"High fever, tossing and talking—talking too damned much! You're sitting up much of the time day and night now. You need air and change, yet cannot stand jarring, or I'd take you driving."
"Let me ride a mule."
"I would, if I were sure of the brute behaving, but you never can tell what a mule will do, and now—there's no telling what Willett may say."
"What do you mean?" asked Harris, though he had some reason to know.
"Just this. He's muttering about matters none of us now want to hear, and want none of the Archers to hear. I've got Mrs. Archer out for a time, and going to get Mrs. Stannard in for a time, but there's that poor child upstairs going all to pieces for fear that beautiful boy may die, when—it's—it's—damn it, it's my profound conviction it would be the best thing that could happen!" and with that Bentley turned about and strode heavily out of the house.
Just at sunset that winter's evening, when all the eastward heights were a blaze of gold, and the far away fringe of the Mogollon was tipped with fire, and the rounded poll of Squadron Peak shone dazzling against the southward sky, the lookout on the scaffolding above the office set up a shout that brought half the garrison to its feet.
"Horsemen coming! McDowell road!"
It so happened that, just at the moment, Mrs. Stannard was walking slowly and thoughtfully from the direction of the hospital to her lonely roof. She had been to see Mrs. Bennett, whose general condition appeared a little more favorable, but who lay long hours moaning for those she had lost. Turner, coming in from the corrals, had joined Mrs. Stannard for a moment, but at sound of the alarm raised his cap and hurried straightway to the southward bluff. It might even mean a mail. The days were long to Mrs. Stannard and the nights were weary, for one anxiety followed another, and now, when she had so hoped that all might be gladness and sunshine for the sweet, unspoiled army girl, to whom her heart had so fondly opened, here at the very outset of her dream of love and delight, the grim Destroyer threatened, and even if Fate should spare the life of Harold Willett was it at all certain that that life would be what Lilian Archer deserved?
All in three minutes that afternoon, while bending over the unconscious sufferer, replacing with cool, fresh linen the heated bandages on his brow, she had heard words that she fain would have stifled—that caused her to look up, startled, into Bentley's sombre face. She was thinking of the sorrows that encompassed her as she came slowly home, and then, as the cry sounded from the lookout station, and people came hurrying to their galleries, and Harris slowly felt his way to the open door, she noted how pallid and sad and worn was the keen young face, and, forgetful of her troubles, turned to say a word of cheer to him.
"It used to mean the mail," said she, smiling brightly for his benefit, "but now no man can tell what a day may bring forth," she quoted. "The letters I most want would be coming from the east. What would you have coming from the west?"