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Keith of the Border

R >> Randall Parrish >> Keith of the Border




"Water, Bristoe," he exclaimed sharply, "Dash some brandy in it. Quick
now. There, that's it; hold his head up--higher. Yes, you do it, Miss
Hope; here, Ben, take this, and pry his teeth open--well, he got a swallow
anyhow. Hold him just as he is--can you stand it? I've got to find where
he was hit."

"Yes--yes," she answered, "don't--don't mind me."

He tore open the woolen shirt, soaked with blood already hardening, felt
within with skilled fingers, his eyes keen, his lips muttering
unconsciously.

"Quarter of an inch--quarter of an inch too high--scraped the lung--Lord,
if I can only get it out--got to do it now--can't wait--here, Bristoe,
that leather case on my saddle--run, damn you--we'll save him yet, girl--
there, drop his head in your lap--yes, cry if you want to--only hold
still--open the case, will you--down here, where I can reach it--now
water--all our canteens--Hope, tear me off a strip of your under-skirt--
what am I going to do?--extract the ball--got to do it--blood poison in
this sun."

She ripped her skirt, handing it to him without a word; then dropped her
white face in her hands, bending, with closed eyes, over the whiter face
resting on her lap, her lips trembling with the one prayer, "Oh, God! Oh,
God!" How long he was at it, or what he did, she scarcely knew--she heard
the splash of water; caught the flash of the sun on the probe; felt the
half conscious shudder of the wounded man, whose head was in her lap, the
deft, quick movements of Fairbain, and then--

"That's it--I've got it--missed the lung by a hair--damn me I'm proud of
that job--you're a good girl."

She looked at him, scarce able to see, her eyes blinded with tears.

"Will--will he live? Oh, tell me!"

"Live! Why shouldn't he?--nothing but a hole to close up--nature'll do
that, with a bit of nursing--here, now, don't you keel over--give me the
rest of that skirt."

He bandaged the wound, then glanced about suddenly.

"How's the other fellow?"

"Dead," returned Bristoe, "shot through the heart."

"Thought so--have seen Keith shoot before--I wonder how the cuss ever
managed to get him."

As he arose to his feet, his red face glistening with perspiration, and
began strapping his leather case, the others rode up, and Bristoe,
explaining the situation, set the men to making preparations for pushing
on to the water-hole. Blankets were swung between ponies, and the bodies
of the dead and wounded deposited therein, firm hands on the bridles. Hope
rode close beside Keith, struggling to keep back the tears, as she watched
him lying motionless, unconscious, scarcely breathing. So, under the early
glow of the desert stars, they came to the water-hole, and halted.

The wounded man opened his eyes, and looked about him unable to
comprehend. At first all was dark, silent; then he saw the stars overhead,
and a breath of air fanned the near-by fire, the ruddy glow of flame
flashing across his face. He heard voices faintly, and thus, little by
little, consciousness asserted itself and memory struggled back into his
bewildered brain. The desert--the lonely leagues of sand--his fingers
gripped as if they felt the stock of a gun--yet that was all over--he was
not there--but he was somewhere--and alive, alive. It hurt him to move, to
breathe even, and after one effort to turn over, he lay perfectly still,
staring up into the black arch of sky, endeavoring to think, to
understand--where was he? How had he come there? Was Hawley alive also? A
face bent over him, the features faintly visible in the flash of
firelight. His dull eyes lit up in sudden recollection.

"Doc! is that you?"

"Sure, old man," the pudgy fingers feeling his pulse, the gray eyes
twinkling. "Narrow squeak you had--going to pull through all right,
though--no sign of fever."

"Where am I?"

"At the water-hole; sling you in a blanket, and get you into Larned
to-morrow."

There was a moment's silence, Keith finding it hard to speak.

"Hawley--?" he whispered at last.

"Oh, don't worry; you got him all right. Say," his voice sobering, "maybe
it was just as well you took that job. If it had been me I would have been
in bad."

The wounded man's eyes questioned.

"It's a bad mix-up, Keith. Waite never told us all of it. I reckon he
didn't want her to know, and she never shall, if I can help it. I Ve been
looking over some papers in his pocket--he'd likely been after them this
trip--and his name ain't Hawley. He's Bartlett Gale, Christie's father."

Keith could not seem to grasp the thought, his eyes half-closed.

"Her--her father?" ne questioned, weakly. "Do you suppose he knew?"

"No; not at first, anyhow; not at Sheridan. He was too interested in his
scheme to even suspicion he had actually stumbled onto the real girl. I
think he just found out."

A coyote howled somewhere in the darkness, a melancholy chorus joining in
with long-drawn cadence. A shadow swept into the radius of dancing
firelight.

"Is he conscious, Doctor?"

Fairbain drew back silently, and she dropped on her knees at Keith's side,
bending low to look into his face.

"Hope--Hope."

"Yes, dear, and you are going to live now--live for me."

He found her hand, and held it, clasped within his own, his eyes wide
open.

"I have never told you," he said, softly, "how much I love you."

She bent lower until her cheek touched his.

"No, Jack, but you may now."

THE END

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