“The man’s gone, poor chap. Died in the night. The woman’ll do, the Doc. says.” He dropped his voice. “She don’t know he’s gone. The Doc.’s put her to sleep. I’d say carry her gently, boys, but it’s no darned use!”
It was no use, on that mountain pathway. They changed bearers every hundred yards, while those who were not carrying went ahead to make the way easier with their axes: and still, it was a journey of horror until they had accomplished the first abrupt descent, and of the twenty men, not one but was thankful to sit down and rest. Dr. Lane, heavy-eyed after his night of watching and fasting, glanced beneath the blanket that covered the woman’s face.
“She’ll sleep through, I fancy,” he said. “No need to hurry now, boys: the hurry was for the poor fellow yonder.” His tone bore the sadness of a man who has failed. “I could have pulled him through if I had found him twelve hours sooner, I believe.”
“We got here as quick as we could, Doc.,” said a big, loose-limbed fellow.
The doctor’s eye kindled.
“You were marvels!” he said. “I’m hanged if I know how you did it in the dark—I didn’t expect you until hours later.”
“Aw, that’s nothin’,” they said, awkwardly. David Merritt lit his pipe and pulled at it hard.
“Those youngsters,” he said, “They’re good plucked ’uns if you like—both kids, an’ one of ’em a girl! That boy of yours, Doc.—come up to my place limpin’ and runnin’, with his boots near cut from his feet, an’ the blood runnin’ out of them. An’ him a town kid. It was hard luck they didn’t know the track; it would ’a’ saved them miles of that cruel wading.”
“No joke, that wading isn’t,” said someone.
“No, it ain’t any joke. Gave his message quite clear, the kid did, an’ then wanted to go on to the next farm.”