CHAPTER III
SHOWING HOW POWER ACQUIRED A LIMP

If any sentient thought loomed vaguely through the haze of pain and exhaustion which enwrapped Power like a pall, it was that he would probably lie there a long time before help came; yet he had hardly uttered that half-delirious vow before he was aware of an animal snuffing cautiously around him, and the knowledge galvanized him into a species of activity. He turned on his right side, and raised himself on one hand, the fingers of which closed instinctively on a heavy stone as supplying a weapon of defense.

But his eyes rested only on a dog, a dapper fox-terrier, whose furtive curiosity changed instantly to alarm, as it retreated some distance, and barked excitedly. Then Power saw the animal’s master, a stranger, or, at any rate, a newcomer, in the district, a man of about his own age, who rode a compactly-built pony with the careless ease of good horsemanship, and was dressed de rigueur, except for the broad-brimmed hat demanded by the Colorado sun.

Evidently the horseman was not surprised at finding someone lying in the Gulch.

“Hullo!” he cried. “Had a spill?”

Power tried to speak; but the dust and grit in his throat rendered his words almost inaudible. Then the other understood that if, as he imagined, copious drafts of champagne had caused some unaccustomed head to reel, the outcome was rather more serious than a mere tumble. He urged the pony rapidly nearer, and dismounted, and a glance at Power’s face dispelled his earlier notion.

“What’s up?” he inquired in a sympathetic tone. “Are you hurt?”

Power’s second effort at ordered speech was more successful. “Yes,” he said. “My leg is broken.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. Which leg?”

“The left.”

“Were you thrown?”

“No.”

The stranger noted the soiled condition of the injured man’s clothing. He saw that a spur had been torn off, and among the drying dirt on Power’s face and hands were some more ominous streaks; since a man may not squirm in agony beneath a shower of jagged granite and escape some nasty abrasions of the skin.

“I see,” he said gently. “You fell from up there somewhere,” and he looked at the cliff, “tripped over that missing spur, I suppose. Well, what’s to be done? Were you at the ranch? I didn’t happen to come across you. Shall I take you there?”

“No, please – to Bison – to MacGonigal’s store.”

“Ah, yes. But it’s an awkward business. You can’t possibly hold yourself in the saddle. Can you stand on one leg, even for a few seconds?”

“I fear not. I’m about done.”

“But if I carry you to the face of the rock there, and prop you against it?”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

This friend in need pulled the reins over the pony’s head, passed them through his arm, lifted Power, not without some difficulty, and brought him to a spot where the precipice rose like a wall.

“There you are!” he gasped; for he was of slender proportions, and Power’s weight was deceptive, owing to his perfect physical fitness. “Now I’ll mount, and hold you as comfortably as I can; but I don’t know how this fat geegee will behave under a double load, so I must have my hands free at first. Will you grip me tight? It may hurt like sin – ”

“Go right ahead!” said Power.

Sure enough, when the pony found what was expected of him, he snorted, raised head and tail, and trotted a few indignant paces.

The rider soon quieted him to a walk; but they were abreast of the scene of Power’s accident before he was aware that the man clasping his body had uttered neither word nor groan, though the prancing of the horse must have caused him intense agony.

“By Jove!” came the involuntary cry, “you’ve got some sand! I’d have squealed like a stuck pig if I was asked to endure that. Who are you? I’m Robert H. Benson, Mr. Marten’s private secretary.”

“My name is Power,” was the answer, in a thick murmur.

“Bower?”

“No – Power.”

“Not John Darien Power, who was at Sacramento!”

“Yes.”

“Gee whizz! I’ve written you several letters. You remember my initials, R. H. B.?”

“Yes.”

“Can you talk? Say if you’d rather not.”

“No, no. It’s all right. Anyhow – I’d – sooner – try.”

“Does the boss know you’re here?”

“I guess not. I wrote him – to Denver; but he’s been engaged – otherwise.”

“Ra-ther! Getting wed. You’ve heard? I’m sure you’re as much surprised as any of us. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he told me why I was wired to come West by next train from New York. ‘I want you to take hold,’ he said. ‘I’m off to Europe for six months on my wedding trip.’ That was the day before yesterday, and here he’s gone already! I had a sort of notion, too, that our beloved employer would never take unto himself a wife, or, if he did, that the U. S. A. would hear about it.”

A hard smile illuminated the pallor of Power’s face. “Marten doesn’t hire a brass band when he has any startling proposition in mind,” he said.

Benson laughed. He was a cheerful, outspoken youngster – exactly the kind of private secretary the secretive millionaire might have been expected to avoid like the plague, if Marten had not chosen him deliberately because of those very qualities.

“No,” he chuckled. “You and I know that, don’t we? But signing on for a wife is a different matter to securing an option on a placer mine. I should have thought there would be things doing when H. M. joined the noble army of benedicts, especially after he had sorted out such a daisy… Sorry, Power! The peak of this saddle must be dashed uncomfortable. And, perhaps, I’m not carrying you to rights. One ought to be taught these things. Now, a cavalry soldier would be trained in the art of picking up a wounded mate, and in carrying him, too.”

“It’s not far. I can last out.”

“You don’t mind having a pow-wow? Guess you prefer it? You knew Miss Willard, I suppose? By the way, were you coming to the wedding?”

“No. I am here by chance.”

“Well, of course, I rather fancied that. If I had been asked offhand how much time that Sacramento job would use up, I should have said another three months, at least. Is all the machinery there?”

“Yes.”

“Pumps, and all?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry if I appear inquisitive, but – ”

“The pumps are working. I got a hustle on the contractors.”

“Great Scott! I should think so, indeed. They’ll make a song about it in Chicago. Have you sent in the consulting engineer’s certificate?”

“Yes. It’s in Denver.”

“Then I’ll tell you something that is good for broken legs. The boss was talking of you only yesterday. He said you were to collect five thousand dollars when that placer mine was in shape. He forgets nothing, does he?”

“Nothing.”

Power’s stricken state was sufficient excuse for any seeming lack of gratitude, and his rescuer’s mind reverted to the more immediate topic of the marriage.

“I asked if you were acquainted with Miss Willard,” he went on. “Naturally, you must have seen her often. She was born and bred on this ranch, I believe.”

“Bred here, yes; but born near Pueblo, I’ve been told.”

“Say, isn’t she a peach?”

“A pretty girl, very.”

“Rather quiet, though. Kind of subdued, to my taste. Life on the Dolores ranch must have been a mighty tough proposition, I imagine. But she’ll brighten up as Mrs. Marten. They all do.”

“Is Marten a sultan, then?”

The private secretary chortled over the joke. “I’m jiggered if I could have pulled off a wheeze like that if I had been chucked off a cliff and my leg was out of gear!” he cried. “No, my boy, Marten has a clean record in that respect. I’ve never known him look twice at any woman; though he’s had chances in plenty. What I mean is that these sweet young things who have never seen a real store, and don’t know sable from dyed rabbit, wake up amazingly when they’re Mrs. Somebody of Somewhere. Look at Mrs. Van Pieter! A year ago she was keeping tab on people who hired her father’s canoes at Portland, Maine, and it’s hardly a week since I met her in Tiffany’s, matching pearls at a thousand dollars a pick.”

“What were you doing in Tiffany’s?”

The question seemed to take Benson by surprise; but, though he might be talkative as a parrot, he did not discuss his employer’s personal behests.

“Having a look around,” he said.

“I thought you might be buying Mrs. Marten’s wedding gift,” went on Power.

“Well, as a guesser, you’d come out first in a prize competition.”

“It was – just – curiosity. I wondered – what – Marten gave her.”

“That’s no secret. She wore it today. A collarette of diamonds.”

“Ah, a collar! Has it a golden padlock? Is there a leash?”

“Say, now! Aren’t you feeling pretty bad? We’re going downhill, and it jolts. But we’re near that store. What’s the name?”

“MacGonigal’s.”

“To be sure. I had forgotten. Queer fellow, the proprietor. Looks like a character out of one of Bret Harte’s novels. Is there a doctor in Bison?”

“Yes – of a sort. He’s sober, some days.”

“Let’s hope this is one of the days.”

“Drunk or sober, he can pull a leg straight and tie it in splints.”

“But it ought to be fixed in plaster of Paris. That’s the latest dodge. Then you’ll be able to hobble about in less than a month. Why, here’s the storekeeper himself. He must have been looking this way.”

“He was expecting me. I promised to meet him about four o’clock.”

“Well, you’re on time.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Ah, come off! A lot I’ve done; though I do believe it was better to keep up a steady flow of chatter than to be asking you every ten yards how you were feeling… Hi, there! I’ve brought your friend Power; but he’s in rather bad shape. Had a fall up in the Gulch, and one leg is crocked.”

The pony needed no urging to halt, and Power, whose head was sunk between his shoulders, looked as if he would become insensible again at the mere thought of renewed exertion.

“A fall!” repeated MacGonigal, moving ponderously to the near side, and peering up into Power’s face. “Well, ef I ain’t dog-goned! What sort of a fall?”

“Just the common variety – downward,” said Benson. “His left leg is broken below the knee. Can you hold him until I hitch this fiery steed to a post? Then I’ll help carry him to a bedroom. After that, if I can be of any use, tell me what to do, or where to go – for the doctor, I mean.”

By this time MacGonigal had assured himself that Power’s clothing was not full of bullet-holes, and he began to believe that Benson, whom he recognized, was telling the truth.

“Give him to me,” he said, with an air of quiet self-confidence. “Back of some sugar casks in the warehouse thar you’ll find a stretcher. Bring that along, an’ we’ll lay him in the veranda till the doc shows up.”

Soon the hardly conscious sufferer was reposing with some degree of comfort in a shaded nook with his back to the light. MacGonigal, whose actions were strangely deft-handed and gentle for so stout a man, was persuading him to drink some brandy.

“He has collapsed all at once,” said Benson commiseratingly. “He perked up and chatted in great shape while I was bringing him through the Gulch.”

“Did he now?.. Yes, Derry, it’s me, Mac. Just another mouthful… An’ what did he talk about, Mr. Benson?”

“Oh, mostly about the wedding, I guess.”

“Nat’rally. He’d be kind of interested in hearin’ how Marten had scooped up Nancy Willard.”

Some acrid quality in the storekeeper’s tone must have pierced the fog which had settled on Power’s brain. He raised a hand to push away the glass held to his lips.