“Go ahead.... And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off—why just pass me my gun!”
The cowboy's voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight with a spirit that frightened the hunter.
“Ahuh!... I know how you feel. But, boy, I'd rather live with one leg an' be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for some other lass.”
Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.
“Damn you, Bent Wade! You always say what kills me!... Of course I would!”
“Well, lie quiet now, an' let me look at this poor, messed-up foot.”
Wade's deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speed natural to them. But at last Moore's injured member lay bare, discolored and misshapen. The first glance made the hunter quicker in his movements, closer in his scrutiny. Then he yelled his joy.
“Boy, it's better! No sign of gangrene! We'll save your leg!”
“Pard, I never feared I'd lose that. All I've feared was that I'd be club-footed.... Let me look,” replied the cowboy, and he raised himself on his elbow. Wade lifted the unsightly foot.
“My God, it's crooked!” cried Moore, passionately. “Wade, it's healed. It'll stay that way always! I can't move it!... Oh, but Buster Jack's ruined me!”
The hunter pushed him back with gentle hands. “Wils, it might have been worse.”
“But I never gave up hope,” replied Moore, in poignant grief. “I couldn't. But
“Well, well, boy, cussin' won't do any good. Now lay still an' let me work. You've had lots of good news this mornin'. So I think you can stand to hear a little bad news.”
“What! Bad news?” queried Moore, with a start.
“I reckon. Now listen.... The reason Collie hasn't answered your note is because she's been sick in bed for three weeks.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed the cowboy, in amaze and distress.
“Yes, an' I'm her doctor,” replied Wade, with pride. “First off they had Mrs. Andrews. An' Collie kept askin' for me. She was out of her head, you know. An' soon as I took charge she got better.”
“Heavens! Collie ill and you never told me!” cried Moore. “I can't believe it. She's so healthy and strong. What ailed her, Bent?”
“Well, Mrs. Andrews said it was nervous breakdown. An' Old Bill was afraid of consumption. An' Jack Belllounds swore she was only shammin'.”
The cowboy cursed violently.
“Here—I won't tell you any more if you're goin' to cuss that way an' jerk around,” protested Wade.
“I—I'll shut up,” appealed Moore.
“Well, that puddin'-head Jack is more'n you called him, if you care to hear my opinion.... Now, Wils, the fact is that none of them know what ails Collie. But I know. She'd been under a high strain leadin' up to October first. An' the way that weddin'-day turned out—with Old Bill layin' Jack cold, an' with no marriage at all—why, Collie had a shock. An' after that she seemed pale an' tired all the time an' she didn't eat right. Well, when Buster Jack got over that awful punch he'd got from the old man he made up to Collie harder than ever. She didn't tell me then, but I saw it. An' she couldn't avoid him, except by stayin' in her room, which she did a good deal. Then Jack showed a streak of bein' decent. He surprised everybody, even Collie. He delighted Old Bill. But he didn't pull the wool over my eyes. He was like a boy spoilin' for a new toy, an' he got crazy over Collie. He's sure terribly in love with her, an' for days he behaved himself in a way calculated to make up for his drinkin' too much. It shows he can behave himself when he wants to. I mean he can control his temper an' impulse. Anyway, he made himself so good that Old Bill changed his mind, after what he swore that day, an' set another day for the weddin'. Right off, then, Collie goes down on her back.... They didn't send for me very soon. But when I did get to see her, an' felt the way she grabbed me—as if she was drownin'—then I knew what ailed her. It was love.”
“Love!” gasped Moore, breathlessly.
“Sure. Jest love for a dog-gone lucky cowboy named Wils Moore!... Her heart was breakin', an' she'd have died but for me! Don't imagine, Wils, that people can't die of broken hearts. They do. I know. Well, all Collie needed was me, an' I cured her ravin' and made her eat, an' now she's comin' along fine.”
“Wade, I've believed in Heaven since you came down to White Slides,” burst out Moore, with shining eyes. “But tell me—what did you tell her?”
“Well, my particular medicine first off was to whisper in her ear that she'd never have to marry Jack Belllounds. An' after that I gave her daily doses of talk about you.”
“Pard! She loves me—still?” he whispered.
“Wils, hers is the kind that grows stronger with time. I know.”
Moore strained in his intensity of emotion, and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.
“Oh God! this's hard on me!” he cried. “I'm a man. I love that girl more than life. And to know she's suffering for love of me—for fear of that marriage being forced upon her—to know that while I lie here a helpless cripple—it's almost unbearable.”
“Boy, you've got to mend now. We've the best of hope now—for you—for her—for everythin'.”
“Wade, I think I love you, too,” said the cowboy. “You're saving me from madness. Somehow I have faith in you—to do whatever you want. But how could you tell Collie she'd never have to marry Buster Jack?”
“Because I know she never will,” replied Wade, with his slow, gentle smile.
