He unstoppered his flask of whisky and, holding her to him, thrust it
to her lips. And the thing which had been a curse to Bat Truxton,
which had hurled him downward from his leadership of men, which had
threatened to wreck the hopes of the Great Work, brought Argyl back
from the last boundaries of the thing called Life, back from the misty
frontiers of the thing called Death to which she was journeying.
Her eyes opened, she stared at him, her eyes closed again.
Again he forced her reluctant throat to swallow the whisky, a few
drops only. And again he bathed her with water--brow and throat and
quiet wrists. Her eyes did not open now, but he saw that she was
breathing. Presently he made her take a little water. He washed her
dusty nostrils that she might breathe better. And that breath might
come into her tired lungs more easily he gently, reverently loosened
the clothing about her breasts.
Not once did his eyes leave her face. He did not fire the shot which
was to be a signal to the others, because he knew that they could not
hear. Soon he would look for the wagon. It would pass closely enough
for him to see it, near enough for him to make himself seen. Now he
could do alone as much for her as could fifty men, as could any one.
An hour passed, two hours. He had watched the color of life creep back
into her face faintly, slowly, but steadily.
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