“Evans,” called the doctor from the bedroom. As the agent responded, Ole heard the smothered cry of a woman in pain.
The big boy hesitated, then sat down on the doorstep. There was nothing now for him to do, and suddenly he felt very tired. His head dropped listlessly into his hands; like a great dog, he waited, watching.
Minutes passed. On the table the oil lamp sputtered and burned lower. Out in the stable the horse repeated its former challenging 237 whinny. Once again through the partition the listener caught the choking wail of pain, and the muffled sound of the doctor’s voice in answer.
At last Bud Evans came to the door, his face very white. “Water,” he requested, and Ole ran to the well and back. Then, impassive, he sat down again to wait.
Time passed, so long a time it seemed to the watcher that the riders must soon be returning. Finally Evans emerged from the side room, walking absently, his face gray in the lamplight.
The Swede stood up.
“Camilla Maurice, is she hurt?” he asked.
The little agent busied himself making a fire.
“She’s dead,” he answered slowly.
“Dead, you say?”