The Clayton party had now stepped from the surrey, and removed from it the seats, blankets, and provisions. The two men returned to the canyon to gather dry driftwood for their fire for the night.
During the ride of the afternoon, as the company had wound around the foothills, they had seen great herds of cattle, thousands of cattle, on the hills and mesas. But now, Esther was to see with her own eyes, the great event of life on the range. This vast out-of-doors was all so novel to her, so intensely interesting! She stood and drew in great breaths of air. Her eyes darkened. The pupils of her eyes had a way of dilating whenever she felt deeply.
Although the cowboys and cowlasses had told Esther much about the round-ups, she felt quite ignorant of the whole matter. They had explained to her about the free range, how it was divided into imaginary sections, and how the "boss" cattleman would send groups of cow-punchers to each of these various sections to look after the cattle.
John Clayton and Kenneth Hastings returned from the canyon, bringing a can of water, and dry driftwood. They at once began to build their bonfire, and to prepare their evening meal. As they worked, they talked.
"If you watch from here," suggested Kenneth, "you'll see the close of the round-up, comfortably."
"What do they mean by 'cutting out' the cattle?" asked Esther.
"Don't you know that yet?" laughed John Clayton. "That is cowboy slang. As the cow-punchers approach (cow-punchers are cowboys, you know—)"
"Yes, I know that much."
"Well, as they approach you will see them weaving in and out among the cattle, lashing some with their quirts, and driving them out from the mass of cattle. This is called 'cutting out.' The cattle of different owners all run together on the range until time for the round-ups."
"How often do they have these?" she asked.
"There are two general round-ups, spring and fall; and others, when necessary for extra shipments of cattle."
"How can they tell which belongs to which?"
"By the brand," explained Kenneth. "Each cattle owner brands every one of his cattle with a certain mark, which determines whose property the animal is."
The two women now placed cushions on the carriage seats, and sat down to watch the close of the round-up.
The sunset was one of unusual splendor, the glory of color falling over the mesa, and the mountain peaks that loomed up far away. As they watched the sky, they spied a cloud of dust in the distance.
"At last the cattle are coming!" exclaimed Mrs. Clayton.
The dust cloud grew, coming nearer and nearer. It had a fascination for Esther. While they were speculating as to the probable number of cattle, and the cowboys and cowlasses who might be with them, Kenneth Hastings and John Clayton sauntered over to the mess wagon to await the closing scene. From that point, the men watched; and from their location, the women watched the on-coming herds. The dust cloud grew larger. The great mass of struggling cattle came steadily on. After a while, cowboys could be seen, and whirling of ropes. Nearer and nearer they came, the cowboys dealing stinging blows with their quirts. The bellowing of cattle, the cursing of men, and the choking fog of dust, all mingled together, came to the two women, who watched from a safe distance. In their intense interest, they forgot that the supper hour was long past, and watched. They saw cow-punchers, weaving in and out among the cattle, whirling ropes, and yelling, and cursing by turns, until each cowboy had separated the cattle in his charge from the others. It was an enormous task. The men were still cursing and lashing, when the last soft color of the afterglow faded from the sky.
When the work of the round-up was finally over, and the men were free for the night, Esther heard the cook call out to them:
"Grub's ready! Cut out y'r talkin'!" adding profanity, as if to whet the appetites of the hungry men. Then the cowboys, dirt begrimed, fell to, and were soon eating with a relish that would have made dyspeptics green with envy.
Slowly, John Clayton and Kenneth Hastings sauntered back, finding their own repast ready for them. They, too, had found a keen edge to their appetite. Esther even went so far as to suggest that they might have done well to have accepted the Apache's fish.
"Whom do you suppose we found over there?" asked Mr. Clayton.
"Our boys," suggested Esther.
"Yes, several who have been at the club and at the meetings. They know you are here, Miss Bright. Let's see what they'll do."
Before the meal was over, the stars began to appear in the heavens. John Clayton threw great quantities of driftwood on the bonfire, and in a few moments, the flames were licking the logs.
The voices of the cow-punchers came to them now and then, but the profanity had ceased. Suddenly, singing was heard. They listened. The cowboys were singing, "There were ninety and nine."
From the singing, it was evident that the men were approaching the Clayton camp. In a moment more, they were there.
Would they be seated? John Clayton had asked. So, around the camp fire they grouped, their faces and forms indistinct in the flickering light. They made a weird and picturesque group against the darkness of the night.
"An' phwat do yez think now of a round-up?" asked Mike Maloney, of night school celebrity. Mike had been the star pupil in arithmetic.
"Splendid!" said Esther, with contagious enthusiasm. "To see that host of cattle approach, the ropes swinging, the horses rearing and plunging, and the magnificent setting of the mountains at sunset,—why, it was glorious!"
The men grinned their delight.
Bill Weeks then grew eloquent about cattle.
"We come across a herd o' antelopes to-day," interrupted another.
Bill Weeks returned again to his favorite theme. Cattle were his life. In the midst of a dissertation on their good points, he was again interrupted with:
"Oh, cut that out! Ye kin talk cattle any old day. We wants ter hear Miss Bright sing."
"Yes, sing," all clamored. "Do sing!"
"What shall I sing?"
"'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" one suggested.
But they were not satisfied with one song, and called loudly for another. Then she sang, "Flee as a bird to Your Mountain."
Esther Bright, as she stood and sang that night, was a picture one could never forget.
Then around the crackling fire, story after story was told. The fire burned low. The dome above sparkled with myriads of stars. At last the cowboys rose, and returned to their camp.
"Now we'll heap up the fire for the night, Kenneth," said John Clayton, "and arrange our shakedowns."
"'Shakedowns,' John?" said his wife. "You don't call a blanket and cushion on a mesa a shakedown, do you?"
"Why not?"
Then the two men withdrew to the farther side of the fire. The women crawled into their blankets, and soon felt the warmth of the still heated earth upon which they lay.
"Good night!" called the men's voices, and "Good night!" returned the women. Then silence brooded over the camp.
For the first time in her life, Esther was bedded on the ground. Her face was turned upward, her eyes, fixed upon the starry deeps. Hour after hour went by. The regular breathing of her fellow-travelers assured her that all were asleep. She could not sleep.
The marvelous scene above her grew upon her. She lay still, looking, looking into the infinite, that infinite around her, above her, beyond and beyond forever, who knows whither?
The air, at first dark about her, grew into a weird, wonderful light. The dome grew vaster and vaster; and, with the marvelous expansion, she began to realize stars. They seemed to move from their solid ebon background, and to float in space.
Stars! What do stars mean to the ordinary human? Just stars that come and go as a matter of course; just as men eat and drink, buy and sell, live and die. I say Esther Bright began to realize stars. I do not mean by that that she was unfamiliar with certain astronomical facts all intelligent people are supposed to know. Far from it. She knew much of mathematical astronomy. It had a fascination for her. But she had not realized stars, felt stars, as she was to realize them this night. All the world was shut out from her vision, save that marvelous dome of sky, alight with myriads and myriads of stars, from zenith to horizon. She recalled Milton's description of the floor of heaven, and reveled in the thought. She gazed on one tremulous star, till it seemed a soul in space, beckoning to her to join it, in the company of the glorified. Her vision intensified. Into the Milky Way she gazed, till it seemed to her the pathway up to God. God! What was God?
Then the stillness grew till it seemed the Infinite Presence. The stars, she was sure, made a shining pathway straight to her. Across the pathway, flashed shooting stars. She saw it all so clearly. Then the vast space, up to the shadowy shores of the Infinite Sea, filled with a strange, unearthly light. God! Was this God? Then she must be on holy ground! She felt herself lifted into the Everlasting Arms. The wind rose and whispered softly. And Esther Bright slept. Who shall say she did not sleep close to the very heart of God?
While the Clayton party were journeying from Clifton, John Harding was on guard, vigilant, watchful. In the Post Office that morning, he chanced to hear some one repeat a boast Lord Kelwin had made in regard to Carla Earle, whom he had heretofore treated with patronizing condescension.
John Harding returned to Clayton Ranch, and invented excuses to be about the house, saying, as he went off to do some chores, that if they needed him, just to call him, adding that he'd be within hearing.
Carla and Edith joked a little about his solicitude, and went about their daily tasks, planning surprises for the hungry company, on their return that night. Carla seemed happier this day than usual, and began to make a soft music in her throat like the warbling of a bird. She had been alone in the room for some time, when she heard a step. She stopped warbling when she recognized the voice of Lord Kelwin, whom she instinctively feared.
He had entered the house unannounced, and now walked into the dining room.
"Aha, my beauty!" he said, stepping toward her. "Aha, my bird! Caught at last!"
She saw that he was intoxicated.
"So you are alone at last, bird."
He flung himself between her and the door. Something in his face filled her with disgust and alarm. He kept coming towards her, uttering words of insolent familiarity, and she kept backing away. Finally he lunged forward, grasped her by the arm, and tried to hold her. Evidently, he had not counted on opposition from her; and when he found his will thwarted, all the beast in him seemed roused. He struck her in the mouth, calling her vile names as he did so. In an instant, her shrieks of terror went ringing through the house. They brought Edith, in sudden alarm, and John Harding. The latter, recognizing the situation at a glance, sprang forward, and clutched the Irishman by the throat.
"Let her go," he said, "you blankety blanked coward. Let her go, I say!" As he spoke, he gripped Kelwin's throat tightly, shaking him as if he were a rat. Then he grew dangerously white.
The visitor, enraged at this unexpected interference, grew violent. He turned upon Jack Harding, and drew his gun; but Jack, sober and alert, knocked the gun from his hand; and, closing with him, dealt terrific blows in his face. All the brute in the drunken man roused. The sober man had the advantage. The struggle lasted but a few moments, though it seemed an eternity to the frightened girls. Finally, Jack Harding placed his knees on Kelwin's chest and arms, his hand on his throat, choking him until he gasped for mercy. Then the cowboy let him rise. As soon as he was free, he began to curse Carla Earle. Jack Harding promptly knocked him down. Partly sobered, the man rose, and staggered from the room.
Carla stood trembling, her face white with fear.
Harding saw her distress, and said with unusual gentleness:
"Don't ye care, Miss Carla. 'Tain't so, anyway. He lied. He'll pay for it."
"Oh, don't meddle with him, I beg you," she said with sudden alarm. "He might shoot you."
"Shoot? Let him. But he can't insult any decent woman, while I'm near to protect her. Mark that."
Carla turned to resume her duties, but fell in a limp heap on the floor. Then Edith and Jack Harding worked to bring her to. At last her eyes opened. She looked around, dazed, bewildered. When she realized what had happened, she asked:
"Has that dreadful man gone?"
On being assured that he was at a safe distance, she tried to rise, but her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor again.
So Jack and Edith prepared the evening meal, and waited. At last they heard the sound of the returning carriage, and, a few moments later, welcomed the party at the gate.
When John Clayton heard what had happened, he seemed dumfounded.
"How dared he? How dared he?" he repeated, indignantly.
But Kenneth's mouth set hard, and it did not augur well for Lord Kelwin.
For one thing, all were thankful during the ensuing weeks,—the Irish nobleman no longer came to Clayton Ranch, socially, or otherwise. He managed to keep himself in the background, and was seldom heard of save as he figured in some drunken brawl. But Jack Harding, who understood him best of all, and who knew the venom of his tongue, hounded him day by day. And there grew up in Lord Kelwin's mind a deepening fear and hate of Jack Harding.
Miles and miles of desert country, sometimes a dull red, sometimes almost yellow of hue; over that a dome of bluest blue; between the two, air, crystalline, and full of light; and everywhere, scattered with reckless profusion, from Nature's lavish hand, the splendor of cactus blossoms. That is Arizona in June. And in this glory of color, one June day, walked Mrs. Clayton and Esther Bright, returning from a round of neighborhood calls.
As they approached Clayton Ranch, they paused to admire the cactus blossoms. The giant cactus, towering above the house, was now covered with a profusion of exquisite blossoms of deepest pink. Red blossoms, pink blossoms, white blossoms, yellow blossoms everywhere, but guarded by thousands of thorns and spines. Esther stopped and picked some yellow blossoms from the prickly pear, only to find her fingers stinging from its minute spines.
"It serves me right," she said, making a wry face. "I knew better, but I love the blossoms."
"Good evening," called a cheery voice from the veranda. It was Mr. Clayton.
"Kenneth called to see you, Miss Bright," he continued. "He would like you to go for a drive with him this evening."
"He didn't say."
The two women entered the house, and soon returned refreshed. On the spacious veranda, the family gathered in the cool of the day, to feast their eyes on the gorgeous sunsets.
"Do you know," said Esther, "it refreshes me whenever I look at snow-capped Mt. Graham?"
She looked far away to the south. "I shall miss it all," she said, pensively, "all the grandeur of scene, miss all of you here, miss my dear children, when I go home."
"Oh, I hate to think of your going," said Edith, lifting the teacher's hand to her cheek. "I'm afraid you won't come back."
"What's that I hear about not coming back?" asked Kenneth Hastings, who, at that moment, joined them.
"I said I was afraid Miss Bright wouldn't come back," explained Edith.
"I hope you are not thinking of going East soon," said Kenneth quietly.
When she announced that she should, he protested vigorously.
That evening, Esther rode with him through beautiful mountain scenes. The heavens were still colored with the soft afterglow, as they sped along the upland road. Later, the moon rose, flooding the earth with its weird, transfiguring light.
Once more, Kenneth told Esther his past. He wanted her to know all there was to know, he said simply.
Then he poured into her ears the old, old story, sweetest story ever told, when love speaks and love listens. But Esther's eyes were haunted by a sudden fear.
Kenneth paused, and waited for her to speak.
Then, with a tightening of the lips, he listened to her answer.
She had not thought of love and marriage. She had naturally grown into thinking that she would devote herself to philanthropic work, as her grandfather, before her, had done.
"Yes," Kenneth said; "but your grandfather married; and his children married, and you, I take it, are the joy of his life. Suppose he had not married. Would his philanthropic work have been greater?"
Then there was more talk, that seemed to give pain to both, for Esther said:
"I will go soon, and not return; for my presence here would only make you unhappy."
"No," he urged, "return to Gila.
"You say you regard marriage as very solemn. So do I. You say you would feel it wrong to marry one you did not love. So should I."
"I have been candid with you," she said in evident distress. To which he responded bitterly:
"You think me a godless wretch. Well, I guess I am. But I had begun to grope after God, and stumbled in my darkness. I have been beset with tormenting doubts. The idea of God is so vast I cannot grasp even a fraction of it. You are right. I am godless."
"No, no, not godless," she said. "Jesus of Nazareth, what of Him?"
"I am coming to look upon him as a brother. I could have loved him profoundly, had I known him when he was on earth. But it all seems so far away in the past. To tell the truth, I have read the Bible very little."
"Read it," she urged.
"I should feel all the time that religion had placed a great gulf between you and me, and hate it in consequence. Ought religion to place a gulf between human souls?"
"The lack of religion might." Silence followed. Then she continued, "If I loved you, loved you deeply enough, that would sweep away all obstacles."
"And perhaps," he added, "if I had always lived up to the highest ideals of life, I might now be worthy of you. I am unworthy, I confess it."
"Oh, don't put it that way," she said in distress. "Let it be that I am not worthy of the love you offer me, not capable of loving enough to—to—marry."
"Miss Bright, you are capable of loving, as few women are. It is my misfortune that I have not won your love. I need you to help me live my highest and best. All these months, because of your unconscious influence, I have been learning to see myself as I am, and as I might be. For the first time in my life, I have come in contact with a deeply religious soul, and have felt myself struggling towards the light. I have wrestled with doubt, again and again, bewildered. You teach us that the founder of the Christian religion had compassion on sinful men."
"Yes."
"But you have no compassion on me."
"You misunderstand," she said. "You see it sometimes happens that there is little real happiness, real union, where the wife is a believer in God, and the husband seeks—"
"The devil," supplemented Kenneth. "I confess I have followed the devil to some extent."
"Don't," she said. "It hurts me to the heart to hear you speak so. I meant to say if he had no sympathy with her spiritual life."
"If I were a professing Christian, do you think you would care more for me?"
"I might."
"Suppose I pretended to be a Christian. Many make that pretense, and are accounted the real thing."
"Dear Mr. Hastings, let me be a sincere and loyal friend to you, no more. Some day, I hope, you will win, in marriage, some rare woman who will make you happy."
"Some rare woman? You are that one, Miss Bright. I want no other."
"But you mustn't think of me, Mr. Hastings."
"Do you know what you are, Miss Bright? You are an iceberg."
She laughed.
"That's fortunate. You will not long care for an iceberg. I will go soon, and you will forget me."
He turned upon her.
"Forget you? Do you really wish me to forget you?" Did she? She wondered.
"No," she answered. Then over her face, lifted in the moonlight, he saw the color come.
Their talk drifted to many subjects touching the life in Gila, and the larger world outside, to which she was soon to return.
"Will you write to me?" he asked.
"That would make it harder for you to forget," she said, naïvely.
"I do not wish to forget," he said gloomily. "Why should I forget the happiest hours I have ever spent?" Why should he?
Back at Clayton Ranch, an older pair of lovers, married lovers, walked up and down the veranda in the moonlight.
"John," a soft voice was saying, "I just hope Kenneth will propose to Miss Bright to-night."
He laughed.
"You women! Always interested in a love story! How do you know Kenneth hasn't proposed to her already?"
"I don't believe he has."
Another silence.
"John?"
"Yes, Mary."
"Does Miss Bright know what a vast fortune Kenneth has inherited?"
"No. Not unless you have told her. He does not wish her to know."
"But, John, that might influence Miss Bright's decision. You know these Americans care a great deal for money."
"For shame, Mary, to think such a thing of her! Perhaps you do not know that her grandfather is a man of affluence. But he believes in the simple life, and lives it. She belongs to a fine old family, people of distinction, and wealth."
"Is that true, John? She never told me. How can she work like a galley slave here?"
"Because she is a great woman." Silence again.
"With her mind, and heart, and passion for service, and Kenneth's intellect, and force of character, and vast wealth, they might be a tremendous force for the progress of the human race."
"Can't you help matters on, John? I'm so afraid Miss Bright will reject Kenneth, and leave us."
"Well, if she does, I shall be sorry. But we must keep hands off."
On the following day, John Clayton was astounded to hear from Esther that she would not return as she had half promised to do in the fall.
But Esther offered no explanations; and Kenneth's calls, from that day, grew less frequent.
So the days passed, and two lives drifted apart.
At the close of the religious service, the following day, Esther learned of many cases of sickness, in and about Gila, and especially along the water courses. A sort of a fever, the people told her. She resolved to make neighborhood calls the following day, and to take with her a case of medicine. She found many people sick with what seemed to be the same malady; and, thereupon, began a thorough investigation. The result was that she persuaded the people to let her call a physician.
On the following day, Dr. Mishell drove into camp, and Esther made the rounds with him. As she suspected, the malady proved to be typhoid fever.
"These people must have intelligent care," the physician said gruffly to her. "Do you know anything about nursing?"
She told him she had nursed two patients through typhoid fever.
"You know how to take respiration and temperature, then?" he said brusquely.
She assured him she did.
Then he wrote out directions for each patient, especially noting what to do, if certain conditions should arise.
"You know the importance of sponging patients?" he asked shortly.
"Yes."
"Any alcohol?"
"I can get it."
And so Esther Bright was installed head nurse in Gila. Helpers rallied to her aid.
School was dismissed at an early hour each day, so that Esther could make the rounds daily.
The heat grew almost intolerable, but the delicate girl went on her way as if made of iron. Dr. Mishell looked her over with a nod of approval.
"A woman of sense," he said, in speaking of her to Kenneth Hastings.
The physician came again in three days, only to find many new cases. Esther Bright's task was becoming enormous.
"Can you do it?" the physician had asked. And quietly she had answered:
"I can do it as long as anyone needs my care."
Again the physician nodded approvingly, and muttered:
"Some women do have some sense."
When this second visit drew to a close, he looked sharply at Esther, and said in a crusty tone:
"You are working too hard."
She protested.
"I say you are!" he reiterated. "I'm going to find someone to come help you. Mr. Clayton wishes it. Are you a Catholic?"
"No, a Quaker."
"Quaker! Quaker!" he repeated. "No objections to a Catholic, I suppose?"
"No objections to any human being who serves humanity."
The old man left her abruptly. As he untied his horse, preparatory to leaving, he muttered to himself:
"A very unusual woman. A very unusual woman!"
Late on the following day, when Esther returned from her rounds, she found the Mexican, who had come to the Christmas entertainment, awaiting her. After learning that his Indian wife was sick, she gathered up her medical outfit, and started with him up the canyon. It was a long and fatiguing tramp.
The Indian woman proved to be another fever patient. She refused the medicine, but drank the beef juice the nurse offered her. After trying to make the Mexican understand what to do till she came again, Esther started down the canyon alone.
It was nearly dark. After walking some distance, she heard the cry of wolves. The cries came nearer. She quickened her pace to a run, when, catching her foot, she was thrown violently forward into the stream below.
She struggled to regain her footing, to climb to the bowlder from which she had fallen; but suddenly discovered that she had in some way twisted her ankle, and that she could not bear her weight on that foot. What was she to do? She was still over a mile from Clayton Ranch. If she called, no one could hear her. Oh, those wolves! Their cries sent a chill of terror through her. Again she struggled to climb up on the bank, but the bowlder above her was slippery, and there was nothing to cling to. At last she sent a loud cry for help echoing down the canyon. Then she listened. Suddenly she heard a step above her. It was the young Apache who had visited the school. His coming was about as welcome to her as the wolves would be.
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´," he said, beckoning her to join him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then the Indian lifted her, carried her to a level place, and set her down. She was unable to bear her weight on the injured foot, and fell. She pointed to her ankle, then down towards Gila, hoping the Indian might make her plight known to the people in camp.
As if in answer to her pantomimic request, he lifted her easily in his arms, and strode swiftly down the canyon. Could it be that he had rescued her in order to return her to her friends? It seemed so.
At last it occurred to her to sing her call for help, to attract the attention of any miner, or charcoal tender who might chance to be going up or down the canyon. So with all the volume she could muster, she sang words, telling her plight.
Every little while the Apache would repeat the words:
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."
What could he mean?
About the time Esther was caring for the sick squaw, Kenneth Hastings learned from Wathemah that the teacher had gone to the Mexican's shack up the canyon. He was filled with alarm.
"What's that ye are sayin', Wathemah?" asked Pete Tompkins, who, passing along, had overheard the conversation.
"Me teacher up canyon. Mexican. Sick squaw," replied the child laconically.
"Are you sure, Wathemah?" questioned Kenneth.
The child nodded his head, and pointed toward the canyon.
"Them devilish Apaches has been about camp all day," said Pete Tompkins, stopping to speak to Kenneth. "I seen some of 'em goin' up canyon jest 'fore dark."
"We must go to Miss Bright's rescue at once!" said Kenneth excitedly.
"I'm with ye," said Pete Tompkins. "If a blanked savage harms that air schoolma'am I'll smash his skull with the butt o' my gun. I'll jine y'r party. Let's take all the hounds. We're likely ter run across more'n one Apache. Hello, kids!" he called out. "Jine a rescue party. The schoolma'am's went up canyon ter tend sick squaw,—the Mexican's woman. Them devilish Apaches is up through the canyon, an' we're afeared they'll capture schoolma'am."
Ten well-armed men, some mounted, some unmounted, started up the canyon. On their way, they met John Clayton, who joined them. His horse was neck and neck with Kenneth's.
"Good God!" said the former to his companion. "What may have happened to Miss Bright? What may yet happen to her?"
Kenneth made no reply, but his face was tense.
These two men were in advance, closely followed by Jack Harding and Pete Tompkins, on their Mexican ponies.
Suddenly, the party heard the distant cry of wolves, and—was it a human voice?—they strained their ears to hear. It was a human voice, a woman's voice. They dug their spurs into their horses' sides, and fairly flew.
As they were journeying up the canyon, the savage, with his captive in his arms, was speeding down the canyon. Suddenly he turned, and took the trail leading towards the Apache reservation.
Esther's song for help died on her lips. Every moment seemed eternity; every step, miles away from hope of rescue. Then with the energy born of despair, she sang again so that her song reached the ears of her rescuers:
Then she listened. Could it be the baying of hounds she heard? Her heart beat faster. She was not mistaken; she had heard the hounds. And now she heard the shouts of men. She began to sing again, but the Indian pressed his hand over her mouth, and tightening his hold with his other arm, started to run with her. She struggled desperately. He held her like a vise. She screamed for help, as she continued to struggle.
"Courage!" came ringing back in response to her cry. She knew the voice. It was the voice of Kenneth Hastings.
Again the Apache muttered in her ear:
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."
She realized that the men were gaining rapidly upon them, and struggled more violently to free herself.
As the Apache ran, his breath came harder. It was no easy task to carry his struggling captive, and escape his pursuers. Still he kept up a remarkable speed.
A moment more, the hounds came upon him. He kicked desperately, but could not free himself from them. Then, winding his fingers around Esther's throat, he choked her, and threw her to the ground. He lifted his gun, faced his pursuers, and fired. The ball entered the chest of Kenneth Hastings, who was in hot pursuit, and nearing the Indian. Kenneth fell from his horse, and the savage escaped.
"My God!" exclaimed John Clayton, as he came up. He sprang from his saddle, and knelt by Kenneth's side. A little farther on lay Esther, unconscious. Her face was ghastly in the dim light, her clothing wet.
"Brandy!" he called. "Any one got brandy?"
"Here," said Pete Tompkins, stepping forward; "here's a flask."
"With shaking hand, John Clayton tried to staunch the wound in Kenneth's shoulder. Then he put brandy between his lips, then between Esther's. She was like ice.
"The brute!" he exclaimed. "I fear he has killed her!"
Then he pulled off his coat and wrapped it about the girl, saying as he did so:
"If she is not dead, the warmth may do her good. Some one ride ahead and prepare Mrs. Clayton."
"I'll go, sir," said a Scotch miner, mounting one of the ponies.
"Thank you. Tell Mrs. Clayton that Miss Bright and Mr. Hastings have met with an accident, and both are unconscious. Tell her to have hot water and blankets ready."
"Come, John," he said, turning to Jack Harding. "Just help me lift Miss Bright to my saddle." Mechanically the cowboy obeyed.
"Can one of you fellows carry Hastings on his horse?"
Jack Harding volunteered.
Few words were spoken by any of the men, as they made their way back to camp.
Pete Tompkins had noisily boasted that he would kill the Indian; but, hearing no reply from any one, he subsided. In spite of his coarseness and vulgarity, he was touched by the tragic ending of the young teacher's life, and by the evident sorrow of his companions. He looked at the still, white face, and something tugged at his heart.
As they passed Keith's house, Mrs. Keith ran out.
"'Ere!" she said. "Wrap 'er in this 'ere warm shawl."
Wathemah ran after them, asking anxiously:
"Me teacher sick?"
"Yes, very sick, Wathemah," answered Clayton.
Just as they reached the Clayton home, Esther roused, and said in a dazed way:
"Where am I?"
"You are at home," answered her host, as he carried her into the house. "Do you feel better?" he asked, as he laid her on the couch.
"What has happened?" she asked, showing no sign of recognition.
"We don't know," said Mrs. Clayton, bending over her.
She moaned.
"Don't you remember the Indian who came to the schoolhouse?" questioned Mr. Clayton anxiously.
"Indian? Schoolhouse?" she repeated in a perplexed way. "Where am I?"
"Here with Mrs. Clayton," said her hostess.
"Mrs. Clayton? Who is she?" asked Esther, vacantly.
The group about her exchanged troubled glances.
John Harding was already on his way to the railway station to telegraph for Dr. Mishell.
Kenneth Hastings, now conscious, was lying on a bed in the Clayton home. John Clayton bent over him, staunching the blood the best he could. In the midst of this, they heard a sharp cry from Esther.
"What is it?" questioned Kenneth.
"Miss Bright!" exclaimed John Clayton, starting towards the room where the teacher and his wife were. Returning, he explained that Esther had apparently sprained her ankle, for it was badly swollen, and probably very painful, when Mrs. Clayton attempted to remove her shoe.
Kenneth made no response, but, for a while, lay with eyes closed. He started when John Clayton told him that, as yet, Esther had not recognized any of the family.
It was a long and anxious night for the ones who watched. In the morning, when Esther wakened, she called her companion by name.
"Carla," she said, "I dreamed something dreadful had happened."
As she spoke, she attempted to rise. A twinge of pain in her foot stopped her.
"What has happened?" she asked.
"You sprained your ankle yesterday," Carla explained.
"Yesterday?" she repeated, in a puzzled way, as if trying to think of something. "Strange, but I can't recall yesterday."
"Dr. Mishell is coming to look at your ankle soon."
"Dr. Mishell! Dr. Mishell!" Esther said, slowly. Then a light came into her face. "Oh, yes! Now I remember. He came to Gila to see our sick people once, didn't he? I must dress so as to make the rounds with him."
So saying, she started again to rise, but sank back with a pale face.
"My foot, and head, and throat are so painful. It's so queer. I feel ill, too. What has happened?" she asked again.
"You were injured, somehow," explained Carla, "and were unconscious, when found. Mr. Hastings was unconscious, too."
"Yes."
"And sick?"
"Very. Dr. Mishell and Sister Mercy, the Catholic sister, are with him now."
"I must help take care of Mr. Hastings, Carla."
"By and by, perhaps," said the girl, soothingly. "You must get well yourself first."
Kenneth Hastings' condition proved to be more serious than they thought, and Dr. Mishell looked grave. He had removed the bullet, and Sister Mercy had assisted him. When at last the wound was dressed, Dr. Mishell visited the other patient. He examined her ankle, and pronounced it a bad sprain. He examined her head, and looking towards Mrs. Clayton, said:
"It is as you surmised, concussion. Probably due to a fall."
He gave a few directions to Sister Mercy, and after a few gruff, but kindly, words, departed, to look after his other patients in Gila.
Now, Carla Earle began her career as a nurse, and soon her ministrations were known in every house, and shack, where fever had entered.
After Esther learned the details of her rescue, and of how Kenneth Hastings had again risked his life for hers, she grew abstracted, talked little, and ate less. And after she had learned that he was critically ill, delirious, as a result of the wound received in rescuing her, her sorrow became patent to all. Could she not see him? But Sister Mercy guarded her patient, and watched, and prayed the prayers of her church. Physician and nurse both knew that Kenneth's life hung by a thread. The sick man talked in his delirium; and his heart story lodged in the heart of the nurse, who watched by him, and who nursed him back to life.
When Esther was able to go about on crutches, she visited her patients who were nearest to Clayton Ranch. One day Patrick Murphy called on her.
"How are Brigham and Kathleen?" she asked, as she greeted him. "I hope they are better."
"No betther, Miss," he said, struggling for composure. "The docther has been lavin' av his midicine, an' Carla (I mean Miss Earle) has came each day (the saints bliss her!) but still the faver is bad. An' Brigham—"
He could say no more. After a while, he continued:
"An' Brigham begs me ter bring yez to him. He insists upon callin' yez his Christ teacher, ma'am. He asks ivery day has yez come, an' cries wid disappointmint, whin he foinds yez are not there. I told him I would bring yez back wid me if yez could come."
"I'll go with you," she promised, "as soon as I speak to Mrs. Clayton."
When Esther entered the sick room at the Murphy home, she found two critical cases of typhoid fever. Their temperature was so high she was filled with alarm. She questioned the mother closely, as to what had thus far been done for the children.
"Did you follow the doctor's directions?" she asked.
"No, Miss, I didn't think it worth while. Back East where I wuz riz, they didn't think it necessary ter wash sick folks with sody an' water every day, an' alkyhol besides. They jest let sick folks be in peace, an' give 'em a good washin' after they was corpses."
"But you see, Mrs. Murphy, we must sponge typhoid patients with water and with alcohol, to lower their temperature. Brigham's fever is very high."
"I done all I could fur him," sniffled the mother.
"Yes, I know," said Esther, kindly. "What has he eaten? Did you give him the beef juice?"
"No, mum. That wuz no eatin' at all. I give him meat an' potatoes an' cabbage, jest the way he liked 'em cooked," she said, wiping her eyes on her apron. "He ain't eat none sence. He jest cries an' cries fur ye, Miss."
"Brigham is very sick," the teacher said, gently. "He may not recover. Shall I take care of him?"
"Yes, Miss, I wisht yer would."
Esther called for water and clean linen. She sponged the children, made the necessary changes, ventilated the room, and closed the door into the living room; and for the first time since their illness began, the children had quiet. The angel of Death hovered near, and the Murphy family were filled with an indefinable fear.
Esther watched over the two children throughout the night. Brigham was delirious. Once he seemed terrified, and called out:
"Mamma, don't hurt my teacher! Wathemah, what did my teacher tell yer about Jesus? Has my teacher come?"
At daybreak, when Esther gave him his medicine, he knew her and smiled. As she bent over him, he said:
"I knowed ye'd come. Is Jesus near?"
"Yes, very near, dear," she answered, softly.
"An' He loves little childern?"
"Yes, dear, loves them dearly."
"I am so glad." He closed his eyes and seemed smiling in his sleep. Rousing again, he said in a weak voice:
"I am so tired. Will yer carry me ter Jesus?"
"Yes, dear."
Then tenderly the teacher's arms went around the little form. She said, aloud:
"Dear Jesus, I have brought you little Brigham, because you love little children. He is too tired to go any farther alone, so I have brought him to you. Please carry him the rest of the way home."
Gently, she drew her arm away. The child smiled as if satisfied, and dozed off again.
It was late in the morning, when Dr. Mishell reached Murphy Ranch. He looked grave as he watched Brigham.
"Better remain here if you can, Miss Bright. Good nursing will save the girl, and may save the boy; but it is doubtful. You realize he is in a critical condition."
"Yes. I will remain, Doctor; but Miss Earle will need help with the other patients."
"Oh, Miss Earle is doing finely," he assured her. "And with one exception, none of the cases are as serious as these two."
"Who is the exception?"
"I believe his name is Clifton. A cowboy by the name of Harding has gone to his shack, to-day, to nurse him."
"Just like him," she thought.
She made no reply. As the day wore on, Kathleen's fever decreased, but Brigham's increased. The boy again grew delirious. He repeatedly called Wathemah and his teacher. As night drew near, he grew worse. The parents stood near the bed, weeping. Suddenly the child cried out:
"Papa, won't yer bring my teacher? She knows the way ter heaven."
"She's here, lad," he said, taking one of Brigham's hands in his. Then the father repeated the prayers of his church.
At dawn, Brigham lifted his arms, and smiled. He had found the Open Door.
When the Murphy children knew their brother was dead, they were filled with awe, and huddled in one corner of the living room. The mother sobbed aloud, but refused to come near or touch the still little figure.
The teacher, with tears rolling down her cheeks, prepared her little friend's body for burial. Then she spoke again to the father, reminding him of further preparations. He rose, and, going into the room, where the family were gathered, said:
"We must have a wake. Poor Brigham."
"No, yer won't have no Cath'lic doin's with Brigham," responded his wife.
"Suppose," interposed the teacher, "we have a funeral service for Brigham in the schoolhouse, among the children he loved."
"Shure!" responded the father, wiping his eyes, "that'd be jist the thing."
"Do you approve, Mrs. Murphy?" asked the teacher.
"Yes, Miss. That'd please Brigham, I know." And again she sobbed.
So Brigham was carried to the schoolhouse. The teacher placed a crucifix at the head of the coffin, and lighted several candles. It was the first time religious services for the dead had ever been held in Gila. Heretofore, the dead had simply been buried.
The schoolroom was filled to its uttermost. The girl preacher rose and told them of Brigham's lovely life ever since she had known him, of his interest in Jesus, and of his desire to know the way to heaven. She told of his last words, and how he asked her to carry him to Jesus. As she spoke, tears rolled quietly down the bronzed cheeks of many a man and woman whose life had been one long record of sin.
Near the coffin, stood Wathemah, his eyes riveted upon the face of his little comrade. The teacher saw the child take off his string of beads and lay it in the coffin.
They buried Brigham on the foothills, and left him alone;—no, not alone, for Wathemah remained standing like a sentinel beside the grave of his little friend.
Wathemah did not return to Mrs. Keith's as usual for supper. Neither was he in his little bunk that night. No Wathemah appeared for breakfast. Inquiries began to be circulated. Where was Wathemah? Esther grew very uneasy, and started out to search for him herself. She returned disappointed. An hour later, Jack Harding returned with the child. He had found him keeping watch by Brigham's grave. So deep is the Apache's affection, so real his grief.
Esther gathered Wathemah in her arms, and talked to him long of Brigham. Henceforth, to that little child, as to many of his race, the heavens would be full of the Great Spirit.
"Can Brigham see me from the sky?" asked Wathemah.
"I think so, dear. You'll want to be a good boy, won't you?"
For answer, he burst into tears, and she mingled her own with his.
From that time on, Wathemah loved the stars at night, and would stand watching them with deepening wonder and awe. Then began his questioning of things eternal, that upreach of the soul, that links it to the Divine.
The day after Esther's return to Clayton Ranch, Dr. Mishell asked her to go with him to the shack of Mark Clifton.
"He cannot recover," he said. "He realizes that. He has repeatedly asked to see you."
As they approached the shack, they heard a voice. Jack Harding was reading aloud from the Bible.
On the walls of the shack, were guns, hides, and coarse pictures; in one corner, were a case of whiskey bottles, and a pack of cards. The sick man seemed to be a man of about thirty. He greeted his visitors courteously, and at once turned to Esther.
"I have asked to see you," he said. "I think I cannot recover. I am not prepared to die. I have attended your meetings since you have held them in the timber. I believe there is something in your religion; I believe in God."
His voice was faint.
"Is there any hope for me?" he asked, searching her face with his keen black eyes.
She shrank from his bold gaze, then answered gently:
"There is hope for every one who repents of his sins and turns to Christ."
"But," he said, impatiently, "I haven't done so very much to repent of. I haven't committed any crime, don't you know? The world doesn't hold such high ideals of what a fellow ought to be as you do. I am no better nor worse than the rest of men. I came to that conclusion long ago."
"Indeed!" She spoke coldly. "Is that all? Then you do not need me." She rose to go.
"No, it is not all!" interrupted Jack Harding. "Miss Bright, show him his sin; show him the way of repentance, as you did me."
Suddenly the cowboy knelt by the bunk, and poured forth such a heartfelt prayer for the man before him, all were touched. Clifton lay with eyes closed. Esther spoke again.
"Mr. Clifton, have you done nothing to repent of? Think. You lured to this country the sixteen-year-old orphan daughter of a clergyman. You promised to marry her, if she would join you here. You placed her to board in a saloon. You refused to marry her! Thank God, the child is safe at last!"
There was no mistaking her tone.
"Marry her?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Marry her? I'd as soon marry a cat. I think too much of my family. I wouldn't disgrace them by marrying her, the daughter of a poverty-stricken curate."
Then they saw Esther Bright's eyes flash. Her face grew as stern as the granite hills of her native state. She spoke slowly, and each word—as Dr. Mishell afterwards said—seemed to weigh a ton apiece.
"Your family?" she said. "Your family?" she repeated with scorn. "Your family? This girl is a child of God!"
And turning, she left the shack.
Jack Harding remained all through the night, talking and praying, at intervals, with Clifton.
At dawn, the sick man cried out again and again:
"God be merciful to me a sinner!"
Then, at last, he said:
"Jack, I want to atone for my wrong to Miss Earle as much as I can. I see it all now. Send for a clergyman. I can't live, I know. If Miss Earle becomes my wife, it will remove the stigma, and she will inherit a fortune willed to me. Send for her. Perhaps she will forgive me, before I die."
At the sunset hour, word passed throughout the village that Mark Clifton had just died, and that before his death he had been married to Carla Earle. The clergyman who attended the dying man wrote to his parents, telling them of their son's marriage and death, and of his farewell messages to them. He added:
"Your son died a repentant man."
On her return from Murphy Ranch, Esther began to assist in the care of Kenneth Hastings. As yet, he had not recognized her. Sometimes, as she sat by him, tears would gather and roll down her cheeks. One day, Kenneth opened his eyes and asked:
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I am Esther," she answered, "taking care of you."
"No, you're not," he said, wildly. "Get out of here!"
She stepped back where he could not see her. He rambled on.
"Some one shot!" He tried to rise. But Sister Mercy, entering, quieted him, and he lay back, muttering. Occasionally, Esther caught the words "Esther," "gulf," "doubt." About an hour later, he awakened, quiet. She sat where she could watch his face, and learn her great lesson.
"Are you an angel?" he asked, with unrecognizing eyes.
She took one of his hands in hers, and rested her cheek against it. His hand grew wet with her tears.
"Are you a soul in bliss?" he asked, softly. "I knew an angel when I was on earth. But a gulf yawned between us, a gulf, a gulf!"
Then he seemed oblivious of the presence of anyone, and muttered:
"I have lost my way—lost my way,—lost."
At last he slept again. And Esther Bright, kneeling by his bedside, with one of his hands clasped in hers, prayed. Still he slept on. When he awakened, John Clayton stood looking down upon him. Kenneth looked around, puzzled.
"Well, John! Where am I?"
"Here in my home. Are you feeling better, Kenneth?"
"Better? What do you mean?"
"You've been very sick, and delirious. But now you'll recover."
"What was the matter?"
"An Indian blackguard shot you through the shoulder. Septic conditions set in, and you had a high fever. Keep still there," he said, as he prevented his friend from moving.
"Queer, John," said Kenneth, after a moment's pause. "I can't recall anything that has happened recently but a drive with Miss Bright just before she went away. But I can't speak of that—"
And Esther Bright, resting on the couch in the living room, heard every word. A long silence followed.
"John," said Kenneth in a low voice, "tell her sometime for me, that I have lived a clean, honorable life. You know I have gone to the saloons here sometimes, largely because other human beings were there. You know I gambled a little to kill time. So deucedly lonely! Tell her I wasn't bad at heart."
He started to say more, but suddenly stopped. And Esther, hearing in spite of herself, searched her own heart.
Dr. Mishell came the next day, and finding his patient delirious again, announced that he would stay with him till danger was past. So the physician and nurse again watched together.
It was the day Esther was to have left for Massachusetts. When questioned as to the time of her departure, she now assured everyone she would stay till her sick people were well.
While Dr. Mishell sat by Kenneth, Mr. Clayton found Esther on the veranda, in tears. He pretended not to see.
"Does Dr. Mishell give any hope of Mr. Hastings' recovery?" she asked.
"Yes. There has been a decided change for the better this past hour."
He slipped his hand under her arm, and, together, they walked up and down the path to the road.
"My dear friend," he said to her, "Kenneth may die, but I know a powerful restorative, that might help to save his life, if we could only bring it to him." He knew her heart better than Kenneth did.
"Oh, let me take it to him," she said eagerly. "I'd be so thankful to have a chance to help save his life. He's done so much for me, and he is such a loyal—friend."
"You shall be the one to bring him the medicine if you will," he said smiling.
"What is it? Where can I get it?" she asked, eager to go on her errand of mercy.
"Where can you get it?" he repeated. "You can find it in your own heart. It is love that will save Kenneth, dear Miss Bright."
Her tears fell fast.
"I fear I have made him very unhappy," she said.
"I suspect you have," he responded.
"No. You know he has been delirious from the first. In his delirium, he has talked of you constantly."
At last danger was past, and nurse and physician assured the Clayton household that Kenneth Hastings would recover.
He awakened from sleep, alone. As he opened his eyes, they fell upon a copy of Tennyson's works. It was open at "The Princess." Someone had been reading, and marking passages. He at once turned to the title page, and at the top, read a name he half expected to see. Could it be possible that she was still there? He looked around the room. By his bedside, stood a small round table, on which stood a low glass dish, filled with pink cactus blossoms. Near by, was an open Bible. Here, too, was a marked passage,—"faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love," He knew the Bible was Esther's. He laid it down, as though he had trespassed upon her innermost heart. He closed his eyes, and lay in a half-dream of possible joy. Over and over, the words seemed to repeat themselves,—"the greatest of these is love." There was a quiet step, and Esther entered, looking fresh and cool in a white dimity gown. In her hands, was a bunch of cactus flowers. She laid them down, and with a joyous cry went to him, clasping his hand in hers.
"You know me at last?" she asked. "I am so glad!"
Kenneth did not speak. She continued, "I feared you would never know me again." She seemed to hesitate a moment, but went on. "I feared I could never tell you what I now know, what I want to tell you."
"What do you know?" he asked. "What do you wish to tell me?"
"That I love you," she answered, and stooping down, she put her cheek against his.
"Look out, Kenneth!" she said, warningly, with a happy little laugh. "You mustn't forget about the wound in your shoulder."
But he held her captive.
"What do I care for the wound in my shoulder, when the wound in my heart is healed?" he asked of her.
"I came to heal the wound I made in your heart," she said, while a pink wave swept over her face.
Still he held her, drawing her closer to him.
"The lips," he said, "on the lips, as a penance."
"My penance is easy," she said with a happy ring in her voice.
Then drawing a chair close to the side of his bed, she let him gather her hands in his.
"Strange!" he said. "During my illness I dreamed it would be this way. I must have dreamed a long time. You were always with me, I thought. You were always in white, and often brought me flowers. Once, I found myself in heaven. You met me, and smiled and said, 'Come.' You brought me the most heavenly being I ever beheld, and placing my hand in his, said significantly, 'He loved much!' Then you vanished. And the heavenly being smiled upon me. And my heart grew glad. I began to understand the mysteries of life. Then I thought how you had led me to the very fountain of love, that I might know how to love you purely. I began to feel I could renounce all my hopes of your love, because there was something in that other presence that taught me that great Love asks no return. It just loves on, and on. Then I thought this heavenly being called me brother. And thousands of voices began to sing, 'Glory to God in the highest!'"
"Beautiful!" she said.
"Then I seemed to float in space, and I knew that you were near me. Your arms were full of flowers, and you offered up silent prayers for me that bridged the gulf between us."
She kissed him again, saying softly:
"Beloved, I did bridge the gulf with prayers. How stupid I was not to know sooner!"
"Not to know what?"
"Not to know love when it came."
"But you know it now, Beloved?" he said, drawing the hands he clasped nearer to himself. "I thank God for that."
He closed his eyes, and lay very still, still clasping her hands. She watched by him. At last, his hands relaxed their hold, and she knew by his regular breathing that he was asleep.
John Clayton came to the door, saw how it was, and went away. So did the others who came to inquire. And Kenneth slept on, a restful, restoring sleep. And as Esther watched, she repeated to herself:
"The Greatest of These is Love."