“Tresler, did you say?” asked a girl’s voice from the kitchen doorway. “Wounded?”
There was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely above a whisper.
Arizona was lifting Tresler down into Joe’s arms. “I ’lows I didn’t know you wus ther’, missie,” he replied, without turning from his task. “Careful, Joe; easy—easy now. He’s dreadful sick, I guess. Yes, missie, it’s him. They’ve kind o’ scratched him some. ’Tain’t nothin’ to gas about; jest barked his neck. Kind o’ needs a bit o’ band’ge. Gorl durn you, Joe! Git your arm under his shoulders an’ kep his head steady; he’ll git bleedin’ to death ef y’ ain’t careful. Quiet, you jade!” he cried fiercely, to the mare whom Diane had frightened with her white robe as she came to help. “No, missie, not you,” Arizona exclaimed. “He’s all blood an’ mussed up.” Then he discovered that she had little on but a night-dress. “Gee! but you ain’t wropped up, missie. Jest git right in. Wal,” as she deliberately proceeded to help the struggling Joe, “ef you will; but Joe ken do it, I guess. Ther’, that’s it. I ken git off’n this crazy slut of a mare now.”
Directly Arizona had quit the saddle he relieved Diane, and, with the utmost gentleness, started to take the sick man into the lean-to. But the girl protested at once.
“Not in there,” she said sharply. “Take him into the house. I’ll go and fix a bed up-stairs. Bring him through the kitchen.”
She spoke quite calmly. Too calmly, Joe thought.
“To that house?” Arizona protested.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Then the passion of grief let itself loose, and Diane cried, “And why not? Where else should he go? He belongs to me. Why do you stand there like an imbecile? Take him at once. Oh, Jack, Jack, why don’t you speak? Oh, take him quickly! You said he would bleed to death. He isn’t dead? No, tell me he isn’t dead?”
“Dead? Dead? Ha, ha!” Arizona threw all the scorn he was capable of into the words, and laughed with funereal gravity. “Say, that’s real good—real good. Him dead? Wal, I guess not. Pshaw! Say, missie, you ain’t ast after my health, an’ I’m guessin’ I oughter be sicker’n him, wi’ that mare o’ his. Say, jest git right ahead an’ fix that bunk fer him, like the daisy gal you are. What about bl—your father, missie?”