Part 12 (1/2)

Wambush stared into the mask of the speaker, and then reluctantly rode away.

Chapter VIII

When Harriet returned she found Westerfelt lying face downward on the floor. In his fall he had unconsciously clutched and torn down the curtain, and like a shroud it lay over him. She was trying to raise him, when the door opened and her mother appeared.

”What's the matter, Harriet?”

”He has fainted--I don't know, he may be dead. Look, mother!”

Mrs. Floyd raised Westerfelt's head and turned his face upward.

”No, he's still breathing.” She opened his s.h.i.+rt hastily. ”His wound has not broken; we must get him to bed again. How did he happen to be here?”

”He got up as soon as the Whitecaps came; I couldn't persuade him to go back.”

”We must carry him to the bed,” said Mrs. Floyd. As they started to raise him, Westerfelt opened his eyes, took a long breath, and sat up.

Without a word he rose to his feet, and between them was supported back to his bed.

”His feet are like ice,” said Mrs. Floyd, as she tucked the blankets round him. ”Why did you let him stand there?”

”It wasn't her fault, Mrs. Floyd,” explained Westerfelt, with chattering teeth. ”I knew they meant trouble, and thought I ought to be ready.”

”You ought to have stayed in bed.” Her eyes followed Harriet to the fireplace. ”No, daughter,” she said, ”go lie down; I'll stay here.”

”I'd rather neither of you would sit up on my account,” protested Westerfelt; ”I'm all right; I'll sleep like a log till breakfast. I don't want to be such a bother.”

”You ain't a bit of trouble,” replied Mrs. Floyd, in a tone that was almost tender. ”We are only glad to be able to help. When I saw that cowardly scamp draw his pistol and knife on you, I could 'a' killed him. I've often told Harriet--”

”Mother, Mr. Westerfelt doesn't care to hear anything about him.”

Harriet turned from the fire and abruptly left the room. Mrs. Floyd did not finish what she had started to say. Westerfelt looked at her questioningly and then closed his eyes. She went to the fireplace and laid a stick of wood across the andirons, and then sat down and hooded her head with a shawl.

When Westerfelt awoke it was early dawn. The outlines of the room and the different objects in it were indistinct. At the foot of his bed he noticed something which resembled a heap of clothing on a chair. He looked at it steadily, wondering if it could be part of the strange dreams which had beset him in sleep. As the room gradually became lighter, he saw that it was a woman. Mrs. Floyd, he thought--but no, the figure was slighter. It was Harriet. She had taken her mother's place just before daybreak. Her head hung down, but she was not asleep. Presently she looked up, and catching his eyes, rose and came to him.

”How do you feel now?” She touched his forehead with her soft, cool hand.

”I'm all right; I'll be up to breakfast.”

”No, you won't; you must not; it would kill you.”

”Pshaw! That pin-scratch?” He playfully struck his breast near the wound. ”He'd have to cut deeper and rip wider to do me up.”

She stifled a cry and caught his hand.

”You must not be so foolish.” She started to turn away, but his fingers closed over hers.

”I'm sorry. I'll mind what you say, because you've been so good to me.

It seems mighty queer--Toot Wambush's girl takin' care of the very man he tried to wipe off of the face of creation. No wonder he--”