At first it was black as pitch; but I crawled as fast as I could in the hope of catchin’ up with the Friar. It is instinct with most men to follow the right wall when goin’ through a strange place in the dark, though I never could see why. A man carries his weapon in the right hand and naturally ought to be as free with it as possible. Still, most men do it, so I follered the right wall, hopin’ each time I put out my hand it would touch the Friar.
After a time, I saw a faint glimmer o’ light to the left, and I stopped and pointed it out to The. We came to the conclusion that they had a candle lighted in the offset where we had come upon the body, and we discussed whether they were likely to be in there, or had gone on farther back and left the light to see any one who tried to crawl after ’em. I held out ’at they wouldn’t expect any one to crawl after ’em; but The said ’at Ty would be likely to go into just such a place himself, and so would expect others to do the same. Ty certainly had the way of impressin’ his own men.
When we got a little closer, I lay flat and scanned along the floor, tryin’ to make out the Friar between me and the light; but I couldn’t see him, and we went on again. I hope I may never have to do any more such work as this. Creepin’ along in the dark eats up a feller’s nerve like a forest fire.
When we got so close ’at I could see my hands by the light, I sent The across to the other side, remindin’ him to knock his teeth should he chance upon the Friar, or in case we come together again, ourselves.
Then I lay flat with my hat down low, and nudged myself along with my elbows and toes. I couldn’t even make out The across the tunnel, which was only about twelve feet wide, and just for the fraction of a second it came across me that he had formerly been a Cross-brander, himself; but this thought didn’t live long enough to draw its second breath.
Finally I reached the spot where the light threw a splash on the walls and floor, and I made my gun ready and stuck out my neck in what was the most breathless silence I ever tried to listen to. Across the splash o’ light in front of me, all was a solid wall o’ darkness; and I’d have paid over quite a sum to know what eyes were lookin’ out of it.
Farther and farther I pushed myself into the light without seein’ a thing; until finally I saw the candle, itself, and beside it—the Friar.
I wriggled across the tunnel just as The crept into the room from his side, and we felt a little better to be in the light, together again. The body still lay again’ the wall, and The looked at the face; but he didn’t know it. The Friar hadn’t seen or heard anything, either; and we were up a tree to the top branches. We talked it all over, tryin’ to imagine what we would do under the same circumstances, and finally decided they had gone on down the tunnel, leavin’ a man on guard just below the light, and that the man had gone to sleep.
“Well,” sez I after we had discussed things around in a circle for a while, “here we are holed up again, as cozy as a cavey o’ rats with traps set at all the openin’s and en-thusiastic terrier dogs diggin’ down from above. If it’s not bein’ too inquisitive, Friar, what plan did you have in comin’ down here?”
“I wanted to be close to her,” sez Friar Tuck. “I kept thinkin’ o’ how lonely it must be for her through the dark, and I hoped the’ might be some chance o’ helpin’ her to escape. I did not have any definite plan—only faith and hope.”
“Like the shark which swallered the parasol,” sez I, for I was consid’able put out; “he had faith in his digestion and hoped the parasol was some new sort o’ health-food. But to get down to facts—Have you any weapon with you, and are you willin’ to fight?”
“I have no weapon,” sez the Friar; “but I am willin’ to do whatever seems best. I am trusting in the same power which upheld Gideon, and I ask to see no farther than he saw.”
This was the Friar all right, so I merely swallowed a couple o’ times and didn’t say anything. Whether he lived or died was the same to the Friar, as whether he lived in Idaho or Montana would be to another man; so I saved myself a certain amount of irritation by just thinkin’ quietly as to what was best for us to try. Fact was, I didn’t take, as much stock in Gideon just then as I did in Ty Jones.
“I’ll tell you what I think is best,” I sez after a bit; “for me to crawl down the hall in the hope that the watcher really has gone to sleep; while you two stand ready in this offset. If they chase me, I’ll run up the tunnel, and you spring out and take ’em at a disadvantage as they go by.”
O’ course they both wanted to do the crawlin’, but it was my plan, so I stuck out for it, and started. I was really glad to be out o’ the light again, and I crawled as gentle as though crossin’ a bridge of eggs. Before long my fingers struck a boot, and I felt of it ex-treme-lee careful. If ever I go blind, my experience durin’ those days will help consid’able in transferrin’ my eyesight to my fingers.
The feller had toppled over again’ the right wall, and I crept up alongside, holdin’ my gun by the barrel, and ready to swat his head as soon as I had located it; but the’ was no use—the man had already died. He had been shot twice, but they thought he could last a while on guard, and this was why we had been able to cross the lighted place.
Just beyond this, I came upon another offset, on the opposite side from where the candle was. We hadn’t noticed it that mornin’ ’cause we had gone out along the other wall. I heard some heavy breathin’ in here; but I also heard some one tossin’ about an’ mutterin’, and I hardly dared risk an examination. I looked back at the splash of light, and it seemed mighty cheery and sociable, compared with the darkness and company I was in.
It’s astonishin’ the way pictures fly across a feller’s mind at such a time: I saw the boy down at the foot of the stairs, I saw him as he must have been, a few years before some quick, rash deed of his had drawn a veil across the laughter in his eyes; I saw the feller in the offset, and wondered how much it had taken to turn the expression of his face into that beastlike hunger for revenge, and then dozens of schemes and plans for capturin’ Ty began to flash upon me; but each time, the presence of the woman spoiled everything. They had used her for a shield once, they would do it again, and I couldn’t see a way to get around her.
We knew ’at Ty had vowed he would never be taken alive; and I couldn’t see what we would do with him even if we did take him alive; but I could see that he would take pleasure in draggin’ as big a bunch into the next world with him as possible, and yet every scheme ’at came to me was blocked by the presence of the woman. Finally I crept a little way into the offset. My hand touched a piece of cloth, I felt over it with nothin’ except the ridges on my fingers touchin’; but just when I made sure it was the Chink, he moved and sat up. I stopped breathin’; but after a minute, he sighed and settled back.
I waited a little longer and then crawled back and told what I had discovered. “If the’ was only some way we could throw a light into that offset,” sez I, “I think we could fix ’em.”
We studied over this for some time before the Friar thought up a way which seemed worth tryin’. I said I’d go back and stay at the far side o’ the openin’, and when they brought the rope back, to come right on with it along the left wall, and I’d knock my teeth together to show it was me—provided I was still there and able. So the Friar pulled off his boots, and The kept watch in the offset while the Friar ran back. I thought it must be several days since we’d come in, but he looked at his watch before startin’, and it was only two o’clock.
From where I was, I could make out the shape o’ the feller they had put on watch, and knew I could keep cases on all within the little rock room. After an age, I saw two forms creep like ghosts out of the dark beyond the candle, and ooze into the offset without makin’ a sound. Then in a moment, Promotheus came stealin’ along the wall with the end of the rope. I made my signal to him, and he went on down the tunnel, slowly pullin’ the rope after him.
I was mighty curious to see how they had fixed the lantern, which they were to light with the candle in the offset, and it made me feel a lot better when it came out of the recess. Horace had done the fixin’, I afterward found out, and it had nearly broke his heart not to come in with it; but he realized that it was necessary to have an outer guard, so he had stayed with the two Simpson boys. He had put the lantern into a box after nailin’ a couple o’ short pieces of rope on the bottom for runners; and now it came slidin’ along without makin’ a sound. He had sawed a piece out of the side, so that all the light came up again’ the ceilin’, and onto the side where the openin’ was.
Slowly it came along, and I stood in the shadow watchin’ it. Finally it fell on the face of the man lyin’ near the openin’, and I saw he was one of those who had been at Skelty’s that night—for all I know, it was his hand I had seen raisin’ the window to my room. Next, it lighted up the openin’, itself; and then The stopped pullin’ and crept up opposite me. We heard ’em sighin’ and groanin’, in the recess, and finally the woman’s voice gave a weary moan as she came awake.
In a second, Ty’s voice was heard, askin’ what was the matter; and we all braced up our nerves. A weak, delirious voice started to babble, but it was broken by a shot, and a bullet ripped through the box, but without puttin’ out the light. I started across the hall; but The had already seen it, and had taken the rope and ran down the tunnel with it. He turned the box, so ’at just the left edge o’ the light touched the openin’, and then came across to my side. We weren’t in a black shadow now; but still, with the light in their faces, it would have been hard to see us.
A hand reached out of the openin’, and fired in our direction, I dropped to my knee and aimed at the hand, but neither shot counted; and for the next few minutes, all we heard was that weak voice, babblin’ indistinctly. It hadn’t worked out as I thought it would. I figured that they’d be surprised when the light shone in their faces, and would rush out and give us a chance. Now that it was too late, I thought up half a dozen better schemes.
Even while I was thinkin’ up a perfect one, I saw a form come out from the recess, and threw my gun up—but I didn’t snap the hammer. It was the woman, and behind her I could make out the shaved head o’ the Chinaman.
We all stayed silent for some time, an’ then Ty’s voice said: “Well, what kind of a settlement do you fellers want?”
He spoke as self-composed as though puttin’ through a beef-dicker, and no reply was made for several seconds. Then, as no one else spoke, I sez: “All we want is just the woman and what’s left o’ your outfit, Ty.”
“Who’s that speakin’?” sez Ty.
“He’s generally called Happy Hawkins, Ty,” sez I.
“Who’s in charge o’ your gang?” sez he.
“Dinky Bradford,” sez I after thinkin’ a moment; “but I’m delegated to speak for him.”
“Tell ya what I’ll do,” sez Ty; “I’ll trade ya the woman for Dinky Bradford an’ the Singin’ Parson. Send those two in to me, and I’ll send her out to you.”
This was the foolest proposition ever I heard of. The woman wouldn’t ’a’ been any use to us without the Friar. “Dinky Bradford is guardin’ the mouth o’ the tunnel,” sez I; “but he wouldn’t stand for any such nonsense, nohow.”
“Is the preacher here?” asked Ty.
“Yes, I am here,” sez the Friar, steppin’ out from the offset and comin’ toward us. Olaf, who was with him, caught his arm and kept him from exposin’ himself.
“Damn you,” sez Ty, slow an’ deliberate. “I hate you worse ’n any man in this territory. You’re at the bottom of all this kick-up. You’re the one which has turned my own men again’ me; and all I ask is a chance to settle it out with you.”
“You’re mistaken if you think that I advised this method,” began the Friar; but Ty broke in, and said: “Never mind any o’ that preacher-talk. I know what’s what, and I’m all prepared to have you hide behind your religion, after havin’ started all the trouble. I’ll offer you a plan which any man would accept—but I don’t class you as a man. The fair way to settle this would be for the men who are with us to empty their guns an’ lay ’em on the floor, then you and me strip to the waist an’ fight it out with knives. They haven’t anything at stake; but I suppose you’ll be true to your callin’, and make them take all the risk.”
“I want to be true to my callin’,” sez the Friar; “and fightin’ with knives isn’t part o’ my callin’.”
Ty laughed as mean as a man ever did laugh; and both Olaf and I offered to take the Friar’s place; but Ty said he didn’t have anything special again’ us any more ’n he’d have again’ the Friar’s ridin’ hoss; and then he offered to fight the Friar and Dinky Bradford at the same time.
He kept on roastin’ the Friar till I bet I was blushin’; but the Friar just stood out straight in the gloom o’ the tunnel and shook his head no. Then the woman took a half step forward, an’ the Chink jerked her back, twistin’ her wrist and makin’ her give a smothered scream.
I had moved the box around to give us a little more light; and when she screamed, I saw the blood rush up the Friar’s pale face to his eyes, where it burst into flame. Livin’ fire it was, and in a flash it had burned away his religion, his scruples again’ violence, the whole outer shell o’ civilization, and left him just a male human with his woman in the power of another. “Strip,” he said, and his words rolled down the tunnel like a growl of a grizzly. “Strip, and fight for your life, for I intend to destroy you.”
I can still hear the laugh Ty gave when the Friar said this. “Destroy me?” he said. “Destroy me? That’s a good one! Now, do your men agree to let us go free if I win?”
“I do,” sez The.
“I do,” said I, after I’d taken another look at the Friar, who was already unbuttonin’ his shirt.
“I do—if you fight fair,” said Olaf slowly.
“Then one of ya hold the lantern while we empty the guns,” said Ty.
I didn’t like this part of it; but couldn’t see any way out; so while The held the lantern, one on each side emptied a gun and tossed it to the center of the tunnel. We emptied all of ours, and they emptied all of theirs, and then while Ty was takin’ off his shirt, I went up to the Friar. When I saw the taut muscles ripplin’ beneath his white skin, I felt comforted; but when I saw him holdin’ his knife point down, the way they do in the picture-books, I got worried again.
“Take your knife the other way, Friar,” I whispered; “and strike up under the floatin’ ribs on his left side. That’s the way to his heart.”
“I know how to fight with a knife,” he snapped; so I didn’t say any more. Horace had become a gun-fighter, here was the Friar claimin’ to know the knife game, and if the woman had stepped out and challenged the winner to a fight with stones, why, I was so meek I wouldn’t ’a’ got het up over it.
Then Ty Jones came out of the other offset, stripped to the waist also and holdin’ his knife in his left hand. The woman had gone into the niche on our side, me an’ Olaf leaned again’ our wall, Pepper Kendal and the Chink leaned again’ the wall opposite us, The held up the lantern, and for a full minute the only sound was the wounded Cross-brander, babblin’ out his delirium back in the cave-room.
Ty was a shade beefier ’n the Friar; but his skin was dull, and the muscles didn’t cut off into the tendons so sharp, nor they didn’t seem quite so springy or well oiled; but there was half a dozen knife scars on his chest, and he had come up our way from Mexico.
They walked toward each other, Ty’s eagle eyes an’ wolf-grin tryin’ to beat down the grim set to the Friar’s face. They both crouched over an’ circled about each other like a pair o’ big cats. Ty made a few lunges, but the Friar parried ’em as simple as though it was a game, and purty soon Ty was forced to slip his knife to his right hand with the blade pointin’ up for a rip. When he did this, the Friar smiled, turned his own knife the same way; and I recalled the Friar havin’ told me about learnin’ knife tricks from an I-talian he had helped back East.
I don’t like knife fightin’, and I don’t approve of it; but I will say ’at this fight was the cleanest, quickest thing I ever saw. The Friar was the best man, but Ty was the best posted; and time and again the Friar saved himself by foot work. The follered ’em close with his lantern, while Olaf and I kept a half watch on the two opposite us.
They kept movin’ faster and faster and the’ was a continuous spattin’ as they parried with their left hands. Finally the Friar grabbed Ty by the wrist, Ty grabbed the Friar’s wrist at the same time, lowered his head, and butted the Friar in the pit o’ the stomach. It looked bad; but the Friar had raised his knee and caught Ty on the chin; so they staggered apart and breathed deep for a minute, before beginnin’ again.
The grin had left Ty’s face, and it had settled into black hate. When they began again, the Friar seized Ty’s wrist every chance he got, twistin’ it, bendin’ the arm, and tryin’ to thrust with his knife; but Ty was tough and wiry, and managed to twist out every time. At last the Friar caught Ty’s right wrist, dropped his own knife, ran his head under Ty’s right arm, caught the slack of his right pant leg, gave a heave and threw him over his head. It was a clean throw and the Friar stooped, picked up his knife and started for Ty before he had time to get to his feet. Ty rolled to his feet and dodged away as though to run, whirled, took the blade of his knife between thumb and forefinger, and spun it through the air. It struck the Friar’s collarbone, cut a gash through his shoulder, and twanged again’ the wall o’ the tunnel.
The two men eyed each other for a moment, the calm of victory in the Friar’s eyes, the red of baffled hate in Ty’s. They were about eight feet apart. “Will you give up?” asked the Friar.
“No,” sez Ty. He doubled up his fists as though to spring, then whirled and stepped into the offset behind him. In a moment, he came out with a gun in his hand.
As soon as he had said no, Pepper Kendal an’ the Chink had made a dive for the offset, and Olaf and I had made a dive for them. I got Pepper who was old and stiff, and I managed to hit him in the center o’ the forehead just as Ty came out with his gun. Olaf was havin’ trouble with the Chink, and I picked up a gun and tapped Pepper on the head with it, and then turned to knock the Chink. Just as I turned, I saw the woman walkin’ slowly down the tunnel behind the Friar, and I saw Ty bend his gun on him. Even then he had to pause a moment to enjoy his deviltry, and I still see that picture in my dreams—the Friar standin’ silent and proud, with his head thrown back and his level eyes full on Ty, while back of him stood the woman as unconcerned as a snow-bird. About six feet beyond ’em stood Promotheus holdin’ the light above his head, while his face seemed frozen with horror.
For an instant they stood like stone images. Then The lunged forward and caught Ty’s arm, the lantern went out, I heard one clear report, and one muffled one, and then I started for ’em. I bumped into a heavy form, two naked arms went around me in a bear-grip, and we rolled to the floor. The candle in our offset had burned out; but I knew it was the Friar, ’cause his was the only smooth face among us. “This is Happy,” I muttered, and we rose to our feet.
A struggle was goin’ on beyond us, and I thought it was Olaf and the Chink; so I lit a match, knowin’ that Ty would ’a’ had plenty o’ time to get away already. As the match burned up, I saw the Chink lyin’ stretched out, and Olaf and Ty locked together. Olaf had his leg wrapped around Ty’s, and was bendin’ his back. Ty’s eyes were stickin’ out white an’ gruesome, and he was gurglin’ in the throat. Suddenly, somethin’ cracked and they both fell to the floor o’ the tunnel just as the match went out.
I heard hard breathin’, and then Olaf’s harsh voice came out o’ the darkness. “Well,” he said, “I guess that squares things.”
“What’s happened, what’s happened?” asked a panting voice, and then I knew ’at Horace hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, and had come in, game wing and all.
“We’ve settled up with Ty Jones—that’s what’s happened,” said Olaf; and as we stood there in the gloom, the drip o’ the dawn came rollin’ cold and gray down the slant o’ the tunnel; and I shuddered and turned away to find somethin’ for my hands to do.
The first thing I did was to light the lantern, for the daylight which came down there was too much in keepin’ with the conditions to suit me. Promotheus was doubled up an’ holdin’ his side; so the first thing I did was to ask him if he was bad hurt. The’ was a smile on his lips, a regular satisfied, self-composed smile, but I didn’t just like the look in his eyes.
“Nope, I don’t ache at all, Happy,” he said in a firm voice; “but I can’t move much. Tend to the others first.”
It seems ’at Ty’s first shot had hit the woman in the head, and his next had got The in the side—but The had managed to get the gun away from him, which is why the rest of us were spared.
The Friar had carried the woman into our offset, and was rubbin’ her wrists and workin’ over her, though the’ didn’t appear to be much use. She was still alive; but that was just all, so I left them and examined the rest. Ty was all twisted out o’ shape, and lay with his eyes open, glassy an’ stary and horrible. Olaf hadn’t had time to quite finish the Chink, and he was crawlin’ down the tunnel when I nabbed him. Then Horace took the lantern while Olaf and I hog-tied Pepper Kendal and the Chink.
We next examined the cave-room where Ty had made his last stand. It was fair-sized an’ well stocked, and also had half a dozen extra guns in it. When I saw these fresh guns, I gave a low whistle to think what a lot o’ suckers we’d been to discard our own trumps and set in a game against a marked deck; but as the Friar allus said: “Wrong feeds on death and Right feeds on life; so the’ can’t be no doubt as to the final result, even though things do look blue sometimes.”
There was a fine spring in the corner o’ this room—the same spring which afterwards came out near the mouth of the ravine and was piped into the old cabin. The wounded Cross-brander was still babblin’, so we fed him some water and eased him around a little.
Next we went outside and nailed some pieces to a couple o’ light poles, and we were mighty glad to have enough left to man this vehicle when it was finished, for we were all purt nigh used up, Tillte, the two Simpson boys, and myself carried the litter, while Horace ran the illumination, and Olaf tended to Pepper and the Chink.
We took ’em all out, even to the dead; and the one at the foot of the stairs turned out to be the boy, just as I’d thought. Next to the woman, with the Friar walkin’ beside her his head on his breast, this trip with the boy cut me worse ’n any. Promotheus got off three average good jokes while we were packin’ him out, and cheered us up a lot; but we put Ty Jones down with the dead. As we straightened him out he gave a groan which made us all jump. The whole thing had become a nightmare, and we staggered about like the ingredients of a dream.
The woman’s head was shattered on top an’ the’ wasn’t any hope for her; but still, it gave the Friar comfort to work over her, so we acted as though we thought she had a chance. The nearest doctor was at Meltner’s stage station, a full day’s ride. Tillte went after him, while Dan Simpson rode over to his father’s to break the news and bring back Kit. What with the prisoners still on our hands, the dead to bury, and the wounded to wait on, we were in chin-deep; and the worst of it was, ’at we didn’t want the news to get out. We had tried to settle things without botherin’ the law, and we preferred to finish that way if possible.
We buried the four Cross-branders across the crick and down stream from the lower ford, and we buried Tim Simpson just a little way above the upper ford. The Friar went along and helped dig the graves and carry them to it; but he didn’t preach nor sing, and his face was drawn with sorrow.
By evenin’ we had got things to some system. Spider, Tank, Slim, and Horace were able to help quite a little; but Oscar, Tom Simpson, and Promotheus were in bad shape; while we had seven prisoners, countin’ the Chink, and seven wounded enemies to look after. The feller Horace had shot, up on top, got out o’ the country, I reckon. Anyway they left him above with the horses, and we never heard of him again.
Ol’ man Simpson, Kit, and the boy arrived durin’ the moonlight, and we were all mighty glad to see Kit, though we hated to face the old man. Still, he was game, and took it mighty well. Tillte had got a fresh hoss at Meltner’s and had started right back with the doctor; so they arrived a little after seven next mornin’. The doctor was purty young lookin’ to me; but he had a bagful o’ shiny instruments, and he made himself at home without any fuss. He had been in a Colorado hospital for two years, a minin’ hospital, and he was as familiar with a feller’s insides, as a pony is with the range he was foaled on. He had took a claim near Meltner’s, and was able to talk a long time on why it was better for a young doctor to come west.
He praised the Friar’s work to the skies—and then turned in and did it all over to suit himself. He said that all the wounded stood a good show except the woman, Promotheus, and Ty Jones. We none of us thought ’at The was in much danger; but the doctor shook his head. Ty’s spinal column had been unjointed near the base, and he was paralyzed from the hips down; but in all that skirmishin’, he was the only one who hadn’t lost a drop o’ blood. The Friar, himself, had two flesh-wounds beside the one Ty had give him.
I was with the doctor when he started to work on the woman’s head; but I couldn’t stand it. I’m not overly squeamish; but I own up I couldn’t stand this; so I backed out, leavin’ the Friar with his face like chalk, to hand instruments while little old Kit held a basin. I hated to leave ’em; but I didn’t take a full breath until I was beside Promotheus again.
His voice had got weaker, but the smile never left his lips, and it was restful just to sit and watch him. Horace hovered over him like a young hen, and The drank so much water, simply to please Horace, that I feared his bones would dissolve. Horace had told the doctor he would pay all the bills, and to go the full limit and not try to economize none on his patch-work. We put the seven prisoners in the workshop, and slept in tarps around the door, which was fastened with a chain, so ’at if they got it open, a board would fall on these sleepin’ next, and wake ’em.
The Friar was all for notifyin’ the authorities; but old man Simpson had been a notorious public, or some such official, back in Vermont and naturally he was up on all the twists and windin’s of the law. He said it would take the Su-preme Court itself fifteen years to sift out the actual legalities of our tangle; and even then he wasn’t sure which side would get the worst of it, so he advised us to just work it out on our own hook, which we had decided to do anyway.
For three days, the woman lay in a stupor. Kit had told me that her skull hadn’t been actually shattered—that she had been shot in just about the same way that Olaf had, but that Nature had counted on Olaf gettin’ into some such a fix, and had provided for it by givin’ him a flint skull, while the woman’s skull wasn’t of much use except in times of peace. Kit said the doctor had taken out a few splinters of bone, and had fastened up the openin’, but had said the’ wasn’t any show for her.
On the other hand, Olaf had looked at her careful, and had said that all the vital part of her was workin’ on just this point. He said that the light about her body was the blue o’ weakness; but that just at this point, the’ was a constant bulgin’ out o’ different colors in a way he had never before seen. The doctor heaved up his eyebrows at Olaf’s verdict, and looked as though he thought perhaps Olaf’s brain had been shifted a little out o’ line, in spite of his flint skull.
On the third night I was what the doctor called his orderly, and went on duty at midnight. I was sittin’ out on the porch of the old cabin when the Friar came out holdin’ his hand across his eyes. We had moved the wounded men over to the bunk-shack, and the woman was in Ty’s bedroom. I didn’t speak to him, and he stood leanin’ against one o’ the posts for some time without seein’ me.
He trembled all over, and his breath came quick and catchy. Finally he looked up at the stars and said in a low tone, as though speakin’ personal to some one near at hand: “Save me, oh God, from mockery! I have spoken for others in my vanity; and now that my own hour has come, oh save me from the rebellion of my flesh; and give me grace to say in my heart, Thy will be done.”
As he stood with his face upraised, the late moon crept out and shone full upon it, and the agony in it struck me like a blow; but even as I looked, the change came. Before my very eyes, I saw the sign of peace made upon the Friar’s brow. A moment before and it had been torn into wrinkles and covered with beads of sweat; but now it was smooth and calm. He clasped his hands across his breast, closed his eyes, and the’ came a smile to his lips which drew a mist to my own eyes. I can’t be absolutely certain of it, because o’ this blur in my eyes; but I think, I actually and honestly do think, that I saw white forms hoverin’ in the moonlight above him.
He drew a full breath and turned to go in, but saw me settin’ with my back again’ the wall o’ the cabin, and came over and put a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to say somethin’ to comfort him; but I couldn’t speak a word, until he asked me how the others were gettin’ along. I told him they were all doin’ fine, and that even Ty had been restin’ well. He turned to go in, and then I found the nerve to ask him how things were inside.
“It is all over, Happy,” sez he, without even a catch in his voice. “Just before I came out here, the doctor said the pulse had stopped.”
He caught his breath with a little gasp at this; but that was all. “What did Olaf say?” I asked.
“Olaf says that she still lives,” he answered; “but I fear that Olaf is not to be relied upon this time. He has a strange gift; but he does not understand it himself, and while I know he would not deceive me, I feel that the doctor must know best.”
“Well, I’ll not give up until Olaf does!” I blurted.
He smiled again and put his hand back on my shoulder. “Come in and look at her,” he said, “she is very beautiful. The strange mask has fallen from her face, and she is once more as she was in those old, happy days when we walked together through our own Garden of Eden. Come in, I want you to see her.”
I went in with him, though I didn’t want to. I knew what love did to a man, and that I hadn’t seen the same woman he had; but the’ was another face allus before my eyes, and no one else was beautiful to me. I didn’t want to do any pertendin’ to the Friar, even at such a time as this.
I follered him inside, feelin’ out o’ place and embarrassed; but when I looked down at the quiet face in the bed, I was glad I had come. She didn’t look like the same woman, not at all. All the weary, puzzled expression had left her face, and in spite of its whiteness, it looked like the face of a girl. I looked at her a long time and the thought that came to me over and over was, what a shame she couldn’t have had just a few words with the Friar before she was called on; just a few words, now that her right mind was back.
After a time I looked up. Kit sat near the head of the bed, leanin’ over and holdin’ a handkerchief to her eyes, Olaf sat near her, a strange, grim set to his lips. His head was bandaged and he looked less like a human than usual, as he kept his eyes fixed on the white face o’ the woman. The’ was a lamp on the stand and I could see his eyes. Blue they were, deep blue, like the flowers on the benches in June, and they didn’t move; but kept a steady gaze upon the white, still face. The doctor sat in a corner, his eyes on the floor. At first I thought he was asleep, and goodness knows, he was entitled to it; but just as I looked at him he rubbed his fingers together a moment and stood up.
He walked over and put his hand on the Friar’s shoulder. “You might as well all go to sleep, now,” he said, gently. “There is nothing more to do.”
“Are you positive?” asked the Friar.
“Positive,” said the doctor. “There is no heart action, and when I held a mirror to her lips no vapor was formed.”
“She is still alive,” said the deep voice of Olaf, and we all gave a little start.
The doctor took a silver quarter and held it to the woman’s nose for a minute, and then looked at it. A puzzled look came to his face, and he went back and sat down in the corner again.
“Was it discolored?” asked the Friar.
“No,” sez the doctor slowly; “but I am sure there is no life remaining. I have seen several cases of suspended animation, but nothin’ like this.”
“She lives, and the light is getting stronger,” said Olaf.
Kit took the handkerchief from her eyes which were still full o’ tears. She wiped them away, and looked first at the woman and then at Olaf, and then she gave a sigh. The Friar’s hands were opening and shutting. He had fought his fight out on the porch; but the suspense was beginnin’ to undermine him again.
I went back to the porch and stayed a while. When I went in again, they were all as I had left them; and after a few minutes I made my rounds, found everything all right, and came back. I went into the room several times, and just as I caught the first whiff o’ the dawn breeze, I went in once more, determined to coax the Friar to lie down and try to sleep.
They were still in the same positions. Not a line had changed in the woman’s face, the Friar was almost as white as she was but still stood at the foot o’ the bed lookin’ down at her; while the wrinkles on Olaf’s set face seemed carved in stone.
I had just put my hand on the Friar’s arm to get his attention when Olaf rose to his feet, pressed his hand to his blinkin’ eyes, and said wearily: “The blue color is givin’ way to pink. She will get well.”
“Don’t say it unless you’re sure!” cried the Friar, his voice like a sob.
For answer Olaf pointed down at the woman’s face. A faint color stole into her cheeks, and as we looked her eyes opened. The first thing they rested upon was the Friar’s face bent above her, and her lips parted in a wonderin’ smile—a smile which lighted her face like the mornin’ sun on ol’ Mount Savage, and made her beautiful, to me an’ to all who’ve ever seen her.
“Is it you?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”
A warm, rosy beam of sunshine slipped in through the window and fell across the bed, and the rest of us tiptoed out, leavin’ the Friar alone with the gift of life which the Dawn had brought back to him.
It was a week after this before Olaf could see properly again. The doctor was wild to take Olaf back East and hold doin’s with him; but Olaf wouldn’t listen to it. He hated to have people take him for a freak, and said it wasn’t any fault of his that he saw the way he did. The doctor said ’at what Olaf saw was called the aurora; he said that science had been tryin’ to locate it, but hadn’t found any way to do it, and that it was some sort o’ rays shootin’ out from this which had put the inflammation into Olaf’s eyes.
Olaf had had one of his teeth filled when he was young, and ever since that he’d been suspicious o’ science; so he just clouded up his face when they tried to devil him into bein’ an experiment, and they couldn’t do anything with him. The Friar might have been able to, but the Friar would have sent his own eyes East by freight before he’d have asked Olaf to do a single thing he didn’t want to do. The ignorant allus scoff at the idee of Olaf seein’ the soul-flame; but the edicated allus take a serious interest which seems mighty funny—don’t it?
From the very moment Janet opened her eyes and smiled up at the Friar that mornin’ she continued to improve. The doctor listened to all that was told him about her havin’ pains in the top of her head and not bein’ right intellectually, and he said she must have had a blow there at some former time which had probably formed a tumor on the brain or knocked off a few splinters of bone into it, and that in removin’ the pressure, she had been put into perfect order again.
She had the smoothest voice I had ever heard, and I just doted on hearin’ her speak the Friar’s name, John Carmichael. I had a legal right to use the name John, myself; but it allus had the feel of a stiff collar to me, so I was glad enough to have it forgotten. But when Janet spoke the words John Carmichael, why, it cleared up the atmosphere and started a little breeze. She didn’t recall how she had come to Cross Crick, nor anything much which had happened to her since the night in Berlin. She said she had took singin’ lessons in a place called Italy, and had expected to reach grand opery.
She had sung for pay whenever she got a chance, in order to get money enough to go on with her studies, and was gettin’ what I’d call mighty lucrative wages at the Winter Garden; but was all the time bothered by a lot o’ foreign dudes who had the desire to make love, but not the capacity. She said her manager had introduced an Austrian count for advertizin’ purposes, and she had finally consented to eat a meal with him; but had been taken sick and had fallen. This was when she had bumped her head and she never got clear in it again until that morning when she had hovered between goin’ out with the night or comin’ back with the dawn.
She said she had a hazy, dreamlike remembrance of havin’ tried all kinds o’ work after this; but couldn’t tell the real from the unreal; and she didn’t have any recollection of how she had come to the ranch. We never mentioned Ty Jones to her for she was comin’ along like a colt on grass, and we didn’t want to risk any set-back. She said she still had it on her mind that she had lost something precious; but she couldn’t make out what it could have been, and the Friar allus told her not to worry, but to just rest herself back to complete strength.
Oscar and Tom Simpson had turned the corner, and it was only a question of time when they’d be all right again—which was true of all the others except Ty and Prometheus. Ty wouldn’t speak to us at all, though he didn’t seem to suffer to amount to anything. The doctor said he might live for years, or he might slip away at a moment’s notice; but either way, he was doomed to be paralyzed for the rest of his life; while the’ wasn’t any hope for Promotheus at all.
He had been shot through the liver, which pleased him a lot as bein’ so in keepin’ with his name; but we couldn’t see why a feller who had survived bein’ shot in so many other places, should have to give in on account of an extra hole in his liver. Horace divided his time between waitin’ on The and spurrin’ up the doctor to try some new treatment. He read aloud to The out o’ Ty’s books, and he seemed as fond o’ those old Greek fellers as Horace was himself. He was also mighty pleased to have the Friar read and talk to him, and it softened us all a lot to see how patient and gentle Promotheus had become. Humanity is about the finest thing the’ is about a human; and all humans have a showin’ growth of it, if ya can just scratch the weeds away and give it a chance.
The prisoners bothered us a heap; we feared they might have some leanin’s toward revenge; so we didn’t dare turn ’em loose until they showed some decided symptoms of repentance. Finally we got to bringin’ ’em up two at a time to talk with The. At first it didn’t do any good, as Ty sat propped up in a bunk, grinnin’ scornful, while The lay flat on his back lookin’ mighty weak and wan; but after several trials at it, they seemed to pay more heed to what The told ’em. We figured that Ty must have ten or a dozen men still out on the range somewhere; but they never showed up.
In about two weeks, or it might ’a’ been three, all the wounded were able to walk about except Promotheus, Ty Jones, and Oscar. Oscar was doin’ fine; but the noise of the other men bothered The a little at night, though he denied it up and down. Still, we thought best to move him and Ty to a couple o’ cots at the east end of the mess-hall, which was large and airy, with a big fireplace for cool nights. By this time Janet was able to take short walks, leanin’ on the Friar’s arm; but the Friar hadn’t come any closer to findin’ out what it was she had lost, nor whether or not she was Ty’s wife. The only reply Ty ever made to questions, was to skin back his lips in a wolf-grin.
The used to lay with his eyes fixed on Ty’s face and a look of hopeless sadness in his own. When we’d come and talk to him, his face would light up; but as soon as we left him, he would look at Ty again with a sorrow that fair wrung a feller’s heart. I wanted to separate ’em; but when I suggested this to The, he shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “he may speak to me before the vultures finish with my liver; and if ever the mood crosses his mind for a second, I want to be so handy ’at he won’t have time to change his mind.”
I told The ’at what was worryin’ the Friar most was that all the fightin’ had been on his account; but that next to this, it was because he didn’t know whether or not Ty was married to Janet.
That evenin’ just when the thinky time o’ twilight came along, I was settin’ by the fire in the mess-hall, where I could see Ty, and his face didn’t have quite so much the eagle look to it as common. The’s eyes rested on Ty’s face most o’ the time, and he, too, noticed it bein’ a little less fierce than usual.
“Ty,” he said in a low tone, “I was drove into turnin’ again’ ya. Not by force, ya understand, nor by fear; but by something which has crept into me durin’ the last few years, and which I can’t understand, myself. Horace and the Friar have been mighty good to me—they saved my life, ya know, after I had forfeited it by raidin’ ’em durin’ the night. I told ’em I wouldn’t be a spy on you about anything else except the woman. You haven’t much excuse to bear me any ill will, seein’ as it was your own hand which shot the move-on order into me. I’m goin’ to slip out yonder before long; but the’s no knowin’ how long you’ll have to sit penned up in a chair.”
The’s voice gave out here, and he stopped a few minutes to cough. Ty’s face hadn’t changed, and his eyes looked out through the south window to where the western sky was still lighted into glory by the rays o’ the sun, which had already sunk.
“I’ve been locked up in a stone prison, Ty,” said Promotheus as soon as he had quieted down again; “and I want to tell you that the minutes drag over ya like a spike-tooth harrow, when you haven’t nothin’ to look at but four gray walls and the pictures on your memory. A feller feeds himself on bitter recollections in order to keep his hate lusty; but all this pilin’ up o’ hate is just one parchin’ hot day after another—like we’ve had this summer. Everything green and pleasant in a feller’s nature is burned down to the roots, and in tryin’ to hate all the world, he ends by hatin’ himself worst of all. Every kindly deed he’s done seems like a soothin’ shower, and counts a lot in keepin’ him from fallin’ down below the level o’ snakes and coyotes.
“I’m not preachin’ at ya, I’m tellin’ you just what I know to be so from actual experience. I don’t bear you no ill will, Ty, whether you tell me what I want to know, or not; but you have it in your power to give me more content than airy other man in all the world. Are you married to the woman, Ty?”
For a moment Ty didn’t move, and then his lips tightened and he nodded his head. Promotheus gave a sigh and settled back. He stayed quiet for some time and then said in a weak voice: “Thank ya, Ty. I’m purty certain that at such a time as this, you wouldn’t deceive me. I’m sorry you are married to her—on the Friar’s account, understand—but I’m mightily obliged to you for tellin’ me the truth. The Friar is a square man, and he’s a strong man. He’ll be able to fight what he has to fight; but none of us can fight uncertainty, without losin’ our nerve in the end. I wish you would talk to me, Ty. I thought more o’ you than of airy other man I ever knew, except Horace and the Friar; and I wish, just for old time’s sake, you’d talk to me a little before I slip away. You can talk, can’t ya?”
“Yes, I can talk,” sez Ty Jones, facin’ The with a scowl; “but I haven’t any talk I want to waste on traitors. If I was to speak at all, it would be to ask ’em to separate me from your sloppy yappin’. You may think ’at you sound as saintly as a white female angel when you whine about duty and forgiveness and such-like rubbish; but the more oil you put on your voice, the more I know you to be a sneak, a hypocrite, and a traitor. I won’t ask ’em to move me; because I’m not in the habit ofaskin’any man. When I had two legs to stand on, I gave orders. Now that I can’t give orders, I don’t speak at all; but every time you try to speak like a hen-missionary, you can know that I’m sayin’ to myself—sneak, hypocrite, traitor!”
One thing you’ll have to say about Ty Jones, an’ that is, that when he started north, he didn’t wobble off to the east or west much, let what would come in his path. The only reply The made was to sigh; but what I wanted to do, was to lull Promotheus into a deep sleep, and then to fasten Ty Jones’s neck to a green bronco, and let them two settle it out between ’em which was the tougher beast. What I did do, was to steal out and tell Horace what had been said, and I also told him not to separate Ty and Promotheus as I thought The would set him an example which might finally soften him a little and make him more fit to die, when the time came ’at some quick tempered individual lost patience and tried to knock a little decent conversation out of him with an ax.
Horace, though, thought only o’ The, and he hurried in and sat beside him. I also went in and took my seat by the fire again. Horace took The’s hand in one of his and patted it with the other. Horace didn’t have any upliftin’ words to match the Friar’s; but he had some chirky little ways which were mighty comfortin’ to The, and when Horace would be with him, all the sadness would leave his eyes, and he would talk as free as he thought—which, to my mind, is the final test of genuwine courage.
Mighty few of us can do it. I know I can’t. Time and again, I have had deep feelin’s for some one in trouble; but when I’d try to put ’em into words, the knees o’ my tongue would allus knock together, and I’d growl out somethin’ gruff, cough, blow my nose, and get into a corner as soon as possible. The Friar was the first man who ever showed me ’at a feller could speak out his softness without losin’ any of his strength, and I have honestly tried to do it myself; but I generally had to dilute it down over half, and even then, it allus sounded as though I had wrote it out and learned it by heart.
The asked Horace to either move him or Ty, said he didn’t feel quite comfortable beside Ty, and made out that it was his own wish; but Horace vetoed the motion, and pertended to scold The for not havin’ a more forgivin’ nature. The thought he had been as circumspect as a land agent, and when his request rebounded back on him, he found himself without any dry powder.
He lay quiet for some time, and then spoke in so low a tone I could hardly hear him. “I can understand the real Promotheus purty well, Horace,” sez he; “and I’ve tried to be as game as he was; but I can’t quite understand the One the Friar tells about. I have thought of Him a heap since I’ve been laid up this time; but I don’t believe I could bring myself to forgive them who had nailed me on a cross for doin’ nothin’ but good—I don’t believe I could do that.
“I can feel things clearer now ’n I ever could before; and when I picture my own self as hangin’ from nails drove through my hands and feet, it just about takes my breath away. I’ve been handled purty rough in my time, but allus when my blood was hot, and pain don’t count then; but to have nails drove—My God, Horace, that’s an awful thought! That’s an awful thought.
“Then, too, I don’t feel that any one has ill used me lately. The treatment I got in the army, and in the pen, was consid’able hellish; but I haven’t had much chance to try forgivin’ any one for the last few years. Horace, you can’t imagine all the joy the last part of my life has been to me. I didn’t know what life really was, until you and the Friar pointed it out to me. I’ve been so happy sometimes it has hurt me in the throat; and now that I’m goin’ on, I don’t want to cause any one any bother. I asked Ty to tell me if he was married to the woman, and he did tell me. I’m sorry to say ’at he is married to her, Horace; but I’m thankful to Ty for tellin’ me. He don’t feel easy near me; so I wish you’d move me back to the bunk-shack.”
It was some minutes before Horace could speak, and when he did, he had to put on pressure to keep his voice steady. “I don’t care one single damn what Ty Jones wants,” sez he. “Let him stay right where he is and learn the meanin’ of friendship from the best friend a man ever had.” After which Horace gave The’s hand a grip and hurried out of the room.
I have seen some mighty quick changes brought about by flood o’ circumstances breakin’ on a man all of a sudden—ol’ Cast Steel Judson, himself, had melted and run into a new mold the night o’ Barbie’s weddin’—but I never saw such a complete change as had took place in The since I’d first seen him. He loved devilment then, like a bear loves honey; while now he had swung back with the pendulem clear to the other side, until he was more unworldly ’n the Friar himself. It wasn’t what he said ’at made a feller feel funny inside, it was his eyes. His eyes were all the time tryin’ to tell things ’at his tongue couldn’t frame up, and it acted like brakes on a feller’s breathin’ apparatus.
I asked the Friar about it one evenin’ while we were walkin’ back through the ravine. He walked along with his brows wrinkled a few minutes, and then said: “You see, Happy, the whole human race is made up o’ millions of individuals, and each one is some alike and some different. A man goes through childhood, youth, his fightin’ period, and old age; and the race has to do the same thing.
“Now, ages ago when the childhood o’ the race began, folks were downright primitive; they used stone axes, skins for clothing, and ate raw flesh. They were fierce, impulsive, passionate, just like children are if you watch ’em close enough; but they lived close to nature, just like the children do, and their bodies were vigorous, and their minds were like dry sponges, ready to absorb whatever fell upon ’em.
“The outdoor man of to-day is still primitive; he delights in his dissipations, and recklessness, but the grim, set face which he wears, is a mask. The rich, pure air is all the time washin’ his body clean, his active life keeps his nerves sound and accurate, and his heart is like the heart of a little child—hungry for good or evil, and needin’ a guiding hand all the time.
“In the mornin’ a child is so full o’ life that words don’t mean much to him; but when the play o’ the day is over, he comes home, through the twilight shadows, bruised an’ disappointed an’ purty well tired out. All day long he’s waged his little wars; but now he is mighty glad to pillow his head close to his mother’s heart; and then it is that the seeds o’ gentleness are easiest sprouted. This is the twilight time for Promotheus.”
We didn’t have anything more to say on this walk; but we both had plenty to think of. It allus seemed to me that in some curious way, the Friar, himself, was better ’n his own religion. His religion made badness a feller’s own fault; but after gettin’ to know the Friar, it allus made ya feel more like takin’ some share in the other feller’s sin, than like pointin’ your finger at him and sayin’ he never was any good, nohow.
A couple o’ days after this, the doctor told us that the sands were runnin’ mighty low in The’s hour-glass, and it wouldn’t be long to the end; but still we couldn’t believe it. He didn’t look bad, nor he didn’t suffer; and we had seen him come back from the grave almost, that time at Olaf’s when Horace had claimed his life, and had saved him in spite of himself.
Then again, the doctor had missed it on Janet, and we were all hopin’ he’d get slipped up on again; but The himself seemed to side with the doctor, and Olaf took one long look, an’ then shut his lips tight an’ shook his head. The said he wanted to live, and had done all he could to get a clinch on life; but that it was slippin’ away from him drop by drop, and he couldn’t stay with us much longer.
He seemed to want us about him, so we dropped in and sat beside him as long as we could keep cheerful. All through the afternoon he lay with a serious, gentle smile on his lips, but the sadness was mostly gone, even from his eyes. I closed my own eyes as I sat beside him, and called up the picture o’ Badger-face the day he had wanted to lynch Olaf. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the real Promotheus, and I understood what the Friar meant by bein’ born again.
I spoke o’ this to ol’ Tank Williams, and he fired up at me as though I had poured red pepper in the nose of a sleepin’ cripple. “You’re a nice one, you are!” sez he. “I’d sooner fill myself with alcohol and die in a stupor than to call up The’s past at such a time as this. You ought to be ashamed o’ yourself.”
The’ was no way to make Tank see what I meant so I sent him in to set with The a while, and took a little walk up the ravine. Every step I took brought some memory o’ the time The and Horace and I had first started to find out about the woman; and it wasn’t long before I was ready to turn back.
Janet was quite strong by this time, though she still had to wear a bandage; and after supper, the Friar took her in to see Promotheus. He had told her all about him, and she was mighty sorry to think ’at his end was near. She didn’t recall havin’ been kind to him when he was playin’ cripple; but the Friar had told her about this, too. Horace had told the Friar about what Ty had said, and it had cut him purty deep; but he had braced up better ’n we expected. We didn’t any of us know what effect bringin’ Janet in sight o’ Ty would have, and when she came into the mess-hall, we watched purty close.
Ty sat propped up, with his clenched hand restin’ outside the blanket, and an expression on his face like that of a trapped mountain-lion. He glared up at her as she came near; but she only looked at him with pity in her eyes, and she didn’t seem to recognize him, at all—just looked at him as though he was a perfect stranger which she was sorry for, and Tank, who was settin’ next me, gave me a nudge in my short ribs, which was about as delicate as though it had come from the hind foot of a mule. “Well?” I whispered. “What do ya mean by that?”
“Couldn’t ya see ’at she didn’t know him?” sez Tank.
“That’s nothin’,” sez I. “He knew her all right.”
“Yes, but Great Scott,” sez he, “a man can’t claim that a woman’s his wife if she don’t know him, can he?”
“Pshaw,” sez I, “if you’d settle things that way, the’ wouldn’t be any married people left. The’ ain’t one woman in fifty ’at knows her husband, and the’ ain’t any men at all who know their wives.”
“You’re just dodgin’ the question,” sez Tank. “I claim that if a man marries a woman when she’s out of her mind, he ain’t got any claim on her when she gets back into her mind again.”
“Look here, Tank,” sez I; “you’ve never had much experience with the world, ’cause every time you went where experience was to be had, you got too intoxicated to take notice; but I’m tellin’ you the truth when I say that if women didn’t sometimes get out o’ their right minds, they wouldn’t get married at all.”
“Aw, shut up,” sez Tank.
Janet had gone over to Promotheus, and was smoothin’ his forehead. She had a beautiful, shapely hand, and it made me feel a little wishful to watch her. The lay perfectly still, and his sensations must ’a’ been peculiar. Ty Jones didn’t even look at ’em. He kept his brows scowled down and his gaze out the south window.
Presently Janet turned and walked out to the porch. It was an unusually warm night, and she sat there alone, while the Friar came back to The. Horace had gone off by himself to get a grip on his feelin’s; but he came in about nine o’clock, and went up and took The’s hand. “Well,” sez he, “have you finally got over your nonsense? I have a lot o’ plans I want to carry out, and you know I can’t have you loafin’ much longer.”
Nothin’ suited The so well as to have a little joke put at him; but he didn’t have any come-back to this. He caught at his breath a time or two, and then said: “I can’t do it, this time, Horace. I hate to disappoint ya—I’ve been countin’ on what a good time we were goin’ to have—up there in the hills—but I can’t come back this time—I, can’t, quite, make it.”
He ended with a little gurgle and sank back on the pillow. Horace shook him a little and then flew for the doctor, who was on the porch o’ the old cabin. They were back in half a minute, Horace pushin’ the doctor before him; and we all held our breaths when he felt The’s pulse. The doctor squirted somethin’ into The’s arm, and after a bit, he opened his eyes with a long sigh, and when he saw Horace bendin’ over him, he smiled.
“I mighty near slipped away that time,” sez he. “It’s not goin’ to be hard, Horace; and I don’t want you to worry. I feel as comfortable as if I was sleepin’ on a cloud, and there isn’t one, single thing to grieve about. I’ve been like one o’ those hard little apples which take so long to ripen. I’ve hung up on a high bough and the rains beat on me, and the sun shone on me, and the winds shook me about, and the birds pecked at me until at last just the right sort o’ weather came along and I became softer and softer, and riper and riper, until now my hold on the stem begins to weaken. Purty soon a little gust’ll come along and shake me down on the green grass; but this is all right, this is perfectly natural, and I don’t want you to feel bad about it.
“I own up now, that I’ve been afraid o’ death all my life; but this has passed. I don’t suffer a bit; but I’m tired, just that pleasant weariness a feller feels when his last pipe has been smoked, and the glow o’ the camp fire begins to form those queer pictures, in which the doin’s o’ that day mingle with the doin’s of other days. I’m liable to drop off to sleep at any moment, now; and I’d like—I’d kind o’ like to shake hands with the boys before I go.”
Well, this gave Horace something to do, and he was mighty glad to do it. After we had all shaken hands with The, he marched up the prisoners, even to the Chink, and they all shook hands, too; and by this time Prometheus was purty tired; but he did look unusual contented. He glanced across at Ty; but Ty had turned his face to the wall, and The gave a little sigh, settled down into the pillow again, and closed his eyes. Horace backed around until The couldn’t see him, and shook his fist at Ty, good and earnest.
Purty soon a regular grin came to The’s face, and he opened his eyes and looked at the Friar with a twinkle in ’em. “Friar Tuck,” sez he, “I don’t know as I ever mentioned it before, but I’ll confess now that I’m right glad I didn’t lynch you for stealin’ those hosses.” He lay there smilin’ a minute, and then held out his hand. “Good-bye, Horace,” he said in a firm voice.
Horace had been doin’ uncommon well up to now; but he couldn’t stand this. He threw himself on the bed, took both o’ The’s hands and looked down into his face. “Promotheus, Prometheus,” he called to him in a shakin’ voice. “Don’t give up! You can win if you fight a while longer. Remember that day in the desert, when I wanted to lie down and end it all. You said you didn’t take any stock in such nonsense; and you picked me up and carried me over the molten copper, while queer things came out o’ the air and clutched at us. You reached the water-hole that time, Promotheus, and you can do it again, if you just use all your might.”
Promotheus opened his eyes and his jagged, gnarly teeth showed in a smile, weak and trembly, but still game to the last line of it. “Nope,” he said so low we could hardly hear him, “I’m Promotheus, all right. I hung on as long as I could; but the vultures have finished my liver at last, Horace—they have finally finished it. I hate to leave you; but I’ll have to be goin’ soon. The’s only one thing I ask of ya—don’t send a single one o’ the boys to the pen. They don’t know what the world really is; but shuttin’ ’em out of it won’t ever teach ’em. If the’s anything you can do to give ’em a little start, it would be a mighty good thing—a mighty good thing.” His voice was gettin’ awful weak, an’ he’d have to rest every few words.
“And Ty Jones, too,” he went on, “Ty was square with me in the old days. Try to make him understand what it was ’at turned me again’ him; and if the’s any way to make things easier for Ty, I want you to have it done. Ty had a lot o’ tough times, himself, before he turned all the hard part of his nature outside. Don’t bear him any malice, Horace. Seventy times seven, the Friar sez we ought to forgive, and that many’ll last a long time, if a feller don’t take offence too easy. The’s a lot o’ things I don’t understand; but some way it seems to me that if I could just go out feelin’ I had squared things with Ty, I’d be a leetle mite easier in my mind.”
Horace stepped to Ty’s bed and shook him by the arm. “Did you hear what he said?” he demanded. “You know he’s achin’ to have you speak to him decent. Why don’t ya speak to him?”
Ty looked cold and stony into Horace’s eyes, and then took his left hand and pushed Horace’s grip from off his arm. Horace stood lookin’ at Ty with his fist clinched. The turned and saw it and a troubled look came into his face.
“Friar Tuck,” he said, “you meant it, didn’t ya—that about forgivin’ seventy times seven?”
“I did,” sez the Friar, his voice ringin’ out clear and strong in spite of its bein’ low pitched. “Be at peace, Promotheus, the laws of man are at war with the laws of God; but they’re bound to lose in the end. I want you to know that I forgive Ty Jones as fully as you do—and I shall do everything in my power to square things up with him.”
The held out his hand to the Friar, and they clasped in a comrade-grip. “I can trust you,” he said; “and I know you’ll do all you can to make Horace see it that way, too.”
“I forgive him, too, you big goose!” cried Horace. “I promise you that I’ll do all I can for him—on your account. Though I must say—but no, I mean it, Promotheus. I forgive him from my heart, and I’ll be as good a friend to him as I can.”
“Now, let the little gust o’ wind come,” sez The. “I’m perfectly ripe and ready for it, now.”
The’ was silence for several minutes; and then Promotheus said in a faint voice: “Friar, I wish you’d sing to me. All my life I’ve longed to hear a cradle-song, a regular baby cradle-song. I know it’s a damn-fool notion; but I never had it so strong as I’ve got it now—and I wish you’d sing one to me. My mother was a widow, mostly. She cleaned out offices at night to earn enough to keep us alive. She sacrificed her life for me, but I couldn’t understand this then.
“Night after night I used to creep in from the street through dirty, stinkin’ halls, and cry myself to sleep. An achin’ came into my heart then which hasn’t never quite left it; and it was this lonesomeness ’at finally made me run away—leavin’ her to face it out—all by herself.
“My blood has turned to water, I reckon, and I feel like a baby to-night. I don’t suffer, understand; I feel as though I was a little chap again, and that my mother didn’t have to work; but was holdin’ me on her lap. She did hold me that way once—the time the ambulance brought my old man home—but she couldn’t sing then. It seems to me that if you’d just sing me a regular cradle-song—I could slip away into pleasant dreams.”
The Friar cleared his throat a time or two before he found his voice; and then he said in a low tone: “I used to sleep in a store-box, Promotheus, when I was a lad—and I know exactly what you feel. I’ll sing you a cradle-song, a song for little children of all ages. It is a great privilege to be a little child, Promotheus, and—and I wish you pleasant dreams.”
Then Friar Tuck drew a deep, full breath, and held it down until all the quiver had gone from his lips. When he started to sing, his voice was low an’ soothin’, and full o’ tenderness; and after the first line, Promotheus gave a little sigh o’ content, nodded his head, and shut his eyes.
The’ was one tune we every last one of us liked. The Friar generally sang it to words which began: “Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah”; and he usually sang it with a swing which was like a call to battle; and this time he sang the same tune, but soft and close and restful, and the words he used began: “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” These words sound purty flat when ya give ’em cold; but they didn’t sound empty to us, as we stood lookin’ down at Promotheus. All alone, he had taken his chance when he took on with Ty Jones; and now he was cashin’ in this chance and it made us mighty sober.
The Friar finished the first four lines alone, and then the angels seemed to join in with him. We had all been purty certain that the’ wasn’t nothin’ in the shape of earthly melody fit to hold a candle to the Friar; but just at this point a new voice joined onto the Friar’s which sent a thrill through us and made us stop breathin’. A queer, half frightened look crossed the Friar’s face for a second; but his voice didn’t waver for a single note. Instead, the’ came a new tone of thanksgivin’ and confidence in it which took all the sting out o’ death and made it all right and pleasant, like the cool and restfulness o’ night, after the heat of day.