WHEN Naylor was a little boy, his father had said to him: “No man needs to do anything except what he wants to do.”
Bill Naylor had said: “Suppose he’s done in and wants to faint. What can he do to stop that?”
“No man needs to do anything except what he wants to do,” repeated the elder Naylor, who was a strong-willed man.
Bill Naylor remembered that speech as he worked the injured stranger toward the shore. The fellow ought to have been dead a thousand times over. He ought to be dying now, to judge by the way the blood kept pouring out of his torn body. But he would not even faint. He simply kept his teeth locked. There was no grinning distortion of Spartan effort about that, either. The will that the stranger was using was not in his muscles, but in his brain. So there was not even a wrinkling of his brow as he staggered at the side of Naylor. He kept his face forward. He wasted no breath in speech, and presently Naylor had him stretched on the ground on the pine needles. The black of the shadow was streaked with moonlight to show his calm face.
“I’ll fetch you a doctor,” said Naylor, “and — ”
“Stay here. Do what I say,” said the other. “Take this first.” He took a wallet out of his pocket and held it forth. “That’s only a beginning,” he said.
Naylor opened the wallet and saw a sheaf of bills well compacted. They were sodden with water, but he could read the denomination of the topmost, and it was a hundred dollars.
Even if the other bills were much smaller, there was between two and three thousand dollars in that wallet. Naylor closed the wallet, shoved the wetness of it into his pocket, and said nothing. He knew that he had come to a great moment. He knew that it was his good luck that had forced him to attempt that rescue.
He heard the other saying: “You can’t bring me a doctor. I’m Barry Christian.”
The knees of Naylor sagged a little. A great moment? Yes, it was the greatest of his life. Through his brain a thousand memories whirled, each a distinct face, shooting through his mind like the silhouettes of people in a crowded passenger coach when it goes by at full speed. Barry Christian! How many times had that great foeman of the law won mighty prizes? Who in this world had ever gained even the slightest victory over him with the exception of that superman known as “Jim Silver”? And now all of Barry Christian lay there on the pine needles at the feet of Naylor.
Even so, he did not feel the stronger of the two. The brainy fellows who obeyed the law could be damned, for all of him; but this was a great master, a king of the world of crime, and a sort of awe spread over the disturbed spirit of Bill.
“You tell me; I’m your man,” he said.
“That’s only the first,” said Barry Christian. “They’ve got a reward on me, and it’s a big one. But I think you’ll make more out of me by giving me a hand. Make up your mind.”
In a sudden heat of enthusiasm, Bill Naylor exclaimed: “I wouldn’t turn you in if the reward was a million. I don’t kiss the foot of anybody to get blood money. My name’s Bill Naylor. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Of course I have. You’ve worked in Mexico,” said the calm, small voice of Christian.
It was the sweetest tribute that Naylor had ever heard. It was more to him than a Congressional Medal.
“Go and spill the beans. Tell me what you want. If you’ve ever heard anything about me, you know I don’t split on a pal.”
“I know,” said Christian. “Take off your coat and wrap it around me. Twist it hard around me to stop the bleeding as much as you can. Get into town. Buy some needles and some surgical silk. Get a bottle of alcohol for a disinfectant. Get some brandy, too, and something to eat, and bring everything back to me here. Bring a lantern, too.”
“That’ll take me more’n half an hour,” said Naylor, measuring the distance to the town.
“And in the meantime I may be dead. But that’s all right,” said Christian. “The world is made of chance. Hurry along.”
Bill Naylor hurried. He ran himself out of breath, made the purchases, visited his father’s house on the verge of the town long enough to borrow a horse, and after saddling it, galloped rapidly back.
When he swung out of the saddle he expected to find the body gone. It was in place.
He expected to find it cold with death. But at once the steady, weak voice said to him:
“Quick work, Naylor. Light that lantern and we’ll get to work.”
Naylor lighted the lantern. Then he laid bare the side of Christian. There was a great, ragged rent that half sickened him to look at.
“Put my shoulders against the tree,” Christian said. “Then dip the needles and the silk in the alcohol.”
Naylor gripped Christian under the armpits and heaved on the heavy body until the back of the great outlaw was supported against the tree.
Then he dipped the needles and the silk thread in the bottle of alcohol while Christian held one hand over the lips of his wound. The dark blood kept oozing out rapidly through his fingers. But the man would not even weaken. He would not even sigh. Only now and then came a breath a little longer and deeper than the others, and his nostrils flared out a little. But the man was all steel, cold and perfectly tempered.
Presently he asked for the needles, and threaded the first one.
“I don’t know that I’ll be able to do a good job,” said Naylor, his lips twitching in horror as he saw the rent in the flesh.
“You? I wouldn’t ask you to do such dirty work for me,” said Christian. “I’ll do it myself. I’ve seen the doctors work.”
And he began to work the needle right down into his flesh, turning it inside so that the mouth of the wound yawned open for a moment and the rush of the blood increased. He tied each stitch, driving the needle remorselessly through his own flesh. What was worst to watch was the drawing of the thread through the hole that the needle had made. All that Naylor could do was to cut the thread after the knot had been tied, drawing one section of the wound together.
It seemed to him that the work would never end. A fine sweat came out on the face of Christian and gathered in beads. He asked for brandy and took a long pull at the bottle. The sweat began to run on his face. Naylor took a handkerchief and wiped the sweat away.
“Thanks, partner,” said the great Barry Christian.
The soul of Naylor worked in him.
“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “I’m not doing a thing.”
Every moment counted, when the blood was running out of him like that, but Christian spared the time to look up from his work with a smile. And as he endured the agony and smiled at Naylor, it seemed to Bill that he had never seen a face so noble, so calm, or so great.
Never had such an emotion disturbed the dark soul of Naylor.
The sewing of the wound ended with Christian asking questions about where they could put up. Naylor offered his father’s house, but Christian pointed out that even in the best family in the world there was not apt to be enough honesty to conceal the presence of a man wanted by the law as he was.
“If you can trust one man in a million, you’re in luck,” said Christian. “I’ve found you, Naylor, and that’s luck enough for me. I don’t want to take chances.”
There were always deserted shacks in the mountains, and Naylor knew of one of these. So Christian directed him to cut down or break down two small saplings and make with them a litter which the horse could drag. In that way Christian could be transported to his new home.
Naylor worked hard and fast. He had dressed Christian’s wound with a bandage and wrapped him in two thick blankets brought from his house. Now he was soon able to drag the weight of the wounded man onto the litter — for Christian was now too weak to stir his own weight. He could only endure the pain in silence.
On the litter, Naylor lashed him with a lariat; then he raised the litter and tied it into the stirrups of the saddle. After that he led the horse carefully forward, stopping now and then to go back and look at his man. And on each occasion Christian smiled silently at him.
They reached the shack. And there, on a bed of evergreen boughs and saplings, Naylor stretched out the wounded man.
There was one long sigh from Christian. He said: “Leave me like this. Don’t offer me anything. Let me lie here till the morning. I’m going to sleep.”
Sleep, with those stitches gripping at the rawness of his flesh?
Well, it was true that he was able to do it. When Naylor twice looked in on Christian, he found him each time calmly slumbering. Once he could see by the moonlight. Once he could tell by the count of the evenly measured breathing.
So Naylor, in the gray of the dawn, made another hurried trip to the town of Kendal to make more purchases. He bought plenty of provisions. To the storekeeper, who was curious, he simply said:
“I’m going up and do a little prospecting for myself. There’s gold in those mountains.”
The storekeeper grinned. But, though he was curious, he was also discreet. He asked no more questions, but went on:
“There’s news just come up over the telephone from Crow’s Nest. The real Jim Silver’s back in town, and he brought the crooked Jim Silver along with him. Seems the fact is that the dumb-bells down there had the real Jim Silver in jail, all right, and the crook who robbed the bank was just a fellow by name of Duff Gregor that happened to look a good bit like Silver.”
“Hold on!” said Naylor. “Is that right? I thought that Silver had gone crooked at last. Is that wrong?”
For that was the story — that Jim Silver, the archfoe of Christian, had at last abandoned the ways of the law-abiding to plunder the rich bank of Henry Wilbur, in Crow’s Nest. It had been a great comfort to Naylor, who always felt that honesty is merely a matter of policy with most, and that every man has his price.
“He even had Silver’s horse, Parade,” said Naylor in a complaining voice. “It must ‘a’ been Silver that robbed the bank and got away with the loot.”
The other shook his head. “It was Duff Gregor, riding a hoss that looked considerable like Silver’s chestnut. But the real Jim Silver, after Taxi got him out of the jail, climbed on the trail, grabbed Duff Gregor, grabbed Barry Christian, who was behind all Gregor’s tricks, and got hold of the loot, too. But the biggest news of all is that Barry Christian, rather than go back to the death house, chucked himself off the bridge up the river and went over the falls!”