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Betty Zane-Part33_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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reluctantly and searched out the heart of Wingenund, where it lingered for a

fleeting instant. At last it rested upon the swarthy face of Miller.



"Fer Betty," muttered the hunter, between his clenched teeth as he pressed the

trigger.



The spiteful report awoke a thousand echoes. When the shot broke the stillness

Miller was talking and gesticulating. His hand dropped inertly; he stood



upright for a second, his head slowly bowing and his body swaying perceptibly.

Then he plunged forward like a log, his face striking the sand. He never moved



again. He was dead even before he struck the ground.

Blank silence followed this tragic denouement. Wingenund, a cruel and



relentless Indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small bloody hole in

the middle of Miller's forehead, and then nodded his head solemnly. The



wondering Indians stood aghast. Then with loud yells the braves ran to the

cornfield; they searched the laurel bushes. But they only discovered several



moccasin prints in the sand, and a puff of white smoke wafting away upon the

summer breeze.



CHAPTER XII.

Alfred Clarke lay between life and death. Miller's knife-thrust, although it



had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced any vital part; the

amount of blood lost made Alfred's condition precarious. Indeed, he would not



have lived through that first day but for a wonderful vitality. Col. Zane's

wife, to whom had been consigned the delicate task of dressing the wound,



shook her head when she first saw the direction of the cut. She found on a

closer examination that the knife-blade had been deflected by a rib, and had



just missed the lungs. The wound was bathed, sewed up, and bandaged, and the

greatest precaution taken to prevent the sufferer from loosening the linen.



Every day when Mrs. Zane returned from the bedside of the young man she would

be met at the door by Betty, who, in that time of suspense, had lost her



bloom, and whose pale face showed the effects of sleepless nights.

"Betty, would you mind going over to the Fort and relieving Mrs. Martin an



hour or two?" said Mrs. Zane one day as she came home, looking worn and weary.

"We are both tired to death, and Nell Metzar was unable to come. Clarke is



unconscious, and will not know you, besides he is sleeping now."

Betty hurried over to Capt. Boggs' cabin, next the blockhouse, where Alfred



lay, and with a palpitating heart and a trepidation wholly out of keeping with

the brave front she managed to assume, she knocked gently on the door.



"Ah, Betty, 'tis you, bless your heart," said a matronly little woman who

opened the door. "Come right in. He is sleeping now, poor fellow, and it's the



first real sleep he has had. He has been raving crazy forty-eight hours."

"Mrs. Martin, what shall I do?" whispered Betty.



"Oh, just watch him, my dear," answered the elder woman.

"If you need me send one of the lads up to the house for me. I shall return as



soon as I can. Keep the flies away--they are bothersome--and bathe his head

every little while. If he wakes and tries to sit up, as he does sometimes,



hold him back. He is as weak as a cat. If he raves, soothe him by talking to

him. I must go now, dearie."



Betty was left alone in the little room. Though she had taken a seat near the

bed where Alfred lay, she had not dared to look at him. Presently conquering



her emotion, Betty turned her gaze on the bed. Alfred was lying easily on his

back, and notwithstanding the warmth of the day he was covered with a quilt.



The light from the window shone on his face. How deathly white it was! There

was not a vestige of color in it; the brow looked like chiseled marble; dark



shadows underlined the eyes, and the whole face was expressive of weariness

and pain.



There are times when a woman's love is all motherliness. All at once this man

seemed to Betty like a helpless child. She felt her heart go out to the poor



sufferer with a feeling before unknown. She forgot her pride and her fears and

her disappointments. She remembered only that this strong man lay there at



death's door because he had resented an insult to her. The past with all its

bitterness rolled away and was lost, and in its place welled up a tide of



forgiveness strong and sweet and hopeful. Her love, like a fire that had been

choked and smothered, smouldering but never extinct, and which blazes up with



the first breeze, warmed and quickened to life with the touch of her hand on

his forehead.






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