Ben Blair | Page 4

to give room, four supports dangled beneath like paralyzed arms.
A home-made table, suggesting those scattered about country picnic
grounds, a few cheap chairs, a row of chests and cupboards variously
remodelled from a common foundation of dry-goods boxes, and a stove,
ingeniously evolved out of the cylinder and head of a portable engine,
comprised the furniture.
The morning sunlight which dimmed the candles of Mick Kennedy's

saloon drifted through the single high-set window of the Big B
Ranch-house, revealing there a very different scene. From beneath the
quilts in one of the folding bunks appeared the faces of a woman and a
little boy. At the opening of the dog-kennel the head of a mottled
yellow-and-white mongrel dog projected into the room, the sensitive
muzzle pointing directly at the occupied bunk. The eyes of woman,
child, and beast were open and moved restlessly about.
"Mamma," and the small boy wriggled beneath the clothes, "Mamma,
I'm hungry."
The white face of the woman turned away, more pallid than before. An
unfamiliar observer would have been at a loss to guess the age of the
owner. In that haggard, non-committal countenance there was nothing
to indicate whether she was twenty-five or forty.
"It is early yet, son. Go to sleep."
The boy closed his eyes dutifully, and for perhaps five minutes there
was silence; then the blue orbs opened wider than before.
"Mamma, I can't go to sleep. I'm hungry!"
"Never mind, Benjamin. The horses, the rabbits, the birds,--all get
hungry sometimes." A hacking cough interrupted her words. "Snuggle
close up to me, little son, and keep warm."
"But, mamma, I want something to eat. Won't you get it for me?"
"I can't, son."
He waited a moment. "Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?"
The eyes of the mother moistened.
"Mamma," the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder,
"won't you let me help myself?"
"There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all."

The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered.
"Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?"
"Because there isn't, bubby."
The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without further
parley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain.
"It's cold, mamma," he announced. "Aren't you going to build a fire?"
Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her
cheeks.
"No," she answered with a sigh.
"Why not, mamma?"
There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice,
although it was clearly an effort to speak.
"I can't get up this morning, little one."
Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to the
occasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment was
stepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor.
"I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma," he announced.
The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance,
and with his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but the
woman spoke no word. With impassive face she watched the shivering
little figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerity born of
experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hitherto
unthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving his
work he came back to the bunk.
"Are you sick, mamma?" he asked.

Instantly the woman's face softened.
"Yes, laddie," she answered gently.
Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at his
mother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work.
"You must have it warm here," he said.
Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily did
he return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he looked
down with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had
it been less pathetic.
"Are you very sick, mamma?" he said at last, hesitatingly.
"I am dying, little son." She spoke calmly and impersonally, without
even a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tattered
cover, did not stir.
"Mamma!" the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over the
bed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and
white.
At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously.
Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the action
brought no response. Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine,
long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence.
The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but the
uncannily aged face seemed older than before. He went over to a peg
where his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment that
answered as an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough,
quickly muffled; but