The Border Legion

"He's alive," she whispered. "But--he's dying. ... What shall I do?"

Many thoughts flashed across her mind. She could not help him now;

he would be dead soon; she did not need to wait there beside him;

there was a risk of some of his comrades riding into that

rendezvous. Suppose his back was not broken after all! Suppose she

stopped the flow of blood, tended him, nursed him, saved his life?

For if there were one chance of his living, which she doubted, it

must be through her. Would he not be the same savage the hour he was

well and strong again? What difference could she make in such a

nature? The man was evil. He could not conquer evil. She had been

witness to that. He had driven Roberts to draw and had killed him.

No doubt he had deliberately and coldly murdered the two ruffians,

Bill and Halloway, just so he could be free of their glances at her

and be alone with her. He deserved to die there like a dog.

What Joan Randle did was surely a woman's choice. Carefully she

rolled Kells over. The back of his vest and shirt was wet with

blood. She got up to find a knife, towel, and water. As she returned

to the cabin he moaned again.

Joan had dressed many a wound. She was not afraid of blood. The

difference was that she had shed it. She felt sick, but her hands

were firm as she cut open the vest and shirt, rolled them aside, and

bathed his back. The big bullet had made a gaping wound, having

apparently gone through the small of his back. The blood still

flowed. She could not tell whether or not Kell's spine was broken,

but she believed that the bullet had gone between bone and muscle,

or had glanced. There was a blue welt just over his spine, in line

with the course of the wound. She tore her scarf into strips and

used it for compresses and bandages. Then she laid him back upon a

saddle-blanket. She had done all that was possible for the present,

and it gave her a strange sense of comfort. She even prayed for his

life, and, if that must go, for his soul. Then she got up. He was

unconscious, white, death-like. It seemed that his torture, his near

approach to death, had robbed his face of ferocity, of ruthlessness,

and of that strange amiable expression. But then, his eyes, those

furnace-windows, were closed.

Joan waited for the end to come. The afternoon passed and she did

not leave the cabin. It was possible that he might come to and want

water. She had once administered to a miner who had been fatally

crushed in an avalanche; and never could forget his husky call for

water and the gratitude in his eyes.