“I’ll stay,” she said firmly. “Pedro will do more for you than for me. When will you be back?”
Virginia was already in the saddle.
“Probably in little more than an hour, if I find folks,” she said. “Keep giving him some water if he needs it, and fan him. He may come to. Good-by.”
The sound of Pedro’s feet died away all too quickly. The stillness which followed was deeper than ever. It fairly sang in the air. For fully five minutes Vivian stood motionless, loath to believe that Virginia had gone. She did not want to be alone! Something inside of her cried out against it. But she was alone—she, Vivian Winters, alone with a dying cow boy on a limitless Wyoming plain. Since the relentless knowledge pushed itself upon her, she might as well accept it. She was alone! And there was the cow boy!
Virginia had said that he might come to! For her own sake she hoped he didn’t. He was awful enough as he was—blood-smeared and dirty—but 272 at least he did not realize the situation, and that was a scant comfort. If he came to, he might be insane. Blows on the head often made persons so. Given insanity and a gun, what would be the demonstration?
A low groan from the quaking-asp thicket brought Vivian to herself. Imagination had no place here. This man was hurt, and she was strong and well. There was a spring of water near by, and she had extra handkerchiefs in her pocket. It was plainly up to her!
The stillness was less persistent after she had gone to the spring for water. She forgot all about it as she knelt beside the wounded man and washed the blood from his pain-distorted face. He opened his eyes as he felt the cold cloths, and Vivian saw that they were good, blue eyes. They, together with the absence of blood and dirt, told her that her patient was young—only a boy, in fact! The cut on his head was ugly! Something fluttered inside of her as she parted his hair to place a clean handkerchief upon it, and for a moment she was ill and faint. The cow boy’s “Thank you, miss,” brought 273 her to herself. Perhaps he was coming to! It was not so awful as she had thought.
But he again fell asleep, cleaner and more comfortable than before. The buckskin whinnied her thanks, and put her nose against Vivian’s arm as she went to the spring for more water. For the first time in her life Vivian felt the comradeship, the dumb understanding of a horse. Then Siwash became glorified. He was something more than a ragged, decrepit old pony. He was a companion, and Vivian stopped to pat him before she hurried back to her patient.
Upon her return from her third journey after water, she found the cow boy’s eyes again open. This time he had raised himself on his elbow and was looking at her. He had come to, and it was not horrible at all. Her only feeling was one of alarm lest his sitting up should cause his wound to bleed again, and she hurried to him.
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” she faltered. “But you’d better lie down. You’ve got a pretty bad cut on your head.”