"It's all up with Henderson!"he cried,as Catherine approached."He's got the malery,an'he says he's dyin'.""That's no sign he's dying,because he says so,"retorted Catherine.
"He wants to see yeh,"panted Waite,mopping his big ugly head."I think he's got somethin'particular to say.""How long has he been down?""Three days;an'yeh wouldn't know 'im."The children were playing on the floor at that side of the house where it was least hot.Catherine poured out three bowls of milk,and cut some bread,meanwhile telling Kitty how to feed the baby.
"She's a sensible thing,is the little daughter,"said Catherine,as she tied on her sunbonnet and packed a little basket with things from the cupboard.She kissed the babies tenderly,flung her hoe --her only weapon of defence --over her shoulder,and the two started off.
They did not speak,for their throats were soon too parched.The prairie was burned brown with the sun;the grasses curled as if they had been on a gridiron.A strong wind was blowing;but it brought no com-fort,for it was heavy with a scorching heat.
The skin smarted and blistered under it,and the eyes felt as if they were filled with sand.
The sun seemed to swing but a little way above the earth,and though the sky was intensest blue,around about this burning ball there was a halo of copper,as if the very ether were being consumed in yellow fire.
Waite put some big burdock-leaves on Catherine's head under her bonnet,and now and then he took a bottle of water from his pocket and made her swallow a mouthful.
She staggered often as she walked,and the road was black before her.Still,it was not very long before the oddly shaped shack of the three Johns came in sight;and as he caught a glimpse of it,Waite quickened his footsteps.
"What if he should be gone?"he said,under his breath.
"Oh,come off!"said Catherine,angrily.
"He's not gone.You make me tired!"
But she was trembling when she stopped just before the door to compose herself for a moment.Indeed,she trembled so very much that Waite put out his sprawling hand to steady her.She gently felt the pressure tightening,and Waite whispered in her ear:
"I guess I'd stand by him as well as any-body,excep'you,Mis'Ford.He's been my bes'friend.But I guess you like him better,eh?"Catherine raised her finger.She could hear Henderson's voice within;it was pitiably querulous.He was half sitting up in his bunk,and Gillispie had just handed him a plate on which two cakes were swim-ming in black molasses and pork gravy.
Henderson looked at it a moment;then over his face came a look of utter despair.
He dropped his head in his arms and broke into uncontrolled crying.
"Oh,my God,Gillispie,"he sobbed,"I shall die out here in this wretched hole!Iwant my mother.Great God,Gillispie,am I going to die without ever seeing my mother?"Gillispie,maddened at this anguish,which he could in no way alleviate,sought comfort by first lighting his pipe and then taking his revolver out of his hip-pocket and playing with it.Henderson continued to shake with sobs,and Catherine,who had never before in her life heard a man cry,leaned against the door for a moment to gather courage.
Then she ran into the house quickly,laugh-ing as she came.She took Henderson's arms away from his face and laid him back on the pillow,and she stooped over him and kissed his forehead in the most matter-of-fact way.
"That's what your mother would do if she were here,"she cried,merrily."Where's the water?"She washed his face and hands a long time,till they were cool and his convulsive sobs had ceased.Then she took a slice of thin bread from her basket and a spoonful of amber jelly.She beat an egg into some milk and dropped a little liquor within it,and served them together on the first clean napkin that had been in the cabin of the three Johns since it was built At this the great fool on the bed cried again,only quietly,tears of weak happi-ness running from his feverish eyes.And Catherine straightened the disorderly cabin.
She came every day for two weeks,and by that time Henderson,very uncertain as to the strength of his legs,but once more accoutred in his native pluck,sat up in a chair,for which she had made clean soft cushions,writing a letter to his mother.The floor was scrubbed;the cabin had taken to itself cupboards made of packing-boxes;it had clothes-presses and shelves;curtains at the windows;boxes for all sort of necessaries,from flour to tobacco;and a cook-book on the wall,with an inscription within which was more appropriate than respectful.
The day that she announced that she would have no further call to come back,Waite,who was looking after the house while Gillispie was afield,made a little speech.
"After this here,"he said,"we four stands er falls together.Now look here,there's lots of things can happen to a person on this cussed praira,and no one be none th'wiser.So see here,Mis'Ford,every night one of us is a-goin'to th'roof of this shack.From there we can see your place.
If anything is th'matter --it don't signify how little er how big --you hang a lantern on th'stick that I'll put alongside th'house to-morrow.Yeh can h'ist th'light up with a string,and every mornin'before we go out we'll look too,and a white rag'll bring us quick as we can git there.We don't say nothin'about what we owe yeh,fur that ain't our way,but we sticks to each other from this on."Catherine's eyes were moist.She looked at Henderson.His face had no expression in it at all.He did not even say good-by to her,and she turned,with the tears sud-denly dried under her lids,and walked down the road in the twilight.
