“Sounds reasonable,” Ward nodded, drawing Steve’s shirt together over the deftly arranged plaster. “He sure was a hard guy. Well, there’s no more to do now but wait. You git to sleep, lad, if you can. I’m goin’ out for a little smoke.”
He passed to the bedroom doorway, looked in, then quietly opened and closed the outer door. A minute later, outside a window, showed the flare of a match and the glow of a pipe.
Time dragged past. Steve lay silent. Bill and Douglas sat wordless. Ward returned, found some cold biscuit and butter, made a big pot of coffee, passed them around. From time to time one or another of them stepped to the door and looked in on the girl keeping her grim vigil; then tiptoed back and resumed his seat.
Hour after hour crawled along, measured only by the unfeeling tick of that cheap clock, which had no hour-bell. Steve slept. Bill dozed, sprawling in his chair. Ward and Hampton nursed empty pipes. From the room beyond came occasional choking noises, but no voice.
Then, low but penetrating, sounded a call for aid.
“Douglas! Come help me!”
In six strides Douglas was beside Marion, who was supporting the older woman’s bony shoulders in her arms. The dark eyes were open now, and the red-dyed mouth was gasping for breath.
“She wants to be lifted,” added the girl. “I can do it, but I might shake her. Jest raise her easy.”
With a smooth lift he set Eliza against the pillows which Marion erected at her back. One glance into the ashy face and the glassy eyes told him that the end was close at hand.
For a minute or two the dying woman looked fixedly at him. She seemed gathering her strength. Her gaze went to Marion. Then it centered again on Hampton’s strong, clean face.