DOC
IT was a long-distance call and the voice was a man’s, impatient, peremptory and curiously unsteady: “Hello! Hello! Hello! I say! Is this Doctor Hunter?”
“Yas, this is me,” answered the doctor, making an arc of his stalwart length as he leaned down to the receiver on his table; “this is Hunter.”
“This is the Blue Top Mine—the Blue Top. Do you understand? We want you up here.”
“The Blue Top!” repeated the doctor. And of a sudden his boyish face grew eager. “All right. What kind of a case is it?”
“Never mind—come. Get a good horse.”
“But look a-here,” expostulated the doctor. “Is it surgical? I’d like to know just what to bring.”
“Come prepared for anything. Can you hear me? This is Eastman.”
“Oh—Mr. Eastman.” The doctor fell back a little, then, still holding the receiver to his ear with one hand, hastily smoothed at his hair with the other—as if to make himself more presentable for his conversation with the distant speaker. “I’ll start in fifteen minutes,” he promised.
“Good-bye.” The line closed.
The doctor was in his shirt-sleeves. He reached one long arm out for the coat hanging on the back of his office chair, the other for his wide, soft hat.Then he caught up a canvas case that held both medicines and instruments, and hurried out.
Half a block up the street was a low, flower-covered cottage that stood among wide-spreading fig trees. There was a strip of clover lawn before the little house. He halted when he reached it, and took off his hat. “Oh, Miss Letty!” he called.
The fig trees formed a dense screen against the noon heat. Under one was a girl, bareheaded and barearmed, with a half-filled basket of the purple fruit at her feet. As the doctor spoke she turned and came toward him swiftly across the clover. She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and the great knot of crisp and dusky hair on her small head added to her slender height. Her eyes were like her hair—dark and shining. They made vivid contrast with the clear paleness of her cheek and throat.
“You’re going out of town,” she said, with a glance at the canvas case.
“What do you think!” he answered, his face flushing with pleasure. “They want me at Blue Top!”
She stopped. “The regular mine doctor left last week. They’ll have to have somebody in his place. Maybe——” Her eyes questioned his.
“It was Eastman ’phoned me.” He said it proudly.
“The owner of the mine!”
“‘We want you up here’ is what he said. And ‘Come prepared for anything.’ But a-course——” It was his turn to break off. His grey eyes were anxious.
“They want you to stay!” she declared excitedly. “Won’t that be splendid! Now you’ll be able to buy all the books you’ve been wanting. You know, they give a good salary at Blue Top, and—and house rent free.” A wave of colour swept her face then, tinting it a delicate rose.
He had come nearer her. “It’d mean more’n books to me,” he said in a low voice.
“You’re the best doctor in the country; that’s why they’ve sent for you. But what’llthistown do without you?” She smiled up at him, forgetting her embarrassment. “Every baby in the place’ll miss ‘Doc’.”
Like a man who is summoning his courage he set his teeth together for a moment and took a deep breath. Then: “The part of the town that I like best I want to take with me,” he said, his tone significant.
There was a moment’s silence. She retreated a step, her face rosier than before. He kept his eyes fixed earnestly on her lowered lashes, waiting for them to rise.
“I’ve—I’ve wanted to ask you before, Letty—lots of times. But I couldn’t as long as I knowed I’d have to take you to a boardin’-house; I’ve waited till I thought I could see a home in sight. If this comes true——” He reached out a big, sunburned hand and touched her slender one where it hung at her side.
She raised her eyes and they were misty with hope. “Do your level best at the mine!” she half-whispered.
“Letty—you care!” He let her hand fall, forhis own was trembling. “Oh, you bet I’ll do my best. This is my chance. I’m bankin’ on it.”
“Take my horse for the trip. Bobby wasn’t out of the barn yesterday, and I’m pickling figs to-day. Please do.”
“All right, I’ll be glad to.”
A few minutes later, when he rode out of the corral, canvas case tight-strapped to his back, he was mounted on a spirited little mustang whose bright eyes watched through a bushy forelock. The gate was left in a rushing gallop. And from down the street, where the doctor turned into the Blue Top road, he waved a hand back to Letty. Then he cantered on.
It was fifteen miles to the mine, all up grade and rough going. But Bobby kept a quick pace; and his rider, fixing his look hopefully ahead, gave no thought to the road. Two things ran constantly in the doctor’s mind: “We want you up here” and “Come prepared for anything.” The more he thought of the statements the more he felt certain about the success of his trip. They surely meant him to remain at the mine. That was why he had been asked to bring as much of his equipment as possible.
“Halt!”
It was Bobby who obeyed the command. Out of the thick brush that lined the grade had stepped three men, blocking his way. The trio carried rifles across their arms.
“Who are you?” demanded one of the three. He was a smooth-shaven, thick-set, middle-aged man with hard, milky-blue eyes and soft, fat cheeks thatpouched heavily, drawing his under lids down to show a scarlet lining.
“Doctor.”
“Oh!—I see. Good work.” The thick-set man fell back a step and gave a sidewise jerk of the head. It was permission to ride on. Then he led his companions across the road and into the chaparral.
A moment later the doctor forgot the occurrence. The road divided, and he turned into the less used one of the two. Rounding a sharp turn in it he came in sight of a tiny, shingled bungalow built upon a spot that had been made level by digging into the side of the mountain. This was the residence of the regular physician at the mine. It was vacant now, and through the uncurtained window he could see the pretty living room, with its low, raftered ceiling and its great fireplace of stone.
“Oh, if this only comes true!” he said aloud. Already he pictured Letty’s face at the window.
At the side porch of the superintendent’s house he dismounted quickly, dropped the bridle reins to the ground and sprang up the steps, unbuckling his case as he went.
A Chinese in spotless white answered his ring and, without a question, went pattering away to a closed door at the end of a long hall, where he paused and knocked softly.
A man opened the door. He was perhaps thirty-five, with the bearing that marks the city-bred. But his dress was dishevelled, his haggard face showed a one-day’s growth of beard, and his eyes werehollow, as if from sickness, and bloodshot. “Is this Doctor Hunter?” he questioned, whispering.
“Yas, sir.”
“My name is Eastman.” He motioned the doctor to enter.
In the darkened room there was discernible only the outlines of a bed, upon which someone was tossing. The patient was moaning, too, and hoarsely repeating a name: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!” The tone was insistent and full of anguished appeal.
The doctor went to the bedside. The face on the pillow was that of a young woman—a woman of perhaps twenty-five. It was a face that reminded him of Letty’s. There was the same delicate outline of cheek and chin, the same full, sweet mouth and girlish throat. But the dark head was moving from side to side with each repeating of the name, and the dark eyes were staring wildly. As he leaned down she turned them full upon him.
“Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!” she entreated.
“Nervous shock,” said the doctor. He lifted a white wrist. It was rigid and the pulse hard. The hand was knotted, too, and shook with its very tenseness. “What put her into this shape?”
Eastman did not reply at once. He began to walk the room. Presently he halted behind the doctor. “Mrs. Eastman is—is worried,” he explained.
“Wal, I should judge so,” remarked the doctor coldly. He laid an open hand upon the sick woman’s forehead to quiet the constant wagging. “How long’s she been like this?”
“Twenty-four hours. Give her something to make her sleep. She’ll go crazy.”
“In a case like this you got to remove the cause.” The doctor spoke severely. The whole thing looked bad to him.
Eastman made no answer, but left the room, for the Chinese had summoned him noiselessly from the door.
Left alone, the doctor prepared an opiate and administered one draught of it, after which he took a chair beside the bed and again lifted a tense wrist. Presently Mrs. Eastman ceased to murmur her heart-broken plaint. Her clenched fingers relaxed their hold on the counterpane. Then the strained lids of the sufferer fluttered down.
When she was breathing deep and regularly, with a peaceful smile on the sweet mouth and her hands folded on her breast, he leaned back. And, looking at her, his thoughts returned to Letty and to the tiny bird’s-nest of a house perched below in a niche of the mountain. He could see a strong young figure going to and fro through the cozy rooms; himself beside a wood fire, with his books about him. Spring came a trifle later here on the tilted crown of Blue Top, fall arrived a little early, which meant many evenings cool enough for a cheery blaze. And if the mine was off the line of the railroad, that did not——
Eastman entered hurriedly, leaving the door open behind him.
The doctor rose, the look of day-dreaming still in his eyes. “She’s quiet,” he said in a low voice. “What else can I attend to up here?”
“This is all.” As Eastman answered his own look was averted. “Our new physician’s due to-day—Doctor Fowler, of San Francisco.”
“I—I see.” A surge of red deepened the tan on the doctor’s face. “I s’pose you won’t need me no more.”
“How much do I owe you?” There was dismissal in Eastman’s tone.
The other closed the canvas case and picked up his hat. Then he leaned over the sleeper for a moment. When he started slowly toward the door the spring was gone from his step. He seemed not to have heard the question.
“Will ten be satisfactory?” Eastman had run a hand into a pocket. Now he held a goldpiece.
The doctor turned. A troubled light was in the grey eyes. “Five’d be a fair charge for Blue Top,” he said. As the smaller coin was proffered him he took it, bowed and went out.
Someone followed him—he did not look back to see who. But as he reached the front door his eyes fell upon a photograph that lay on a table beside the hatrack. It was the photograph of a child—a handsome, fair-haired little boy in gingham rompers, standing on a garden path amid chrysanthemums that reached above his tumbled curls. “Is that your baby?” asked the doctor, and, with the inquiry, turned to the one behind.
It was not Eastman, but the Chinese servant who had followed him out. As he opened the door he made no reply.
Bobby was waiting dutifully at the steps; and when he was headed down the mountain he wentsingle-footing away eagerly, his bit-chains rattling with his swaying gait. But the doctor rode with his chin on his breast and his soft hat pulled to his brows. And when a bend in the road brought the shingled bungalow near, instead of looking at it he turned his face toward the long, level valley. In the distance, on the tree-strewn river-bottom, was a cluster of white specks—the town he had left in the early afternoon. He had come from it hopefully: he was returning unsuccessful. But his jaw was set resolutely.
It was past sundown when he reined at the gate leading to Bobby’s corral. Letty had seen him ride up. Now she came hurrying across the garden toward him. “Is it good news?” she called.
He was down and standing beside his horse. “I counted my chickens ahead of time,” he answered, and smiled ruefully. “They’re gittin’ a city doc for Blue Top.”
As he slipped off saddle and bridle she stood in silence, her eyes on the ground. But when he came over and paused beside her she looked up at him bravely, for all the tears on her lashes. “Never mind about Blue Top,” she said. “Think what a fine doctor you are now. And you’re so young. If you go on with your studying——”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me,” he said very earnestly. “I cure, don’t I? But I don’t dress good enough. I don’t know how to talk. And I ain’t one of them stylish, top-buggy physicians.” He looked up the street to his own gate. A man had pulled up before it—a queer-looking individual mounted on a raw-boned mule and wearing a long,tan linen duster and a black slouch hat. “The fact is,” he went on, “I’m not Doctor Hunter. That’s it. I’m just ‘Doc.’”
The man on the mule was advancing toward them. Letty hastened to inquire about Blue Top. “You didn’t tell me who was sick at the mine,” she reminded.
“Mrs. Eastman. But—she wasn’t sick.”
“She wasn’t sick?” Letty raised a puzzled face.
“Just unhappy. Eastman didn’t say what about. But her poor heart’s a-breakin’.”
The man on the mule pulled up for a second time, near by. “Are you Doc Hunter?” he demanded. The voice sounded muffled.
“I’m the Doc.”
“A friend of mine is sick—out of town here a little ways.”
“Take Bobby again,” Letty urged in an undertone. “You know how tough he is. He won’t mind, if the trip is short.”
“But he ain’t had his feed,” said the doctor.
“I’ll tie some oats to the saddle.”
As she hurried off the doctor went up to the man on the mule. “What kind of a case is it?” he inquired, and noticed that the stranger had a handkerchief tied under his jaws and over his ears.
“That’s what I expect you to tell me.” There was a note of sneering in the retort.
“I mean, is it surgical?” explained the other.
“Well, suppose you come fixed so’s you’ll be ready for any kind of a case.”
The doctor stared. It was Eastman’s reply—with a different wording. And the coincidenceseemed a strange one. Then: “You’d better let me do somethin’ for that toothache,” he said kindly.
“Oh, it don’t amount to anything,” was the short answer.
The doctor had not unbuckled his case. Now he crossed the corral to Bobby and picked up bridle and saddle.
The stranger led the way out of town, hurrying his mule forward with voice, switch and heels, and taking the main traveled road that led south beside the railroad track. Night was already settling, and to the left the scattered shafts of a cemetery gleamed white through the gathering dusk. Beyond the cemetery, where a dim road branched eastward across the rails toward the river, the guide drew up and dismounted and busied himself for a moment with the bridle of his mule. The doctor also reined and waited.
Presently his companion came walking back, leaving the mule tied to the railroad fence. “Doc,” he began, putting one hand on Bobby’s bridle and the other on the doctor’s knee, “don’t misunderstand what I’m going to say to you.”
“Yas? What’s that?” Of a sudden the doctor felt dislike and suspicion.
“Where I’m going,” continued the man deliberately, “you’ll have to travel blindfolded.”
The doctor did not speak for a moment. Again he was staring at the other, not so startled as he was amazed at this, the second queer call in a single day! Before he had finished puzzling over the half-crazed woman at Blue Top and the trio of armedmen who had halted him, here was another mystery. Was the county gone mad?
“You’ve barked up the wrong tree, Mister,” he said finally, looking into the small eyes that were glinting up at him. “I’ve got just five dollars with me. Let me show y’.” He reached into a pocket. “That ain’t worth cuttin’ my throat for.”
A boisterous laugh greeted this. Then: “Cut your throat! Why, I’m not after money. I want a doctor. And I’m going to have a doctor.” Still holding to Bobby’s rein the stranger reached down and patted his right thigh. “I’ve never heard of taking a doctor to a sick man at the end of a gun,” he added, “but if you hold back that’s the way I’ll take you. Get down.”
The doctor dismounted.
“Turn around,” was the next order.
As the doctor obeyed a large, soft handkerchief was laid across his eyes and bound tight.
He climbed back into his saddle then, and found his stirrups. But as he picked up his rein once more he felt his hands gripped in a firm hold and brought forward to the pommel.
“I’ll tie your wrists now,” said his companion.
The doctor straightened and jerked his arms to his sides. “You don’t need to,” he declared. “I’ll let my eyes alone.”
“Put out your hands!” came the stern command.
There was nothing to do but comply.
When they moved on again the doctor sat with every faculty on the alert, determined to discover which way they were travelling. But first they circled two or three times, then took a zigzag course.And after so much forethought on his guide’s part the doctor was completely turned around. So that, starting forward finally along a comparatively straight course, he did not know in what direction they were headed. Soon he forgot to note any veering to right or left. A feeling of intense nausea came over him, caused by the sway of his horse and his inability to see.
The going was smooth enough for the first half-hour. Afterward it became rough, when they ceased to canter, even over short distances. At the end of the first long hour they wound down a steep and evidently narrow path. This brought them to rushing water, which they crossed when the mule and Bobby had drunk. Then a long climb began—to level ground again. At last a sharp turn was made to the left. Once more they descended. Then came a halt.
“Get down,” said the guide.
“I will when you let loose my hands,” returned the doctor crossly. “This is a dickens of a way to treat a white man!”
When he was down and his eyes were unbound he saw that they were in the bottom of a deep cañon, for on either side of him, against the lighter background of the sky, was the black, pine-topped line of a ridge. There was a small clearing in the cañon, circled by a wall of underbrush, and at the centre of the clearing a squat shanty, beyond which showed a patch of light from a window on its farther side.
Bridles were taken off and girths loosened. Then the doctor folded down the top of the feed-sack sothat Bobby could eat, and left the little horse devouring his oats.
Now the two men made toward the shanty and silently entered a small, low room lighted by a single kerosene lamp. The walls of the room were of rough pine boards, smoke-stained; the ceiling was of blackened cheesecloth that sagged low overhead. There was a rough board table beside the door, and two benches, as unplaned as the table, for seats. A small stove stood in one corner, rusted by the rain that had trickled down upon it from the pipe-opening in the roof; against a wall stood a bed of boards—a bed only wide enough for one person. Upon it, under a grey blanket, lay a figure.
The doctor picked up the lamp, crossed to the bedside, and let the light shine down upon his patient—a man not more than twenty-eight years of age. The fevered face was ugly, almost apelike; the forehead bulged, the cheek-bones were high, the nose so flat that the nostrils were two wide, black holes; and the mouth was full and coarse. The doctor recoiled as he looked, and turned to the man standing at his shoulder.
He saw a face that he liked still less—eyes small and deep-set, and overhung with heavy, coarse brows; a nose lean and high and twisted so far out of line that it made a left obtuse angle from forehead to mouth; and long, thin lips that opened over small, uneven, discoloured teeth. But the most striking feature of the face was a scar. It lay across the left cheek from the corner of the eye to the point of the heavy chin. It was a straight scar—as straight as if made by a keen knife drawn alongthe edge of a ruler. And it was old, and a dead white that contrasted sharply with the liquor-reddened skin of the cheek.
“I’ll hold the lamp,” said the man with the scar.
The doctor unbuckled his case, threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He did not ask what was the matter, but laid back the bedclothes and began his look for a wound. And he found it—a gunshot wound in the right side, at the waist-line, and mortally deep.
“My! This oughta been ’tended to hours ago,” he said severely. “When did it happen?”
“Yesterday. He’s been unconscious ever since.”
“Git me some hot water.”
Then, for an hour, not a word was spoken. The doctor worked with all his energy, forgetting where he was, forgetting hunger and weariness. The table had been moved close to the bed and the lamp placed upon it. So the man with the scar had nothing to do. He walked the floor, his head down and held a little sidewise, as if he were listening; and as he walked his eyes continually shifted from side to side.
“I’m done,” announced the doctor at last. “This medicine you can give him every three hours—one teaspoonful. It’s for the fever.”
The man with the scar came over to stand at the foot of the bed. “Leave something that’ll make him sleep,” he said.
“All right.” The doctor had thought of asking for coffee. But now he was eager to get away. There was that in the manner of his guide whichhe did not like—an anxiety that seemed apart from concern for the sick man.
Soon they were started on the return trip, the doctor blindfolded as before and tied by the wrists to his pommel. As they went he marked as well as he could ascents and descents, abrupt turns, level stretches and rough. Bobby travelled slowly, being tired with all the long miles he had covered since noon; and once or twice he stumbled, jerking at his headline.
The man with the scar cursed him. “Why don’t you ride a mule?” he called back. “A mule’s sure-footed, and he’s got more sense in a minute than a horse’s got in a week.”
“Ain’t nothin’ the matter with this horse’s smartness,” retorted the doctor. “Bobby knows as much as a man.”
“Oh, does he?” said the other with a mirthless laugh. “Well, you’d better look out or I’ll blindfold him, too.”
When the animals were once more brought to a standstill the man with the scar did not dismount, but rode close enough to untie the thongs at the doctor’s pommel and to jerk away the handkerchief.
They were beside the railroad track where the dim road branched east. The man with the scar addressed the doctor sharply. “Doc,” he said, “if you know what’s good for you you’ll just forget all about to-night.” Then: “So long.” But he stayed where he was in the road.
“So long,” returned the doctor. He headed north. When beyond the cemetery he looked round, the mule and its scar-faced rider were gone.
A milk wagon was rumbling through the town as the doctor dismounted at the wide gate which led to Bobby’s stable, and a boy on a bicycle was wheeling from house to house along the street, throwing San Francisco papers of the previous afternoon into each yard. The morning of another day had come.
There was a light still burning, however, in the kitchen of the little flower-covered cottage. And soon Letty came hurrying out. “Have you had any rest?” she asked. “I’ve got some hot coffee ready for you.”
He gave a tender smile. “You’ll make a fine doctor’s wife!” he declared.
“Not if I worry, though. And I have worried—all night.” She tried to smile back at him, but her lips trembled. “Because I didn’t like the looks of the man that came here after you. Where was the case?”
“I’m afraid you’ll worry worse when I tell you,” he answered. “I don’t know where I’ve been.”
“You don’tknow!”
Briefly, over a cup of steaming coffee in the kitchen, he related the happenings of the night just gone. Letty listened, wide-eyed and pale. “How do you figger it out?” he asked her as he concluded his story. “The Blue Top call was funny, but this was worse.”
The next moment she rose to her feet and let her cup and saucer fall with a clatter. “That’s who they are!” she cried. “Why didn’t I think of it before! The whole thing’s out at the mine.” Then she ran from the kitchen into the dining-room and came running back again, a newspaper in one hand.“Read it!” she bade in the wildest excitement. “Oh, read it!”
He took the paper from her. It was the local publication of the day before, and the article she indicated occupied the upper half of the front page. “Laurence Eastman Kidnapped,” read a line that reached from one side of the sheet to the other. Under this, in smaller type, was a subhead: “Outlaws Demand Five Thousand Dollars of Millionaire Father. Threaten to Kill Child if Theft is Made Public.”
The doctor read no further. “That’s what was the matter with Mrs. Eastman,” he said in a low voice. “The boy’s out in that cañon!”
Astounded, each gazed into the face of the other for a moment. “You didn’t hear him?” ventured Letty. “Maybe he was hid in the brush.”
“The shanty was pretty good-sized—lookin’ at it from the outside,” returned the doctor. “Inside, the room was awful small. If that man comes after me again——”
“Don’t go out alone with him,” she pleaded. “Let somebody trail you.”
He shook his head. “He’d find it out and shoot. No, I’ve got to take the chance. Oh, Letty, if I could only bring that little woman her kid!”
Letty’s dark eyes were misty. “You couldn’t telephone her, could you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “So far, everything’s guesswork. I dassent raise her hopes on that. It’s awful when a person’s hopes’re raised—and then go smash. I’ve got to find out where I was. There’s a scheme I heard of once——”
“Is it scattering beans?”
“No.” He laughed and reached across the kitchen table to cover a slim hand with one of his. “No”—more soberly—“it’s something different—it’s about Bobby. You’d have to let me take care of him for a few days and treat him real bad. I won’t tell you what I’d do to him, then it won’t fret you.”
“Take Bobby,” she urged. “But oh, don’t have any trouble out there with that man!” And she grew white and clung to his hand as she had never done before.
He stayed only long enough to reassure her, and went when the sun shone against the kitchen window. He had been twenty-four hours without sleep.
It was an anxious day for Letty. The doctor spent it in work after he had had his rest, and at six o’clock opened his medicine-case to put into it one or two things that had been lacking the previous night. When sundown came and the long, grateful twilight, he paid a visit to Bobby. Then he lighted the lamp in his office and sat down to wait. Dark brought the looked-for summons. The front gate squeaked on its hinges. Heavy steps sounded along the narrow boardwalk leading up to the porch. Next, following a short pause, came a knock.
The doctor opened the door. The man with the scar was in waiting. He kept out of range of the light that fell through the door, but the doctor could see that the face of his visitor was again half hidden by a handkerchief and that the slouch hat was worn low to shadow it.
“My friend’s suffering awful,” he said by way ofgreeting. “All over the place, Doc. I felt almost like putting him out of his misery.”
At once the doctor went for Bobby. An eager whinny hailed the opening of the stable door. But when the little horse was led out of his stall he hung back and all but refused to leave it. “You’ll have some supper out yonder,” promised his rider, and tied a generous feed of oats to the thongs of the big stock saddle.
A slender figure came swiftly across the corral. It was Letty, and she lifted her face to the doctor’s in mute anxiety. He whispered encouragement and bent to kiss her, then rode out to join his waiting guide.
The second trip to the cañon was, in every way, like the first except that it was made more quickly. When the clearing was reached and the doctor’s eyes were unbound he saw that there was no patch of light beyond the low shanty. “Didn’t dare leave a lamp,” explained the man with the scar as he cautiously opened the door. After he had peered in; listening, he entered quietly and struck a match.
The sick man was on the floor, stretched prone. His eyes were wide, but unseeing. His breathing was laboured.
They lifted him gently and laid him on the bed. Then the doctor, coat off, once more began his ministering, while the man with the scar seated himself on a bench by the door and smoked. The doctor paid the other no attention, but apparently gave his whole thought to his patient. Nevertheless, as he worked he kept on the alert for sounds, and, whenhis back was turned toward his guard, examined the wall against which stood the head of the bed.
He noticed that which made him certain that the shanty had a second, if a very small, room. Two of the upright foot-wide boards of the wall had been sawed across at a height of six feet from the floor. A few moments later he purposely dropped the cork of a bottle. As he stooped to feel about for it he gave a quick look at the lower ends of the sawed boards. Unlike the others in the wall, they cleared the floor by half an inch. It was probable that they formed a narrow, blind door; that the wall itself was a partition. He determined to be certain about it. “Fetch me some right cold water,” he said to the man with the scar.
For a moment the other remained seated and made no answer. Then, “All right,” he said reluctantly and, picking up a square kerosene can that had been fitted with a handle, went out.
The doctor waited, his eyes on his patient, his ears strained for the sound of vanishing footsteps. He heard none. The other was doubtless just outside, watching. The doctor walked to the table, took a square of prepared plaster from his case and, having turned the light down a little, laid the plaster upon the top of the globe.
The light went out. He stepped swiftly to the head of the bed and put a hand against the blind door. It swung inward a foot or more, then back into place again.
“Here!” The threatening voice was at the outside door, which opened and closed with a bang. “What’re you trying to do?”
The doctor took one long stride in the direction of the speaker. “Got a match?” he inquired innocently. “That blamed lamp went out.”
The other muttered and struck a match. When its light flashed the doctor was standing beside the table, the square of plaster in one hand.
“You ’tend to business!” warned the man with the scar. His thin lips were parted in a snarl.
“Now, look-a-here,” returned the doctor; “I’ve stood all the abuse I’m goin’ to. There ain’t another physician in this county that would a-came out here a second time with his eyes blinded and his hands tied—not if you hadtenfriends dyin’. And I expect you to show me decent treatment.” He leaned forward across the table and looked the other man squarely in the face.
“Last night you wanted hot water. To-night you want cold.”
“Wal, excuse me, but I’m the best judge of what the sick gent needs. If I ain’t, why the dickens do you come after me?”
For the space of a minute they stood in silence, face to face. Then, as if partly convinced, the man with the scar once more took up his oil can. When his quick, shuffling steps had died away the doctor tried another plan. He stooped over the sick man until his lips were close to the crack that ran down the full length of the blind door, and began to speak the name that the grief-crazed mother at the mine had spoken: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”
He listened. There was no sound within or without. He spoke again, louder: “Laurie!”
First, a movement beyond the partition—a soft,rustling, creeping movement. Then, close to the wall, a little, weak, long-drawn sob!
The doctor straightened, his heart pounding so furiously that it hurt him, his face hot with the joy of his discovery. Smiling, he glanced down.
He looked into a pair of startled eyes that were staring up at him. “Who are you?” came the husky demand, and the sick man suddenly lifted himself to an elbow, almost as if he were about to leap from the bed.
The doctor could only stare back. The man was conscious. Had he heard him? What was to be done?
Before he could frame any course of action the man with the scar entered.
“Your friend’s lots better,” announced the doctor, turning toward the door. “Come and see.”
“That so?” The other crossed to the foot of the bed.
“Nick,” began the sick man, speaking with great effort, “don’t you trust anybody. You get out of here. Do you understand? Never mind me. I’m going to die. Look at my nails.” He put out a trembling hand.
“Don’t you worry,” answered the man with the scar. “The Doc came in blindfolded.”
“You’re taking chances,” persisted the younger man. “Go—just—leave me—water, and—a gun.” He sank back.
“You got to keep more quiet,” said the doctor. “Here.” He lifted a cup to the dry lips.
When he left the bedside the man with the scar followed and leaned close. “Bill’s going to die,” he said in a low voice. “Look at his nails.”
Instead, the doctor looked at the speaker. There was a sinister light in those little, alert eyes; a cruel twist to the thin mouth. And the whole expression of the scarred face bespoke a sudden determination—a fiendish determination. Bill was past saving. Soon the cabin would be left behind. And the doctor—why let him go back to the town?
“He’s going to die,” repeated the man with the scar. “And you know it.”
“My friend,” answered the doctor, “I’ll tell you the truth. He ain’t got more’n one chance in a hunderd—and that’s a pretty slim one. If he ain’t better to-morrow I’ve got to operate.” He sat down.
The man with the scar sat down in front of him. The table was between them. He leaned his arms on it. “Don’t take me for a fool,” he advised.
The doctor folded his arms. “Now, look a-here,” he retorted, smiling; “don’t takemefor a fool. I know what’s the matter with you.”
At that the man with the scar rose so suddenly that his bench tipped backward.
“Yas,” the doctor went on. “I know why you brung me here blindfolded and what you’re hidin’.”
The right hand of the man with the scar stole to his hip.
The doctor ignored the action. He went on speaking with clear directness: “You two fellers’ve located a gold mine. And you’ve got the crazy idea that I’m a-goin’ to bring out a bunch of locators. Wal, git over it. I’m not a prospector: I’m a doc.”
The hand on the weapon rested quiet. The man with the scar drew a gasping breath. Then longand keenly he studied the face of the doctor. After a time he dropped his arm, picked up his bench and reseated himself.
Some little time passed. The doctor smoked and nursed a knee. Once he got up to take the pulse of his patient and again to mark the temperature. But his every movement was leisurely, and he showed no wish to leave. The man with the scar sat, leaning on the table, apparently lost in thought.
All at once he rose. “Well, come on,” he said.
Again the doctor examined the sick man. “This’ll be a bad day for your friend,” he explained. “I’m leavin’ something to chase the pain.”
When they were ready to mount the other addressed him harshly. “Doc,” he said, “if you and me run into anybody on our way back it’ll be you that gets my first shot.”
“That’s a bargain,” answered the doctor good-naturedly.
But, riding out of the cañon, he felt far from confident. The previous night his guide had led briskly. Now the mule was lagging. The doctor found himself moving his body forward in his saddle to urge Bobby on. They had gone only a small part of the way homeward when the mule came to a stop. Bobby halted, too, and the doctor waited like a man who expects a blow in the dark. He listened. The other did not dismount. There was no audible movement ahead. But he felt that sinister face turned upon him.
“Say, that friend of your’n has got a wonderful constitution,” he remarked.
There was a short interval of silence. It seemedmany minutes to the doctor. Then, “Get up!” said the voice ahead.
Letty was waiting for him when he turned in at the corral gate, though it was long past midnight. He had been under a severe strain, but she had been under a greater. He saw that when he lifted the lantern she brought him and looked into her face.
“Good news,” he told her, speaking low. “The baby’s there.”
Five minutes later he was back in his office once more and had Blue Top on the telephone. “Come,” was his message. “I’ve got a clue, Mr. Eastman. But don’t bring nobody with you.”
It seemed to him that he had only just lain down to rest when he was up again, admitting Eastman, who had come as quick as a horse could carry him. The father was more dishevelled than ever; and on his haggard, unshaven face stood out the sweat of effort and anxiety. Three days of agony had aged him.
“Oh, my boy!” were his first words.
“I know where he is, but I don’t know how to git there,” said the doctor. Briefly he explained.
Eastman, half distracted, paced the floor as he listened. “Oh, tell me what to do,” he cried when the doctor had finished. “My wife—it’s killing her.”
“The medicine I left’ll keep the sick feller up till this evenin’.”
“I’ll follow you to-night, then. Oh, I must! I must! The boy’ll need me. They dragged him over all those miles. Think of it! And wore out his poor little legs.”
“We’ve got to go about this thing mighty careful,” warned the doctor. “You trail me and somebody’ll be shot. Mebbe it’ll be me, mebbe it’ll be your baby.”
The father halted before the younger man. “But how can you help him,” he demanded, “with your hands tied?”
“Wal, I’ve thought of a scheme. The man that come after me searched me for a pistol both nights. But he’s never looked into the oat-bag. So, I’ll put a gun in that bag, and when I stand up from feedin’ Bobby I’ll have the drop on him.”
“He may get you first. Then what? Oh, I’ll never see my boy again!”
“Wal, if you can think of a better way, go ahead.”
But at the end of an hour Eastman agreed with the doctor that there was no better plan. “All right,” he said, “—all right—I’ll trust to you. Now I must telephone my wife that there’s hope.”
When the doctor awoke early that afternoon it was to learn that Mrs. Eastman had arrived and was at the hotel. Eastman himself called the doctor up to announce her coming and the latter asked the parents to remain secluded during the remainder of the day.
There was reason to believe that the kidnappers might have a confederate on watch in the town.
But Eastman had no thought beyond the finding of his child. “Suppose that sick man died to-day,” he said. “Won’t the other man leave and take Laurie with him? Doctor, I think I ought to start fifty men out on a search.”
The doctor opposed the suggestion. “Take myadvice,” he urged kindly. “Tell Mrs. Eastman to be brave.”
Eastman only groaned and hung up. But later on he telephoned again and again, always with some fresh idea that was filling the heart of the waiting mother with forebodings.
Letty telephoned, too. “Don’t go alone to-night,” she begged. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I got to, Letty,” he declared. “If Eastman starts men out, which way’ll they go? It might take ’em a week to find that shanty.”
Night settled early, for long before twilight the sky became heavily overcast and a wind rose, sweeping the dust up in clouds as it drove through the town, and auguring a rainstorm. The doctor placed a light in his office, then took his station at a window in an unlighted front room.
The minutes dragged. Eight o’clock struck, and nine.
“Mebbe that sick feller did die,” he said to Letty over the telephone. “But——”
He hung up the receiver abruptly. There was a sound of galloping in the street. It ceased at the gate, when heavy steps came hurrying to his porch. It was the man with the scar.
“Doc,” he began, panting with his hard ride, “you said you’d operate——”
“Ready in a jiffy,” answered the doctor, and turned away to pick up hat and case.
The next instant there was a choking cry from the porch, then loud curses and the sound of fierce scuffling. The doctor whirled.
The man with the scar was flat on his back atthe threshold, his wrists manacled, his shins ironed; over him stood a smooth-shaven, thick-set, middle-aged man armed with a revolver—the man who had halted the doctor on the Blue Top road; and Eastman was there.
“He stole my boy!” the father called out furiously. “I’m going to kill him!” He flung himself forward.
The man with the revolver pushed him back. And, “No! No!” expostulated the doctor. “Eastman! You’re makin’ a mistake!”
The prisoner gave a loud, hard laugh. “You bet your life he’s making a mistake!” he declared.
“We got you just the same,” said the man with the revolver triumphantly.
“Put him on a horse,” ordered Eastman, maddened more than ever by the taunting laugh. “He’ll take me to my boy or I’ll kill him.”
The captured man ignored the father. His look was on the doctor, and it was full of hate. “Ah, h—l!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “I could kick myself! Last night I had my finger on the trigger. But like a fool——”
Eastman was sobbing in baffled rage. “My baby!” he cried. “Four days with this brute! Think of it!”
“No more monkey business.” The man with the revolver was speaking, and he gave his prisoner a rough poke in the side with his boot. “You’re in the hands of the Sheriff, and you’re going to take us out to that cañon. We start right off.”
“No, we don’t,” was the answer. “You’ve trapped me, the three of you. Send me up if you can. My word’s as good as this doctor’s, and Idon’t have to take you anywhere to hunt for evidence against me.”
“Get up,” commanded the sheriff. He unbuckled the irons from his prisoner’s legs.
The man with the scar rose. “Nobody’ll ever find that cabin or what’s in it,” he said doggedly. “And when Bill dies——”
“Oh, my God!” It was the father.
The doctor was leaning in the doorway. “What’d you do this for, Mr. Eastman?” he asked.
The tears were streaming down Eastman’s face. “We thought the Sheriff ought to come,” he faltered. “The boy’s mother is frantic. And this seemed the surest way.” The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve lost our best chance,” he said.
“See here, Doc,” broke in the sheriff. “I made the capture. And I want you to understand when we find the boy I’m entitled to the reward.”
The other turned astonished eyes upon him. “Reward?” he repeated.
“You mean to say you didn’t know there’s five thousand offered?”
“So that’s why you done this,” said the doctor, and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, I’ve heerd tell of fellers that put their foot in it. You’ve got your’n in plumb to the knee.”
“I’ll come out all right,” retorted the sheriff boastfully. “I’ll send for dogs. There’s three in Sacramento. I can have ’em here in eighteen hours.”
“If I don’t git to Bill,” said the doctor, “he’ll be dead before that.” He looked at the man with the scar.
“Eighteen hours!” repeated Eastman miserably.
Now the sheriff advanced upon his prisoner. “You’re going to take me to that cabin,” he said threateningly. “You don’t think so now, but I can make you change your mind. Come along.” He seized his prisoner by a shackled arm and jerked him toward the gate.
Eastman started after the two, pleading incoherently. But half-way to the gate he stopped. A girl blocked the walk. It was Letty.
“Depend on the doctor,” she said. “He took his life in his hands to find the boy. He was going to risk it again to bring him to you. And he didn’t even know there was a reward.”
Eastman turned and went stumbling back.
“But he doesn’t know the way,” he protested. “He said he didn’t.”
In answer, the doctor took his arm and led him down the street to the wide gate opening into Bobby’s corral. “I’ll have a horse here for you in a minute,” he said. “I’ll ride this one. You see, there’s another scheme. But it really don’t depend on me—it depends on this little bronc.”
When Bobby was saddled and bridled Letty put her cheek against his soft nose. “Do your best,” she whispered; and to his rider: “Don’t fail.”
The doctor took both her hands in his. “I’m a-goin’ to make it,” he declared. “Stay with the boy’s maw, little gal, till we come.”
Bobby was eager to be off, pawing as the doctor mounted and backing in a circle when his rider held him in to wait for Eastman. The reins loosened, the little horse sprang forward at a brisk canter, leading the way out of town.
It was at the forks of the road that the first halt was made. Here the doctor, having first tied the bridle reins to his pommel assumed the exact position in the saddle that he had twice been compelled to take, and laid his hands on his saddle-horn.
“Now, Bobby,” he said, touching the mustang gently with his heels, “here we are. Go on.”
Bobby moved forward, but hesitatingly, and, when he had gone a few steps, stopped, looking about him.
Again the doctor urged him kindly. “Want your supper, Bobby? Come, now.”
The little horse made forward at a brisk walk then, travelling straight south along the road that followed the track. Presently, however, he turned sharply to the right and entered the brush.
“Do you think he’s going right?” called out Eastman anxiously.
“Wal,” answered the doctor, “he acts like he means business. You see, for two days I ain’t give him a bite to eat except when he was out yonder in that cañon.”
Bobby was taking a westward course that was almost at right angles to the road he had just come down. He wound through scrubby liveoaks and bristling chaparral, evidently along no path. Behind him the other horse had to be urged constantly, for the undergrowth was heavy and hung across the way. But soon the brush parted to leave a straight, open track, so narrow, however, that it seemed only a path. The doctor got down and lit a match. They were on a trail that showed recent use. Upon it, stamped plainly in the dust, were the round, eastward-pointing hoofprints of a mule.
“Are we right?” asked Eastman.
“So far.”
Now both horses were pushed to a canter—until the path grew rough and steep. The doctor recognised this descent and listened for the sound of the rushing stream he had crossed both times under the guidance of the man with the scar. When the stream was washing the hoofs of their horses the doctor reached out to lay a hand on Eastman’s shoulder.
“My friend, we’re half-way!”
Eastman would have pressed ahead then, but the doctor would not permit it.
“Leave it to Bobby,” was his counsel. “Mr. Nick didn’t blindfold Bobby.”
The path ascended the long slope of a hogback. Pine needles covered the slope, and though the doctor dismounted a half-dozen times no path could be seen. But each time, as he stepped into the saddle again, the little horse went forward eagerly.
The hogback ended abruptly. Bobby turned to the left. The trip had seemed so short that now, as the doctor looked into the darkness below him, he could scarcely credit his senses.
“Eastman,” he said. “See below there!”
It was a spot of light.
From then on it was a wild ride. The horses did not leave the steep path; but they stumbled, slid or scrambled for a footing down the whole of the black descent. The doctor kept his eyes on the light. Eastman, divided between joy and fear, shouted out frenziedly toward the nearing shanty.
At the edge of the clearing both men flung themselves out of their saddles, then ran. Eastman led.And as he entered the low door he still hoarsely called: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”
A faint cry answered. It came from beyond the bed, on which lay a quiet form. The doctor reached to shove at the boards forming the blind door. They gave, disclosing a small inner room.
The next moment a little figure in soiled rompers came out of the darkness of the room, toddling unsteadily on bare legs, for the baby stockings were down over worn sandals. Fair hair hung uncombed about a face that was pitifully thin and streaked by tears and dust. The doctor lifted the boy up and swung him out, and the father spread his arms to receive him and caught the child to his breast.
The doctor laid back the rumpled covers of the bed then. “Bill,” he said kindly, and began to unbuckle the strap of his case.
“So that’s the other one.” It was Eastman, on his knees, the child clasped tight.
The doctor laid back the bedcovers very gently. “Itwasthe other one,” he answered.
Midnight, and the lost boy was in his mother’s arms, with Eastman hovering beside the two, and the doctor across from him, sitting on his heels, with a baby hand in his big, gentle grasp.
“Doctor, we’ll never be able to make it up to you,” said the father. “I don’t feel that the reward is half enough. But I want you to accept it with our lifelong gratitude.” They were in Mrs. Eastman’s sitting-room at the hotel. Her husband crossed to a desk.
The doctor stood up, colouring bashfully. “Aw, I can’t take money for findin’ the little feller,” heprotested; and when Eastman came back, holding out a slip of paper to him, he shook his head decidedly. “No, sir, I just can’t,” he declared. Letty entered then, carrying a tray hidden under a napkin. He hastened across the room to take it from her.
“We’ll see about this later on,” answered Eastman. “You must accept it. And there’s another thing I want to offer. You know, Doctor Fowler’s been up from San Francisco to look over the Blue Top position. But he won’t suit. Do you think he’s been worrying about the finding of my boy? Not a bit of it. He’s been worrying for fear the bungalow wouldn’t be big enough to please his wife. There’s one thing I didn’t realise the other day, Doc. What we need is a physician that doesn’t put on so much style—the kind of a man that can meet any emergency, you understand—take a horse over a trail if it’s necessary.”
“Yas?” returned the doctor. The tray was still in his hands. And now it began to tremble so that there was a faint clink of glass. He stood looking down at it.
“In fact,” went on Eastman, “we need a doctor like you at the mine.”
The doctor raised his eyes to the girl standing at Mrs. Eastman’s side. And he saw that there was a look of great happiness on her face, like the happiness on the face of the young mother.
“Blue Top!” he said. Then: “Letty, doyouthink the little shingled house is too small?”