Free Cabin Gulch by Zane Grey

that his torture, his near approach to death had robbed his face of ferocity, of ruthlessness, and of that strange amiable expression. But then his eyes, those furnace windows, were closed.
    Joan waited for the end to come. The afternoon passed and she did not leave the cabin. It was possible that he might come to and want water. She had once ministered to a miner who had been fatally crushed in an avalanche, and never could she forget his husky call for water and the gratitude in his eyes.
    Sunset, twilight, and night fell upon the cañon. She began to feel solitude as something tangible. Bringing saddle and blankets into the cabin, she made a bed just inside, and, facing the opening and the stars, she lay down to rest, if not to sleep. The darkness had not kept her from seeing the prostrate figure of Kells. He lay there as silent as if he were already dead. She was exhausted, weary for sleep, and unstrung.
    In the night her courage fled and she was frightened at shadows. The murmuring of insects seemed augmented into a roar; the mourn of wolf and scream of cougar made her start; the rising wind moaned like a lost spirit. Dark fancies beset her. Troop on troop of specters moved out of the black night, assembling there, waiting for Kells to join them. She thought she was riding homeward over the back trail, sure of her way, remembering every rod of that rough travel, until she got out of the mountains only to be turned back by dead men. Then fancy and dream, and all the haunted gloom of cañon and cabin, seemed slowly to merge into one immense blackness.
    The sun rimming the east wall, shining into Joan’s face, awakened her. She had slept hours. She felt rested, stronger. Like the night, something dark hadpassed away from her. It did not seem strange to her that she should feel that Kells still lived. She knew it. An examination proved her right. In him there had been no change except that he had ceased to bleed. There was just a flickering of life in him, manifest only in his slow faint heartbeats.
    Joan spent most of that day in sitting beside Kells. The whole day seemed only an hour. Sometimes she would look down the cañon trail, half expecting to see horsemen riding up. If any of Kells’s comrades happened to come, what could she tell them? They would be as bad as he, without that one trait that had kept him human for a day. Joan pondered upon this. It would never do to let them suspect she had shot Kells. So, carefully cleaning the gun, she reloaded it with shells found in his saddlebag. If any men came, she would tell them that Bill had done the shooting.
    Kells lingered. Joan began to feel that he would live, although everything indicated the contrary. Her intelligence told her he would die and her feeling said he would not. At times she lifted his head and got water into his mouth with a spoon. When she did this, he would moan. That night, during the hours she lay awake, she gathered courage out of the very solitude and loneliness. She had nothing to fear, unless someone came to the cañon. The next day in no wise differed from the preceding. And then there came the third day, with no change in Kells till near evening, when she thought he was returning to consciousness. But she must have been mistaken. For hours she watched patiently. He might return to consciousness just before the end, and want to speak, to send a message, to ask a prayer, to feel a human hand at the last.
    That night the new crescent moon hung over the cañon. In the faint light Joan could see the blanched face of Kells, strange and sad, no longer seeming evil.The time came when his lips stirred. He tried to talk. She moistened his lips and gave him a drink. He murmured incoherently—sank again into a stupor—to rouse once more and babble like a madman. There he lay quietly for long—so long that sleep was claiming Joan. Suddenly he startled her by calling very faintly but distinctly: “Water . . . water . . .