The Southerner: A Romance of the Real Lincoln Part 17

Again the voice choked into silence and he closed the Book.

"I can't--I can't read it. I'm afraid you're going to give up!" he sobbed. "O Ma, you won't, will you? Please say you won't?"

"No, no, I won't give up, my Boy," she said soothingly. "I'm just ready for anything He sends----"

"But I don't want you to say that!" he broke in pa.s.sionately. "You must fight. You mustn't be ready. You mustn't think about dying. I won't let you die--I tell you!"

She stroked his forehead with gentle touch:

"I won't give up for your sake----"

"It's a promise now?" he cried.

"Yes, I promise----"

"Then I'm going for a doctor right away----"

"You can't find him, Boy," his father said. "It's thirty miles across the Ohio into Kentucky where he lives. An' in all this sickness he ain't at home. Hit's foolishness ter go----"

"I'll find him," was the firm response.

The father made no further protest. He helped him saddle the horse, buckled the stirrups to fit his little bare legs and gave him as clear directions as he could.

"The moon'll be s.h.i.+nin' all night, Boy," were his last words. "Yer can cross the river before eight o'clock. Ef ye git lost on t'other side ax yer way frum the fust house ye come to----"

The Boy nodded, and when had fixed his bare toes in the stirrups he leaned low and whispered:

"You won't give up, Pa, will ye? You'll fight for her till I get back?"

The big gnarled fist closed over the little hand on the pommel of the saddle, and the father's voice was husky:

"As long as there's breath in her body--hurry now."

The last command was not needed. The horse felt the quiver of tense suffering in the low voice and the nervous touch of the switch on his side. With a quick bound he was off at a full gallop down the trail toward the river.

The sun had set before they reached the open country beyond the great forest, but by seven o'clock the Boy saw from the hill top the s.h.i.+ning mirror of the river in the calm moonlit valley. Before night he had succeeded in rousing the ferryman and reached the opposite sh.o.r.e.

He lost the way once about nine o'clock and a settler whose light he saw in the woods called sharply from the door with his rifle in hand:

"Who are you?"

"I'm just a little boy," the voice faltered. "I'm trying to find the doctor's house. My mother's about to die and I'm lost. I want you to show me the road."

The rifle was lowered and the cabin stirred. The man dropped back and a woman appeared in the door way.

"Won't ye come in, Honey, and rest a minute and me give ye somethin' to eat while Pa's gettin' ready to go with ye a piece?"

"No'm I can't eat nuthin'----"

He didn't dare go near that tender voice that spoke so clearly its sympathy in the night. He would be crying in a minute if he did and he couldn't afford that.

The settler caught a horse and rode with him an hour to make sure he wouldn't miss the way again.

He reached the doctor's house by eleven o'clock, and to his joy found him at home. The rough old man refused to move an inch until he had fed his horse and eaten a hearty meal.

The Boy tried to eat, but couldn't. The food stuck squarely in his throat. It was no use.

He went outside and waited beside his horse until the doctor was ready.

It seemed an eternity, the awful wait. How serene the still beauty of the autumn night! Not a breath of wind stirred. The full moon hung in the sky straight overhead, flooding the earth with silver radiance, marking in clear and vivid lines the shadows of the trees on the ground.

Bitter wonder and rebellion filled his young soul. How could G.o.d sit unmoved among those s.h.i.+ning stars and leave his mother to die!

The doctor came at last and they started.

In vain he urged that they gallop.

"I won't do it, sir!" the old man snapped. "Your horse has come thirty miles. I'll not let you kill him and I'm not going to kill myself plunging over a rough road at night."

They reached the cabin at daylight. The Boy saw the glow of the flame in the big fireplace through the woods and his heart beat high with new hope. Now that the doctor was here he felt sure her life could be saved.

The Boy stood close by his side when he felt her pulse, and looked at the strange whitish-brown coating on her tongue.

"You can do something, Doctor?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes," was the short answer.

He asked for a towel and bowl and opened his saddlebags. He examined the point of his lancet and bared the slender arm.

"What are ye goin' ter do?" Tom asked with a frown.

"Bleed her, of course. It's the only thing to do----"

The Boy suddenly pushed himself between the doctor and the bed and looked up into his stern face with a resolute stare:

"You shan't do it. I don't know nothin' much about doctorin' but I got sense enough to know that'll kill her--and you shan't do it!"

The doctor looked angrily at the father.

"I say so, too," Tom replied. "She's too weak for that."

With a snort of anger, the old man threw the lancet into his saddlebags, snapped them together and strode through the cabin door.

The Boy followed him wistfully to the stable, and when he seized the bridle to put on the horse, caught his hand and looked up:

"Please don't go," he begged. "I'm mighty sorry I made you mad. I didn't go to do it. You see----" his voice faltered--"I love her so I just couldn't let you cut her arm open and see her bleed. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Won't you stay and help us? Can't ye do somethin'

else for her? I'll pay ye. I'll go work for ye a whole year or five years if ye want me--if you'll just save her--just save her, that's all--don't go--please don't!"

Something in the child's anguish found the rough old man's heart. His eyes grew misty for a moment, he slipped one arm about the Boy's shoulders and drew him close.