Part 24

“There is only place for gratitude,” he said, one evening, to them. “Why should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from pain, and her last evening so full of joy?”

It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As “Mexico” said, they “couldn't get onto his game.” And none of them was more completely puzzled than was “Mexico” himself, but none more fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same time, however, “Mexico” could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when “Mexico” would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and “Mexico” was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it difficult for “Mexico” to accept it as being sincere.

“What's his game?” he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery deepened. “What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?”

One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had been falling heavily all day. “Mexico” received him with a wrathful affection.

“What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?” “Mexico” asked him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. “I can't get onto you. It's all just d--, that is, cursed foolishness!”

“Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll tell you. Now listen,” said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before “Mexico's” fire. “I've been wanting to tell you this for some time.” He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story of the two debtors. “Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?” “Mexico” nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. “I had a big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back what I owe.” Then he told “Mexico” in a low, reverent tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. “That's why,” he said, when he concluded his tale. “That was a great thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night like this. And don't you think that's good enough?”

Then “Mexico” turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:

“You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want.”

“'Mexico,'” replied the doctor, “you know I don't preach at you. I haven't, have I?”

“Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't.”

“Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my friend.” He put out his hand, which “Mexico” gripped and held fast. “But,” continued the doctor, “I want to say that He wants you more than I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend.”

“Say, Doc,” said “Mexico,” drawing back a little from him, “I guess not. That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that mountain there.”

“The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'” said the doctor, quietly. “He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!”

“You're right there,” said “Mexico,” emphatically. Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, “Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet.”

“Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a good thing and I want my friend to have it.”

When the doctor was departing next morning “Mexico” stopped him at the door. “I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of yours for a spell?”

The doctor took it out of his bag. “It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can bank on it.”

The book proved of absorbing interest to “Mexico.” He read it openly in the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor. The book did its work with “Mexico,” as it does with all who give it place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in “Mexico's” mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week the doctor failed to appear, and “Mexico” grew increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged “Mexico” into deepest gloom.

“If he's took to bed,” he said, “there ain't much hope, I guess, for they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off.”

But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he would be on his feet again.

“If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month,” groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed.

“There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him,” replied Margaret, “but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton,” and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, “you will help, I am sure.”

“Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him there.”

“Yes, a month at the very least,” cried Dick.

But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he would be fit again.

“It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway,” said Dr. Cotton, “and I think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen.”

“Ah,” replied Margaret, “that is because you haven't known your patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey.”

And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in his hand.

“It's fer the doctor,” said Ben, “an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' had got shot and--”

Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two words had caught Barney's ear, “Mexico” and “shot.”

“Let me have the wire,” he said quietly, when Margaret came in.

“I intended to give it to you, Barney,” she replied as quietly. “You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best.”

Barney opened the telegram and read, “'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. Wants doctor to come if possible.”

“Dr. Cotton is not in?” inquired Barney.

“He is gone up the Big Horn.”

“We can't possibly get him to-night,” replied Barney.

Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost.

“Take my temperature, Margaret.” It was nine-nine and one-fifth. “That's not bad,” said Barney. “Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. Yes, and more.”

Margaret turned slightly pale. “You know best, Barney,” she said, “but it may be your life, you know.”

“Yes,” he replied gravely. “I take that chance. But I think I ought to take it, don't you?” But Margaret refused to speak. “What do you think, Margaret?” he asked.

“Oh, Barney!” she cried, with passionate protest, “why should you give your life for him?”

“Why?” he repeated slowly. “There was One who gave His life for me. Besides,” he added, after a pause, “there's a fair chance that I can get through.”

She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. “No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!” The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, “You expect me to do right, Margaret.”

A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered simply, “You will do what is right, Barney.”

Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. “Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'” A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached “Mexico,” and he would not have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.

When he entered the sick man's room “Mexico” glanced into his face. “Good Lord, Doctor!” he cried, “you shouldn't have come! You're worse than me!”

“All right, 'Mexico,'” replied the doctor cheerfully. “I had to come, you know. We can't go back on our friends.”

“Mexico” kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. “I know now,” he said hoarsely, “why He let 'em kill Him.”

“Why?”

“Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?”

“You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?”

“You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed.”

The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty wound and dangerous, but in half an hour “Mexico” was resting quietly. Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning, conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well knew indicated a very serious condition. When “Mexico” woke the doctor examined him carefully.

“You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet and obey orders.”

“Mexico's” hand grasped him. “Doc,” he said anxiously, “you look awful bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be terrible sick.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm glad I came.”

“Mexico's” fierce black eyes softened. “Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know now. And I want to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out.” He waved his hand toward the bar.

“'Mexico,'” said Barney earnestly, “that's great! That's the best news I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick.” He took the gambler's hand in his. “Good-bye, 'Mexico.'” His voice was earnest, almost solemn. “You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll never go back on a friend.”

“Mexico” reached out and held him with both hands. “Git out,” he said to the attendant. “Doc,” his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew the doctor down to him, “there ain't nobody here, is there?” he asked, with a glance round the room.

“No, 'Mexico,' no one.”

“Doc,” he began again, his strong frame shaking, “I can't say it. It's all in here till it hurts. You're--you're like Him, I think. You make me think o' Him.”

Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. “God bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word,” he said. “Goodbye, my friend.”

They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave welcoming smile.

“Dr. Cotton has returned,” she announced. “And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is here, Barney.”

He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. “That was right, Margaret. And Dick?”

“Dick will be here this afternoon.”

“You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself,” said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs.

“Let me help you, Barney,” she said, putting her arms about him. “You're the one who will not think of yourself.”

“We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson, after all.”

The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded immediate operation.

“We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?” Barney asked, a little anxiously. “An hour can't make much difference now, you know.”

“Why, certainly we shall wait,” cried the doctor.

Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal effects.

“Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right,” he said, with cheerful courage.

“Of course,” answered Dick, quickly.

“But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly.”

“Quite right, Barney,” said Dick again, his voice steady and even.

The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then the doctor came to the door.

“Are you ready, Doctor?” said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful voice.

“Yes, we're all ready.”

“A minute, Doctor, please,” said Barney.

The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone.

“Just a little, word, Dick.”

“Oh, Barney,” cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, “I don't think I can.”

“Never mind then, old chap,” replied Barney, putting out his hand to him.

“Wait a minute, Barney. I will,” said Dick, instantly regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his prayer, closing with the words, “And O, my Father, keep my brother safe.” “And mine,” added Barney. “Amen.”

“Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready.” And with a smile he met the doctor at the door.

In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse told Dick all he dared not ask.

“How long before he will be quite conscious again?” he inquired.

“It will be an hour at least,” replied the surgeon, kindly, “before he can talk much.”

Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for “the last weariness, the final strife.”

“We must help him,” he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. “We must forget our side just now.”

But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.

“This is not too bad, Dick,” he said. “How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together again--us three,” he corrected, glancing at Margaret.

“Yes, Barney,” replied Dick, “nothing matters much beside that.”

“And then,” continued his brother, “He let me do a little work for the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, Dick. He is my friend.”

“Mine, too, Barney,” said Dick; “mine forever.”

“Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a doctor, I mean!”

“We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear.”

“What a chance!” he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep.

Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper.

Bending over him his brother caught the words, “Night no more.” The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon his brother's face. “It is near now, Dick--I think--and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think mother--would like--to have me near.”

“Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother.” Dick's voice was steady and clear.

“Margaret,” said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An odd little smile played over his face. “I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me.” She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, “Barney, my love! my love!”

Again he smiled up at her. “Margaret,” he said, “take care--of Dick--for me.”

“Yes, Barney, I will.” The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind.

“I know you will,” he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. “Dick, my boy,” he cried, in a clear, strong voice, “my brother--my brother.” He lifted up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.

“He's gone, Margaret!” cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her. “He's gone! Oh! he has left us!”

She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. “We have only each other now, Dick,” she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found courage to turn again and live.

Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, “The men would like to see him again, if you think best.”