THE PILOT'S GRIP
The situation was one of extreme danger--a madman with a Winchester rifle.Something must be done and quickly.But what? It would be death to anyone appearing at the door.
"I'll speak; you keep your eyes on him," said The Duke.
"Hello, Bruce! What's the row?" shouted The Duke.
Instantly the singing stopped.A look of cunning delight came over his face as, without a word, he got his rifle ready pointed at the door.
"Come in!" he yelled, after waiting for some moments."Come in!
You're the biggest of all the devils.Come on, I'll send you down where you belong.Come, what's keeping you?"Over the rifle-barrel his eyes gleamed with frenzied delight.We consulted as to a plan.
"I don't relish a bullet much," I said.
"There are pleasanter things," responded The Duke, "and he is a fairly good shot."Meantime the singing had started again, and, looking through the chink, I saw that Bruce had got his eye on the stovepipe again.
While I was looking The Pilot slipped away from us toward the door.
"Come back!" said the Duke, "don't be a fool! Come back, he'll shoot you dead!"Moore paid no heed to him, but stood waiting at the door.In a few moments Bruce blazed away again at the stovepipe.Immediately the Pilot burst in, calling out eagerly:
"Did you get him?"
"No!" said Bruce, disappointedly, "he dodged like the devil, as of course he ought, you know.""I'll get him," said Moore."Smoke him out," proceeding to open the stove door.
"Stop!" screamed Bruce, "don't open that door! It's full, I tell you." Moore paused."Besides," went on Bruce, "smoke won't touch 'em.""Oh, that's all right," said Moore, coolly and with admirable quickness, "wood smoke, you know--they can't stand that."This was apparently a new idea in demonology for Bruce, for he sank back, while Moore lighted the fire and put on the tea-kettle.He looked round for the tea-caddy.
"Up there," said Bruce, forgetting for the moment his devils, and pointing to a quaint, old-fashioned tea-caddy upon the shelf.
Moore took it down, turned it in his hands and looked at Bruce.
"Old country, eh?"
"My mother's," said Bruce, soberly.
"I could have sworn it was my aunt's in Balleymena," said Moore.
"My aunt lived in a little stone cottage with roses all over the front of it." And on he went into an enthusiastic description of his early home.His voice was full of music, soft and soothing, and poor Bruce sank back and listened, the glitter fading from his eyes.
The Duke and I looked at each other.
"Not too bad, eh?" said The Duke, after a few moments' silence.
"Let's put up the horses," I suggested."They won't want us for half an hour."When we came in, the room had been set in order, the tea-kettle was singing, the bedclothes straightened out, and Moore had just finished washing the blood stains from Bruce's arms and neck.
"Just in time," he said."I didn't like to tackle these," pointing to the bandages.
All night long Moore soothed and tended the sick man, now singing softly to him, and again beguiling him with tales that meant nothing, but that had a strange power to quiet the nervous restlessness, due partly to the pain of the wounded arm and partly to the nerve-wrecking from his months of dissipation.The Duke seemed uncomfortable enough.He spoke to Bruce once or twice, but the only answer was a groan or curse with an increase of restlessness.
"He'll have a close squeak," said The Duke.The carelessness of the tone was a little overdone, but The Pilot was stirred up by it.
"He has not been fortunate in his friends," he said, looking straight into his eyes.
"A man ought to know himself when the pace is too swift," said The Duke, a little more quickly than was his wont.
"You might have done anything with him.Why didn't you help him?"Moore's tones were stern and very steady, and he never moved his eyes from the other man's face, but the only reply he got was a shrug of the shoulders.
When the gray of the morning was coming in at the window The Duke rose up, gave himself, a little shake, and said:
"I am not of any service here.I shall come back in the evening."He went and stood for a few moments looking down upon the hot, fevered face; then, turning to me, he asked:
"What do you think?"
"Can't say! The bromide is holding him down just now.His blood is bad for that wound.""Can I get anything?" I knew him well enough to recognize the anxiety under his indifferent manner.
"The Fort doctor ought to be got."
He nodded and went out.
"Have breakfast?" called out Moore from the door.
"I shall get some at the Fort, thanks.They won't take any hurt from me there," he said, smiling his cynical smile.
Moore opened his eyes in surprise.
"What's that for?" he asked me.
"Well, he is rather cut up, and you rather rubbed it into him, you know," I said, for I thought Moore a little hard.
"Did I say anything untrue?"
"Well, not untrue, perhaps; but truth is like medicine--not always good to take." At which Moore was silent till his patient needed him again.
It was a weary day.The intense pain from the wound, and the high fever from the poison in his blood kept the poor fellow in delirium till evening, when The Duke rode up with the Fort doctor.Jingo appeared as nearly played out as a horse of his spirit ever allowed himself to become.
"Seventy miles," said The Duke, swinging himself off the saddle.
"The doctor was ten miles out.How is he?"I shook my head, and he led away his horse to give him a rub and a feed.
Meantime the doctor, who was of the army and had seen service, was examining his patient.He grew more and more puzzled as he noted the various symptoms.Finally he broke out:
"What have you been doing to him? Why is he in this condition?
This fleabite doesn't account for all," pointing to the wound.
We stood like children reproved.Then The Duke said, hesitatingly:
