The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
She touched the hand beside his head, but it seemed neither warm nor
cold to her; she felt for the pulse, as nearly as she could remember the
doctors did, but could not tell whether she imagined or not that it was
still; twice with painful care her fingers sought and waited for the
beat, and her face seemed like one of listening. She leaned down and
lifted his other arm and hand from the water, and as their ice-coldness
reached her senses, clearly she saw the patch near the shoulder she
had moved grow wet with new blood, and at that sight she grasped at the
stones upon which she herself now sank. She held tight by two rocks,
sitting straight beside him, staring, and murmuring aloud, “I must
not faint; I will not faint;” and the standing horses looked at her,
pricking their ears.
In this cup-like spread of the ravine the sun shone warmly down, the
tall red cliff was warm, the pines were a warm film and filter of green;
outside the shade across Bear Creek rose the steep, soft, open yellow
hill, warm and high to the blue, and Bear Creek tumbled upon its
sunsparkling stones. The two horses on the margin trail still looked
at the spring and trees, where sat the neat flaxen girl so rigid by the
slack prone body in its flannel shirt and leathern chaps. Suddenly her
face livened. “But the blood ran!” she exclaimed, as if to the horses,
her companions in this. She moved to him, and put her hand in through
his shirt against his heart.
Next moment she had sprung up and was at his saddle, searching, then
swiftly went on to her own and got her small flask and was back beside
him. Here was the cold water he had sought, and she put it against his
forehead and drenched the wounded shoulder with it. Three times she
tried to move him, so he might lie more easy, but his dead weight was
too much, and desisting, she sat close and raised his head to let it
rest against her. Thus she saw the blood that was running from in front
of the shoulder also; but she said no more about fainting. She tore
strips from her dress and soaked them, keeping them cold and wet upon
both openings of his wound, and she drew her pocket-knife out and cut
his shirt away from the place. As she continually rinsed and cleaned
it, she watched his eyelashes, long and soft and thick, but they did not
stir. Again she tried the flask, but failed from being still too gentle,
and her searching eyes fell upon ashes near the pool. Still undispersed
by the weather lay the small charred ends of a fire he and she had made
once here together, to boil coffee and fry trout. She built another fire
now, and when the flames were going well, filled her flask-cup from the
spring and set it to heat. Meanwhile, she returned to nurse his head
and wound. Her cold water had stopped the bleeding. Then she poured
her brandy in the steaming cup, and, made rough by her desperate
helplessness, forced some between his lips and teeth.
Instantly, almost, she felt the tremble of life creeping back, and
as his deep eyes opened upon her she sat still and mute. But the gaze
seemed luminous with an unnoting calm, and she wondered if perhaps he
could not recognize her; she watched this internal clearness of his
vision, scarcely daring to breathe, until presently he began to speak,
with the same profound and clear impersonality sounding in his slowly
uttered words.
“I thought they had found me. I expected they were going to kill me.”
He stopped, and she gave him more of the hot drink, which he took, still
lying and looking at her as if the present did not reach his senses. “I
knew hands were touching me. I reckon I was not dead. I knew about them
soon as they began, only I could not interfere.” He waited again. “It is
mighty strange where I have been. No. Mighty natural.” Then he went back
into his revery, and lay with his eyes still full open upon her where
she sat motionless.
She began to feel a greater awe in this living presence than when it
had been his body with an ice-cold hand; and she quietly spoke his name,
venturing scarcely more than a whisper.
At this, some nearer thing wakened in his look. “But it was you all
along,” he resumed. “It is you now. You must not stay--” Weakness
overcame him, and his eyes closed. She sat ministering to him, and when
he roused again, he began anxiously at once: “You must not stay. They
would get you, too.”
She glanced at him with a sort of fierceness, then reached for his
pistol, in which was nothing but blackened empty cartridges. She threw
these out and drew six from his belt, loaded the weapon, and snapped
shut its hinge.
“Please take it,” he said, more anxious and more himself. “I ain’t worth
tryin’ to keep. Look at me!”
“Are you giving up?” she inquired, trying to put scorn in her tone. Then
she seated herself.
“Where is the sense in both of us--”
“You had better save your strength,” she interrupted.
He tried to sit up.
“Lie down!” she ordered.
He sank obediently, and began to smile.
When she saw that, she smiled too, and unexpectedly took his hand.
“Listen, friend,” said she. “Nobody shall get you, and nobody shall get
me. Now take some more brandy.”
“It must be noon,” said the cow-puncher, when she had drawn her hand
away from him. “I remember it was dark when--when--when I can remember.
I reckon they were scared to follow me in so close to settlers. Else
they would have been here.”
“You must rest,” she observed.
She broke the soft ends of some evergreen, and putting them beneath his
head, went to the horses, loosened the cinches, took off the bridles,
led them to drink, and picketed them to feed. Further still, to leave
nothing undone which she could herself manage, she took the horses’
saddles off to refold the blankets when the time should come, and
meanwhile brought them for him. But he put them away from him. He was
sitting up against a rock, stronger evidently, and asking for cold
water. His head was fire-hot, and the paleness beneath his swarthy skin
had changed to a deepening flush.
“Only five miles!” she said to him, bathing his head.
“Yes. I must hold it steady,” he answered, waving his hand at the cliff.
She told him to try and keep it steady until they got home.
“Yes,” he repeated. “Only five miles. But it’s fightin’ to turn around.”
Half aware that he was becoming light-headed, he looked from the rock to
her and from her to the rock with dilating eyes.
“We can hold it together,” she said. “You must get on your horse.” She
took his handkerchief from round his neck, knotting it with her own, and
to make more bandage she ran to the roll of clothes behind his saddle
and tore in halves a clean shirt. A handkerchief fell from it, which
she seized also, and opening, saw her own initials by the hem. Then she
remembered: she saw again their first meeting, the swollen river, the
overset stage, the unknown horseman who carried her to the bank on his
saddle and went away unthanked--her whole first adventure on that
first day of her coming to this new country--and now she knew how her
long-forgotten handkerchief had gone that day. She refolded it gently
and put it back in his bundle, for there was enough bandage without it.
She said not a word to him, and he placed a wrong meaning upon the look
which she gave him as she returned to bind his shoulder.
“It don’t hurt so much,” he assured her (though extreme pain was
clearing his head for the moment, and he had been able to hold the cliff
from turning). “Yu’ must not squander your pity.”
“Do not squander your strength,” said she.
“Oh, I could put up a pretty good fight now!” But he tottered in showing
her how strong he was, and she told him that, after all, he was a child
still.
“Yes,” he slowly said, looking after her as she went to bring his horse,
“the same child that wanted to touch the moon, I guess.” And during the
slow climb down into the saddle from a rock to which she helped him he
said, “You have got to be the man all through this mess.”
She saw his teeth clinched and his drooping muscles compelled by will;
and as he rode and she walked to lend him support, leading her horse
by a backward-stretched left hand, she counted off the distance to him
continually--the increasing gain, the lessening road, the landmarks
nearing and dropping behind; here was the tree with the wasp-nest gone;
now the burned cabin was passed; now the cottonwoods at the ford were in
sight. He was silent, and held to the saddle-horn, leaning more and more
against his two hands clasped over it; and just after they had made the
crossing he fell, without a sound slipping to the grass, and his descent
broken by her. But it started the blood a little, and she dared not
leave him to seek help. She gave him the last of the flask and all the
water he craved.
Revived, he managed to smile. “Yu’ see, I ain’t worth keeping.”
“It’s only a mile,” said she. So she found a log, a fallen trunk, and he
crawled to that, and from there crawled to his saddle, and she marched
on with him, talking, bidding him note the steps accomplished. For the
next half-mile they went thus, the silent man clinched on the horse, and
by his side the girl walking and cheering him forward, when suddenly he
began to speak:-- “I will say good-by to you now, ma’am.”
She did not understand, at first, the significance of this.
“He is getting away,” pursued the Virginian. “I must ask you to excuse
me, ma’am.”
It was a long while since her lord had addressed her as “ma’am.” As she
looked at him in growing apprehension, he turned Monte and would have
ridden away, but she caught the bridle.
“You must take me home,” said she, with ready inspiration. “I am afraid
of the Indians.”
“Why, you--why, they’ve all gone. There he goes. Ma’am--that hawss--”
“No,” said she, holding firmly his rein and quickening her step. “A
gentleman does not invite a lady to go out riding and leave her.”
His eyes lost their purpose. “I’ll cert’nly take you home. That sorrel
has gone in there by the wallow, and Judge Henry will understand.” With
his eyes watching imaginary objects, he rode and rambled and it was now
the girl who was silent, except to keep his mind from its half-fixed
idea of the sorrel. As he grew more fluent she hastened still more,
listening to head off that notion of return, skilfully inventing
questions to engage him, so that when she brought him to her gate
she held him in a manner subjected, answering faithfully the shrewd
unrealities which she devised, whatever makeshifts she could summon to
her mind; and next she had got him inside her dwelling and set him down
docile, but now completely wandering; and then--no help was at hand,
even here. She had made sure of aid from next door, and there she
hastened, to find the Taylor’s cabin locked and silent; and this meant
that parents and children were gone to drive; nor might she be luckier
at her next nearest neighbors’, should she travel the intervening mile
to fetch them. With a mind jostled once more into uncertainty, she
returned to her room, and saw a change in him already. Illness had
stridden upon him; his face was not as she had left it, and the whole
body, the splendid supple horseman, showed sickness in every line
and limb, its spurs and pistol and bold leather chaps a mockery of
trappings. She looked at him, and decision came back to her, clear and
steady. She supported him over to her bed and laid him on it. His head
sank flat, and his loose, nerveless arms stayed as she left them. Then
among her packing-boxes and beneath the little miniature, blue and
flaxen and gold upon its lonely wall, she undressed him. He was cold,
and she covered him to the face, and arranged the pillow, and got from
its box her scarlet and black Navajo blanket and spread it over him.