One is never so enthusiastic in the early morning, when the emotions are calmest and the nerves at their steadiest. But I was determined to try to have the baseball match postponed. There could be no difficulty. One day was as much of a holiday as another to these easy-going fellows. But The Duke, when I suggested a change in the day, simply raised his eyebrows an eighth of an inch and said:
“Can't see why the day should be changed.” Bruce stormed and swore all sorts of destruction upon himself if he was going to change his style of life for any man. The others followed The Duke's lead.
That Sunday was a day of incongruities. The Old and the New, the East and the West, the reverential Past and iconoclastic Present were jumbling themselves together in bewildering confusion. The baseball match was played with much vigor and profanity. The expression on The Pilot's face, as he stood watching for a while, was a curious mixture of interest, surprise, doubt and pain. He was readjusting himself. He was so made as to be extremely sensitive to his surroundings. He took on color quickly. The utter indifference to the audacious disregard of all he had hitherto considered sacred and essential was disconcerting. They were all so dead sure. How did he know they were wrong? It was his first near view of practical, living skepticism. Skepticism in a book did not disturb him; he could put down words against it. But here it was alive, cheerful, attractive, indeed fascinating; for these men in their western garb and with their western swing had captured his imagination. He was in a fierce struggle, and in a few minutes I saw him disappear into the coulee.
Meantime the match went uproariously on to a finish, with the result that the champions of “Home” had “to stand The Painkiller,” their defeat being due chiefly to the work of Hi and Bronco Bill as pitcher and catcher.
The celebration was in full swing; or as Hi put it, “the boys were takin' their pizen good an' calm,” when in walked The Pilot. His face was still troubled and his lips were drawn and blue, as if he were in pain. A silence fell on the men as he walked in through the crowd and up to the bar. He stood a moment hesitating, looking round upon the faces flushed and hot that were now turned toward him in curious defiance. He noticed the look, and it pulled him together. He faced about toward old Latour and asked in a high, clear voice:
“Is this the room you said we might have?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and said:
“There is not any more.”
The lad paused for an instant, but only for an instant. Then, lifting a pile of hymn books he had near him on the counter, he said in a grave, sweet voice, and with the quiver of a smile about his lips:
“Gentlemen, Mr. Latour has allowed me this room for a religious service. It will give me great pleasure if you will all join,” and immediately he handed a book to Bronco Bill, who, surprised, took it as if he did not know what to do with it. The others followed Bronco's lead till he came to Bruce, who refused, saying roughly:
“No! I don't want it; I've no use for it.”
The missionary flushed and drew back as if he had been struck, but immediately, as if unconsciously, The Duke, who was standing near, stretched out his hand and said, with a courteous bow, “I thank you; I should be glad of one.”
“Thank you,” replied The Pilot, simply, as he handed him a book. The men seated themselves upon the bench that ran round the room, or leaned up against the counter, and most of them took off their hats. Just then in came Muir, and behind him his little wife.
In an instant The Duke was on his feet, and every hat came off.
The missionary stood up at the bar, and announced the hymn, “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” The silence that followed was broken by the sound of a horse galloping. A buckskin bronco shot past the window, and in a few moments there appeared at the door the Old Timer. He was about to stride in when the unusual sight of a row of men sitting solemnly with hymn books in their hands held him fast at the door. He gazed in an amazed, helpless way upon the men, then at the missionary, then back at the men, and stood speechless. Suddenly there was a high, shrill, boyish laugh, and the men turned to see the missionary in a fit of laughter. It certainly was a shock to any lingering ideas of religious propriety they might have about them; but the contrast between his frank, laughing face and the amazed and disgusted face of the shaggy old man in the doorway was too much for them, and one by one they gave way to roars of laughter. The Old Timer, however, kept his face unmoved, strode up to the bar and nodded to old Latour, who served him his drink, which he took at a gulp.
“Here, old man!” called out Bill, “get into the game; here's your deck,” offering him his book. But the missionary was before him, and, with very beautiful grace, he handed the Old Timer a book and pointed him to a seat.
I shall never forget that service. As a religious affair it was a dead failure, but somehow I think The Pilot, as Hi approvingly said, “got in his funny work,” and it was not wholly a defeat. The first hymn was sung chiefly by the missionary and Mrs. Muir, whose voice was very high, with one or two of the men softly whistling an accompaniment. The second hymn was better, and then came the Lesson, the story of the feeding of the five thousand. As the missionary finished the story, Bill, who had been listening with great interest, said:
“I say, pard, I think I'll call you just now.”
“I beg your pardon!” said the startled missionary.
“You're givin' us quite a song and dance now, ain't you?”
“I don't understand,” was the puzzled reply.
“How many men was there in the crowd?” asked Bill, with a judicial air.
“Five thousand.”
“And how much grub?”
“Five loaves and two fishes,” answered Bruce for the missionary.
“Well,” drawled Bill, with the air of a man who has reached a conclusion, “that's a little too unusual for me. Why,” looking pityingly at the missionary, “it ain't natarel.”
“Right you are, my boy,” said Bruce, with a laugh. “It's deucedly unnatural.”
“Not for Him,” said the missionary, quietly. Then Bruce joyfully took him up and led him on into a discussion of evidences, and from evidences into metaphysics, the origin of evil and the freedom of the will, till the missionary, as Bill said, “was rattled worse nor a rooster in the dark.” Poor little Mrs. Muir was much scandalized and looked anxiously at her husband, wishing him to take her out. But help came from an unexpected quarter, and Hi suddenly called out:
“Here you, Bill, shut your blanked jaw, and you, Bruce, give the man a chance to work off his music.”
“That's so! Fair play! Go on!” were the cries that came in response to Hi's appeal.
The missionary, who was all trembling and much troubled, gave Hi a grateful look, and said:
“I'm afraid there are a great many things I don't understand, and I am not good at argument.” There were shouts of “Go on! fire ahead, play the game!” but he said, “I think we will close the service with a hymn.” His frankness and modesty, and his respectful, courteous manner gained the sympathy of the men, so that all joined heartily in singing, “Sun of My Soul.” In the prayer that followed his voice grew steady and his nerve came back to him. The words were very simple, and the petitions were mostly for light and for strength. With a few words of remembrance of “those in our homes far away who think of us and pray for us and never forget,” this strange service was brought to a close.
After the missionary had stepped out, the whole affair was discussed with great warmth. Hi Kendal thought “The Pilot didn't have no fair show,” maintaining that when he was “ropin' a steer he didn't want no blanked tenderfoot to be shovin' in his rope like Bill there.” But Bill steadily maintained his position that “the story of that there picnic was a little too unusual” for him. Bruce was trying meanwhile to beguile The Duke into a discussion of the physics and metaphysics of the case. But The Duke refused with quiet contempt to be drawn into a region where he felt himself a stranger. He preferred poker himself, if Bruce cared to take a hand; and so the evening went on, with the theological discussion by Hi and Bill in a judicial, friendly spirit in one corner, while the others for the most part played poker.
When the missionary returned late there were only a few left in the room, among them The Duke and Bruce, who was drinking steadily and losing money. The missionary's presence seemed to irritate him, and he played even more recklessly than usual, swearing deeply at every loss. At the door the missionary stood looking up into the night sky and humming softly “Sun of My Soul,” and after a few minutes The Duke joined in humming a bass to the air till Bruce could contain himself no longer.
“I say,” he called out, “this isn't any blanked prayer-meeting, is it?”
The Duke ceased humming, and, looking at Bruce, said quietly: “Well, what is it? What's the trouble?”
“Trouble!” shouted Bruce. “I don't see what hymn-singing has to do with a poker game.”
“Oh, I see! I beg pardon! Was I singing?” said The Duke. Then after a pause he added, “You're quite right. I say, Bruce, let's quit. Something has got on to your nerves.” And coolly sweeping his pile into his pocket, he gave up the game. With an oath Bruce left the table, took another drink, and went unsteadily out to his horse, and soon we heard him ride away into the darkness, singing snatches of the hymn and swearing the most awful oaths.
The missionary's face was white with horror. It was all new and horrible to him.
“Will he get safely home?” he asked of The Duke.
“Don't you worry, youngster,” said The Duke, in his loftiest manner, “he'll get along.”
The luminous, dreamy eyes grew hard and bright as they looked The Duke in the face.
“Yes, I shall worry; but you ought to worry more.”
“Ah!” said The Duke, raising his brows and smiling gently upon the bright, stern young face lifted up to his. “I didn't notice that I had asked your opinion.”
“If anything should happen to him,” replied the missionary, quickly, “I should consider you largely responsible.”
“That would be kind,” said The Duke, still smiling with his lips. But after a moment's steady look into the missionary's eyes he nodded his head twice or thrice, and, without further word, turned away.
The missionary turned eagerly to me:
“They beat me this afternoon,” he cried, “but thank God, I know now they are wrong and I am right! I don't understand! I can't see my way through! But I am right! It's true! I feel it's true! Men can't live without Him, and be men!”
And long after I went to my shack that night I saw before me the eager face with the luminous eyes and heard the triumphant cry: “I feel it's true! Men can't live without Him, and be men!” and I knew that though his first Sunday ended in defeat there was victory yet awaiting him.
The first weeks were not pleasant for The Pilot. He had been beaten, and the sense of failure damped his fine enthusiasm, which was one of his chief charms. The Noble Seven despised, ignored, or laughed at him, according to their mood and disposition. Bruce patronized him; and, worst of all, the Muirs pitied him. This last it was that brought him low, and I was glad of it. I find it hard to put up with a man that enjoys pity.
It was Hi Kendal that restored him, though Hi had no thought of doing so good a deed. It was in this way: A baseball match was on with The Porcupines from near the Fort. To Hi's disgust and the team's dismay Bill failed to appear. It was Hi's delight to stand up for Bill's pitching, and their battery was the glory of the Home team.
“Try The Pilot, Hi,” said some one, chaffing him.
Hi looked glumly across at The Pilot standing some distance, away; then called out, holding up the ball:
“Can you play the game?”
For answer Moore held up his hands for a catch. Hi tossed him the ball easily. The ball came back so quickly that Hi was hardly ready, and the jar seemed to amaze him exceedingly.
“I'll take him,” he said, doubtfully, and the game began. Hi fitted on his mask, a new importation and his peculiar pride, and waited.
“How do you like them?” asked The Pilot.
“Hot!” said Hi. “I hain't got no gloves to burn.”
The Pilot turned his back, swung off one foot on to the other and discharged his ball.
“Strike!” called the umpire.
“You bet!” said Hi, with emphasis, but his face was a picture of amazement and dawning delight.
Again The Pilot went through the manoeuvre in his box and again the umpire called:
“Strike!”
Hi stopped the ball without holding it and set himself for the third. Once more that disconcerting swing and the whip-like action of the arm, and for the third time the umpire called:
“Strike! Striker out!”
“That's the hole,” yelled Hi.
The Porcupines were amazed. Hi looked at the ball in his hand, then at the slight figure of The Pilot.
“I say! where do you get it?”
“What?” asked Moore innocently.
“The gait!”
“The what?”
“The gait! the speed, you know!”
“Oh! I used to play in Princeton a little.”
“Did, eh? What the blank blank did you quit for?”
He evidently regarded the exchange of the profession of baseball for the study of theology as a serious error in judgment, and in this opinion every inning of the game confirmed him. At the bat The Pilot did not shine, but he made up for light hitting by his base-running. He was fleet as a deer, and he knew the game thoroughly. He was keen, eager, intense in play, and before the innings were half over he was recognized as the best all-round man on the field. In the pitcher's box he puzzled the Porcupines till they grew desperate and hit wildly and blindly, amid the jeers of the spectators. The bewilderment of the Porcupines was equaled only by the enthusiasm of Hi and his nine, and when the game was over the score stood 37 to 7 in favor of the Home team. They carried The Pilot off the field.
From that day Moore was another man. He had won the unqualified respect of Hi Kendal and most of the others, for he could beat them at their own game and still be modest about it. Once more his enthusiasm came back and his brightness and his courage. The Duke was not present to witness his triumph, and, besides, he rather despised the game. Bruce was there, however, but took no part in the general acclaim; indeed, he seemed rather disgusted with Moore's sudden leap into favor. Certainly his hostility to The Pilot and to all that he stood for was none the less open and bitter.
The hostility was more than usually marked at the service held on the Sunday following. It was, perhaps, thrown into stronger relief by the open and delighted approval of Hi, who was prepared to back up anything The Pilot would venture to say. Bill, who had not witnessed The Pilot's performance in the pitcher's box, but had only Hi's enthusiastic report to go upon, still preserved his judicial air. It is fair to say, however, that there was no mean-spirited jealousy in Bill's heart even though Hi had frankly assured him that The Pilot was “a demon,” and could “give him points.” Bill had great confidence in Hi's opinion upon baseball, but he was not prepared to surrender his right of private judgment in matters theological, so he waited for the sermon before committing himself to any enthusiastic approval. This service was an undoubted success. The singing was hearty, and insensibly the men fell into a reverent attitude during prayer. The theme, too, was one that gave little room for skepticism. It was the story of Zaccheus, and story-telling was Moore's strong point. The thing was well done. Vivid portraitures of the outcast, shrewd, converted publican and the supercilious, self-complacent, critical Pharisee were drawn with a few deft touches. A single sentence transferred them to the Foothills and arrayed them in cowboy garb. Bill was none too sure of himself, but Hi, with delightful winks, was indicating Bruce as the Pharisee, to the latter's scornful disgust. The preacher must have noticed, for with a very clever turn the Pharisee was shown to be the kind of man who likes to fit faults upon others. Then Bill, digging his elbows into Hi's ribs, said in an audible whisper:
“Say, pardner, how does it fit now?”
“You git out!” answered Hi, indignantly, but his confidence in his interpretation of the application was shaken. When Moore came to describe the Master and His place in that ancient group, we in the Stopping Place parlor fell under the spell of his eyes and voice, and our hearts were moved within us. That great Personality was made very real and very winning. Hi was quite subdued by the story and the picture. Bill was perplexed; it was all new to him; but Bruce was mainly irritated. To him it was all old and filled with memories he hated to face. At any rate he was unusually savage that evening, drank heavily and went home late, raging and cursing at things in general and The Pilot in particular—for Moore, in a timid sort of way, had tried to quiet him and help him to his horse.
“Ornery sort o' beast now, ain't he?” said Hi, with the idea of comforting The Pilot, who stood sadly looking after Bruce disappearing in the gloom.
“No! no!” he answered, quickly, “not a beast, but a brother.”
“Brother! Not much, if I know my relations!” answered Hi, disgustedly.
“The Master thinks a good deal of him,” was the earnest reply.
“Git out!” said Hi, “you don't mean it! Why,” he added, decidedly, “he's more stuck on himself than that mean old cuss you was tellin' about this afternoon, and without half the reason.”
But Moore only said, kindly, “Don't be hard on him, Hi,” and turned away, leaving Hi and Bill gravely discussing the question, with the aid of several drinks of whisky. They were still discussing when, an hour later, they, too, disappeared into the darkness that swallowed up the trail to Ashley Ranch. That was the first of many such services. The preaching was always of the simplest kind, abstract questions being avoided and the concrete in those wonderful Bible tales, dressed in modern and in western garb, set forth. Bill and Hi were more than ever his friends and champions, and the latter was heard exultantly to exclaim to Bruce:
“He ain't much to look at as a parson, but he's a-ketchin' his second wind, and 'fore long you won't see him for dust.”
The spring “round-ups” were all over and Bruce had nothing to do but to loaf about the Stopping Place, drinking old Latour's bad whisky and making himself a nuisance. In vain The Pilot tried to win him with loans of books and magazines and other kindly courtesies. He would be decent for a day and then would break forth in violent argumentation against religion and all who held to it. He sorely missed The Duke, who was away south on one of his periodic journeys, of which no one knew anything or cared to ask. The Duke's presence always steadied Bruce and took the rasp out of his manners. It was rather a relief to all that he was absent from the next fortnightly service, though Moore declared he was ashamed to confess this relief.
“I can't touch him,” he said to me, after the service; “he is far too clever, but,” and his voice was full of pain, “I'd give something to help him.”
“If he doesn't quit his nonsense,” I replied, “he'll soon be past helping. He doesn't go out on his range, his few cattle wander everywhere, his shack is in a beastly state, and he himself is going to pieces, miserable fool that he is.” For it did seem a shame that a fellow should so throw himself away for nothing.
“You are hard,” said Moore, with his eyes upon me.
“Hard? Isn't it true?” I answered, hotly. “Then, there's his mother at home.”
“Yes, but can he help it? Is it all his fault?” he replied, with his steady eyes still looking into me.
“His fault? Whose fault, then?”
“What of the Noble Seven? Have they anything to do with this?” His voice was quiet, but there was an arresting intensity in it.
“Well,” I said, rather weakly, “a man ought to look after himself.”
“Yes!—and his brother a little.” Then, he added: “What have any of you done to help him? The Duke could have pulled him up a year ago if he had been willing to deny himself a little, and so with all of you. You all do just what pleases you regardless of any other, and so you help one another down.”
I could not find anything just then to say, though afterwards many things came to me; for, though his voice was quiet and low, his eyes were glowing and his face was alight with the fire that burned within, and I felt like one convicted of a crime. This was certainly a new doctrine for the West; an uncomfortable doctrine to practice, interfering seriously with personal liberty, but in The Pilot's way of viewing things difficult to escape. There would be no end to one's responsibility. I refused to think it out.
Within a fortnight we were thinking it out with some intentness. The Noble Seven were to have a great “blow-out” at the Hill brothers' ranch. The Duke had got home from his southern trip a little more weary-looking and a little more cynical in his smile. The “blow-out” was to be held on Permit Sunday, the alternate to the Preaching Sunday, which was a concession to The Pilot, secured chiefly through the influence of Hi and his baseball nine. It was something to have created the situation involved in the distinction between Preaching and Permit Sundays. Hi put it rather graphically. “The devil takes his innin's one Sunday and The Pilot the next,” adding emphatically, “He hain't done much scorin' yit, but my money's on The Pilot, you bet!” Bill was more cautious and preferred to wait developments. And developments were rapid.
The Hill brothers' meet was unusually successful from a social point of view. Several Permits had been requisitioned, and whisky and beer abounded. Races all day and poker all night and drinks of various brews both day and night, with varying impromptu diversions—such as shooting the horns off wandering steers—were the social amenities indulged in by the noble company. On Monday evening I rode out to the ranch, urged by Moore, who was anxious that someone should look after Bruce.
“I don't belong to them,” he said, “you do. They won't resent your coming.”
Nor did they. They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout.
“Hello, old domine!” yelled Bruce, “where's your preacher friend?”
“Where you ought to be, if you could get there—at home,” I replied, nettled at his insolent tone.
“Strike one!” called out Hi, enthusiastically, not approving Bruce's attitude toward his friend, The Pilot.
“Don't be so acute,” said Bruce, after the laugh had passed, “but have a drink.”
He was flushed and very shaky and very noisy. The Duke, at the head of the table, looked a little harder than usual, but, though pale, was quite steady. The others were all more or less nerve-broken, and about the room were the signs of a wild night. A bench was upset, while broken bottles and crockery lay strewn about over a floor reeking with filth. The disgust on my face called forth an apology from the younger Hill, who was serving up ham and eggs as best he could to the men lounging about the table.
“It's my housemaid's afternoon out,” he explained gravely.
“Gone for a walk in the park,” added an other.
“Hope MISTER Connor will pardon the absence,” sneered Bruce, in his most offensive manner.
“Don't mind him,” said Hi, under his breath, “the blue devils are runnin' him down.”
This became more evident as the evening went on. From hilarity Bruce passed to sullen ferocity, with spasms of nervous terror. Hi's attempts to soothe him finally drove him mad, and he drew his revolver, declaring he could look after himself, in proof of which he began to shoot out the lights.
The men scrambled into safe corners, all but The Duke, who stood quietly by watching Bruce shoot. Then saying:
“Let me have a try, Bruce,” he reached across and caught his hand.
“No! you don't,” said Bruce, struggling. “No man gets my gun.”
He tore madly at the gripping hand with both of his, but in vain, calling out with frightful oaths:
“Let go! let go! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!”
With a furious effort he hurled himself back from the table, dragging The Duke partly across. There was a flash and a report and Bruce collapsed, The Duke still gripping him. When they lifted him up he was found to have an ugly wound in his arm, the bullet having passed through the fleshy part. I bound it up as best I could and tried to persuade him to go to bed. But he would go home. Nothing could stop him. Finally The Duke agreed to go with him, and off they set, Bruce loudly protesting that he could get home alone and did not want anyone.
It was a dismal break-up to the meet, and we all went home feeling rather sick, so that it gave me no pleasure to find Moore waiting in my shack for my report of Bruce. It was quite vain for me to make light of the accident to him. His eyes were wide open with anxious fear when I had done.
“You needn't tell me not to be anxious,” he said, “you are anxious yourself. I see it, I feel it.”
“Well, there's no use trying to keep things from you,” I replied, “but I am only a little anxious. Don't you go beyond me and work yourself up into a fever over it.”
“No,” he answered quietly, “but I wish his mother were nearer.”
“Oh, bosh, it isn't coming to that; but I wish he were in better shape. He is broken up badly without this hole in him.”
He would not leave till I had promised to take him up the next day, though I was doubtful enough of his reception. But next day The Duke came down, his black bronco, Jingo, wet with hard riding.
“Better come up, Connor,” he said, gravely, “and bring your bromides along. He has had a bad night and morning and fell asleep only before I came away. I expect he'll wake in delirium. It's the whisky more than the bullet. Snakes, you know.”
In ten minutes we three were on the trail, for Moore, though not invited, quietly announced his intention to go with us.
“Oh, all right,” said The Duke, indifferently, “he probably won't recognize you any way.”
We rode hard for half an hour till we came within sight of Bruce's shack, which was set back into a little poplar bluff.
“Hold up!” said The Duke. “Was that a shot?” We stood listening. A rifle-shot rang out, and we rode hard. Again The Duke halted us, and there came from the shack the sound of singing. It was an old Scotch tune.
“The twenty-third Psalm,” said Moore, in a low voice.
We rode into the bluff, tied up our horses and crept to the back of the shack. Looking through a crack between the logs, I saw a gruesome thing. Bruce was sitting up in bed with a Winchester rifle across his knees and a belt of cartridges hanging over the post. His bandages were torn off, the blood from his wound was smeared over his bare arms and his pale, ghastly face; his eyes were wild with mad terror, and he was shouting at the top of his voice the words:
“The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,He makes me down to lieIn pastures green, He leadeth meThe quiet waters by.”
Now and then he would stop to say in an awesome whisper, “Come out here, you little devils!” and bang would go his rifle at the stovepipe, which was riddled with holes. Then once more in a loud voice he would hurry to begin the Psalm,
“The Lord's my Shepherd.”
Nothing that my memory brings to me makes me chill like that picture—the low log shack, now in cheerless disorder; the ghastly object upon the bed in the corner, with blood-smeared face and arms and mad terror in the eyes; the awful cursings and more awful psalm-singing, punctuated by the quick report of the deadly rifle.
For some moments we stood gazing at one another; then The Duke said, in a low, fierce tone, more to himself than to us:
“This is the last. There'll be no more of this cursed folly among the boys.”
And I thought it a wise thing in The Pilot that he answered not a word.
The situation was one of extreme danger—a madman with a Winchester rifle. Something must be done and quickly. But what? It would be death to anyone appearing at the door.
“I'll speak; you keep your eyes on him,” said The Duke.
“Hello, Bruce! What's the row?” shouted The Duke.
Instantly the singing stopped. A look of cunning delight came over his face as, without a word, he got his rifle ready pointed at the door.
“Come in!” he yelled, after waiting for some moments. “Come in! You're the biggest of all the devils. Come on, I'll send you down where you belong. Come, what's keeping you?”
Over the rifle-barrel his eyes gleamed with frenzied delight. We consulted as to a plan.
“I don't relish a bullet much,” I said.
“There are pleasanter things,” responded The Duke, “and he is a fairly good shot.”
Meantime the singing had started again, and, looking through the chink, I saw that Bruce had got his eye on the stovepipe again. While I was looking The Pilot slipped away from us toward the door.
“Come back!” said the Duke, “don't be a fool! Come back, he'll shoot you dead!”
Moore paid no heed to him, but stood waiting at the door. In a few moments Bruce blazed away again at the stovepipe. Immediately the Pilot burst in, calling out eagerly:
“Did you get him?”
“No!” said Bruce, disappointedly, “he dodged like the devil, as of course he ought, you know.”
“I'll get him,” said Moore. “Smoke him out,” proceeding to open the stove door.
“Stop!” screamed Bruce, “don't open that door! It's full, I tell you.” Moore paused. “Besides,” went on Bruce, “smoke won't touch 'em.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Moore, coolly and with admirable quickness, “wood smoke, you know—they can't stand that.”
This was apparently a new idea in demonology for Bruce, for he sank back, while Moore lighted the fire and put on the tea-kettle. He looked round for the tea-caddy.
“Up there,” said Bruce, forgetting for the moment his devils, and pointing to a quaint, old-fashioned tea-caddy upon the shelf.
Moore took it down, turned it in his hands and looked at Bruce.
“Old country, eh?”
“My mother's,” said Bruce, soberly.
“I could have sworn it was my aunt's in Balleymena,” said Moore. “My aunt lived in a little stone cottage with roses all over the front of it.” And on he went into an enthusiastic description of his early home. His voice was full of music, soft and soothing, and poor Bruce sank back and listened, the glitter fading from his eyes.
The Duke and I looked at each other.
“Not too bad, eh?” said The Duke, after a few moments' silence.
“Let's put up the horses,” I suggested. “They won't want us for half an hour.”
When we came in, the room had been set in order, the tea-kettle was singing, the bedclothes straightened out, and Moore had just finished washing the blood stains from Bruce's arms and neck.
“Just in time,” he said. “I didn't like to tackle these,” pointing to the bandages.
All night long Moore soothed and tended the sick man, now singing softly to him, and again beguiling him with tales that meant nothing, but that had a strange power to quiet the nervous restlessness, due partly to the pain of the wounded arm and partly to the nerve-wrecking from his months of dissipation. The Duke seemed uncomfortable enough. He spoke to Bruce once or twice, but the only answer was a groan or curse with an increase of restlessness.
“He'll have a close squeak,” said The Duke. The carelessness of the tone was a little overdone, but The Pilot was stirred up by it.
“He has not been fortunate in his friends,” he said, looking straight into his eyes.
“A man ought to know himself when the pace is too swift,” said The Duke, a little more quickly than was his wont.
“You might have done anything with him. Why didn't you help him?” Moore's tones were stern and very steady, and he never moved his eyes from the other man's face, but the only reply he got was a shrug of the shoulders.
When the gray of the morning was coming in at the window The Duke rose up, gave himself, a little shake, and said:
“I am not of any service here. I shall come back in the evening.”
He went and stood for a few moments looking down upon the hot, fevered face; then, turning to me, he asked:
“What do you think?”
“Can't say! The bromide is holding him down just now. His blood is bad for that wound.”
“Can I get anything?” I knew him well enough to recognize the anxiety under his indifferent manner.
“The Fort doctor ought to be got.”
He nodded and went out.
“Have breakfast?” called out Moore from the door.
“I shall get some at the Fort, thanks. They won't take any hurt from me there,” he said, smiling his cynical smile.
Moore opened his eyes in surprise.
“What's that for?” he asked me.
“Well, he is rather cut up, and you rather rubbed it into him, you know,” I said, for I thought Moore a little hard.
“Did I say anything untrue?”
“Well, not untrue, perhaps; but truth is like medicine—not always good to take.” At which Moore was silent till his patient needed him again.
It was a weary day. The intense pain from the wound, and the high fever from the poison in his blood kept the poor fellow in delirium till evening, when The Duke rode up with the Fort doctor. Jingo appeared as nearly played out as a horse of his spirit ever allowed himself to become.
“Seventy miles,” said The Duke, swinging himself off the saddle. “The doctor was ten miles out. How is he?”
I shook my head, and he led away his horse to give him a rub and a feed.
Meantime the doctor, who was of the army and had seen service, was examining his patient. He grew more and more puzzled as he noted the various symptoms. Finally he broke out:
“What have you been doing to him? Why is he in this condition? This fleabite doesn't account for all,” pointing to the wound.
We stood like children reproved. Then The Duke said, hesitatingly:
“I fear, doctor, the life has been a little too hard for him. He had a severe nervous attack—seeing things, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” stormed the old doctor. “I know you well enough, with your head of cast-iron and no nerves to speak of. I know the crowd and how you lead them. Infernal fools! You'll get your turn some day. I've warned you before.”
The Duke was standing up before the doctor during this storm, smiling slightly. All at once the smile faded out and he pointed to the bed. Bruce was sitting up quiet and steady. He stretched out his hand to The Duke.
“Don't mind the old fool,” he said, holding The Duke's hand and looking up at him as fondly as if he were a girl. “It's my own funeral—funeral?” he paused—“Perhaps it may be—who knows?—feel queer enough—but remember, Duke—it's my own fault—don't listen to those bally fools,” looking towards Moore and the doctor. “My own fault”—his voice died down—“my own fault.”
The Duke bent over him and laid him back on the pillow, saying, “Thanks, old chap, you're good stuff. I'll not forget. Just keep quiet and you'll be all right.” He passed his cool, firm hand over the hot brow of the man looking up at him with love in his eyes, and in a few moments Bruce fell asleep. Then The Duke lifted himself up, and facing the doctor, said in his coolest tone:
“Your words are more true than opportune, doctor. Your patient will need all your attention. As for my morals, Mr. Moore kindly entrusts himself with the care of them.” This with a bow toward The Pilot.
“I wish him joy of his charge,” snorted the doctor, turning again to the bed, where Bruce had already passed into delirium.
The memory of that vigil was like a horrible nightmare for months. Moore lay on the floor and slept. The Duke rode off somewhither. The old doctor and I kept watch. All night poor Bruce raved in the wildest delirium, singing, now psalms, now songs, swearing at the cattle or his poker partners, and now and then, in quieter moments, he was back in his old home, a boy, with a boy's friends and sports. Nothing could check the fever. It baffled the doctor, who often, during the night, declared that there was “no sense in a wound like that working up such a fever,” adding curses upon the folly of The Duke and his Company.
“You don't think he will not get better, doctor?” I asked, in answer to one of his outbreaks.
“He ought to get over this,” he answered, impatiently, “but I believe,” he added, deliberately, “he'll have to go.”
Everything stood still for a moment. It seemed impossible. Two days ago full of life, now on the way out. There crowded in upon me thoughts of his home; his mother, whose letters he used to show me full of anxious love; his wild life here, with all its generous impulses, its mistakes, its folly.
“How long will he last?” I asked, and my lips were dry and numb.
“Perhaps twenty-four hours, perhaps longer. He can't throw off the poison.”
The old doctor proved a true prophet. After another day of agonized delirium he sank into a stupor which lasted through the night.
Then the change came. As the light began to grow at the eastern rim of the prairie and up the far mountains in the west, Bruce opened his eyes and looked about upon us. The doctor had gone; The Duke had not come back; Moore and I were alone. He gazed at us steadily for some moments; read our faces; a look of wonder came into his eyes.
“Is it coming?” he asked in a faint, awed voice. “Do you really think I must go?”
The eager appeal in his voice and the wistful longing in the wide-open, startled eyes were too much for Moore. He backed behind me and I could hear him weeping like a baby. Bruce heard him, too.
“Is that The Pilot?” he asked. Instantly Moore pulled himself up, wiped his eyes and came round to the other side of the bed and looked down, smiling.
“Do YOU say I am dying?” The voice was strained in its earnestness. I felt a thrill of admiration go through me as the Pilot answered in a sweet, clear voice: “They say so, Bruce. But you are not afraid?”
Bruce kept his eyes on his face and answered with grave hesitation:
“No—not—afraid—but I'd like to live a little longer. I've made such a mess of it, I'd like to try again.” Then he paused, and his lips quivered a little. “There's my mother, you know,” he added, apologetically, “and Jim.” Jim was his younger brother and sworn chum.
“Yes, I know, Bruce, but it won't be very long for them, too, and it's a good place.”
“Yes, I believe it all—always did—talked rot—you'll forgive me that?”
“Don't; don't,” said Moore quickly, with sharp pain in his voice, and Bruce smiled a little and closed his eyes, saying: “I'm tired.” But he immediately opened them again and looked up.
“What is it?” asked Moore, smiling down into his eyes.
“The Duke,” the poor lips whispered.
“He is coming,” said Moore, confidently, though how he knew I could not tell. But even as he spoke, looking out of the window, I saw Jingo come swinging round the bluff. Bruce heard the beat of his hoofs, smiled, opened his eyes and waited. The leap of joy in his eyes as The Duke came in, clean, cool and fresh as the morning, went to my heart.
Neither man said a word, but Bruce took hold of The Duke's hand in both of his. He was fast growing weaker. I gave him brandy, and he recovered a little strength.
“I am dying, Duke,” he said, quietly. “Promise you won't blame yourself.”
“I can't, old man,” said The Duke, with a shudder. “Would to heaven I could.”
“You were too strong for me, and you didn't think, did you?” and the weak voice had a caress in it.
“No, no! God knows,” said The Duke, hurriedly.
There was a long silence, and again Bruce opened his eyes and whispered:
“The Pilot.”
Moore came to him.
“Read 'The Prodigal,'” he said faintly, and in Moore's clear, sweet voice the music of that matchless story fell upon our ears.
Again Bruce's eyes summoned me. I bent over him.
“My letter,” he said, faintly, “in my coat—”
I brought to him the last letter from his mother. He held the envelope before his eyes, then handed it to me, whispering:
“Read.”
I opened the letter and looked at the words, “My darling Davie.” My tongue stuck and not a sound could I make. Moore put out his hand and took it from me. The Duke rose to go out, calling me with his eyes, but Bruce motioned him to stay, and he sat down and bowed his head, while Moore read the letter.
His tones were clear and steady till he came to the last words, when his voice broke and ended in a sob:
“And oh, Davie, laddie, if ever your heart turns home again, remember the door is aye open, and it's joy you'll bring with you to us all.”
Bruce lay quite still, and, from his closed eyes, big tears ran down his cheeks. It was his last farewell to her whose love had been to him the anchor to all things pure here and to heaven beyond.
He took the letter from Moore's hand, put it with difficulty to his lips, and then, touching the open Bible, he said, between his breaths:
“It's—very like—there's really—no fear, is there?”
“No, no!” said Moore, with cheerful, confident voice, though his, tears were flowing. “No fear of your welcome.”
His eyes met mine. I bent over him. “Tell her—” and his voice faded away.
“What shall I tell her?” I asked, trying to recall him. But the message was never given. He moved one hand slowly toward The Duke till it touched his head. The Duke lifted his face and looked down at him, and then he did a beautiful thing for which I forgave him much. He stooped over and kissed the lips grown so white, and then the brow. The light came back into the eyes of the dying man, he smiled once more, and smilingly faced toward the Great Beyond. And the morning air, fresh from the sun-tipped mountains and sweet with the scent of the June roses, came blowing soft and cool through the open window upon the dead, smiling face. And it seemed fitting so. It came from the land of the Morning.
Again The Duke did a beautiful thing; for, reaching across his dead friend, he offered his hand to The Pilot. “Mr. Moore,” he said, with fine courtesy, “you are a brave man and a good man; I ask your forgiveness for much rudeness.”
But Moore only shook his head while he took the outstretched hand, and said, brokenly:
“Don't! I can't stand it.”
“The Company of the Noble Seven will meet no more,” said The Duke, with a faint smile.
They did meet, however; but when they did, The Pilot was in the chair, and it was not for poker.
The Pilot had “got his grip,” as Bill said.