<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>GREY’S LAST WORDS</h3>
<p>Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house
sharply outlined against the sky, upon the summit of
a high, rising ground. It stands quite alone as though
in proud distinction for its classic vocation. Its flat,
uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched
roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding,
innocent of paint; its general air of neglect; these
things strike one forcibly in that region of Nature’s
carefully-finished handiwork.</p>
<p>However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment
rendered less apparent than usual by reason of many
people gathered about the storm-porch, and the
number and variety of farmers’ sleighs grouped about
the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in
front of it An unbroken level of smooth prairie
footed one side of the hill, whilst at the back of the
house stretched miles of broken, hilly woodland.</p>
<p>The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke
Farm. Hephzibah Malling had gathered her friends
together, and all had driven over for the happy event
amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation.
Each girl, clad in her brightest colours
beneath a sober outer covering of fur, was accompanied
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_116' name='page_116'></SPAN>116</span>
by her attendant swain, the latter well oiled about the
hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing as
an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water.
A wedding was no common occurrence, and, in
consequence, demanded special mark of appreciation.
No work would be done that day by any of those
who attended the function.</p>
<p>But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at
the first breath of serious talk––talk inspired by the
non-appearance of the bridegroom. The hour of the
ceremony was close at hand and still he had not
arrived. He should have been the first upon the
scene. The elders were agitated, the younger folk
hopeful and full of excuses for the belated groom, the
Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously.
He had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience
to himself, to officiate at the launching of his
old friend’s daughter upon the high seas of wedded
life.</p>
<p>The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling’s side.
The younger people held aloof. There was an
ominous grouping and eager whispering, and eyes
were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which
stretched winding away towards the western horizon.</p>
<p>The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister
of Lakeville, was the central figure of the situation,
and at whom the elder ladies fired their comments
and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the
nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was
spreading.</p>
<p>“It’s quite too bad, you know,” said Mrs. Covill, an
iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and
possessing a hooked nose. “I can’t understand it in
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_117' name='page_117'></SPAN>117</span>
a man of Mr. Grey’s business-like ways. Now he’s
just the sort of man whom I should have expected
would have been here at least an hour before it was
necessary.”</p>
<p>“It is just his sort that fail on these occasions,”
put in Mrs. Ganthorn pessimistically. “He’s just too
full of business for my fancy. What is the time now,
Mr. Danvers?”</p>
<p>“On the stroke of the half-hour,” replied the
parson, with a gloomy look. “My eyesight is not
very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that
black object a bush?”</p>
<p>“Bush,” said some one shortly.</p>
<p>“Ah,” ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to
Mrs. Malling, who stood beside him staring down the
trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were pursed
and twitching nervously. “There can have been
no mistake about the time, I suppose?”</p>
<p>“Mistake? No,” retorted the good lady with
irritation. “Folks don’t make no mistake about the
hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom, anyway.
No, it’s an accident, that’s what it is, as sure as my
name’s Hephzibah Malling. And that’s what comes
of his staying at Ainsley when he ought to have been
hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty odd
miles to get married. La’ sakes! It just makes me
mad with him. There’s my girl there most ready to
cry her eyes out on her wedding morning, and small
blame to her neither. It’s a shame, and I’m not the
one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he
comes along. If he were my man he’d better his
ways, I know.”</p>
<p>No one replied to the old lady’s heated complaint.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_118' name='page_118'></SPAN>118</span>
They all too cordially agreed with her to defend the
recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr. Danvers drew out his
watch for at least the twentieth time.</p>
<p>“Five minutes overdue,” he murmured. Then
aloud and in a judicial tone: “We must allow him
some margin. But, as you say, it certainly was a
mistake his remaining at Ainsley.”</p>
<p>“Mistake––mistake, indeed,” Mrs. Malling retorted,
with all the scorn she was capable of. “He’s that
fool-headed that he won’t listen to no reason. Why
couldn’t he have stopped at the farm? Propriety––
fiddlesticks!” Her face was flushed and her brow
ominously puckered; she folded her fat hands with
no uncertain grip across the slight frontal hollow
which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger
was chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was
not alone for her daughter. She was anxious for the
man himself, and her anxiety found vent in that
peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by
those who resort to it. The good dame was on pins
and needles of nervous suspense. Had Grey suddenly
appeared upon the scene doubtless her kindly
face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad
expanse of smiles. But the moments flew by and
still the little group waited for the coming which was
so long delayed.</p>
<p>Three of the young men approached the agitated
mother from the juvenile gathering. Their faces
were solemn. Their own optimism had given way
before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and
Peter Furrers came first, Andy, the choreman, brought
up the rear.</p>
<p>“We’ve been thinking,” said Tim, feeling it
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_119' name='page_119'></SPAN>119</span>
necessary to explain the process which had brought
them to a certain conclusion, “that maybe we might
just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything
of him, Mrs. Malling. Ye can’t just say how things
have gone with him. Maybe he’s struck a ‘dump’
and his sleigh’s got smashed up. There’s some tidy
drifts to come through, and it’s dead easy to get
dumped in ’em. Peter and Andy here have volunteered
to go with me.”</p>
<p>“That’s real sensible of you, Tim,” replied Mrs.
Malling, with an air of relief. She felt quite convinced
that an accident had happened. She turned
to the minister. In this matter she considered he
was the best judge. Like many of her neighbours,
she looked to the minister as the best worldly as well
as spiritual adviser of his flock. “Like as not the
boys will be able to help him?” she suggested, in a
tone of inquiry.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I should let them go yet,” the man
of the cloth replied. “I should give him an hour.
It seems to me it will be time enough then. Ah,
here’s Mrs. Gurridge,” as that lady appeared in the
doorway. “There’s no sign of him,” he called out in
anticipation of her inquiry. “I hope you are not
letting the bride worry too much.”</p>
<p>“It’s too dreadful,” said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her
thoughts reverted to Prudence waiting in the school-ma’am’s
sitting-room.</p>
<p>“Whatever can have happened to him?”</p>
<p>“That’s what’s been troubling us this hour and
more,” snapped the girl’s mother. She was in no
humour to be asked silly questions, however little they
were intended to be answered.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_120' name='page_120'></SPAN>120</span></div>
<p>She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful
Sarah would act as oil on troubled waters.</p>
<p>Sarah understood her look of inquiry.</p>
<p>“She’s bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She’s not
one of the crying sort. Too much of your Silas in
her for that. I’ve done my best to console her.”</p>
<p>She did not say that she had propounded several
mottos more or less suitable to the occasion, which
had been delivered with great unction to the disconsolate
girl. Prudence had certainly benefited by the
good woman’s company, but not in the way Sarah had
hoped and believed. It was the girl’s own sense of
humour which had helped her.</p>
<p>Mrs. Malling turned away abruptly. Her red face
had grown a shade paler, and her round, brown eyes
were suspiciously watery. But she gazed steadily
down the trail on which all her hopes were set. The
guests stood around in respectful silence. The party
which had arrived so light-heartedly had now become
as solemn as though they had come to attend a
funeral. The minister continued to glance at his
watch from time to time. He had probably never in
his life so frequently referred to that faithful companion
of his preaching hours. Tim Gleichen and
Peter Furrers and Andy had moved off in the direction
of the sleighs. The others followed Mrs. Malling’s
example and bent their eyes upon the vanishing point
of the trail.</p>
<p>Suddenly an ejaculation escaped one of the
bystanders. Something moving had just come into
view. All eyes concentrated upon a black speck
which was advancing rapidly in a cloud of ground
snow. Hope rose at a bound to wild, eager delight.
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_121' name='page_121'></SPAN>121</span>
The object was a sleigh. And the speed at which it
was coming down the trail told them that it was
bearing the belated bridegroom, who, conscious of his
fault, was endeavouring to make up the lost time.
Mrs. Malling’s round face shone again in her relief,
and a sigh of content escaped her. Word was sent
at once to the bride, and all was enthusiasm again.
Then followed a terrible shock. Peter Furrer, more
long-sighted than the rest, delivered it in a boorish
fashion all his own.</p>
<p>“Ther’ ain’t no one aboard of that sleigh,” he called
out. “Say, them plugs is just boltin’. Gum, but they
be comin’ hell-belt-fer-leckshuns.” Every one understood
his expression, and faces that a moment before
had been radiant with hope changed their expression
with equal suddenness to doubt, then in a moment to
apprehension.</p>
<p>“You don’t say–––” Mrs. Malling gasped; it was
all she could say.</p>
<p>“It can’t–––” The minister got no further, and
he fingered his watch from force of habit.</p>
<p>“It’s–––” some one said and broke off. Then
followed an excited murmur. “What’s Peter going
to do?”</p>
<p>The young giant had darted off down the trail in
the direction of the approaching sleigh. He lurched
heavily over the snow, his ungainly body rolling to
his gait, but he was covering ground in much the
same way that a racing elephant might. His stride
carried him along at a great pace. The onlookers
wondered and exclaimed, their gaze alternating in
amazement between the two objects, the oncoming
sleigh and the huge lurching figure of the boy.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_122' name='page_122'></SPAN>122</span></div>
<p>Now the sleigh was near enough for them to note
the truth of Peter’s statement. The horses, ungoverned
by any guiding hand, were tearing along at a desperate
pace. The cutter bumped and swayed in a threatening
manner; now it was lifted bodily from the trail as
its runners struck the banked sides of the furrows;
now it balanced on one side, hovering between overturning
and righting itself, now on the other; then
again it would jerk forward with a rush on to the
heels of the affrighted horses with maddening effect.
The poor brutes stretched themselves wildly to escape
from their terror. On they came amidst a whirl of
flying snow, and Peter had halted beside the trail
awaiting them.</p>
<p>Those who were watching saw the boy move outside
the beaten track. Already the panting of the
runaways could be heard by those looking on. If the
animals were not stayed in their mad career they
must inevitably crash into the school-house or collide
with the sleighs at the tying-posts. There was no
chance of their leaving the beaten trail, for they were
prairie horses.</p>
<p>Some of the men, as the realization of this fact
dawned upon them, hurried away to remove their
possessions to some more secure position, but most of
them remained gaping at the runaway team.</p>
<p>Now they saw Peter crouch down, beating the
snow under his feet to give himself a firm footing.
Barely fifty yards separated him from the sleigh. He
settled himself into an attitude as though about to
spring. Nearer drew the sleigh. The boy’s position
was fraught with the greatest danger. The onlookers
held their breath. What did he contemplate? Peter
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_123' name='page_123'></SPAN>123</span>
had methods peculiar to himself, and those who looked
wondered. Nearer––nearer came the horses. A
moment more and the boy was lost in the cloud of
snow which rose beneath the horses’ speeding feet. A
sigh broke from many of the ladies as they saw him
disappear. Then, next, there came an exclamation of
relief as they saw his bulky figure struggling wildly to
draw himself up over the high back of the sleigh. It
was no easy task, but Peter’s great strength availed
him. They saw him climb over and stand upon the
cushion, then, for a moment, he looked down as though
in doubt.</p>
<p>At last he leaned forward, and, laying hold of the
rail of the incurved dashboard, he climbed laboriously
out on to the setting of the sleigh’s tongue. The
flying end of one of the reins was waving annoyingly
beyond his reach. He ventured out further, still
holding to the dashboard, which swayed and bent
under the unaccustomed weight. Suddenly he made
a grab and caught the elusive strap and overbalanced
in the effort. He came within an ace of falling, but
was saved by lurching on to the quarters of one of
the horses. With a struggle he recovered himself
and regained the sleigh. The rest was the work of a
few seconds.</p>
<p>Bracing himself, he leant his whole weight on the
single rein. The horses swerved at once, and leaving
the trail plunged into the deep snow. The frantic
animals fell, recovered themselves, and floundered on,
then with a great jolt the sleigh turned over. Peter
shot clear of the wreck, but with experience of such
capsizes, he clung tenaciously to the rein. He was
dragged a few yards; then, trembling and ready to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_124' name='page_124'></SPAN>124</span>
start off again at a moment’s notice, the jaded beasts
stood.</p>
<p>There was a rush of men to Peter’s assistance. The
women followed. But the latter never reached the
sleigh. Something clad in the brown fur of the
buffalo was lying beside the trail where the cutter had
overturned. Here they came to a stand, and found
themselves gazing down upon the inanimate form of
Leslie Grey.</p>
<p>It was a number of the younger ladies of the party
who reached the injured man first; the Furrer girls
and one of the Miss Covills. They paused abruptly
within a couple of yards of the fur-clad object and
craned forward, gazing down at it with horrified eyes.
The next minute they were thrust aside by the parson.
He came, followed by Mrs. Malling.</p>
<p>In a moment he had thrown himself upon his knees
and was looking into the pallid face of the prostrate
man, and almost unconsciously his hand pushed itself
in through the fastenings of the fur coat. He withdrew
it almost instantly, giving vent to a sharp
exclamation. It was covered with blood.</p>
<p>“Stand back, please, everybody,” he commanded.</p>
<p>He was obeyed implicitly. But his order came
too late. They had seen the blood upon his hand.</p>
<p>Miss Ganthorn began to faint and was led away.
Other girls looked as though they might follow suit.
Only Hephzibah Malling stood her ground. Her
face was blanched, but her mouth was tightly clenched.
She uttered no sound. All her anger against the
prostrate man had vanished; a world of pity was in
her eyes as she silently looked on.</p>
<p>The parson summoned some of the men.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_125' name='page_125'></SPAN>125</span></div>
<p>“Bear a hand, boys,” he said, in a business-like
tone which deceived no one. “We’d better get him
into the house.” Then, seeing Mrs. Malling, he went
on, “Get Prudence away at once. She must not
see.”</p>
<p>The old farm-wife hurried off, and the others gently
raised the body of the unconscious man and bore it
towards the house.</p>
<p>Thus did Leslie Grey attend his wedding.</p>
<p>The body was taken in by a back way to Sarah
Gurridge’s bedroom and laid upon the bed. Tim
Gleichen was dispatched at once to Lakeville for the
doctor. Then, dismissing everybody but Harry
Gleichen, Mr. Danvers proceeded to remove the sick
man’s outer clothing.</p>
<p>The room was small, the one window infinitely so.
A single sunbeam shone coldly in through the latter
and lit up the well-scrubbed bare floor. There was
nothing but the plainest of “fixings” in the apartment,
but they had been set in position by the deft
hand of a woman of taste. The bed on which the
unconscious man had been placed was narrow and
hard. Its coverlet was a patchwork affair of depressing
hue.</p>
<p>Mr. Danvers bent to his work with a full appreciation
of the tragedy which had happened. His face
was solemn, and expressive of the most tender solicitude
for the injured man. In a whisper he dispatched
his assistant for warm water and bandages, whilst he
unfastened and removed the fur coat. Inside the
clothing was saturated with still warm blood. The
minister’s lips tightened as the truth of what had
happened slowly forced itself upon his mind.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_126' name='page_126'></SPAN>126</span></div>
<p>So absorbed was he in his ministrations that he
failed to heed the sound of excited whisperings which
came to him from beyond the door. It was not until
the creaking of the hinges had warned him that the
door was ajar, that he looked up from his occupation.
At that moment there was a rustle of silk, the noise
of swift footsteps across the bare boards, and Prudence
was at the opposite side of the bed.</p>
<p>The soft oval of the girl’s face was drawn, and deep
lines of anxious thought had broken up the smooth
expanse of her forehead. Her eyes seemed to be
straining out of their sockets, and the whites were
bloodshot. She did not speak, but her look displayed
an anguish unspeakable. Her eyes were
turned upon the face of the prostrate man; she did
not appear to see the minister. Her look suggested
some mute question, which seemed to pass from her
troubled eyes to the silent figure. Watching her,
Danvers understood that, for the present, it would
be dangerous to break the dreadful silence that held
her. He stooped again and drew back the waistcoat
and began to cut away the under-garments from
Grey’s chest.</p>
<p>Swiftly as the minister’s deft fingers moved about
the man’s body, his thoughts travelled faster. He
was not a man given to morbid sentimentality; his
calling demanded too much of the practical side of
human nature. He was there to aid his flock, materially
as well as spiritually, but at the moment he felt
positively sick in the stomach with sorrow and pity
for the woman who stood like a statue on the other
side of what he knew to be this man’s deathbed. He
dared not look over at her again. Instead, he bent
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_127' name='page_127'></SPAN>127</span>
his head lower and concentrated his, mind on the
work before him.</p>
<p>The silence continued, broken only by an occasional
heavy gasp of breath from the girl. The dripping
shirt was cut clear of the man’s chest, and the woollen
under-shirt was treated in a similar manner. The
exposed flesh was crimson with the blood which was
slowly oozing from a small wound a few inches higher
up in the chest than where the heart was so faintly
beating. One glance sufficed to tell the parson that
medical aid would be useless. The wound was
through the lungs.</p>
<p>For a moment he hesitated. His better sense
warned him to keep silence, but pity urged him to
speak. Pity swayed him with the stronger hand.</p>
<p>“He is alive,” he said. And the next moment he
regretted his words.</p>
<p>The tension of the girl’s dreadful expression relaxed
instantly. It was as the lifting of a dead weight
which had crushed her heart within her. She had
been numbed, paralyzed. Actual suffering had not
been hers, she had experienced a suspension of feeling
which had resulted from the shock. But that
suspension was far more dreadful than the most acute
suffering. Her whole soul had asked her senses,
“What is it?” and the waiting for the answer had
been to her in the nature of a blank.</p>
<p>The minister’s low murmured sentence had supplied
her with an answer. “He is alive.” The words
touched the springs of life within her and a glad
flush swept over her straining nerves. Reason once
more resumed its sway, and thought flowed through
her brain in an unchecked torrent It seemed to
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_128' name='page_128'></SPAN>128</span>
Prudence as though some barrier had suddenly shut
off the simple life which had always been hers, and
had opened out for her a fresh existence in which she
found herself alone with the still, broken body of her
lover. For one brief instant her lips quivered, and a
faint in-catching of the breath told of the woman,
which, at the first return of feeling, had leapt uppermost
in her. But before the maturity of emotion
brought about the breakdown, a calm strength came to
her aid and steadied her nerves and checked the tears
which had so suddenly come into her eyes. Women
are like this. At a crisis in sickness they rise
superior to all emotion. When the crisis is past,
whether for good or ill, it is different.</p>
<p>The water was brought, and the minister set about
cleaning the discoloured flesh, while Prudence looked
on in silence. She was very pale, and her eyes were
painfully bright. While her gaze followed the gentle
movements of the minister, her thoughts were running
swiftly over the scenes of her life in which the
wounded man had played his part. She remembered
every look of the now closed eyes, and every expression
of his well-loved features. She called to mind
his words of hope, and the carefully-laid plans for his
advancement. Nor was there any taint of his selfishness
in her recollection of these things. Everything
about him, to her, was good and true. She loved him
with all the passionate intensity of one who had only
just attained to perfect womanhood. He had been to
her something of a hero, by reason of his headstrong,
dominating ways––ways which more often attract the
love of woman in the first flush of her youth than in
her maturer, more experienced years.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_129' name='page_129'></SPAN>129</span></div>
<p>The sponging cleaned the flesh of the ghastly
stain, and the small wound with its blackened rim
lay revealed in all its horrid significance. The girl’s
eyes fixed themselves on it, and for some seconds
she watched the blood as it welled up to the
surface. The meaning of the puncture forced itself
slowly upon her mind, and she realized that it
was no accident which had laid her lover low.
Her eyes remained directed towards the crimson
flow, but their expression had changed, as had
the set of her features. A hard, relentless look had
replaced the one of tender pity––a look which indexed
a feeling more strong than any other in
the human organism. She was beginning to understand
now that a crime had been committed, and
a vengeful hate for some person unknown possessed
her.</p>
<p>She pointed at the wound, and her voice sounded
icily upon the stillness of the room.</p>
<p>“That,” she said. “They have murdered him.”</p>
<p>“He has been shot.” The parson looked up into
the girl’s face.</p>
<p>Then followed a pause. Sarah Gurridge and
Prudence’s mother stole softly in and approached the
bedside. The former carried a tumbler of brandy in
her hand and came to Mr. Danvers’s side; Mrs.
Malling ranged herself beside her daughter, but the
latter paid no heed to her.</p>
<p>The farm-wife lifted the girl’s hand from the bedpost
and caressed it in loving sympathy. Then she
endeavoured to draw her away.</p>
<p>“Come, child, come with me. You can do no good
here.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_130' name='page_130'></SPAN>130</span></div>
<p>Prudence shook her off roughly. Nor did she
answer. Her mother did not renew her attempt.</p>
<p>All watched while Danvers forced some of the
spirit between Grey’s tightly-closed lips and then
stood up to note the effect.</p>
<p>He was actuated by a single thought. He knew
that the man was doomed, but he hoped that consciousness
might be restored before the tiny spark of
life burnt itself out. There was something to be
said if human aid could give the dying man the
power to say it. Prudence seemed to understand
the minister’s motive, for she vaguely nodded her
approval as she saw the spirit administered.</p>
<p>All waited eagerly for the sign of life which the
stimulating properties of the spirit might reveal. The
girl allowed her thoughts to drift away to the lonely
trail over which her lover had driven. She saw in
fancy the crouching assailants firing from the cover
of some wayside bluff. She seemed to hear many
shots, to see the speeding horses, to hear the dull
sound of the fatal bullet as her man was hit. She
pictured to herself the assassins, with callous indifference,
as the cutter passed out of view, mounting their
horses and riding away. Her thoughts had turned
to the only criminals she understood––horse-thieves.</p>
<p>The sign of life which had been so anxiously
awaited came at last. It was apparent in the flicker
of the wax-like eyelids; in the faintest of sighs from
between the colourless lips. Danvers bent again over
the dying man and administered more of the spirit
It took almost instantaneous effect. The eyelids half
opened and the mouth distinctly moved. The action
was like that of one who is parched with thirst. Grey
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_131' name='page_131'></SPAN>131</span>
gasped painfully, and a strange rattle came from his
throat.</p>
<p>Danvers shook his head as he heard the sound.
Prudence, whose eyes had never left the dying man’s
face, spoke sharply. She voiced a common thought
“Who did it, Leslie?”</p>
<p>The minister nodded approval. For a moment his
eyes rested admiringly on the girl’s eager face. Her
courage astonished him. Then, as he read her expression
aright, his wonder lessened. The gulf is
bridged by a single span at the point of transition
from the girl to the woman. He understood that she
had crossed that bridge.</p>
<p>Grey struggled to speak, but only succeeded in
uttering an inarticulate sound. The minutes dragged.
The suspense was dreadful. They all realized that
he was fast sinking, but in every heart was a hope
that he would speak, would say one word which
might give some clue to what had happened.</p>
<p>The minister applied the rest of the brandy. The
dying man’s breathing steadied. The eyes opened
wider. Prudence leaned forward. Her whole soul
was in the look she bestowed upon the poor drawn
face, and in the tones of her voice.</p>
<p>“Leslie, Leslie, speak to me. My poor, poor boy.
Tell me, how did it happen? Who did it?”</p>
<p>The man gasped in response. He seemed to be
making one last great struggle against the overwhelming
weakness which was his. His head moved
and a feeble cough escaped his lips. The girl put her
arm under his head and slightly raised it, and the
dying eyes looked into hers. She could no longer
find words to utter; great passionate sobs shook her
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_132' name='page_132'></SPAN>132</span>
slight frame, and scalding tears coursed down her
cheeks and fell upon the dingy coverlet.</p>
<p>A whistling breath came from between the dying
man’s parted lips, and culminated in a hoarse rattling
in his throat. Then his body moved abruptly, and
one arm lifted from the elbow-joint, the head half
turned towards the girl, and words distinct, but halting,
came from the working lips.</p>
<p>“He––he––did––it. <i>Free––P––Press</i>. Yell––ow––G–––” The
last word died away to a gurgle. A
violent fit of coughing seized the dying man, then it
ceased suddenly. His head weighed like lead upon
the girl’s supporting hand, and a thin trickle of blood
bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Prudence
withdrew her arm from beneath him and replaced the
head upon the pillow. Her tears had ceased to flow
now.</p>
<p>“He is dead,” she said with studied calmness, as
she straightened herself up from the bed.</p>
<p>She moved a step or two away. Then she paused
uncertainly and gazed about her like one dazed. Her
mother went towards her, but before she reached her
side Prudence uttered a strange, wild cry and rushed
from the room, tearing wildly at the fastenings of her
silk dress as though to rid herself of the mocking
reminder of that awful day.</p>
<hr class='toprule' />
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_133' name='page_133'></SPAN>133</span>
<SPAN name='CHAPTER_IX_LONELY_RANCH_AT_OWL_HOOT' id='CHAPTER_IX_LONELY_RANCH_AT_OWL_HOOT'></SPAN>
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