THE QUICK AND THE DEAD
When Ben Blair again woke to consciousness the sunlight was pouring upon
him steadily. He was in a strange bed in a strange room; and he looked
about him perplexedly. Amid the unfamiliarity his eye caught an object
he recognized,--the broad angular back of a man. Memory slowly adjusted
itself.
"Grannis--"
The back reversed, showing a rather surprised face.
"Where am I, Grannis?"
The foreman came over to the bed. "In the hotel. In the bridal chamber,
they informed me, to be exact."
Ben did not smile. Memory was clear now. "What happened after they--got
me last night?"
Grannis's face showed distinct animation. "A lot of things--and mighty
fast. You missed the best part." Of a sudden he paused and looked at his
charge doubtfully. "But I forgot. You're not to talk: the doctor said
so."
Ben made a grimace. "But I can listen, can't I?"
"I suppose so," still doubtfully.
"Well--"
Grannis hearkened equivocally. No one was about, likely to overhear him
disobeying instructions, and the temptation was strong.
"You know McFadden?" he queried suddenly.
Blair nodded.
"Well, say, that Scotchman is a tiger. He got to the front somehow when
you called for reinforcements, and when you went down he was
Johnny-on-the-spot taking your place. Some of the rest of us got in
there pretty soon, and for a bit things was lively. It was rather close
range for gun-work, but knives were as thick as frogs after a shower."
With a sudden movement Grannis slipped up the sleeve of his left arm,
showing a bandage through which the blood had soaked and dried. "All of
us got scratched some. One fellow of the opposition--Mick Kennedy--met
with an accident."
"Serious?"
"Rather. We planted him after things had quieted down."
For a moment the two men looked at each other steadily, and the subject
was dropped.
"Well," suggested Blair once more.
"That's all, I guess--except that Ralston has the prisoner." A grim
reminiscent smile came to the speaker's lips. "That is, he's got him if
the floors of the cells here are paved good and thick. Last time I saw
T. Blair he was fairly shaking post-holes into the ground with his
feet."
Ben tried to shift in bed, but with the movement a sudden pain made him
grit his teeth to keep from uttering a groan. For the first time he
thought of himself.
"How much am I hurt, Grannis?" he queried directly.
The foreman busied himself doing nothing about the room. "You?"
cheerfully. "Oh, you're all right."
Ben looked at the other narrowly. "Nothing to bother about, I judge?"
"No, certainly not."
Beneath the bedclothes the long body lifted, but despite anything it
could do the face went pale.
"Very well, I guess I'll get up then."
Instantly Grannis was beside him, motioning him back, genuine concern
upon his face.
"No, please don't. Not yet."
"But if I'm not hurt much--"
Grannis fingered his forelock in obvious discomfort.
"Well, between you and me, it's this way. They ripped a seam for you--so
far," he indicated, "and it's open yet."
Turning his free left arm, Ben touched the bandage at his side, and the
hand came back moist and red. Now that it occurred to him, he was
ridiculously weak.
"I see. I'm liable to rip it more," he commented slowly.
The other nodded. "Yes; don't talk. I ought to have stopped you before
this."
"Grannis!" There was no escaping the blue eyes this time. "Honestly,
now, am I liable to be--done for, or not?"
The foreman became instantly serious. "Honest, if you keep quiet you're
all right. Doc said so not an hour ago. At first he thought different,
that you'd never wake up; you bled like a pig with its throat cut; but
this is what he told me when he left. 'Keep him quiet. It may take a
month for that gap to heal, but if you're careful he'll pull through.'"
Again the look of concern, and this time of contrition as well. "I ought
to be ashamed of myself for letting you talk at all; but this is
straight. Now don't say any more."
This time Ben obeyed. He couldn't well do otherwise. He had suddenly
grown weak and drowsy, and almost before Grannis was through speaking he
was again asleep.
The doctor was right about the time of healing. During the remainder of
that month and well into the next, despite his restless protests, Ben
Blair was a prisoner in that dull little room; and through it all
Grannis remained with him.
"You don't have to stay with me unless you like," Ben had said more than
once; but each time Grannis had displayed his own wound, at first
openly, at last, carefully concealed by bandages, whimsically.
"Got to take good care of this arm of mine," he explained. "Blood
poisoning's liable to set in at any minute, and that's something awful,
they tell me."
The invalid made no comment.
* * * * *
It was the evening following the afternoon of Blair's return to the Box
R ranch. In the cosey kitchen, around the new range which Rankin had
imported the previous Fall, sat three people,--Grannis, Graham, and Ma
Graham. The two men were smoking steadily and silently. The woman, her
hands folded in her lap, her eyes glued to the floor, was breathing
loudly with the difficulty of the very corpulent. Of a sudden,
interrupting, the door connecting with the room adjoining opened and Ben
Blair appeared.
"Grannis," he requested, "come here a moment, please."
In silence Blair closed the door behind them, motioned his companion to
a seat, and took another opposite him. He was very quiet, even for his
taciturn self; and, glancing at a heap of papers on a nearby table,
Grannis understood. For a long minute the two men eyed each other
silently. Not without result had they lived the events of the last
months together. It was the younger man who first spoke.
"Grannis," he said impassively, "I'm going to ask you a question, and I
want an honest answer. Whatever you may think it leads to must cut no
figure. Will you give it?"
Equally impassively the elder man nodded, "Yes."
Blair selected a paper from the litter, and looked at it steadily. "What
I want to know is this: have I, has anyone, no matter what the incentive
may be, the right to make known after another's death things which
during that person's life were carefully concealed?"
The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there compellingly. "In
other words, is a tragedy any less a tragedy, any more public property,
because the actors are dead? Answer me honest, Grannis."
Impassively as before the overseer shook his head. "No, I think not,"
he said. "Let the dead past bury its dead."
A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, before his
companion realized what he was doing, Ben had opened the door of the
sheet-iron heater and tossed the paper in his fingers fair among the
glowing coals.
"Thank you, Grannis," he said, "I agree with you." He stood a second
looking into the suddenly kindled blaze. "As you say, to the living,
life. Let the dead past bury its dead."
The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, curling film of
carbon. Grannis shifted in his seat.
"Nevertheless," he commented indifferently, "you've done a foolish act."
A pause; then he went on deliberately as before. "You've destroyed the
only evidence that proves you Rankin's son."
Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak. But he did not.
Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat.
"By the way," he digressed, "I just received a letter from Scotty Baker.
I wrote him some time ago about--Mr. Rankin. He answered from England."
Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at an
end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn "Good-night," left the
room.
* * * * *
Days and weeks passed. The dead rigor of Winter gave way to traces of
Spring. On the high places the earth began to turn brown, the buffalo
grass to peep into view. By day the water slushed under the feet of the
cattle, and ran merrily in the draws of the rolling country. By night
it froze into marvellous frost-work; daintier and more intricate of
pattern than any made by man. Overhead, flocks of wild ducks in
irregular geometric patterns sailed north at double the speed of express
trains. With their mellow "Honk--honk," sweetest sound of all to a
frontiersman's ears, harbingers of Spring indeed, far above the level of
the ducks, amid the very clouds themselves, the geese, in regular
triangles, winged their way toward the snow-lands. At first they seemed
to pass only by day; then, as the season advanced, the nights were
melodious with the sound of their voices. Themselves invisible, far
below on the surface of earth the swish of their migratory wings sounded
so distinctly that to a listening human ear it almost seemed it were a
troop of angels passing overhead.
After them came the myriad small birds of the prairie,--the countless
flocks of blackbirds, whose "fl-ee-ce," in continuous chorus filled all
the daylight hours; the meadow-larks, singly or in pairs, announcing
their arrival with a guttural "tuerk" and a saucy flit of the tail, or
admonishing "fill your tea-kettle, fill your tea-kettle" with a
persistence worthy a better cause.
Ere this the earth was bare and brown. The chatter of the snow streams
had ceased. In the high places, on southern slopes, there was even a
suggestion of green. At last, on the sunny side of a knoll, there peeped
forth the blue face of an anemone. The following day it had several
companions. Within a week a very army of blue had arrived, stood erect
at attention so far as the eye could reach and beyond. No longer was
there a doubt of the season. Not precursors of Spring, but Spring
itself had come.
Meanwhile, on the Box R ranch everything moved on as of yore. Save on
that first night, Ben Blair made no man his confidant, accepted without
question his place as Rankin's successor. Most silent of these silent
people, he did his work and did it well, burying deep beneath an
impenetrable mask his thoughts and feelings. Not until an early Summer
was almost come did he make a move. Then at last a note of three
sentences went eastward:
"Miss Baker: I'll be in New York in a few days, and if
convenient to you will call. The prairies send greetings in
advance. I saw the first wild rose of the season to-day.
"Ben Blair."
A week later, after giving directions for the day's work to Grannis one
morning, Ben added some suggestions for the days to follow. As to time,
they were rather indefinite, and the overseer looked a question.
"I'm going away for a bit," explained Ben, simply, in answer. Then he
turned to Graham. "Hitch up the buckboard right away, please. I want you
to take me to town in time to catch the afternoon train East."