Free Cabin Gulch by Zane Grey Page A

.”
    Joan bent over him, lifting his head, helping him to drink. She could see his eyes, like dark holes in something white.
    â€œIs . . . that . . . you . . . Mother?” he whispered.
    â€œYes,” replied Joan.
    He sank immediately into another stupor, or sleep, from which he did not rouse. That whisper of his touched Joan. Bad men had mothers, just the same as any other kind of men. Even this Kells had a mother. He was still a young man. He had been youth, boy, child, baby. Some mother had loved him—cradled him—kissed his rosy baby hands—watched him grow with pride and glory—built castles in her dreams of his manhood, and perhaps prayed for him still, trusting he was strong and honored among men. And here he lay, a shattered wreck, dying for a wicked act, the last of many crimes. It was a tragedy. It made Joan think of the hard lot of mothers and then of this unsettled Western wild, when men flocked in packs like wolves and spilled blood like water and held life nothing.
    Joan sought her rest and soon slept. In the morning, she did not at once go to Kells. Somehow she dreaded finding him conscious, almost as much as she had dreaded the thought of finding him dead. When she did bend over him, he was awake, and at sight of her he showed a faint amaze.
    â€œJoan,” he whispered.
    â€œYes,” she replied.
    â€œAre you . . . with me still?”
    â€œOf course. I couldn’t leave you.”
    The pale eyes shadowed strangely, darkly. “I’m alive yet . . . and you stayed. . . . Was it yesterday . . . you threw my gun . . . on me?”
    â€œNo. Four days ago.”
    â€œFour. Is my back broken?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s a terrible wound. I . . . I did all I could.”
    â€œYou tried to kill me . . . then tried to save me?” She was silent to that. “You’re good . . . and you’ve been noble,” he said. “But I wish . . . you’d been only bad. Then I’d curse you . . . and strangle you. . . .”
    â€œPerhaps you had best be quiet,” replied Joan.
    â€œNo. I’ve been shot before. I’ll get over this . . . if my back’s not broken. How can we tell?”
    â€œI’ve no idea.”
    â€œLift me up.”
    â€œBut you might open your wound,” protested Joan.
    â€œLift me up!” The force of the man spoke even in his low whisper.
    â€œBut why . . . why?” asked Joan.
    â€œI want to see . . . if I can sit up. If I can’t . . . give me my gun.”
    â€œI won’t let you have it,” replied Joan. Then she slipped her arms under his and, carefully raising him to a sitting posture, released her hold.
    â€œI’m . . . a . . . rank coward . . . about pain,” he gasped with thick drops standing out on his white face. “I . . . can’t . . . stand it.”
    But tortured or not, he sat up alone, and even had the will to bend his back. Then with a groan he fainted and fell into Joan’s arms. She laid him down, and worked over him for some time before she could bring him to. Then he was wan, suffering, speechless.But she believed he would live and told him so. He received that with a strange smile. Later, when she came to him with a broth, he drank it gratefully.
    â€œI’ll beat this out,” he said weakly. “I’ll recover. My back’s not broken. I’ll get well. . . . Now you bring water and food in here . . . then you go.”
    â€œGo?” she echoed.
    â€œYes. Don’t go down the cañon. You’d be worse off. Take the back trail. You’ve a chance to get out. . . . Go!”
    â€œLeave you here? So weak you can’t lift a cup. I won’t.”
    â€œI’d rather you did.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause in a few days I’ll begin to mend. Then I’ll grow like . . . myself . . . I think. . . . I’m afraid I loved you. . . . It could only be hell for you. Go