FIRST AID—LAST AID
He never in all his life felt so nervous, and so much like a criminal,
as when he reached with trembling hand for the innocent rifle with which
he was to shed more crimson blood and destroy a life. He looked guiltily
at the deer whose eye seemed to hold him in a kind of gentle stare. It
seemed as if the creature trusted him, yet wondered what he was going to
do.
There was a kind of pathos in the thought that came to him that the
suffering deer did not recognize the rifle as the sort of thing which
had laid him low. The creature’s innocence, as one might say, went to
the boy’s heart.
He backed away from the stricken form, three yards—five yards. He felt
brutal, abominable. The cautious little bird had withdrawn to a tree
somewhat farther off where it still sang blithely. Westy paused,
listening to the bird. Then he stole toward the tree trying to deceive
himself that he wanted to see what kind of a bird it was, when in plain
fact all he was doing was killing time. The bird, disgusted with the
whole affair as one might have fancied, made a great flutter and flew
away to a more wholesome atmosphere. The bird was not a scout, it had no
duties....
Westy advanced a few paces, his rifle shaking in his hand. It was simple
enough what he had to do, yet there he was absurdly calculating
distances. Oh, if it had only been the white target there before him
with its black circles one inside another, the only hunting ground or
jungle Westy knew. Strange, how different he felt now.
He could not bear that soft eye contemplating him so he walked around to
the other side of the deer where the eye could not see him. Then he felt
sneaky, like one stealing up behind his victim. And through all his
immature trepidation hate was in his heart; hate for the brutal wretch
who had fled thinking only of his own safety, and leaving this
ungrateful task for him to do.
Suddenly it occurred to Westy that he might run to Chandler and tell the
authorities what he had found. That would be his good turn for the day.
Ira had always “guyed” him about good turns. That would seem like
running away from an unpleasant duty. To whom did he owe the good turn?
Was it not to this stricken, suffering creature?
So Westy Martin, scout of the first class, did his good turn to this
dumb creature in its dim forest home. The dumb creature did not know
that Westy Martin was doing it a good turn. It seemed a queer sort of
good turn. He could never write it down in his neat little scout record
as a good turn. He would never, _never_ think of it in that way. If the
deer could only understand....
The way to do a thing is to do it. And it is not the part of a scout to
dilly-dally. When a scout knows his duty he is not afraid. But if the
deer could only know, could only understand....
Westy approached the creature with bolstered resolution. He lifted his
gun, his arms shaking. Where should it be? In the head? Of course. He
held the muzzle within six inches of the head. A jerky little squirrel
crept part way down a tree, turned suddenly and scurried up again. It
was very quiet about. Only the sound of a busy woodpecker tapping away
somewhere. Westy paused for a moment, counting the taps....
Then there was another sound; quick, sharp, which did not belong in the
woods. And the woodpecker stopped his tapping. Westy saw the deer’s
forefoot twitch spasmodically. And a little stream of blood was trailing
down its forehead.
Westy Martin had done his daily good turn....