Bruce of the Circle A. Titus Harold

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СКАЧАТЬ of that last remark, Bayard stooped and gingerly lifted the wounded forearm from which the sleeve had been rolled back.

      "What a lookin' human bein'!" he whispered slowly, a moment later, shaking his head and letting his whole-hearted disgust find expression in deep lines about his mouth, as he scanned the bloated, bruised, muddied face below him. "You've got just about as low down, Pardner, as anybody can get! Lord, that face of yourn would scare the Devil himself ... even if it is his own work!"

      He kicked out of his chaps, flung off jumper and vest, rolled up his sleeves and, turning to the rickety washstand, sloshed water into the bowl from the cracked pitcher and vigorously applied lather to his hands and forearms. From the next room came the sounds of a person moving; the creak of a board, the tinkle of a glass, even the low brushing of a garment being hung on a hook, for the partitions were of inch boards covered only by wallpaper.

      "Th' privacies of this here establishment ain't exactly perfect, are they?" the man asked, raising his voice and smiling. "I've got a friend here who needs to have things done for him an' he may wake up and object, but it ain't nothin' serious so don't let us disturb your sleep any more'n you can help," he added and paused, stooped over, to listen for an answer.

      None came; no further sound either; the person in the other room seemed to be listening, too. Bayard, after the interval of silence, shrugged his shoulders, filled the bowl with clean water, placed it on a wooden-bottomed chair which held the lamp and sat down on the edge of the bed with soap and towels beside him.

      "I'll wash out this here nick, first," he muttered. "Then, I'll scrub up that ugly mug.... Ugh!" He made a wry face as he again looked at the distorted, smeared countenance.

      He bathed the forearm carefully, then centered his attention on the wound.

      "Ho-ho! Went deeper than I thought.... Full of dirt an' ... clot ... an'...."

      He stopped his muttering and left off his bathing of the wound suddenly and clamped his fingers above the gash, for, as he had washed away the clotted blood and caked dirt, a thin, sharp stream of blood had spurted out from the ragged tear in the flesh.

      "He got an artery, did he? Huh! When you dropped, you laid on that arm or you'd be eatin' breakfast to-morrow in a place considerable hotter than Arizona," Bayard muttered.

      He looked about him calculatingly as though wondering what was best to do first, and the man on the bed stirred uneasily.

      "Lay still, you!"

      The other moaned and squirmed and threatened to jerk his arm free.

      "You don't amount to much, Pardner, but I can't hold you still and play doctor by myself if ...

      "Say, friend,"—raising his voice. "You, in th' next room; would you mind comin' in here a minute? I've took down more rope than I handle right easy."

      He turned his head to listen better and through the thin partition came again the sound of movements. Feet stepped quickly, lightly, on the noisy floor; a chair was shoved from one place to another, a door opened, the feet came down the hall, the door of the room in which Bayard waited swung back ... and Ann Lytton stood in the doorway.

      For a moment their eyes held on one another. The woman's lips were compressed, her nostrils dilated in excitement, her blue eyes wide and apprehensive, although she struggled to repress all these evidences of emotional disturbance. The man's jaw slacked in astonishment, then tightened, and his chest swelled with a deep breath of pleased surprise; he experienced a strange tremor and subconsciously he told himself that she was as rare looking as he had thought she must be from the impression he had received down in the dark hallway.

      "Why ... why, I didn't think you ... it might be a lady in there, Miss," he said in slow astonishment. "I thought it was a man ... because ladies don't often get in here. I ... this is a nasty mess an' maybe you better not tackle it ... if ... if you could call somebody to help me.... Nora, th' girl downstairs, would come, Miss—"

      "I can help you," she said, and a flush rushed into her cheeks, which at once relieved and accentuated their pallor. It was as though he had accused her of a weakness that she resented.

      Bayard looked her over through a silent moment; then moved one foot quickly and, eyes still holding her gaze, his left hand groped for a towel, found it, shook it out and spread it over the face of the drunken, wounded man he had called her to help him tend.

      "He ain't a beauty, Miss," he explained, relieved that the countenance was concealed from her. "I hate to look at him myself an' I'd hate to have a girl ... like you have to look at him ... I'm sure he would, too,"—as though he did not actually mean the last.

      The woman moved to his side then, eyes held on the wound by evident effort. It was as if she were impelled to turn her gaze to that covered face and fought against the desire with all the will she could muster.

      "You see, Miss, this artery's been cut an' I've got my thumb shut down on it here," he indicated. "This gent got shot up a trifle to-night an' we—you an' me—have got to fix him up. I can't do it alone because he's bleedin' an' he's lost more than's healthy for him now.

      "It sure is fine of you to come, Miss."

      He looked at her curiously and steadily yet without giving offense. It was as though he had characterized this woman for himself, was thinking more about the effect on her of the work they were to do than of that work itself. He was interested in this newcomer; he wanted to know about her. That was obvious. He watched her as he talked and his manner made her know that he was very gentle, very considerate of her peace of mind, in spite of the quality about him which she could not understand, which was his desire to know how she would act in this unfamiliar, trying situation.

      "Now, you take that towel and roll it up," he was saying. "Yes, th' long way.... Then, bring that stick they use to prop up th' window—"

      "It's a tourniquet you want," she broke in.

      He looked up at her again.

      "Tourniquet.... Tourniquet," he repeated, to fix the new word in his mind. "Yes, that's what I want: to shut off the blood."

      She folded the towel and brought the stick. From her audible breathing Bayard knew that she was excited, but, otherwise, she had ceased to give indication of the fact.

      "Loop it around and tie a knot," he said.

      "Is that right?" she asked, in a voice that was too calm, too well controlled for the circumstances.

      "Yes, it's all right, Miss. How about you?"—a twinkle in his eye. "If this ... if you don't think you can stand it to fuss with him—" he began, but she cut him off with a look that contained something of a quality of reassurance, but which was more obviously a rebuff.

      "I said I could help you. Why do you keep doubting me?"

      "I don't; I'm tryin' to be careful of your feelings,"—averting his eyes that she might not see the quick fire of appreciation in them. "Will you tighten it with that stick, now, Miss?"

      The man on the bed breathed loudly, uncouthly, with now and then a short, sharp moan. The sour smell of stale liquor was about him; the arm and hand that had been washed were the only clean parts of his body.

      "Now you twist it," Bayard said, when she was ready, although he could have done it easily with his free hand.

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