THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
At the close of the religious service, the following day, Esther learned of many cases of sickness, in and about Gila, and especially along the water courses. A sort of a fever, the people told her. She resolved to make neighborhood calls the following day, and to take with her a case of medicine. She found many people sick with what seemed to be the same malady; and, thereupon, began a thorough investigation. The result was that she persuaded the people to let her call a physician.
On the following day, Dr. Mishell drove into camp, and Esther made the rounds with him. As she suspected, the malady proved to be typhoid fever.
"These people must have intelligent care," the physician said gruffly to her. "Do you know anything about nursing?"
She told him she had nursed two patients through typhoid fever.
"You know how to take respiration and temperature, then?" he said brusquely.
She assured him she did.
Then he wrote out directions for each patient, especially noting what to do, if certain conditions should arise.
"You know the importance of sponging patients?" he asked shortly.
"Yes."
"Any alcohol?"
"I can get it."
And so Esther Bright was installed head nurse in Gila. Helpers rallied to her aid.
School was dismissed at an early hour each day, so that Esther could make the rounds daily.
The heat grew almost intolerable, but the delicate girl went on her way as if made of iron. Dr. Mishell looked her over with a nod of approval.
"A woman of sense," he said, in speaking of her to Kenneth Hastings.
The physician came again in three days, only to find many new cases. Esther Bright's task was becoming enormous.
"Can you do it?" the physician had asked. And quietly she had answered:
"I can do it as long as anyone needs my care."
Again the physician nodded approvingly, and muttered:
"Some women do have some sense."
When this second visit drew to a close, he looked sharply at Esther, and said in a crusty tone:
"You are working too hard."
She protested.
"I say you are!" he reiterated. "I'm going to find someone to come help you. Mr. Clayton wishes it. Are you a Catholic?"
"No, a Quaker."
"Quaker! Quaker!" he repeated. "No objections to a Catholic, I suppose?"
"No objections to any human being who serves humanity."
The old man left her abruptly. As he untied his horse, preparatory to leaving, he muttered to himself:
"A very unusual woman. A very unusual woman!"
Late on the following day, when Esther returned from her rounds, she found the Mexican, who had come to the Christmas entertainment, awaiting her. After learning that his Indian wife was sick, she gathered up her medical outfit, and started with him up the canyon. It was a long and fatiguing tramp.
The Indian woman proved to be another fever patient. She refused the medicine, but drank the beef juice the nurse offered her. After trying to make the Mexican understand what to do till she came again, Esther started down the canyon alone.
It was nearly dark. After walking some distance, she heard the cry of wolves. The cries came nearer. She quickened her pace to a run, when, catching her foot, she was thrown violently forward into the stream below.
She struggled to regain her footing, to climb to the bowlder from which she had fallen; but suddenly discovered that she had in some way twisted her ankle, and that she could not bear her weight on that foot. What was she to do? She was still over a mile from Clayton Ranch. If she called, no one could hear her. Oh, those wolves! Their cries sent a chill of terror through her. Again she struggled to climb up on the bank, but the bowlder above her was slippery, and there was nothing to cling to. At last she sent a loud cry for help echoing down the canyon. Then she listened. Suddenly she heard a step above her. It was the young Apache who had visited the school. His coming was about as welcome to her as the wolves would be.
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´," he said, beckoning her to join him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then the Indian lifted her, carried her to a level place, and set her down. She was unable to bear her weight on the injured foot, and fell. She pointed to her ankle, then down towards Gila, hoping the Indian might make her plight known to the people in camp.
As if in answer to her pantomimic request, he lifted her easily in his arms, and strode swiftly down the canyon. Could it be that he had rescued her in order to return her to her friends? It seemed so.
At last it occurred to her to sing her call for help, to attract the attention of any miner, or charcoal tender who might chance to be going up or down the canyon. So with all the volume she could muster, she sang words, telling her plight.
Every little while the Apache would repeat the words:
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."
What could he mean?
About the time Esther was caring for the sick squaw, Kenneth Hastings learned from Wathemah that the teacher had gone to the Mexican's shack up the canyon. He was filled with alarm.
"What's that ye are sayin', Wathemah?" asked Pete Tompkins, who, passing along, had overheard the conversation.
"Me teacher up canyon. Mexican. Sick squaw," replied the child laconically.
"Are you sure, Wathemah?" questioned Kenneth.
The child nodded his head, and pointed toward the canyon.
"Them devilish Apaches has been about camp all day," said Pete Tompkins, stopping to speak to Kenneth. "I seen some of 'em goin' up canyon jest 'fore dark."
"We must go to Miss Bright's rescue at once!" said Kenneth excitedly.
"I'm with ye," said Pete Tompkins. "If a blanked savage harms that air schoolma'am I'll smash his skull with the butt o' my gun. I'll jine y'r party. Let's take all the hounds. We're likely ter run across more'n one Apache. Hello, kids!" he called out. "Jine a rescue party. The schoolma'am's went up canyon ter tend sick squaw,—the Mexican's woman. Them devilish Apaches is up through the canyon, an' we're afeared they'll capture schoolma'am."
Ten well-armed men, some mounted, some unmounted, started up the canyon. On their way, they met John Clayton, who joined them. His horse was neck and neck with Kenneth's.
"Good God!" said the former to his companion. "What may have happened to Miss Bright? What may yet happen to her?"
Kenneth made no reply, but his face was tense.
These two men were in advance, closely followed by Jack Harding and Pete Tompkins, on their Mexican ponies.
Suddenly, the party heard the distant cry of wolves, and—was it a human voice?—they strained their ears to hear. It was a human voice, a woman's voice. They dug their spurs into their horses' sides, and fairly flew.
As they were journeying up the canyon, the savage, with his captive in his arms, was speeding down the canyon. Suddenly he turned, and took the trail leading towards the Apache reservation.
Esther's song for help died on her lips. Every moment seemed eternity; every step, miles away from hope of rescue. Then with the energy born of despair, she sang again so that her song reached the ears of her rescuers:
"Abide with me!
Fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens—
Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O, abide with me!"
Then she listened. Could it be the baying of hounds she heard? Her heart beat faster. She was not mistaken; she had heard the hounds. And now she heard the shouts of men. She began to sing again, but the Indian pressed his hand over her mouth, and tightening his hold with his other arm, started to run with her. She struggled desperately. He held her like a vise. She screamed for help, as she continued to struggle.
"Courage!" came ringing back in response to her cry. She knew the voice. It was the voice of Kenneth Hastings.
Again the Apache muttered in her ear:
"Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´."
She realized that the men were gaining rapidly upon them, and struggled more violently to free herself.
As the Apache ran, his breath came harder. It was no easy task to carry his struggling captive, and escape his pursuers. Still he kept up a remarkable speed.
A moment more, the hounds came upon him. He kicked desperately, but could not free himself from them. Then, winding his fingers around Esther's throat, he choked her, and threw her to the ground. He lifted his gun, faced his pursuers, and fired. The ball entered the chest of Kenneth Hastings, who was in hot pursuit, and nearing the Indian. Kenneth fell from his horse, and the savage escaped.
"My God!" exclaimed John Clayton, as he came up. He sprang from his saddle, and knelt by Kenneth's side. A little farther on lay Esther, unconscious. Her face was ghastly in the dim light, her clothing wet.
"Brandy!" he called. "Any one got brandy?"
"Here," said Pete Tompkins, stepping forward; "here's a flask."
"With shaking hand, John Clayton tried to staunch the wound in Kenneth's shoulder. Then he put brandy between his lips, then between Esther's. She was like ice.
"The brute!" he exclaimed. "I fear he has killed her!"
Then he pulled off his coat and wrapped it about the girl, saying as he did so:
"If she is not dead, the warmth may do her good. Some one ride ahead and prepare Mrs. Clayton."
"I'll go, sir," said a Scotch miner, mounting one of the ponies.
"Thank you. Tell Mrs. Clayton that Miss Bright and Mr. Hastings have met with an accident, and both are unconscious. Tell her to have hot water and blankets ready."
"Come, John," he said, turning to Jack Harding. "Just help me lift Miss Bright to my saddle." Mechanically the cowboy obeyed.
"Can one of you fellows carry Hastings on his horse?"
Jack Harding volunteered.
Few words were spoken by any of the men, as they made their way back to camp.
Pete Tompkins had noisily boasted that he would kill the Indian; but, hearing no reply from any one, he subsided. In spite of his coarseness and vulgarity, he was touched by the tragic ending of the young teacher's life, and by the evident sorrow of his companions. He looked at the still, white face, and something tugged at his heart.
As they passed Keith's house, Mrs. Keith ran out.
"'Ere!" she said. "Wrap 'er in this 'ere warm shawl."
Wathemah ran after them, asking anxiously:
"Me teacher sick?"
"Yes, very sick, Wathemah," answered Clayton.
Just as they reached the Clayton home, Esther roused, and said in a dazed way:
"Where am I?"
"You are at home," answered her host, as he carried her into the house. "Do you feel better?" he asked, as he laid her on the couch.
"What has happened?" she asked, showing no sign of recognition.
"We don't know," said Mrs. Clayton, bending over her.
She moaned.
"Don't you remember the Indian who came to the schoolhouse?" questioned Mr. Clayton anxiously.
"Indian? Schoolhouse?" she repeated in a perplexed way. "Where am I?"
"Here with Mrs. Clayton," said her hostess.
"Mrs. Clayton? Who is she?" asked Esther, vacantly.
The group about her exchanged troubled glances.
John Harding was already on his way to the railway station to telegraph for Dr. Mishell.
Kenneth Hastings, now conscious, was lying on a bed in the Clayton home. John Clayton bent over him, staunching the blood the best he could. In the midst of this, they heard a sharp cry from Esther.
"What is it?" questioned Kenneth.
"Miss Bright!" exclaimed John Clayton, starting towards the room where the teacher and his wife were. Returning, he explained that Esther had apparently sprained her ankle, for it was badly swollen, and probably very painful, when Mrs. Clayton attempted to remove her shoe.
Kenneth made no response, but, for a while, lay with eyes closed. He started when John Clayton told him that, as yet, Esther had not recognized any of the family.
It was a long and anxious night for the ones who watched. In the morning, when Esther wakened, she called her companion by name.
"Carla," she said, "I dreamed something dreadful had happened."
As she spoke, she attempted to rise. A twinge of pain in her foot stopped her.
"What has happened?" she asked.
"You sprained your ankle yesterday," Carla explained.
"Yesterday?" she repeated, in a puzzled way, as if trying to think of something. "Strange, but I can't recall yesterday."
"Dr. Mishell is coming to look at your ankle soon."
"Dr. Mishell! Dr. Mishell!" Esther said, slowly. Then a light came into her face. "Oh, yes! Now I remember. He came to Gila to see our sick people once, didn't he? I must dress so as to make the rounds with him."
So saying, she started again to rise, but sank back with a pale face.
"My foot, and head, and throat are so painful. It's so queer. I feel ill, too. What has happened?" she asked again.
"You were injured, somehow," explained Carla, "and were unconscious, when found. Mr. Hastings was unconscious, too."
"Mr. Hastings? Is he here?"
"Yes."
"And sick?"
"Very. Dr. Mishell and Sister Mercy, the Catholic sister, are with him now."
"I must help take care of Mr. Hastings, Carla."
"By and by, perhaps," said the girl, soothingly. "You must get well yourself first."
Kenneth Hastings' condition proved to be more serious than they thought, and Dr. Mishell looked grave. He had removed the bullet, and Sister Mercy had assisted him. When at last the wound was dressed, Dr. Mishell visited the other patient. He examined her ankle, and pronounced it a bad sprain. He examined her head, and looking towards Mrs. Clayton, said:
"It is as you surmised, concussion. Probably due to a fall."
He gave a few directions to Sister Mercy, and after a few gruff, but kindly, words, departed, to look after his other patients in Gila.
Now, Carla Earle began her career as a nurse, and soon her ministrations were known in every house, and shack, where fever had entered.
After Esther learned the details of her rescue, and of how Kenneth Hastings had again risked his life for hers, she grew abstracted, talked little, and ate less. And after she had learned that he was critically ill, delirious, as a result of the wound received in rescuing her, her sorrow became patent to all. Could she not see him? But Sister Mercy guarded her patient, and watched, and prayed the prayers of her church. Physician and nurse both knew that Kenneth's life hung by a thread. The sick man talked in his delirium; and his heart story lodged in the heart of the nurse, who watched by him, and who nursed him back to life.
When Esther was able to go about on crutches, she visited her patients who were nearest to Clayton Ranch. One day Patrick Murphy called on her.
"How are Brigham and Kathleen?" she asked, as she greeted him. "I hope they are better."
"No betther, Miss," he said, struggling for composure. "The docther has been lavin' av his midicine, an' Carla (I mean Miss Earle) has came each day (the saints bliss her!) but still the faver is bad. An' Brigham—"
He could say no more. After a while, he continued:
"An' Brigham begs me ter bring yez to him. He insists upon callin' yez his Christ teacher, ma'am. He asks ivery day has yez come, an' cries wid disappointmint, whin he foinds yez are not there. I told him I would bring yez back wid me if yez could come."
"I'll go with you," she promised, "as soon as I speak to Mrs. Clayton."
When Esther entered the sick room at the Murphy home, she found two critical cases of typhoid fever. Their temperature was so high she was filled with alarm. She questioned the mother closely, as to what had thus far been done for the children.
"Did you follow the doctor's directions?" she asked.
"No, Miss, I didn't think it worth while. Back East where I wuz riz, they didn't think it necessary ter wash sick folks with sody an' water every day, an' alkyhol besides. They jest let sick folks be in peace, an' give 'em a good washin' after they was corpses."
"But you see, Mrs. Murphy, we must sponge typhoid patients with water and with alcohol, to lower their temperature. Brigham's fever is very high."
"I done all I could fur him," sniffled the mother.
"Yes, I know," said Esther, kindly. "What has he eaten? Did you give him the beef juice?"
"No, mum. That wuz no eatin' at all. I give him meat an' potatoes an' cabbage, jest the way he liked 'em cooked," she said, wiping her eyes on her apron. "He ain't eat none sence. He jest cries an' cries fur ye, Miss."
"Brigham is very sick," the teacher said, gently. "He may not recover. Shall I take care of him?"
"Yes, Miss, I wisht yer would."
Esther called for water and clean linen. She sponged the children, made the necessary changes, ventilated the room, and closed the door into the living room; and for the first time since their illness began, the children had quiet. The angel of Death hovered near, and the Murphy family were filled with an indefinable fear.
Esther watched over the two children throughout the night. Brigham was delirious. Once he seemed terrified, and called out:
"Mamma, don't hurt my teacher! Wathemah, what did my teacher tell yer about Jesus? Has my teacher come?"
At daybreak, when Esther gave him his medicine, he knew her and smiled. As she bent over him, he said:
"I knowed ye'd come. Is Jesus near?"
"Yes, very near, dear," she answered, softly.
"An' He loves little childern?"
"Yes, dear, loves them dearly."
"I am so glad." He closed his eyes and seemed smiling in his sleep. Rousing again, he said in a weak voice:
"I am so tired. Will yer carry me ter Jesus?"
"Yes, dear."
Then tenderly the teacher's arms went around the little form. She said, aloud:
"Dear Jesus, I have brought you little Brigham, because you love little children. He is too tired to go any farther alone, so I have brought him to you. Please carry him the rest of the way home."
Gently, she drew her arm away. The child smiled as if satisfied, and dozed off again.
It was late in the morning, when Dr. Mishell reached Murphy Ranch. He looked grave as he watched Brigham.
"Better remain here if you can, Miss Bright. Good nursing will save the girl, and may save the boy; but it is doubtful. You realize he is in a critical condition."
"Yes. I will remain, Doctor; but Miss Earle will need help with the other patients."
"Oh, Miss Earle is doing finely," he assured her. "And with one exception, none of the cases are as serious as these two."
"Who is the exception?"
"I believe his name is Clifton. A cowboy by the name of Harding has gone to his shack, to-day, to nurse him."
"Just like him," she thought.
She made no reply. As the day wore on, Kathleen's fever decreased, but Brigham's increased. The boy again grew delirious. He repeatedly called Wathemah and his teacher. As night drew near, he grew worse. The parents stood near the bed, weeping. Suddenly the child cried out:
"Papa, won't yer bring my teacher? She knows the way ter heaven."
"She's here, lad," he said, taking one of Brigham's hands in his. Then the father repeated the prayers of his church.
At dawn, Brigham lifted his arms, and smiled. He had found the Open Door.
When the Murphy children knew their brother was dead, they were filled with awe, and huddled in one corner of the living room. The mother sobbed aloud, but refused to come near or touch the still little figure.
The teacher, with tears rolling down her cheeks, prepared her little friend's body for burial. Then she spoke again to the father, reminding him of further preparations. He rose, and, going into the room, where the family were gathered, said:
"We must have a wake. Poor Brigham."
"No, yer won't have no Cath'lic doin's with Brigham," responded his wife.
"Suppose," interposed the teacher, "we have a funeral service for Brigham in the schoolhouse, among the children he loved."
"Shure!" responded the father, wiping his eyes, "that'd be jist the thing."
"Do you approve, Mrs. Murphy?" asked the teacher.
"Yes, Miss. That'd please Brigham, I know." And again she sobbed.
So Brigham was carried to the schoolhouse. The teacher placed a crucifix at the head of the coffin, and lighted several candles. It was the first time religious services for the dead had ever been held in Gila. Heretofore, the dead had simply been buried.
The schoolroom was filled to its uttermost. The girl preacher rose and told them of Brigham's lovely life ever since she had known him, of his interest in Jesus, and of his desire to know the way to heaven. She told of his last words, and how he asked her to carry him to Jesus. As she spoke, tears rolled quietly down the bronzed cheeks of many a man and woman whose life had been one long record of sin.
Near the coffin, stood Wathemah, his eyes riveted upon the face of his little comrade. The teacher saw the child take off his string of beads and lay it in the coffin.
They buried Brigham on the foothills, and left him alone;—no, not alone, for Wathemah remained standing like a sentinel beside the grave of his little friend.
Wathemah did not return to Mrs. Keith's as usual for supper. Neither was he in his little bunk that night. No Wathemah appeared for breakfast. Inquiries began to be circulated. Where was Wathemah? Esther grew very uneasy, and started out to search for him herself. She returned disappointed. An hour later, Jack Harding returned with the child. He had found him keeping watch by Brigham's grave. So deep is the Apache's affection, so real his grief.
Esther gathered Wathemah in her arms, and talked to him long of Brigham. Henceforth, to that little child, as to many of his race, the heavens would be full of the Great Spirit.
"Can Brigham see me from the sky?" asked Wathemah.
"I think so, dear. You'll want to be a good boy, won't you?"
For answer, he burst into tears, and she mingled her own with his.
From that time on, Wathemah loved the stars at night, and would stand watching them with deepening wonder and awe. Then began his questioning of things eternal, that upreach of the soul, that links it to the Divine.
The day after Esther's return to Clayton Ranch, Dr. Mishell asked her to go with him to the shack of Mark Clifton.
"He cannot recover," he said. "He realizes that. He has repeatedly asked to see you."
As they approached the shack, they heard a voice. Jack Harding was reading aloud from the Bible.
On the walls of the shack, were guns, hides, and coarse pictures; in one corner, were a case of whiskey bottles, and a pack of cards. The sick man seemed to be a man of about thirty. He greeted his visitors courteously, and at once turned to Esther.
"I have asked to see you," he said. "I think I cannot recover. I am not prepared to die. I have attended your meetings since you have held them in the timber. I believe there is something in your religion; I believe in God."
His voice was faint.
"Is there any hope for me?" he asked, searching her face with his keen black eyes.
She shrank from his bold gaze, then answered gently:
"There is hope for every one who repents of his sins and turns to Christ."
"But," he said, impatiently, "I haven't done so very much to repent of. I haven't committed any crime, don't you know? The world doesn't hold such high ideals of what a fellow ought to be as you do. I am no better nor worse than the rest of men. I came to that conclusion long ago."
"Indeed!" She spoke coldly. "Is that all? Then you do not need me." She rose to go.
"No, it is not all!" interrupted Jack Harding. "Miss Bright, show him his sin; show him the way of repentance, as you did me."
Suddenly the cowboy knelt by the bunk, and poured forth such a heartfelt prayer for the man before him, all were touched. Clifton lay with eyes closed. Esther spoke again.
"Mr. Clifton, have you done nothing to repent of? Think. You lured to this country the sixteen-year-old orphan daughter of a clergyman. You promised to marry her, if she would join you here. You placed her to board in a saloon. You refused to marry her! Thank God, the child is safe at last!"
There was no mistaking her tone.
"Marry her?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Marry her? I'd as soon marry a cat. I think too much of my family. I wouldn't disgrace them by marrying her, the daughter of a poverty-stricken curate."
Then they saw Esther Bright's eyes flash. Her face grew as stern as the granite hills of her native state. She spoke slowly, and each word—as Dr. Mishell afterwards said—seemed to weigh a ton apiece.
"Your family?" she said. "Your family?" she repeated with scorn. "Your family? This girl is a child of God!"
And turning, she left the shack.
Jack Harding remained all through the night, talking and praying, at intervals, with Clifton.
At dawn, the sick man cried out again and again:
"God be merciful to me a sinner!"
Then, at last, he said:
"Jack, I want to atone for my wrong to Miss Earle as much as I can. I see it all now. Send for a clergyman. I can't live, I know. If Miss Earle becomes my wife, it will remove the stigma, and she will inherit a fortune willed to me. Send for her. Perhaps she will forgive me, before I die."
At the sunset hour, word passed throughout the village that Mark Clifton had just died, and that before his death he had been married to Carla Earle. The clergyman who attended the dying man wrote to his parents, telling them of their son's marriage and death, and of his farewell messages to them. He added:
"Your son died a repentant man."