Just as I was feeling that I had now Charlie’s friendship, the man Crouch seemed to become jealous of my influence, and became so attentive to him that my acquaintance with him was virtually suspended for a time. One day, a bright, hot day in March, a Mexican wagon train arrived in town, laden with beans, hides, and “Chili Colorade,” and a crowd of rancheros from another direction swarmed into the 188 plaza. The town was full of excitement and whiskey; the tinkle of the dance saloons came up from all quarters; the rancheros, with their red shirts and broad hats, galloped their tough mustangs madly through the streets, firing at random, and lassoing the unlucky curs and pigs that happened to be in the way. While there were street brawls at every corner, I hardly dared to leave my room, and I could not venture to sit by my window. It was a great relief that Howard came in very early. All through the evening I listened to the confused sounds that came up through the resonant air, and could distinguish the soft voice of the pretty Mexican girl in the saloon opposite my window, accompanied by her castanet. It was another of those still, white nights, when the town seemed to hang in mid-air. I felt the premonition of impending disaster so common to nervous women, and made Howard sit in my room as long as I could think of a pretext for keeping him. When I was alone, I lay wakeful through the noisy hours, waiting for daylight. At perhaps three o’clock, or a little later, I fell into a semi-conscious doze, from which I was aroused by the footsteps and low voices of men in the hall. The slowness of the steps, and the hushed tone in which they spoke, gave me a thrill of terror. Something had happened. Yes, they were talking about it, and carrying something—some one—by. “Right this way, lay him on the bed.” “What, doctor?” “Pretty near dead.” “Small chance,” and so on. Then with strained nerves I listened for the doctor, heard him come, heard his quick directions, heard the running to and fro to get what he required, and then arose and dressed myself with trembling hands, unable to bear the tension any longer, and thinking that I might be of assistance. I went to Howard’s door, aroused him, and sent him to learn what was the matter. He went a little reluctantly, but returned wide awake.
“Why, it’s Charlie Reynolds, poor 189 fellow! I guess he’s about killed—some row, I suppose; didn’t wait to find out. The doctor is attending to him now.”
A little later, in the gray, solemn dawn, the doctor came out of the room in which Charlie had been laid, and I went to learn the worst. I knew now that I had grown very fond of the young man, and I could see that Howard liked him, too.
III.
The doctor looked at me curiously. “He is pretty badly hurt, but I think he will pull through. I don’t suppose it makes any particular difference to him or anybody else, whether he does or not!” he said, brushing his hat with his coat-sleeve.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Why, because he will only pull through this to get killed in some other scrape, and before he can get into anything else he will have to answer for this one. You know how he was hurt?”