . . . again it was The Spider . . . What a name for a human
being--yet how well it fitted! The thin bow-legs, the quick, sidling
walk, the furtive manner, the black, blinking eyes . . . Doris yawned
and shivered. Dawn was battling its slow way into the room. A nurse
stepped in softly. Doris rose and made a notation on the chart, told
the nurse that her patient had been sleeping since two o'clock, and
nodding pleasantly left the room.
The new nurse sniffed audibly. Miss Gray was one of Dr. Andover's
pets! She knew! She had seen them talking together, often enough.
And Andover knew better than to try to flirt with her. What a fuss
they were making about "Miss Gray's cowboy," as Pete had come to be
known among some of the nurses who were not "pets." Her pleasant
soliloquy was interrupted by a movement of Pete's hand. "Kin I have a
drink?" he asked faintly.
"Yes, dearie," said the nurse, and smiled a large, and toothful smile
as she turned and stepped out into the hall. Pete's listless, dark
eyes followed her. "Fer Gawd's sake!" he muttered. His eyes closed.
He wondered what had become of his honest-to-Gosh nurse, Miss Gray.