And then Salome found herself face to face with such a scene as she had never even dreamed of.
The public is, through the “enterprising” journalistic system of the present day, already too familiar with such scenes of sickening horror. To Salome, this one came as the vivid realization of things she had hitherto carefully avoided in the newspapers.
At first, she turned faint and sick at the prospect. Several dead bodies lay plainly in sight, partially covered with a blanket. The living must first be cared for; and groans on every side, from those who, even yet, had not been extricated from the debris, told how much still remained to be done.
“Tell me,” she said, catching at the arm of a doctor who had been on the ground since daybreak, “where is Mr. Villard?”
“Villard? Let’s see—tall man? Dark hair and full beard? Yes. He was removed to the tavern over there an hour ago.” And he passed on to another sufferer.
Salome looked across the railroad track, in the direction the physician had pointed. There was a country store, a “tavern,” and three or four less pretentious buildings.
Hastily she clambered over the torn-up track, down the embankment and across the narrow, open field. There were no signs of life around the group of houses. Everybody was at the scene of the accident.
She walked into the tavern. It seemed to be deserted. Through the narrow hall she could see, at the end of the building, a dining-room; at one side was the office, where no one was in view. The clerk heard her step, however, and came hastily from the dining-room.
“Is there a Mr. Villard here?” she began—“a patient, from the accident?”
“There are three men upstairs who were hurt,” the clerk answered. “There’s no one here to tend office, or I’d show you up.”