CHAPTER IX
LYTTON'S NEMESIS
That which followed was a hard night for both Bayard and Lytton. The wounded arm was doing nicely, but the shattered nervous system could not be repaired so simply. Since the incident of the ransacked house and the pilfered whiskey, Lytton had not had so much as one drink of stimulant and, because of that indulgence of his appetite, his suffering was made manifold. Denial of further liquor was the penalty Ned was forced to pay for the abuse of Bayard's trust. Much of the time the sick man kept himself well in hand, was able to cover up outward evidence of the torture which he underwent, and in that fact rested some indication of the determination that had once been in him. But this night the effects of his excesses were tearing at his will persistently and sleep would not come.
He walked the floor of the room into which his bed had been moved from the kitchen after the first few days at the ranch; his strength gave out and for a time he lay on the bed, muttering wildly,—then walked again with trembling stride.
Bayard heard. He, too, was suffering; sleep would not come to ease him. He did not talk, did not yearn for action; just lay very quiet and thought and thought until his mind refused to function further with coherence. After that, he forced himself to give heed to other matters for the sake of distraction and became conscious of the sounds from the next room. When they increased with the hours rather than subsiding, he got up, partly dressed, made a light and went to Lytton.
Quarrelling followed. The sick man raved and cursed. He blamed Bayard for all his suffering, denounced him as a meddler, whining and storming in turn. He declared that to fight against his weakness was futile; the next moment vowed that he would return to town, and face temptation there and beat it; and within a breath was explaining that he could easily cure himself, if he could only be allowed to taper off, to take one less drink each day. Before it all, Bayard remained quietly firm and the incident ended by Lytton screaming that at daylight he would leave the ranch and die on the Yavapai road before he would submit to another day of life there.
But when dawn came he was sleeping and the rancher, after covering him carefully, retired to his room for two hours' rest before rousing for a morning's ride through the hills.
He was back at noon and found Lytton white faced, contrite. Together they prepared a meal.
"I was pretty much of an ass last night," Lytton said after they had eaten a few moments in silence. It was one of those rare intervals in which a bearing of normal civility struggled through his despicability and Bayard looked up quickly to meet his indecisive gaze, feeling somehow that with every flash of this strength he was rewarded for all the work he had done, the unpleasantness he had undergone. Rewarded, though it only made Lytton a stronger, more enduring obstacle between him and a consummation of his love.
"I'm sorry," the man confessed. "It wasn't I. It was the booze that's still in me."