In the Down-Country

by HUGH PENDEXTER

E DID not suspect he was in the vicinity of a habitation till his horse came to a stumbling halt in the lee of a house. It seemed an eternity that he had floundered blindly in the heart of the blizzard now sweeping over the Wyoming plains on the impetus of a sixty-miles-an-hour wind. Nor was the shelter reached any too soon, as both man and beast were nearly spent with cold and exhaustion.

Stiffly sliding from the deep saddle, a snow-baked figure, the rider’s first thought was for his mount, which he led to a small sod-covered stable at the rear of the low cabin. It was with difficulty that his benumbed fingers threw open the crazy door. The horse gladly entered the hovel and whinnied softly in appreciation as he felt the blanket spread over his frost-rimmed back. Then the rider bowed against the wind and fought his way to the house.

He repeated his heavy rapping several times before he heard a woman’s anxious voice surmount the clamor of the storm and ask:

“Who is it? Is it Bob?”

“It’s me—an old man, nearly dead from freezing,” replied the stranger in a raucous voice.

The door opened gingerly, allowing the worn face of the woman to come between the weary traveler and the lamp. One glance at the pinched features, bowed form and the long beard heavily coated with icicles convinced her she need entertain no fears, and in a dreary voice she said:

“Come in. I was praying it was Bob.”

“Thanky,” huskily acknowledged the old man, stumbling across the threshold. “I’m plumb lost. Awful night out. Who’s Bob?”

“He’s my man,” answered the woman in a choked voice. “I’ve been praying he’d come.”

Then she fell to weeping softly.

Throwing aside his great coat and cap the old man extended one stiff hand to the fire while the other patted the woman’s shoulder.

“Don’t ye take on, ma’am,” he soothed. “Bob’s all right. He ain’t fool enough to go rambling ’round on a night like this. Only an old fool like me would git locoed and cut up that caper. He’ll turn up to-morrer all hunky.”

“No, he’ll not come,” she moaned. “We quarreled and separated. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I never meant it, but he’s sot and he won’t come.”

“Yas, he will come, too,” warmly insisted the old man, now giving his back to the heat. “Why, all married folks has rows. It’s a part of the game, I reckon.”

“You don’t understand,” she whimpered, somehow feeling at liberty to confide in the stranger. “Eddie—my boy—is sick. He’s been calling for his paw. He’s going to die, I reckon. Oh, if I could only die with him!”

And she sank to her knees and bowed her head in a fresh outburst of grief.

“Please, ma’am, quit,” begged the old man, nervously combing his beard clear of ice. “I ain’t used to this sort o’ thing. If the kid’s sick why don’t ye git a doctor?”

“I’ve been alone,” she muttered, staggering to her feet. “I couldn’t leave him. Now that you’ve come mebbe you’ll stay and watch him while I go for a doctor.”

“Hold on,” he roughly detained as she reached for a man’s coat and began pulling it on. “Go fer a doctor in a night like this?” And he pointed significantly at the white wall of snow ever dashing against the small window. “Ye wouldn’t last two rods.”

“I’ll git a doctor or die,” she fiercely cried. “Let go of me. Bentown is only a mile from here. I’ll make it somehow.”

“Bentown—a mile from here!” gasped the stranger, stepping back and staring at her incredulously. “Good Lawd! I’ve rid plumb in a circle. I ’lowed I was over Johnson County way. Wal, if that wouldn’t skin a maverick! Bentown only a mile away!”

“You ain’t within twenty miles of the county line,” she wearily assured.

Then catching up a shawl and draping it about her head she firmly insisted:

“But I can make the town. I could do it if it was a dozen miles—for my boy. Keep him quiet while I’m gone, if you can. And if he cries for his paw mebbe you won’t mind lying a bit and telling him as how his paw will be here soon.”

Her emotion mastered her as she said the last, and with a low moaning sound she drew near the cot in the corner by the stove and, with the hungry mother-love burning through her tears, knelt and stared intently at the flushed face of the child.

“Ma’am, I’m going fer the doctor,” growled the old man, catching up his wraps. “Stick by the kid. Where does the doctor live? I don’t want to waste any time asking questions once I git there.”

“Right across from the jail—it’s the only house near there,” eagerly cried the woman. “Oh, if you could only git him to come! If he could only realize it’s a case of life or death!”

“I opine he’ll realize. I’m sure he’ll come,” softly comforted the old man. “What’s the matter with the younker? He’ll want to know what kind of dope to fetch along.”

“Diphthery,” she whispered, her voice weak with horror as she pronounced the dread word.

“Huh! Jest ye keep yer shirt on,” soothed the old man. “Dipthery is a joke with these yere docter persons. Jest keep comfy till I come back. So long, ma’am. And don’t cry no more.”

With the points of the compass freshly fixed in his mind and with the rushing wind at his back he managed to keep his tired nag on a measurably straight course. But so thick was the snow he found himself a solitary figure in the long narrow street before a single light pricked through the encompassing blackness. A few rods more and he vaguely made out a square, squat building which he knew was the county jail. Across the way a yellow spot glowed in the darkness, emanating from the doctor’s house.

The doctor, a thin, silent man with darting eyes, opened the door begrudgingly. Before he could inquire his caller’s business the old man had stepped inside the hall and was briefly explaining:

“Kid sick with diphthery. Git some of yer patent loco-juice and jump yer hoss. Case of life or death.”

The doctor stared at him in amazement and backed into his snug little study. Then he remonstrated:

“Child sick with diphtheria? It’s impossible. I know all the children in Ben”

“Ye don’t know this one,” harshly broke in the old man. “It’s a new brand to ye. I tell ye he’s dying and we’ve got to hustle to save him.”

The doctor’s jaws squared.

“See here!” he angrily demanded. “Who are you who come here and tell me what I must do? Where is the child you say is ill?”

Ignoring the first part of the double query the old man tersely replied:

“Don’t know the name. Lives a mile up the main trail on the right. She’s a woman with a sick kid. Reckon that lets ye out. Her husband’s name is Bob and they’ve separated.”

“It’s the Nevers family,” grumbled the doctor, seating himself in a deep rocker. “If the man had stayed with his wife and had cared for his child instead of”

“Yas, but it seems he didn’t,” obtruded the old man in a menacing voice. “What ye waiting fer? Didn’t I say he was on the p’int of dying?”

“The average layman usually exaggerates the danger of an illness,” stiffly replied the doctor. “And”

“Quit it!” rumbled the old man. “Don’t ye dare fer to go to call me a layman. I don’t take that word from anybody on the range. D’ye hear?”

“Good Heavens, you’re crazy!” furiously cried the doctor, leaping to his feet. “Get out of my house, or I’ll summon the sheriff from across the way. Get out now!”

“Yas, but what about the sick kid? When ye going to see him?” calmly asked the old man.

“It’s none of your business, but I’ll say that if the storm abates I will ride up there tomorrow,” wrathfully retorted the doctor.

“Reckon we’ll have to make different arrangements,” exploded the old man, and with easy grace he whipped out a .44-caliber gun, solid frame pattern, old style, but convincing. As he tucked the blue-black muzzle under the doctor’s sagging chin he said:

“Unless ye hanker to glide into the valley of the shadder ye’d better hump yeself into yer riding-togs, rope yer hoss, corral some of this yere diphthery dope and be ready to go with me inside of three minutes. D’ye foller my line of argument?”

“A—a crazy man!” gasped the doctor as his startled gaze traveled down the long barrel.

“Anything but a layman,” sourly conceded the stranger. “Git busy!”

With a helpless glance at the jail lights, barely showing across the street, the doctor groaned and placed some fifteen thousand units of antitoxin in his medicine-case. As he procured his fur coat and cap he muttered—

“If I die in this storm my death will be on your head.”

“If ye don’t arrive in time to save the kid the coroner won’t never believe ye died of freezing,” grimly warned the old man. “Now, if ye’ve got all the dope ye need, we’ll mosey out to the hoss-hovel.”

“I must speak to my wife first,” protested the doctor.

The old man rubbed his hooked nose dubiously with the hammer of the revolver, but finally consented.

“That’s right and proper. No use to alarm a lady. But ye’ll simply say: ‘My dear, I’m going to trot up to Nevers’. His kid is sick. Will be back soon.’ If ye blaze any other sort of a trail and try to tip her off to call up the sheriff I shall have to plug ye from the hallway. Git busy!”

With an icy spot on his back, where he believed the menacing revolver was pointing, the doctor hastily summoned his spouse and hurriedly informed her of his errand, much in the words suggested by his escort. Before she could make any wifely remonstrance he had backed through the door. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of an old face half-smothered in white whiskers.

HERE!” triumphed the doctor, his professional pride to the fore. “The boy will pull through, Mrs. Nevers. But it was nip and tuck. See! Can’t you observe that he already begins to improve? I’ll be up again tomorrow. I’m glad to have saved him. But I don’t fancy the messenger you sent.”

Mrs. Nevers, who was devouring the boy with tearful eyes, cast a grateful glance toward the front room and whimpered:

“I don’t know who he is, but it seems as if the Lord must have sent him.”

“Possibly,” cynically replied the doctor, closing his medicine-case. “But he’s the first heavenly messenger I ever saw that toted a .44 Colt on his hip.”

“If it wasn’t for him you’d never known of Eddie’s danger and he would have died,” she simply reminded. “I haven’t tried to thank you. Sometime I shall. I’m too choked up to try to thank any one just now.”

“No thanks, no thanks to me,” winced the doctor. “It’s my profession to cure. I’ll drop in tomorrow.”

“But won’t you sit down and rest?” she urged.

“No, no,” he bruskly refused, throwing on his coat. “The storm is abating. I never expected to get here against that wind. Seemed as if it were a year. But going back will be easy. Don’t worry, and try to get some sleep.”

And he was gone.

In the front room, resting on a rug, slept the old man who had done her such a beautiful service. The tears streamed down her faded cheeks as she stood in the doorway and stared at him. He was not a very prepossessing old man as he lay there on his back, with blanket kicked back, and snoring harshly. Nor was there anything suggestive of a peace-loving nature in the long revolver resting within easy reach of his limp fingers. Some might even have pronounced him rather a desperate-appearing old fellow. But in the woman’s warm gaze he was very noble. She wanted to wake him and thank him; she knew she could never thank him enough. Instead she softly entered the room and with a little mothering gesture rearranged the blanket.

At her approach his lean right hand closed mechanically on the revolver, but as her hands caressed him, the groping fingers relaxed and he muttered something below his breath. She softly closed the door and returned to the boy.

As he was resting quietly and as her mind was now relieved of its awful fear she found time to think of her husband. They had parted in anger, but the child’s illness seemed to have erased the cruel emotions and left nothing but pity and love in her heart. What had seemed ample cause for resentment on her part now appealed to her as worse than trivial; the low cot and sick boy had taught her that. At first, after her husband had gone away, she had sought consolation in self-pity. She had told herself she had worked too hard, that her nerves were upset and that she had been licensed to make mountains out of mole-hills. She saw more clearly now; nothing mattered except the boy. For his sake, even if not for the love she still felt-for her husband, he should grow up under the protection and care of both father and mother.

Condemning herself as weak and childish, and earnestly resolved to improve on the future, she stood by the window and stared out into the night. The storm had spent itself and no longer whipped the small panes with a smother of snow. As she looked she gave a low cry, half hope, half fear. A face had floated before her eyes, visible briefly in the murky, yellow light feeding into the darkness from her one lamp. And she feared it was but a trick of her imagination.

But as she composed herself to watch more closely the latch rattled clumsily and the door began to open. With both hands clutched to her breast she turned and wildly faced the newcomer. A snow-covered figure awkwardly stepped inside, moving as men move who have quit the saddle when half-frozen. Then as one white arm swept off the low-drawn cap she gave a low cry and whispered:

“Oh, Bob! Bob! You’ve come at last!”

“I’ve come, Jane,” hoarsely replied the man, glaring in fear at the still, small form in the corner. “The doctor’s wife—she said the doctor had come here—said it was Eddie. How—how is he?”

“Oh, Bob; I’m sorry we quarreled. We must never quarrel again,” she wept, staggering to him. “It was judgment upon us, I reckon.”

“My God! The boy—he’s dead,” shivered Nevers, clutching her arm tightly.

“No, no, no; he’ll live—he’ll git well!” she sobbed, clinging to him. “The doctor says he’ll git well.”

With a low moan the man sank limply into a chair and breathed long and deep for several minutes before he could still the tumult within him and falter:

“Don’t cry. I was to blame. I’ll never be to blame again. Don’t cry, dear. It’s all over—but not the way I’d feared.”

A low cough caused Nevers to turn in surprise. He found himself looking into the same blue-black muzzle which had done so much in deciding the doctor to make the call.

“Excuse me,” gently broke in the old man, “but I opine it ain’t fer me to butt in on fambly reunions. If ye’ll kindly keep yer hands up and hold the same position fer a minute, jest as if ye was going to have yer picter took, I’d think it very kindly of ye. Thank ye, sir. Now, jest a second.”

And with two long strides the old man was behind the chair, had unbuckled the heavy belt and revolver and was backing to the door.

The woman, stunned by the spectacle, stared with mouth agape till the old man reached one hand behind him and raised the latch. Then she found her voice and reason and wildly explained:

“But this is my husband. This is Bob. We’ve made up our foolish quarrel, jest as you said we would. He wants to thank you fer gitting the doctor and saving Eddie’s life.”

Then rapidly to her white-faced husband:

“Don’t you understand, Bob, this man saved Eddie’s life? He came in here to escape the storm. He was lost. I told him Eddie was dying. He went to Bentown and got the doctor to come. If it hadn’t been for him our boy’d have died. Why don’t you thank him, Bob?”

“Saved the kid’s life? Thank him?” dully muttered Nevers. Then regardless of the warning revolver he rose and placed his wife aside and advanced upon the old man.

“Saved my little kid’s life, eh? Well, stranger, I do thank ye. Even a deputy sheriff has some soul, even if he don’t always treat his woman white. But I thank ye for saving the kid—and I thank ye for bringing Jane and me together and back to our senses again. You don’t have to vamoose the house till you’re good and ready.”

“Much obliged,” dryly replied the old man, slipping his gun into the holster and tossing the man’s belt and weapon upon the table. “Glad to have ye feel that way. But I shall feel better over’n Johnson County, which are some twenty miles away and which I’m a hankering to reach mighty soon.”

“The sheriff and the posse took the north trail. You have a clear road to the south,” blurted out Nevers eagerly.

“Thank ye kindly. Good night and remember me to the kid,” smiled the old man.

As the door shut out the cold and the dark the woman ran to the window and held the lamp, to speed him departing. When she returned to her husband her voice was faint as she asked:

“Who is he? Why did he act as if you was an enemy? Who is he?”

Her husband buckled on his belt and, grinning sheepishly, replied:

“He’s old Jem Peace, the worst old rustler what ever dodged a posse. I’ve been trailing him for two weeks, trying to head him off from Johnson County, where the rustlers feel to home and free-like. I got a tip he was making down this way. The sheriff and the other deputies was cocksure he’d go north. They ’lowed ’twould be a big feather to nail the old feller. Thank God I didn’t, or he’d never been here to-night. Let’s have a look at the kid.”