The Orphan by Clarence E. Mulford (motivational novels .txt) 📕

body firmly by neck and thigh, slung it over his shoulders and staggered toward the coach, his progress slow and laborious because of the deep sand and dust. As he neared his objective he glanced up and saw that his passengers had left the stage and were grouped together on the plain like lambs lost in a lion country.

They were hysterical, and all talked at once, sobbing and wringing their hands. But when they noticed the driver stumbling toward them with the body across his shoulders their tongues became suddenly mute with a new fear. Up to then they had thought only of their own woes and bruises, but here, perhaps, was Death; here was the man who had risked his life that they might live, and he might have lost as they gained.

They besieged Bill with tearful questions and gave him no chance to reply. He staggered past them and placed his burden in the scant shadow of the coach, while they cried aloud at sight of the blood-stained face, frozen in their tracks with fear and horror. Bill, ignoring them, hastily climbed with a wonderful celerity for him, to the high seat and dropped to the ground with a canteen which he had torn from its fastenings. Pouring its contents over the upturned face he half emptied a pocket flask of whisky into The Orphan’s mouth and then fell to chafing and rubbing with his calloused, dust-covered hands, well knowing the nature of the wound and that it had only stunned.

Soon the eyelids quivered, fluttered and then flew back and the cruel eyes stared unblinkingly into those of the man above him, who swore in sudden joy. Then, weak as he was and only by the aid of an indomitable will, the wounded man bounded to his feet and stood swaying slightly as one hand reached out to the stage for support, the other instinctively leaping to his Colt. He swayed still more as he slowly turned his head and searched the plain for foes, the Colt half drawn from its holster.

As soon as he had gained his feet and while he was looking about him in a dazed way the women began to talk again, excitedly, hysterically. They gathered around this unshaven, blood-stained man and tried to thank him for their lives, their voices broken with sobs. He listened, vaguely conscious of what they were trying to say, until his brain cleared and made him capable of thought. Then he ceased to sway and spread his feet far apart to stand erect. His hand went to his head for the sombrero which was not there, and he smiled as he recalled how he had lost it.

“Oh, how can we ever thank you!” cried the sheriff’s eldest sister, choking back a nervous sob. “How can we ever thank you for what you have done! You saved our lives!” she cried, shuddering at the danger now past. “You saved our lives! You saved our lives!” she repeated excitedly, clasping and unclasping her hands in her agitation.

“How can we ever thank you, how can we!” cried the girl who had fainted when the chase had begun. “It was splendid, splendid!” she cried, swaying in her weakness. She was so white and bruised and frail that The Orphan felt pity for her and started to say something, but had no chance. The three women monopolized the conversation even to the exclusion of Bill, who suddenly felt that his talking ability was only commonplace after all.

Blood trickled slowly down the outlaw’s face as he smiled at them and tried to calm them, and the younger sister, suddenly realizing the meaning of what she had vaguely seen, turned to Bill with an imperative gesture.

“Bring me some water, driver, immediately,” she commanded impatiently, and Bill hurried around to the rear axle from which swung a small keg of three gallons’ capacity. Quickly unsnapping the chain from it he returned and pried out the wooden plug, slowly turning the keg until water began to flow through the hole and trickle down to the sand. Miss Shields took a small handkerchief from her waist and unfolded it, to be stopped by Bill.

“Don’t spoil that, miss!” he hastily exclaimed. “Take one of mine. They ain’t worth much, and besides, they’re a whole lot bigger.”

“Thank you, but this is better,” she replied, smiling as she regarded the dusty neck-kerchief which he eagerly held out to her. She wet the bit of clean linen and Bill followed her as she stepped to the side of the outlaw, holding the keg for her and thinking that the sheriff was not the only thoroughbred to bear the name of Shields. He turned the keg for her as she needed water, and she bathed the wound carefully, pushing back the long hair which persisted in getting in her way, all the time vehemently declining the eager offers of assistance from her companions. The Orphan had involuntarily raised his hand to stop her, feeling foolish at so much attention given to so trivial a wound and not at all accustomed to such things, especially from women with wonderful deep, black eyes.

“Please do not bother me,” she commanded, pushing his hand aside. “You can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or I shall think you selfish.”

He stood as a bad boy stands when unexpectedly rewarded for some good deed, uncomfortable because of the ridiculous seriousness given to his gash, and ashamed because he was glad of the attention. He tried not to look at her, but somehow his eyes would not stray from her face, her heavy mass of black hair and her wonderful eyes.

“You make me think that I’m really hurt,” he feebly expostulated as he capitulated to her deft hands. “Now, if it was a real wound, why it might be all right. But, pshaw, all this fuss and feathers about a scratch!”

“Indeed!” she cried, dropping the stained handkerchief to the ground as she took another from her dress, plastering his hair back with her free hand. “I suppose you would rather have what you call a real wound! You should be thankful that it is no worse! Why, just the tiniest bit more, and you would have–” she shuddered as she thought of it and turned quickly away and tore a strip of linen from her skirt. Straightening up and facing him again she ripped off the trimming and carefully plucked the loose threads from it. Folding it into a neat bandage she placed the handkerchief over the wound after pushing back the rebellious hair and bound it into place with the strip, deftly patting it here and pushing it there until it suited her. Then, drawing it tight, she unfastened the gold breast-pin which she wore at her throat and pinned the bandage into place, stepping back to regard her work with satisfaction.

“There!” she cried laughing delightedly. “You look real well in a bandage! But I am sorry there is need for one,” she said, sobering instantly. “But, then, it could have been much worse, very much worse, couldn’t it?” she asked, smiling brightly.

Before The Orphan could reply, Bill saw a break in the conversation, or thought he did, and hastened to say something, for he felt unnatural.

“I got yore smokin’, Orphant!” he cried, clambering up to his seat. “Leastawise, I had before them war-whoops–yep! Here she is, right side up and fine and dandy!”

Could he have seen the look which the outlaw flashed at him he would have quailed with sudden fear. Three gasps arose in chorus, and the women drew back from the outlaw, fearful and shocked and severe. But with the sheriff’s younger sister it was only momentarily, for she quickly recovered herself and the look of fear left her eyes. So this, then, was the dreaded Orphan, the outlaw of whom her brother had written! This young, sinewy, good-looking man, who had swayed so unsteadily on his feet, was the man the stories of whose outrages had filled the pages of Eastern newspapers and magazines! Could he possibly be guilty of the murders ascribed to him? Was he capable of the inhumanity which had made his name a synonym of terror? As she wondered, torn by conflicting thoughts, he looked at her unflinchingly, and his thin lips wore a peculiar smile, cynical and yet humorous.

Bill leaped to the ground with the smoking tobacco and, blissfully unconscious of what he had done, continued unruffled.

“That was d––n fine–begging the ladies’ pardon,” he cried. “Yes sir, it was plumb sumptious, it shore was! And when I tell the sheriff how you saved his sisters, he’ll be some tickled! You just bet he will! And I’ll tell it right, too! Just leave the telling of it to me. Lord, when I looked back to see how far them war-whoops were from my back hair, and saw you tearing along like you was a shore enough express train, I just had to yell, I was so tickled. It was just like I held a pair of deuces in a big jack-pot and drew two more! My, but didn’t I feel good! And, say–whenever you run out of smoking again, you just flag Bill Howland’s chariot: you can have all he’s got. That’s straight, you bet! Bill Howland don’t forget a turn like that, never.”

The enthusiasm he looked for did not materialize and he glanced from one to another as he realized that something was up.

“Come, dears, let us go,” said Mary Shields, lifting her skirts and abruptly turning her back on the outlaw. “We evidently have far to go, and we have wasted so much time. Come, Grace,” she said to her friend, stepping toward the coach.

Bill stared and wondered how much time had been wasted, since never before had he reached that point in so short a time. He had made two miles to every one at his regular speed.

“Come, Helen!” came the command from the elder, and with a trace of surprise and impatience.

“Sister! Why, Mary, how can you be so mean!” retorted the girl with the black eyes, angry and indignant at the unkindness of the cut, her face flushing at its injustice. Her spirit was up in arms immediately and she deliberately walked to The Orphan and impulsively held out her hand, her sister’s words deciding the doubts in her mind in the outlaw’s favor.

“Forgive her!” she cried. “She doesn’t mean to be rude! She is so very nervous, and this afternoon has been too much for her. It was a man’s act, a brave man’s act! And one which I will always cherish, for I will never forget this day, never, never!” she reiterated earnestly. “I don’t care what they say about you, not a bit! I don’t believe it, for you could not have done what you have if you are as they paint you. I will not wait for our driver to tell my brother about your splendid act–he, at least, shall know you as you are, and some day he will return it, too.”

Then she looked from him to her hand: “Will you not shake hands with me? Show me that you are not angry. Are you fair to me to class me as an enemy, just because my brother is the sheriff?”

He looked at her in wonderment and his face softened as he took the hand.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “You are kind, and fair. I do not think of you as an enemy.”

“Helen! Are you coming?” came from the coach.

He smiled at the words and then laughed bitterly, recklessly, his shoulders unconsciously squaring. There was no malice in his face, only a quizzical, baffling cynicism.

“Oh, it’s a shame!” she cried, her eyes growing