After a little Brother Hawkins dismissed even the father and Spurrier from the room and worked on alone, the voice of his praying sounding over his activity.
Ten minutes later, in a crowded room, Bud Hawkins, preacher and physician, laid one hand on Spurrier’s shoulder and the other on Cappeze’s.
“Men,” he said in a hushed voice, “I fears me ther shot thet hit her was a deadener. Yit I kain’t quite fathom hit nuther. She’s back in her rightful senses ergin—but she don’t seem ter want to live, somehow. She won’t put for’ard no effort.”
Spurrier wheeled to face them both and his voice came with tense, gasping earnestness.
“Before she dies, Brother Hawkins,” he pleaded, “you’re a minister of the gospel—I want you to marry us.” He wheeled then on the rescuers, who stood breathing heavily from exertion and fight.
“Two of you men stay here as wedding witnesses,” he commanded. “One of you ride hell-for-leather to the nearest telephone and call up Lexington. Have a man start with bloodhounds on a special train. The rest of you get into the timber and finecomb it for some scrap of cloth—or anything that will give the dogs a chance when they get here.”
Once more Spurrier was the officer in command, and snappily his hearers sprang to obedience, but when the place had almost emptied, the three turned and went into the back room, and, kneeling there beside the wounded girl, Spurrier whispered:
“Dearest, the preacher has come—to wed us.”
Glory’s eyes with their deeps of color were startlingly vivid as they looked out of the pallid face upon which a little while ago John Spurrier had believed the white stamp of death to be fixed.