THE BATTLE OF BELL RIVER
The dark of night was creeping up the gorge. A gray sky, still heavy
with the smoke of the forest fire, made its progress easy and rapid.
The black walls nursed its efforts, yielding their influence upon the
deep valley below them. No star could penetrate the upper cloud banks.
The new-born moon was lost beyond the earth-inspired canopy.
The fires of the great camp were out. No light was visible anywhere.
The fighting men were at their posts on the flanking embankments.
Reserves were gathered, smoking and talking in the hush of expectancy.
Further afield an outpost held the entrance to the gorge to the north
of the camp. A steep rugged split deeply wooded and dropping sharply
from the heights above to the great foreshore. It was an admirable
point to hold. No living soul could approach the camp from above that
way without running the gauntlet of the ambushed rifles in skilful
hands. No rush could make the passage, only costly effort. Nature had
seen to that.
The white men leaders of the camp were squatting about the doorway of
the shanty which had witnessed the brief interview with the chief,
Thunder-Cloud. Kars occupied the sill of the doorway. His great body
in its thick pea-jacket nearly filled it up. Talk was spasmodic. Kars
had little enough inclination, and the others seemed to have exhausted
thought upon the work of preparations.
Kars' thoughts were far away at the bald knoll of Fort Mowbray, and the
little Mission nestling at its foot. Out of the gray shadows of
twilight a pair of soft eyes were gazing pitifully into his, as he had
seen them gaze in actual life. His mind was passing over the tragic
incidents which had swept down upon that ruddy brown head with such
merciless force, and a tender pity made him shrink before his thought,
as no trouble of his own could have done.
The moment was perhaps the moment for such feeling. It was the moment
preceding battle. It was the moment when each man realized that a
thousand chances were crowding. When the uncertainties of the future
were so many and so deeply hidden. Resolve alone was definite. Life
and purpose were theirs to-day. To-morrow? Who could say of tomorrow?
So it was that the mind groped back amongst memories which had the
greatest appeal. For Kars all his memories were now centred round the
home of the girl who had taught him the real meaning of life.
Bill Brudenell was sitting on a rough log, within a yard or two. He,
too, was gazing out into the approaching night while he smoked on in
meditative silence. His keen face and usually twinkling eyes were
serious. He had small enough claims behind him. There was no woman in
his life to hold his intimate regard. The present was his, and the
future. The future had his life's work of healing in it. The present
held his friend, beside whom he was ranged in perfect loyalty against
the work of desperate men.
His purpose? Perhaps he would have found it difficult to explain.
Perhaps he could not have explained at all. His was a nature that
demanded more than a life of healing could give him. There was the
ceaseless call of the original man in him. It was a call so insistent
that it must be obeyed, even while his mental attitude spurned the
folly of it.
Abe Dodds was propped on an upturned bucket with his lean shoulders
squared against the log walls of the shanty. His jaw was moving
rhythmically as he chewed with nervous energy. The difference in him
from the others was the difference of a calculating mind always working
out the sum of life from a purely worldly side. He knew the values of
the Bell River strike to an ounce. It was his business to know. And
he was ready to pass through any furnace, human or hellish, to seize
the fortune which he knew was literally at his feet. There was neither
sentiment nor feeling in his regard of that which was yet to come.
This was the great opportunity. He had lived and struggled north of
"sixty" for this moment. He was ready to die if necessary for the
achievement of all it meant.
The men sat on, each wrapped in his own mood as the pall of night
unfolded itself. The last word had been given to those at the
defences, and it had been full and complete. Joe Saunders held the
pass down from above. It had been at his own definite request. But
the moment attack came he would be supported by one of these three. It
was for this reason that he was absent from the final vigil of his
fellow leaders.
It was Abe who finally broke the prolonged silence. He broke it upon
indifferent ears. But then he had not the same mood for silence.
"There's every sort of old chance lying around," he observed, as though
following out his own long train of thought. "But I don't guess many
of 'em's worth while. There's fellers 'ud hand over any sense they
ever collected fer the dame that's had savvee to buy a fi' cent
perfume. 'Tain't my way. There's jest one chance for me. It's the
big boodle. I'm all in for that. Right up to my ear-drums." He
laughed and spat. "There's a mighty big world to buy, an' when you got
your fencing set up around it, why, there ain't a deal left outside
that's worth corrallin'. I'd say it's only the folk who fancy the
foolish house need to try an' buy a big pot on a pair o' deuces. If
you stand on a 'royal' you can grab most anything. I got this thing
figgered to a cent. When we're through there's those among us going to
make home with a million dollars--cold."
"Ye-es."
Dr. Bill removed his pipe. His gaze was turned on the engineer, whose
vigorous mind was searching only one side of the task before them. The
side which appealed to him most.
"That million don't worry me a cent," he went on. "If life's just a
matter of buying and selling you're li'ble to get sick of it quick."
Abe's eyes shot a swift glance in the doctor's direction.
"Then what brings you up to Bell River?" he exclaimed. "It ain't a
circumstance as a health resort."
Bill smiled down at his pipe.
"Much the same as you, I guess," he said. "Say, you're talking
dollars. You're figgering dollars. You've got a nightmare of all you
can buy with those dollars." He shook his head. "Turn over. Maybe
that way you'd see things the way they are with you. Those dollars are
just a symbol. You fix your eye on them. It isn't winning the 'pot'
with a 'royal.' It isn't winning anyway. It's the play that gets you.
If you could walk right into the office of the president of a state
bank, and come out of it with a roll of a million, with no more effort
than it needed pushing one foot in front of another, guess you'd as
soon light your two dollar cigar with a hundred dollar bill as a
'Frisco stinker. I've seen a heap of boys like you, Abe. I've seen
them sweat, and cuss, and work like a beaver for a wage, and they've
been as happy as a doped Chinaman. I've seen them later, when the
dollars come plenty, and they're so sick there isn't dope enough in
Leaping Horse can make them feel good. Guess I'm right here because
it's good to live, and fight, and work, same as man was meant to. The
other don't cut much ice, unless it is the work's made things
better--someways."
Abe spat out his chew and sat up. His combative spirit, which was
perhaps his chief characteristic, was easily stirred.
"It ain't stuff of that sort made John Kars the richest guy in Leaping
Horse. It ain't that play set him doping around 'inside' where there
ain't much else but cold, and skitters, and gold. It ain't that play
set him crazy to make Bell River with an outfit to lick a bunch of
scallawag neches. No, sir. He's wise to the value of dollars in a
world where there's nothing much else counts. There ain't no joy to
life without 'em. An' you just can't live life without joy. If you're
fixed that way, why, you'll hit the trail of the long haired crank, or
join the folk who make a pastime of a penitentiary. The dollars for
mine. If they come on a cushion of down I'll handle 'em elegant with
kid gloves on my hands. I'm sick chasin'--sick to death."
Kars became caught in the interest of the talk. His dream picture
faded in the shades of night, and the reality of things about him
poured in upon him. He caught at the thread of discussion in his
eager, forceful way.
"You ain't right, Abe, and Bill, here, too, is wrong," he said, in his
amiably decided fashion. "Human life's just one great big darn foolish
'want.' It's the wage we're asking for all we do. Don't make any
Sunday-school mistake. We're asking pay for every act we play, and the
purse of old Prov is open most all the time. We all got a grouch set
up against life. Most of us know it. Some don't. If I know anything
of human nature we'd all squat around waiting till the end, doping our
senses without restraining the appetite Nature gave us, if it wasn't
for that blamed wage we're always yearning after. It's the law we've
got to work, and Prov sets the notion in us we want something as the
only way to keep our noses to the grinding mill. Those dollars ain't
the end of your want. They're just a kind of symbol, as Bill
says--till you've got 'em. After that you'll still be yearning for the
big opportunity same as you've been right along up to now. It's just
the symbol'll be diff'rent. You'll work, and cuss, and sweat, and
fight, just the same as you're ready to do now. You'll still be biting
the heels of old Prov for more. And Prov'll dope it out when you've
worked plenty, and He figgers you've earned your wage. Bill's here on
the same argument. He's got the dollars he needs, but he's still
chasing that wage. Maybe his wage is diff'rent from yours or mine.
Y'see he's quite a piece older. But he's worrying old Prov just as
hard. Bill's here because his notions of things lie along the line of
doping out healing to the poor darn fools who haven't the sense to keep
themselves whole. It don't matter who's going to be better for his
work on this layout. But when he's through, why, he'll open out his
hands to old Prov, and Prov'll dope out his wage. And that wage'll
come to him plenty when he sets around smoking his foul old pipe over a
stove, and thinks back--all to himself."
He smiled with a curious twisted sort of smile as he gazed almost
affectionately at the loyal little man of medicine. Then he turned
again to the night which now hid the last outlines of the stern old
gorge, as he went on.
"As for me the dollars in this gorge couldn't raise a shadow of joy."
He shook his head. "And if I told you the wage I'm asking, maybe you'd
laff till your sides split up. I'm not telling you the wage old
Prov'll have to hand out my way. But to me it's big. So big your
million dollars couldn't buy a hundredth part of it. No, sir. Nor a
thousandth. And maybe when Prov has checked my time sheet, and handed
out, He won't be through by a sight. I'll still be yepping at His
heels for more, only the--symbol'll kind of be changed. Meanwhile----"
He broke off listening. Abe started to his feet. Bill deliberately
knocked out his pipe on the log, while his eyes were turned along the
foreshore in the direction of the Indian workings. Kars heaved himself
to his feet and stood with his keen eyes striving to penetrate the
darkness in the same direction.
"--We're going to start right in earning that wage--now!"
A hot rifle fire swept over the camp with reckless disregard of all
aim. It came with a sharp rattle. The bullets swept on with a biting
hiss, and some of them terminated their careers with a vicious "splat"
against the great overhang of rock or the woodwork of the trestle-built
sluices.
In an instant the deadly calm of the night was gone, swept away by the
sound of many voices, and the rush of feet, and the answering fire of
the defenders.
The battle of Bell River had begun. The white men had staked their all
in the great play, confident they held the winning hand. The
alternative from complete victory for them had one hard, definite
meaning. There was no help but that which lay in their own hands,
their own wits. Death, only, was on the reverse of the victory they
were claiming from Providence.
A fierce pandemonium stirred the bowels of the night. The rattle of
musketry with its hundreds of needle-points of flame joined the chorus
of fiercely straining human voices. The black calm of night was rent
to shreds, leaving in its place only the riot of cruel, warring
passions.
The white men leaders and their men received the onslaught of the
savage horde with the steadfastness of a full understanding of the
meaning of defeat. They were braced for the shock with the nerve of
men who have bitterly learned the secret of survival in a land haunted
with terror. No heart-quail showed in the wall of resistance. The
secret emotions had no power before the realization of the horror which
must follow on defeat. The shadow of mutilation, of torture, of
unspeakable death made brave the surest weakling.
Many of the defenders were Indian, like the attacking horde, though of
superior race. Some were bastard whites, that most evil thing in human
production in the outlands. A few were white, other than the leaders.
Men belonging to that desperate crew always clinging to the fringe of
human effort, where wealth is won by the lucky turn of the spade.
Reckless creatures who live sunk in the deeps of indulgence of the
senses, and without a shred of the conscience with which they were
born. It was a collection of humanity such as only a man of Kars'
characteristics could have controlled. But for a desperate adventure
it might well have been difficult to find its equal. It was their
mission to fight, generally against the laws of society. But fight was
their mission, and they would fulfil it.
They were ready braced at their posts, and their leaders were in their
midst. The fierce yelling of advancing Indians was without effect.
They met the onslaught at close quarters with a fire as coldly
calculated as it was merciless. The rush of assault was doubtless
calculated to brush all defence aside in the first attack. But as well
might the Bell River leaders have hoped to spurn ferro concrete from
their path. The method was old. It was tried. It was as old as the
ages since the red man was first permitted to curse the joys of a
beautiful world. It was brave as only the savage mind understands
bravery. But it was as impotent before the defence as the beating of
captive wings against the iron bars of a cage.
The insensate horde came like the surging tide of driven waters. It
reeled before the flaming weapons like rollers on a breakwater. There
came the swirl and eddy. Then, in desperate defeat, it dropped back to
gather fresh impetus from the volume behind.
The conflict was shadowy, yet searching eyes outlined without
difficulty the half-naked, undersized forms as they came. There was
nothing wild in the defence. Fire was withheld till the moment of
contact. Then it poured out at pointblank range.
The carnage of that first onslaught was horrible. But the defenders
suffered only the lightest casualties. They labored under no delusion.
The attack would come again and again in the hope of creating a breach,
and that breach was the thought in each leader's mind. Its prevention
was his sheet anchor of hope. Its realization was his nightmare.
The tide of men surged once more. It came on under a rain of reckless
fire. The black wings of night were illuminated with a fiery sparkle,
and the smell of battle hung heavily on the still air. Kars shouted
encouragement to his men.
The response was all he could desire. The Indians surged to the
embankment only to beat vainly, and to fall back decimated. But again
and again they rallied, their temper growing to a pitch of fury that
suggested the limit of human endurance. The defence was hard put to
it, and only deliberation, and the full knowledge of consequences,
saved the breach.
The numbers seemed endless, rising out of the black beyond only to take
shape at the rifle muzzle. Thought and action were simultaneous. Each
rifle was pressed tight into the shoulder, while the hot barrel hurled
its billet of death deep into the dusky bodies.
For Kars those moments were filled to the brim with the intoxicating
elixir demanded by his elemental nature. He fought with a disregard of
self that left its mark upon all those who were near by. He spared
nothing, and his "automatic" drove terror, as well as death, into the
hearts of those with whom he was confronted. It was good to fight for
life in any form. The life of ease and security had small enough
attraction for him. But now--now he fought with the memory of the
wrongs which, through these creatures, had been inflicted upon the girl
who had taught him the true meaning of life.
Bill was no less stirred, but he possessed another incentive. He
fought till the first casualties in the defence claimed mercy in
exchange for the merciless, and he was forced regretfully to obey the
demands of his life's mission. All his ripeness of thought, all his
philosophy, gleaned under the thin veneer of civilization, had been
swept away by the tidal wave of battle. The original man hugged him to
his bosom, and he rested there content.
With Abe Dodds emotion held small place. A cold fury rose under the
lash of motive. It was the motive of a man ready at all times to spurn
obstruction from his path. His heart was without mercy where his
interests were threatened. These creatures were a wolf pack, from his
view-point, and he yearned to shoot them down as such. Like Peigan
Charley his desire was that every shot should sink deeply into the
bowels of the enemy.
In a moment of lull Bill dragged a wounded man off the embankment at
Kars' side. Kars withdrew his searching gaze from the dark beyond.
"How's things?" he demanded. His voice was thick with a parching
thirst.
"He's the fifth."
Bill's reply was preoccupied. Kars was thinking only of the defence.
"Bully!" he exclaimed. It was the appreciation of the fighter. He had
no thought for anything else. "We'll get 'em hunting their holes by
daylight," he went on. Then suddenly he turned back. His rifle was
ready, and he spoke over his shoulder.
"There's just one thing better than chasing the long trail, Bill. It's
scrap."
With a fierce yell a dusky form leaped out of the darkness. He sprang
at the embankment with hatchet upraised. Kars' rifle greeted him and
he fell in his tracks.
Bill shouldered his wounded burden. A grim smile struggled to his lips
as he bore it away. Nor did his muttered reply reach his now
preoccupied friend.
"And we cuss the poor darn neche for a savage."
It was midnight before the final convulsions of the great storming
assaults showed a waning. The first signs were the lengthening
intervals between the rushes. Then gradually the rushes lessened in
determination and only occasionally did they come to close quarters.
To Kars the signs were the signs he looked for. They were to him the
signs of first victory. But no vigilance was relaxed. The stake was
far too great. None knew better than he the danger of relaxing effort
under the assurance of success. And so the straining eyes of the
defence were kept wide.
Minutes crept by, passed under a desultory fire from the distance. The
bullets whistled widely overhead, doing no damage to life. The time
lengthened into half an hour and still no fresh assault came. Kars
stirred from his place. He wiped the muck sweat from his forehead, and
passed down the line of embankment to where Abe Dodds held command.
"We got to get the boys fed coffee and sow-belly," he said.
Abe with his watchful eyes on the distance replied reluctantly.
"Guess we'll have to."
Kars nodded.
"I sent word to the cook-house. Pass 'em along in reliefs. There's no
figgerin' on the next jolt. We can't take chances--yet."
"We'll have to--later."
Again Kars nodded.
"That's how I figger. But we got to get through this night first.
There's no chances this night. Pass your men along easy. Hold 'em up
on the least sign of things doing."
He was gone in a moment. And the operation he had prescribed for Abe's
men was applied to his own.
Another hour passed and still there was no sign from the enemy. It
almost seemed as if the victory had been more complete for the defence
than had at first been thought. The men were refreshed, and the rest
was more than welcome. Kars refused to leave his post. For all his
faith in the defence he trusted the vigilance of no one.
A meal of sorts was sent down to him from the cook-house, and he shared
it with the stalwart ruffian, Abe, and, for the most part, they
quenched their thirst with the steaming beverage in silence. The
thought of each man was busy. Both were contemplating the ultimate,
rather than the effort of the moment.
Abe was the first to yield to the press of thought.
"How's Bill doin'?" he demanded. "What's the figures? I lost four."
"Wounded--only?"
"Wounded."
"Guess that raises the tally."
"How about your boys?"
Kars gazed in the direction of the rough storehouse now converted into
a hospital.
"I'd say five. Bill was here a while back. He reckoned he'd got five
then."
Abe laughed. It was not a mirthful laugh. He rarely gave way to
mirth. Purpose had too profound a hold on him.
"Figger up nine by eight nights like this and you ain't got much of a
crowd out of eighty."
Kars' eyes came swiftly to the lean face shadowed under the night.
"No." Then he glanced in the direction whence came the reckless Indian
fire. "You mean we can't sit around, and let the neches play their own
war game. That so?"
"Guess it seems that way."
"I don't reckon they're going to." Kars tipped out the coffee grounds
from his pannikin with unnecessary force. He laid the cup aside and
turned on the engineer. "Say, boy," he cried, with a deliberate
emphasis, "I've got this thing figgered from A to Z. I've spent months
of thought on it. You're lookin' on the dollars lying around, and
you're yearning to grab them plenty. It's a mighty strong motive. But
it's not a circumstance beside mine. I'd lose every dollar in my bank
roll; I'd hand up my life without a kick, rather than lose this game.
Get me? Say, don't you worry a thing, so we hold this night through.
That's what matters in my figgering. If we hold this night, I got a
whole stack of aces and things in my sleeve. And I'm goin' to play
'em, and play 'em--good."
The assurance of his manner had a deep effect. Passivity of resistance
at no time appealed to the forceful Abe. Aggression was the chief part
of his doctrine of life. He was glad to hear his chief talk in that
fashion.
"That talk suits me," he said readily. "I----"
He broke off, his eyes searching the distance, his hearing straining.
Kars, too, had turned, searching beyond the embankment.
"It's coming," he said. "It's coming plenty."
But Abe had not waited. His lean figure was swallowed up in the
darkness as he made off to his post where his men were already
assembled.
In less than two minutes the battle was raging with all its original
desperation. The black night air was filled with the fury of yelling
voices which vied with the rattle of firearms for domination. Bare,
shadowy bodies hurled themselves with renewed impetus against the
defences, and went down like grain before the reaper.
The embankments were held with even greater confidence. Earlier
experience, the respite; these things had made their contribution, a
contribution which told heavily against the renewed assault.
Kars wondered. He had said these men were like sheep. Now they were
like sheep herded on to the slaughter-house. The senselessness of it
was growing on him with his increased confidence. It all seemed
unworthy of the astute half white mind lying behind the purpose. These
were the thoughts which flashed through his mind as he plied his
weapons and encouraged the men of his command, and they grew in
conviction with each passing moment.
But there was more wit in it all than he suspected.
The battle was at its height. The insensate savages came on,
regardless of the numbers who fell. The whole line of defence was
resisting with all the energy and resource at its disposal. Then came
the diversion.
It came by water. It came with a swirl of paddles in the black void
enveloping the great river. Out of the darkness grew the shadowy
outlines of four laden canoes, and the beaching of the craft was the
first inkling Abe Dodds, who held the left defences, had of the
adventure.
Action and thought were almost one with him. Claiming the men nearest
him he hurled himself on the invaders with a ferocity which had for its
inspiration a full understanding of the consequences of disaster in
such a direction. Outflanking stared at him with all its ugly meaning,
and as he went he shouted hoarsely back to Kars his ill-omened news.
Kars needed no second warning. He passed the call on to Bill. He
claimed the reinforcement which only desperate emergency had the right
to demand. Then he flung himself to the task of making good the
depleted defence where Abe had withdrawn his men.
The crisis was more deadly than could have seemed possible a moment
before. The whole aspect of the scene had been changed. The breach,
that dreaded breach with all its deadly meaning, was achieved in
something that amounted only to seconds.
The neches swarmed on the embankments on the lower foreshore. The
defenders who had been left were driven back before the fierce
onslaught. They were already giving ground when Kars flung himself to
their support. The whole position looked like being turned.
It was no longer a battle of coldly calculated method. Here at least
it had become a conflict where individual nerve and ability alone could
win out. Already some dozen of the half-nude savages had forced
themselves across the embankment, and more were pressing on behind. It
was a moment to blast the sternest courage. It was a moment when the
whole edifice of the white man's purpose looked to be tottering, if not
falling headlong. Kars understood. He had the measure of the threat
to the last fraction, and he flung himself into the battle with a
desperateness of energy and resolve that bore almost immediate fruit.
His coming had checked the breaking of the defenders. But he knew it
was like patching rotten material. His influence could not last
without Bill and his reinforcements. He plied his guns with a
discrimination which no heat or excitement could disturb, and the first
invaders fell under his attack amidst a din of fierce-throated cries.
His men rallied. But he knew they were fighting now with a shadow at
the back of their minds. It was his purpose to remove that shadow, and
he strove with voice and act to do so.
The first support of his coming passed with the emptying of his
pistols. He flung them aside without a moment's hesitation, and
grabbed a rifle from a fallen neche. It was the act of a man who knew
the value of every second gained. He knew, even more, the value of his
own gigantic strength.
The weapon in his hands became a far-reaching club. And, swinging it
like a fiercely driven flail, he rushed into the crowd of savages,
scattering them like chaff in a gale. The smashing blows fell on heads
that split under their superlative force, and the ground about him
became like a shambles. In a moment he discovered another figure in
the shadowy darkness, fighting in a similar fashion, and he knew by the
crude, disjointed oaths which were hurled with each blow, so full of a
venomous hate, that Peigan Charley had somehow come to his support.
His heart warmed, and his onslaught increased in its bitter ferocity.
He was holding. Just holding the rush, and that was all. Without the
reinforcements he had claimed he could not hope to drive his attack
home. He knew. Nor did he attempt to blind himself. The whole thing
was a matter of minutes now. Defeat, complete disaster hung by a
thread, and the fever of the knowledge fired his muscles to an effort
that was almost superhuman.
He drove his way through the raging savages, whose crude weapons for
close quarters were aimed at him from every direction. He was fighting
for time. He was fighting to hold--simply hold. He was fighting to
demoralize the rush, and drive terror into savage hearts. And he knew
his limits were steadily approaching.
His first call had reached the ears of the man for whom it was
intended. Nor had they been indifferent. A call for help from Kars
was an irresistible clarion of appeal to Bill Brudenell. Mercy? There
was no consideration of healing or mercy could claim him from his
friend's succor. He flung aside his drugs, his bandages. He had no
thought for his wounded. He had no thought for himself.
To collect reinforcements from the northern defences was the work of a
few minutes. Even the elderly breed cook at the cook-house was
claimed, though his only weapons were an ancient patterned revolver and
a pick-haft he had snatched up. Fifteen men in all he was able to
collect and at the head of them he rushed for the battle-ground.
Nor was he a moment too soon. Kars' vigor was rapidly exhausting
itself. Peigan Charley was fighting with a demoniac fury, but
weakening. The handful of men who were still supporting were nearly
defeated.
Bill knew the value of creating panic. As he came he set up a yell.
His men took it up, and it sounded like the advance of a legion of
demons. In a moment they were caught in the whirl of battle, and the
flash of their weapons lit the scene, while the clatter of firearms,
and the hoarse-throated shouting, gave an impression of overwhelming
force. Back reeled the yelling horde in face of the onslaught. Back
and still back. Confusion with those pressing on behind set up a
panic. The wretched creatures fell like flies in the darkness. Then
came flight. Headlong flight. The panic which Bill had sought.
In half an hour from the moment of the first break the position was
restored. Within an hour Kars knew the Battle of Bell River had been
won. But it had been won at a cost he had never reckoned upon. The
margin of victory had been the narrowest.
Abe had been able to complete his work in the cold businesslike manner
which was all his own. The attack from the river was an unsupported
diversion with forces limited to its need. How nearly it had succeeded
no doubt remained. But in that direction Abe's heavy hand had fallen
in no measured fashion. Those of the landing party who were not
awaiting burial on the foreshore were meeting death in the deep waters
of the swiftly flowing river. Even the smashed canoes were flotsam on
the bosom of the tide.
The battle degenerated from the moment of the failure of the intended
breach. There was no further attack in force. Small, isolated raids
came at intervals only to be swept back by rifle fire from the
embankments. These, and a desultory and notoriously wild fire, which,
to the defence, was a mere expression of impotent, savage rage, wore
the long night through. Kars had achieved his desire. The night had
been fought out, and the defence had held.
Kars was standing in the doorway of the storehouse where Bill was
calmly prosecuting his work of mercy. The doctor's smallish figure was
moving rapidly about the crowded hut. His preoccupation was heart
whole. He had eyes and thought for nothing but those injured bodies
under their light blanket coverings, and the groans of suffering that
came from lips, which, in health, were usually tainted with blasphemy.
All Kars' thoughts were at the moment concerned with the busy man.
That array of figures had already told him its story. A painful story.
A story calculated to daunt a leader. Just now he was thinking how his
debt to this man was mounting up. Years of intimate friendship had
been sealed by incident after incident of devotion. Now he felt that
he owed his present being to the prompt response to his signal of
distress. But Bill had never failed him. Bill would never fail when
loyalty was demanded. He breathed devotion in every act of his life.
There could be no thanks between them. There never had been thanks
between them. Their bond was too deep, too strong for that.
The dull lamplight revealed the makeshift of the hospital. There were
no bunks, only the hard earthen floor cleared of stones. Its log walls
were stopped with mud to keep the weather out. A packing case formed
the table on which the doctor's instruments were laid out. It was
rough, uncouth. Its inadequacy was only mitigated by the skill and
gentle mercy of the man.
Kars' voice broke in upon the doctor's preoccupation.
"Twenty," he said. "Twenty out of eighty."
Bill glanced up from the wounded head he was dressing.
"And the fight just started."
Kars stirred from the support of the door-casing which had served to
rest his weary body.
"Yes," he admitted.
Then he turned away. There seemed to be nothing further to add. He
drew a deep breath as he moved into the open.
A moment later he was moving with rapid strides in the direction of the
battle-ground. A hard light was shining in his steady eyes, his jaws
were sternly set. All feeling of the moment before had passed. The
gray of dawn was spreading over the eastern sky. His nightmare was
over. There was only left for him the execution of those plans he had
so carefully worked out during the long days of preparation.