man, the self-styled committee had undergone a change of heart. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, they had silently slipped away.
That meant that none of them would be going for a doctor; none remained to lend a hand. Whatever was to be done was up to him. Grimly Locke lifted Ray in his arms, moving as gently as possible. He crossed the porch and kicked open the door. After seven years, he entered the old house again.
8
The house was dark. Perhaps his father was asleep. Deaf as he was, the elder Locke would probably not have heard the disturbance. He was also blind, so nearly helpless that he would be forced to wait until someone came to tell him what was going on.
Such waiting could be agony, but it would have to be endured awhile; Ray had to come first. Despite the gloom, memory served Locke. He came to a bedroom and went in, lowering Ray onto the bed. There was a coal-oil lamp on the stand, and he had matches. Presently he had a light.
The second step, like the first, was up to him. There was still fire in the kitchen range, and the tea kettle, singing softly, was half full of hot water. A sheet served for bandages. Locke cleaned the wound and bandaged it, making a compress to check the bleeding. He hesitated as to the next step. To ride to town and bring Bannon would take hours, and it might be as bad to leave Ray alone so long as to wait and watch over him, dispatching a messenger when the crew returned. Either way, the odds were long.
There were good reasons for staying. There was still the possibility that the self-styled committee might return. Also, his father, if awake, would wonder why Ray did not come to tell him what was going on. Perhaps Ray Locke, Sr., would be able to sit with Ray while Orin made the trip for the doctor.
Picking up the lamp, Locke started through the silent house with a mixed feeling of eagerness and dread. The elder Locke was a man of strong convictions and equally strong passions. He had always favored his younger son, probably because of the untimely loss of the boy's mother.
He had been shocked and outraged by the news, which he had not questioned, that Orin Locke was a thief. Even the return of the supposedly stolen money had made no difference in his attitude. Dr. Emery had explained it as a defensive quirk of the mind; badly upset, Ray Locke, Sr. had probably saved his life by maintaining his belief in the son he loved best.
Here was his room. The figure on the bed stirred, passing an uncertain hand before his eyes, as though the light bothered them. In that light, a closer look at the gaunt figure shocked Locke. The years of his exile had aged the older man far more than he had expected.
His father sat up in bed, looking at him questioningly. It took a moment for Locke to remember, to realize that the eyes could not see. Then his voice came, and with the acute sense of the blind, he knew that it was not Ray who had entered.
"Who is it?"
Locke set the lamp carefully on the stand. It was as well to be direct.
"It's me, Pa," he said. "Orin."
He waited, uncertain what to expect, not even sure that the deaf ears had heard. Then, to his surprise, a white, veined hand groped toward him and a transfiguring smile spread across the wasted face. The voice was barely above a whisper.
"Orin! Thank God, boy—you've come back! Come closer."
Incredulity and relief mingled in Locke. This was the last thing that he had been prepared for. He hunkered beside the bed, taking his father's thin hand in his own.
"Pa! You're not mad at me any more?" The years rolled back.
The gray head on the pillow moved in slow negation. "No, Orin, I'm not mad—not any more, son. I know now that I never should have been. I want to ask your forgiveness, boy, for all the things I said and thought about you. I guess I was kind of crazy, somehow. I should have known better. I found out the truth—tonight."
Something had happened tonight, before Orin came, before the vigilantes arrived. That would
That meant that none of them would be going for a doctor; none remained to lend a hand. Whatever was to be done was up to him. Grimly Locke lifted Ray in his arms, moving as gently as possible. He crossed the porch and kicked open the door. After seven years, he entered the old house again.
8
The house was dark. Perhaps his father was asleep. Deaf as he was, the elder Locke would probably not have heard the disturbance. He was also blind, so nearly helpless that he would be forced to wait until someone came to tell him what was going on.
Such waiting could be agony, but it would have to be endured awhile; Ray had to come first. Despite the gloom, memory served Locke. He came to a bedroom and went in, lowering Ray onto the bed. There was a coal-oil lamp on the stand, and he had matches. Presently he had a light.
The second step, like the first, was up to him. There was still fire in the kitchen range, and the tea kettle, singing softly, was half full of hot water. A sheet served for bandages. Locke cleaned the wound and bandaged it, making a compress to check the bleeding. He hesitated as to the next step. To ride to town and bring Bannon would take hours, and it might be as bad to leave Ray alone so long as to wait and watch over him, dispatching a messenger when the crew returned. Either way, the odds were long.
There were good reasons for staying. There was still the possibility that the self-styled committee might return. Also, his father, if awake, would wonder why Ray did not come to tell him what was going on. Perhaps Ray Locke, Sr., would be able to sit with Ray while Orin made the trip for the doctor.
Picking up the lamp, Locke started through the silent house with a mixed feeling of eagerness and dread. The elder Locke was a man of strong convictions and equally strong passions. He had always favored his younger son, probably because of the untimely loss of the boy's mother.
He had been shocked and outraged by the news, which he had not questioned, that Orin Locke was a thief. Even the return of the supposedly stolen money had made no difference in his attitude. Dr. Emery had explained it as a defensive quirk of the mind; badly upset, Ray Locke, Sr. had probably saved his life by maintaining his belief in the son he loved best.
Here was his room. The figure on the bed stirred, passing an uncertain hand before his eyes, as though the light bothered them. In that light, a closer look at the gaunt figure shocked Locke. The years of his exile had aged the older man far more than he had expected.
His father sat up in bed, looking at him questioningly. It took a moment for Locke to remember, to realize that the eyes could not see. Then his voice came, and with the acute sense of the blind, he knew that it was not Ray who had entered.
"Who is it?"
Locke set the lamp carefully on the stand. It was as well to be direct.
"It's me, Pa," he said. "Orin."
He waited, uncertain what to expect, not even sure that the deaf ears had heard. Then, to his surprise, a white, veined hand groped toward him and a transfiguring smile spread across the wasted face. The voice was barely above a whisper.
"Orin! Thank God, boy—you've come back! Come closer."
Incredulity and relief mingled in Locke. This was the last thing that he had been prepared for. He hunkered beside the bed, taking his father's thin hand in his own.
"Pa! You're not mad at me any more?" The years rolled back.
The gray head on the pillow moved in slow negation. "No, Orin, I'm not mad—not any more, son. I know now that I never should have been. I want to ask your forgiveness, boy, for all the things I said and thought about you. I guess I was kind of crazy, somehow. I should have known better. I found out the truth—tonight."
Something had happened tonight, before Orin came, before the vigilantes arrived. That would
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