USA > California > Sonoma County > Casa Grande : a California pastoral > Part 8
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The time for action arrived at last, and the volun- teers scattered. Each member of the Casa Grande household was armed to-night, for fear of treachery. The fire would pass to the south of Dry Creek, and the squatters would therefore be free to leave their homes. There was no telling what they might do when the flames had burned down to Aguas Frias. Every pistol in the old adobe had been pressed into use, and the only firearm left to Miller was a long-
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barrelled, highly finished revolver, that shot a small bullet, but carried a heavy charge of powder.
A guard was left at the barn, and the others went down to the feeding-sheds. Miller, on his mount, was everywhere. The flames on the hillsides were rolling nearer ; they seemed to leap from tree to tree, to fling great sheets high up, like lurid banners; and when they fell back again the darkness would glow with mast-like outlines marking the wreck.
It was the trees that Miller mourned, as he watched the racing element embrace one after an- other, to leave them in ruins. They had stood god- like in their resistance of the seasons. Storms had beat upon them, the sun had scorched them, frosts had chilled them; but only their wrinkled trunks had recorded the fleeting years. They had passed un- harmed through centuries, and to-night they must yield.
As the master of Aguas Frias was grieving over the loss he heard his name called, and he, shouting in answer, soon beheld, in the day-like glare, Sam Bailey riding toward him.
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"You come like the cup of cold water, old man," was his greeting.
"Your voice sounds like a funeral," Bailey re- plied.
"See the ruin of those splendid trees !"
"That much more firewood, Miller."
"You can't understand, Bailey."
"No, I can't. If we mourn to-night over nothing more precious than trees I shall be glad. What can I do?"
"You'll find sufficient. But keep close."
The roar of the oncoming flames was like the boom of the surf, with now and then the crash of a falling tree. The heavens reflected the light in advancing arcs of glowing radiance that paled the very stars. As the fire rushed steadily downward, the watchmen could distinguish above the muffled thunder the whirr of frightened quails, while blue- jays and woodpeckers hastened, screaming, to safer perches. Now and then a deer fled past with terri- fied bounds, and smaller dwellers of the woods skulked unmolested in the shadows.
. The wind at last had reached down to them. The
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glowing furnace of the burning woods was sucking into its mighty draught the listless atmosphere, to blow it back with a stifling shower of firebrands, driv- ing the horsemen to and fro, like swooping eagles, to beat out the flames marking the fall of burning hail.
The fodder-sheds were surrounded by a hay-field, matted with ripened grass that had been kept for late grazing. A spark fell on it, and a blaze flashed upward. From all directions the men swiftly gath- ered to the help of those already fighting to save the stacks. With dripping sacks and blankets, they beat down the column of charging flames, and in the grime and dust and sweat of the fierce onslaught the devouring race of the fire was ended.
While the sooty, panting warriors stood resting after their struggles a glare spread upward in the direction of the farthest stack. They hastened there and found it burning, and, fight as they would, it gained upon them. They backed away at last, driven off by the blistering heat, and watched the great heap melt into yellow flame. It was a stirring, a depress- ing sight. The growth and the labour of months were flashing out in invisible gases, the subtle ele-
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ments of the atmosphere, incarnate, as it were, in the cured hay, now resolving themselves back to the firmament.
The roar on the hillsides hushed. The glare of the flames faded behind the twinkle of stars. The air took on its morning chill. Like a hopeless spirit, the fire had fled down the hills and plunged with a moan into the Aguas Frias, to end its flight in the frosty waters. Some pasture and one stack had been destroyed, but no treachery had been committed.
Miller turned thankfully from the burned stack, and left a guard to protect the others, now safe un- less the wind changed. He went with the band of tired fighters to the old house, where a light gleamed from the open door. The hospitable room soon was filled with a noisy, sooty, good-natured mob, all talking at once, each bragging of some more impos- sible feat than the others. The centre of this noisy circle was Manuel, smiling and voluble, filling tins with steaming coffee. The table was spread with the remnant of the evening meal, and after the man- ner of primitive men the hungry were serving them- selves.
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As the last neighbour rode away a thin segment of moon sailed above the smoky hills. Instead of pale yellow, it shone like burnished copper through the naked limbs of blighted trees. Deep shadows still enfolded the dwelling as the inmates, after a final sortie in the fields, were leading their tired ponies to the barn. They had not proceeded far when Gyp bounded forward, barking furiously.
"Something's wrong," remarked Miller, peering into the gloom. "She never acts this way unless there's danger."
He scarcely had finished speaking before the dog tore back, almost beside herself. "Good God!" the ranchero exclaimed, bounding to his saddle, closely followed by the others. Their hoofbeats rang on the baked earth, and suddenly from beyond the barn there came echoing hoofbeats which clattered on the stony bed of the glen. With a yell the men dashed forward, Miller and Bailey on one side, the rest on the other side. As the master of the range gained the rear of the building he saw a shadowy fig- ure running from a blaze against the wall and melt into the darkness, a signal for the volley
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that was discharged after him by the alert riders.
The fire against the barn lit up a flickering circle of gloom as it danced and crackled, but before it had eaten into the hay the men beat it out. Then they cautiously advanced into the glen, where, far up the creek, they could hear the dog bark. They found nothing, however, but silence and blackness and a chill air pungent with the odour of charred wood.
As the wornout group were leaving the barn for the house Gyp had returned and was barking from the edge of the underbrush. They walked quickly to where she stood, and there saw the prostrate body of a man.
"Aha!" exclaimed Miller. "We shot wild, but some one aimed well."
They silently gathered about the obscure figure, an indifferent crowd. Some treachery had been planned under cover of the forest fire, and, as far as they were concerned, the dead man might lie till morning, not far away, now.
"Well?" observed Bailey, breaking the silence.
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"We'll take him to the house," said Miller, bend- ing down.
They carried the limp figure out of the chill air into the warmth of the kitchen and the glow of the candles. As they passed through the door the red moon gleamed ominously. Below the gleam of the moon was a first streaking of dawn.
They crossed the room and carelessly put their bur- den on the floor. The jolt of falling knocked off his hat, and a loosened coil of wavy black hair tumbled in the dust.
Miller flung himself down, slipped a shaking hand under the curving shoulders and lifted the head in the hollow of his arm to the light. His gaze hung aghast on the white face, then slowly lifted to Bailey, who was staring dreadfully.
A silence fell in the room, the very dogs pausing just as they were. The sheriff knelt at last and ten- derly clasped a lifeless hand in both his own. "Belle !" he murmured, and put his face caressingly on the unresponsive tanned fingers.
Through the windows the distant hills lay streaked by the first beams of morning. A lark
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whistled greetings to the day. But neither sunlight nor birdsong pierced the despair shrouding the gloomy chamber.
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT SHALL WE DO FOR OUR SISTER?
T HEY laid the body on a cot in the corner, and Manuel fetched a blanket and reverently com- posed and decently covered the boyish form. In mov- ing the head he touched the wound, and something hot and wet ran down his fingers. He bent closer ; the cot was crimsoning.
"Meestah Jone!" he called. "Es-she no dead. Look!" His voice filled with suppressed joy as he displayed the hand that had been against the wound.
Both men cast a startled glance at the stain on his fingers-at him-at each other; went over to the blanketed figure and stood regarding it, their hearts wildly throbbing. Something could be done for her, then, and all went swiftly to work. She was placed on Miller's bed, a vaquero was dispatched for her
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mother, and Bailey galloped to Santa Rosa for the nearest doctor.
Two hours must pass before help could reach them, and in the meantime they must do what they could. Manuel brought hot water and towels, and he and Miller worked anxiously to restore Belle to consciousness. Had it been a wounded man, they would have proceeded easily, but each had the same chivalrous tenderness for her sex, and they hesitated, the one regarding her with the throbbing embarrass- ment of full vigour, the other with the calmer reluc- tance of age.
They unfastened her garment at the throat, laid bare the dazzling white neck, and held compresses, as hot as they could bear, against the wound at the base of her skull. As soon as these cooled they were renewed, and each time the stain was more pro- nounced on them.
The two men had been striving thus with death for an hour or more, when an imperceptible change in her countenance, a slight returnof colour to cheeks and lips, told the old soldier that life feebly was starting again. He clasped her wrist and, with a
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finger on her pulse, held it expectantly. There was the merest flutter, only the noiseless stir of a soul, but that was sufficient.
"Christ!" he exultantly exclaimed. "Put you feenger here."
When Miller found the throb his breath came in a sigh. He did not speak, but the look he gave Manuel brightened with the exultation that had rung in the old man's words, and his fingers slipped down over hers. Some warmth lingered in the little, work- hardened hand resting unresponsively in his. He glanced at her face-started. Manuel, too, bent closer ; both had detected a tremble of the lids.
The master of Casa Grande straightened up. He was holding her hand in his, too-grasping it with a firm, compelling pressure. Had she been conscious, she must have thrilled to him. As it was, her soul must have stirred, for her lids fluttered and languidly opened, then closed.
"Miller-Manuel," she sighed, and they knew that she had seen.
Miller drew up a chair and sat beside the bed, a hand still clasping hers. Not a move escaped him;
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not a breath was drawn that he did not feel. He had time to think, at last, and his crowding emotions warred with one another. She had been shot on his ranch, with his consent, however ignorantly given, however keenly regretted. She had been shot while committing a crime, a cowardly crime, an unpardon- able offence. All his interest in her, all his growing admiration, suddenly had ended with the discovery of her treachery.
A clatter of hoofs in the courtyard sent him to the doorway, where he met Mrs. Clark, and silently he led the way in. Her escort had informed her of the shooting, and she did not cry out at sight of her daughter, did not even sob. The repressing influ- ences of frontier life had long subdued the feminine impulses that under softer conditions are usually vented in noisy grief. She mutely waited by her daughter's side, and when the girl slowly opened her eyes, her mother tenderly enfolded her and buried a tearless face in the tangled mass of hair. Miller pushed up an easy-chair for the newcomer, but after she was seated he caught only resentment in her eyes.
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Constant bandaging had brought relief to the wound, reducing the congestion, and the next time the cloths were changed the bullet showed as a lump under the skin, where it now pressed painfully. The patient twisted her head uneasily and complained of the hurt.
"You are wounded," Miller explained.
"I remember," she moaned. "My neck aches so." "The doctor will soon be here."
"It's so long," she sighed.
They turned her in a new position, and asked if she was easier, but she only sighed again.
They changed the compresses, and Manuel care- fully examined the lump. "Me feex him," he con- fidently declared, and left the room, to return with a lance-like instrument.
"What are you going to do?" demanded Miller.
"Cut heem out," was the answer, with boy-like eagerness.
"You are not. The doctor will soon be here." "Me dam' good es-surgeon."
"I know, old man. But she isn't a soldier." "Let him," said Belle, appealingly.
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"Me do heem bery easy," urged Manuel.
"Go on, Manuel," called the girl, trying to turn herself.
The old man gently and deftly removed the bullet, which fell to the floor, to be forgotten, for the time, in more pressing necessities. There were no anæsthetics to deaden pain, yet the only sign she made of suffering was the tightening of her fingers about Miller's as he stood over her, one hand holding towels for Manuel, the other clasping hers.
When the operation had been concluded and the last bandage fastened, Miller drew back with notice- able relief. The acting surgeon looked at his assist- ant's dry, bloodless lips, his cheeks almost ghastly beneath the crisp, reddish beard, and he laughed softly. He knew the stress the master had been under, but the old soldier, in his years of campaign- ing, had lost the finer edge of sympathy for unavoid- able pain. "By 'n by," he lightly remarked, "you old man like me, woman no matter." He regarded the patient with satisfaction, glanced at his companion, and, in the way of final compliment for able assist-
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ance, added, "Me theenk you dam' good es-surgeon, too"; then left the room.
A's Miller crossed over to his seat something rolled from under his boot, and he picked it up. It was the bullet that had been extracted from Belle's wound, too small to fit any of the revolvers carried last night, except his own.
He dropped heavily in the chair, and saw again, in fancy, the flickering blaze against the end of his barn; the figure leaping about it and disappearing in the dark; the volley discharged by the pursuing horsemen. Of all the shots fired, his was the one that had wounded. He sadly examined the leaden ball; it was none other than his own. But his heart leaped to the sudden recollection that Manuel's keen eyes had not observed the size when he extracted it, and, now that it was safe in his own possession, no one knew who had fired the shot ; no one could know.
He looked across to the girl, and to her mother, sitting beside her. The form on the bed seemed life- less-the white face, with its framing of tangled hair, its closed eyes; the rigid figure starkly out- lined by the blanket drawn to the chin. He could
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detect no motion of her breathing, and he hastily rose with the gripping fear lest she had died. When he came beside her, her breast, with the folded hands, lifted and fell ever so slightly, her parted lips dis- closed perfect teeth, and her brow glistened with sweat.
He walked to the western windows. The half- burned pasture lay below him, and beyond, a grey heap, the ashes of the consumed stack. Everything reminded him of last night's destruction, and of Belle's appearance at the end. What had she been doing there? Why had she set fire to his barn? It was, however, neither time nor place to ask those questions, and when it came time perhaps he would not care.
Two galloping horsemen along the road from Santa Rosa turned his mind back to the more press- ing demands of the hour, and he went to the court- yard to meet Bailey and the surgeon, whose jaded mounts told of hard riding.
At the bedside of the wounded girl the doctor's pleasant face became grave. He unshaded the win- dows, opened the outer doors and flooded the cham-
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ber with light, to enable him the better to examine and dress the injury. e injury. He was big and noisy and confident, yet he was a long time bent over the girl, a long time silent; and when at last he was satisfied, he called Miller and Manuel to assist, and, with un- usual care, dressed and bandaged the wound.
After the operation was over the doors were closed and the windows shaded again. The doctor sat thoughtfully beside the patient, looking at her, but not seeing her. Her mother dejectedly stood oppo- site, and the two others back in the shadows. All of them knew that the case was serious; that the struggle with death would be fierce; that only the girl's splendid vitality and substance would pull her through.
The surgeon rose at length, put away his appli- ances and closed his medicine case ; his visit was fin- ished. Once more his face lighted cheerily, and, as he turned to go, he said, in his bluff, hearty way : "A bad wound, but a healthy subject."
"She will get well?" anxiously ventured her mother.
The doctor replied without hesitation, but after
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the guarded manner in doubtful cases: "If every wound I have to dress is as likely to heal, I'd soon be famous."
"Then we'll take her right home," declared Mrs. Clark, in a tone of relief. "The sooner the better." "Oh, no, madam. The quieter the better. She mustn't be moved."
"We'd rather have her dead than here."
The surgeon's glance turned keenly on Miller, whose face expressed pain at the unhappy remark. Some hidden resentment must lie in the woman's declaration, some injury, perhaps, with which the physician had no concern. "You are her mother," he rejoined, without irritation. "I've done what I can."
He paused at the threshold, as if awaiting the final decision. The widow always had wavered before great perplexities, and now her eyes were fixed on the floor, and she nervously fingered the cover thrown over her daughter. The room grew silent ; only the splash of the fountain sounded through the open window. She turned appealingly to Bailey, who moodily leaned on the footboard of the bed, his
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hands spread wide, his gaze on Belle's white face. Miller, watching with quiet interest, drew a deep breath when the man turned and said :
"Leave her."
The doctor bowed slightly, as if in acknowledg- ment of their deference to his wish, and passed out, Miller following. In the courtyard the master of Casa Grande asked what would be the most imme- diate danger.
While the surgeon made fast his saddle-bags he explained that the bullet had grazed her jugular and also the base of her skull. If the inflammation that accompanies healing should be severe, the walls of the artery might give way, and death would follow from hemorrhage. Or the nerve-tissue at the top of the spine might be seriously affected-then par- alysis, either temporary or fatal. Under the most favourable circumstances she would be long rallying from the nervous shock. "But," he said, in conclu- sion, "she is young and strong, and we must pull her through."
When the doctor had ridden out of the courtyard Bailey joined Miller, and, in a tone of satisfaction,
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remarked : "I've got the old lady straightened out, and she has agreed to take off Belle's clothing and make her comfortable."
"It will be a long struggle," said Miller, reflec- tively, "and I must overcome the widow's resent- ment. Here's the place for the girl, if comfort and attention count."
"What do you think she was doing behind the barn last night?" asked the sheriff, in troubled tones.
The ranchero moodily shook his head and turned away. "We mustn't think about anything, now, but getting her well."
"I'm dead tired," rejoined Bailey, suddenly re- membering what was before them. He went to his mount, and added : "I'll put up my horse and then to bed. We'll have to stand our watch with Belle to-night."
CHAPTER XIV
I WAS ASLEEP, BUT MY HEART WAKED
T HEweek following the doctor's visit was trying. Belle dozed continuously, indifferent to sur- roundings, her vitality consumed in a struggle to undo the evil of the wound. The injured tissue sloughed away, and the poison from it tainted her blood and prostrated her.
The surgeon came daily, but faith in her vitality and the healing power of nature made his calls er- rands of good cheer rather than professional serv- ices. He watched the patient with an anxiety his manner belied, and, though he gave no remedies, his frequent visits fortified the others for days of sus- pense.
Miller's comfortable apartment was relinquished to the wounded girl. On the walls were a half- dozen engravings, copies of masterpieces; on the shelf above the fireplace were a few well-read vol-
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umes of the world's greatest books; the furniture was quaint and solid, and bearskin rugs were every- where. In the hush and darkness that prevailed, however, evidences of taste and fancy were unno- ticed.
The chamber looked through two windows to the north, through two others and a door to the west, with a door to the living-room. In the north wall there was a fireplace, where night and day a log blazed, adding warmth and colour, the one glow of cheer.
The sombreness of the close-curtained room wore on the man, who was in it but little; he realised how much more it must depress the girl's mother, in it continuously, and he was as alert to save her as to relieve her daughter.
It was hard to decide which of the women was the greater care. The master of Casa Grande had said he must win Mrs. Clark's confidence, and he went resolutely at the task. Her distrust was not the distrust of jealousy, nor of propriety, but prompted rather by a feeling of nameless injury. Belle had been in no condition to explain her pres-
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ence at the barn the morning of her wounding, and her mother had not been satisfied by the vaqueros' statements, which left her with a vague conscious- ness that Miller was culpable.
She was a woman of lively intuitions, and her host saw at once that the way to overcome her preju- dice was by his manner. He beamed on her with courtesy and deference, and the mantle of distrust, wrapped closely when she entered his house, soon was loosened and cast aside, even as the cloak of a pedestrian is removed when he tramps under a mid- day sun.
The first night of their vigil with Belle the weary mother was induced to go to bed after midnight, because Bailey watched with Miller. The succeed- ing night, however, she and the master of the house watched together ; but a couch was arranged in the room, and when he at last persuaded her to lie down, she slept till the usual hour for rising.
Night after night the same thing happened, and when, a week later, Bailey came again to watch, the tired nurse was glad to leave the men with the pa- tient, who had grown worse instead of better.
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After that the widow yielded less stubbornly to the host's gentle insistence. Her perceptions told her that she could not stand the strain of constant wakefulness, and that, even if she could, her daugh- ter was content to be cared for by Miller. Her tem- per, never the sweetest, was becoming affected, and she had to admit that her condition reacted on Belle and retarded her recovery.
Her confidence in Miller slowly extended. He had a way with Belle that quieted, even after her nervousness had been added to by her mother, and the nurse was beginning to look for his home- coming, not alone because he could help the patient, but because he cheered the mother, fortified her drooping courage. She, who always had leaned on a more resolute personality-her husband, then her daughter-was now turning to the master of Casa Grande.
For the first time in the widow's barren life the graciousness of association became her daily experi- ence, and a new consciousness was waking. The domination of sex she had known, but the imperi- ousness of femininity, beginning at infancy and end-
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ing with age, was a revelation, late, perhaps, but none the less joyous. The unconscious command of woman over man, the homage she may compel from him, were fragrances that had not before drifted to her work-hardened life. Superiority, after all, is not a possession of riches or fame, but of an indefinable something in the soul.
Belle, too, felt the influence that had been soften- ing her mother. The inherent power of her sex over men had already been disclosed to her. It had come as a vague consciousness, unexplained as yet, and thus far it was enough to live it, feel it grow with opportunity. Bailey had first waked it-indiffer- ently, without an added heart-throb. And then this other man came to set her every nerve aquiver. She had fought him, hated him, thrilled to him, warred with herself because she grieved that he was above her.
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