Bear Cat turned away, walking with the stiff fashion of an automaton. He could feel a stringent tightness like paralysis at his heart—and his limbs seemed unresponsive and heavy. Then to his ears came, on the morning breeze, that same call to arms that had stiffened Blossom into a paralysis of fear. His cramped posture relaxed, and to himself he said, "I reckon I hain't quite through yit!"
CHAPTER XVII
Blossom still knelt at the bedside with eyes of absorbed suffering and fingers that strayed flutteringly toward the bandaged head.
Bear Cat, with his hand on the latch, lingered at the door, held there by a spell which he seemed powerless to combat. His part here was played out and to remain longer was an intrusion—yet he seemed unable to go. The kneeling girl was not even conscious of his presence. For her there was no world except that little one bounded by the sides and the end of the bed upon which her lover lay dying. Her hands clasped themselves at last and her face buried itself in the coverings. She was praying.
Bear Cat saw the glimmer of the firelight on her hair and to him it was all the lost gold of his dreams. He caught the sweet graciousness of her lissome curves, and his own fingers clutched at the shirt which had become stiff with dried blood. Once she had prayed for him, he remembered—but that was before her real power of loving had burned to its fulness. Now he stood there forgotten.
He did not blame her for that forgetfulness. It only demonstrated the singleness of devotion of which she was capable; the dedication of heart which he had once hoped would be lavished on himself.
He, too, was so centered on one yearning that he was beyond the realization of lesser matters, so that the gaunt preacher came within arm's length unnoticed and laid a hand on his shoulder. Brother Fulkerson nodded toward the other room, and Turner followed him with the dumb and perfunctory abstraction of a sleep-walker.
"Now, son, ef hit hain't too late ter avail, let's hev a look at yore own hurts. Ye didn't come through totally unscathed yore own self."
Bear Cat stood apathetically and his eyes turned hungrily toward the stout partition of logs beyond which knelt the girl. It was not until the older man had spoken the second time that he replied with a flat tonelessness of voice, "My worst hurts ... hain't none ... thet ye kin aid."
"Thet's what I aims ter find out." Joel Fulkerson's manner was brisk and authoritative. "Strip off yore coat an' shirt."