Pawtucket tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 1890-189?, 1892-05-02


ton B;.i got from the doctor.
Was she a professional nurse? Bill
guessed 30. And he thought how nice it
would be il he could be sick when Rivers
got well.
The camp was siill-Bill had ordered
Z so-and every man asked how the
'tenderfoot" was. and about the "gal."
Dunno" was all the answer they got
20 the latter question, and Bill told all he
snew when he said that.
Rivers was in serious condition, and
before the six hours were up horseman
dashed out Of camp and after a doctor.
10 was Ute Bill. He could not stand by
ana see him toss hack and forth in bed.
IL was too much. He wasn't used TO il.
The doctor had to make another trip
Bill said Rivers was worse.
When the doctor had made an exami-
nation OF his patient he declared the worst
was passed, and left Rivers sleeping
quietly under gentle narcotic.
All this time the girl had not released
her watch by the bedside. and she seemed
10 be soothing away the delirium OF the
fever in gently passing her hands over
the sick mans temples. Her eyes never
left of their watch OF every movement
Of the 'tenderfoot's" face. and Bill stood
by wonderingly, casting n furtive glance
at the delicately featured face bending
over his pard's pillow, and trying to solve
the problem in his mind.
Hours passed, and finally, with long
sigh, Rivers opened his eyes and looked
at Bill leaning over tho foot Of the bed.
Then his wandering attention was fixed
on the anxious face by his side. There
was no glad cry Of recognition--it was
mutual understanding All the warmth
Of his great love was expressed in the
gently whispered name Lillian" as he
drew her face to his. Resting her head
long years Of waiting for tidings from
him and the hasty letter from Omaha,
which she had only received u few days
before. She had left home. friends,
everything, and gone to seek him In the
wild west, she knew not where, but she
had found him. And Bill had disap-
peared.
A few days afterward one Of the
''pards" gave up his claim to the little
cabin. and the minister said the cere-
mony which linked two lives into .
world Of their own. u
Many and hearty were the rough con-
gratu.ations. That evening the miners
gathered at The little home TO say a word
Of welcome 10 the beautiful young bride.
Even II II were spoken by big. rowdy
miner like Bill. there was u genuine
ring of manlness about il, and made her
feel quite 1T home in the wild, pictur-
esQue spot 80 far from every sign OF
civilization. AS the men filed out slowly
Rivers conducted his girl wife to the
porch Of the rude cabin, and, standing
closc 10y his side, she sang one verse OF
Home. Sweet Home" The tender,
sympathetic voice fell on the still night
air with wonderful sweetness, and
awakened many old memories in the
hearts Of the rough, coarse miners
gathered there.
Heads were uncovered and there were
tears wiped hastily away rs Bill led
them 10 the saloon. Was there rough
talking and coarse jests now? No. As
each man raised his glass solemn hush
fell upon the group, broken at last by
Ute Bills voice. 1t was choked and un-
natural.
Boys" he said. Il never he'd but one
pard, but give him up TO the best pafd
man ever got. And Ill never hev an
other till get one like his
Bill set his glass down and walked
away abruptly. II was not long until
the saloon was deserted and the camp
hushed in the rcpose of night. &.
After that Dill did not seem like his
old solf. He WIS quiet and solemn. He
knew what WIS the matter. but did not
care 20 let The boys know where the sun
shine had fallen on his rough heart and
then 30 suddenly been swept away.
Tlc next spring came, and the doctor
made another trip 10 the little cabin.
When Ute Ei!l went up the next day
River, led him into the dainty bedroom
and i.avc him n recp ct the tiny baby
girl that had come that night. The big
rough hand closed tightly over the one
OF more delicate mold that WAS laid in
his, end the Two men understood each
other. There were tears in Bills ewes
and an ache in his heart which no one
but hivers should ever know as he turned
silently away.
The miners gathered again in the sa-
loon to drink to the health OF the mother
and child, and hear Bill, now glowing
its queer ways until they all wanted TO
see the youngster. A vote was taken,
and tho camp was to be christened after
the baby, and Bill had forgotten to ask
her name. Away he went, and soon re.
turned. He looked eheepish and finally
came forward and said:
"Boys, yer got mo this time. They've
called her Utellar as near my name as
they could get, and it's my layout.
What'll ye hev?"
The classes clinked merrily, and Mr..
Bill beamed with happiness
Not a day passed that Bill did not visit
the cottage, and as the wee babe grew to
toddling, lisping girl, Bill was her chief
sympathizer, and the bows in camp at
last called him Uncle Bill"
There's no harm in Inc lovin' her."
he said one day as he stroked the curly
brown head nestled against lis breast;
1.-THE other wasn't for me-" And Rivers
glanced up quickly at Bill. and then to
his wife. who was sitting by the door,
way with her dainty fingers busy in
mending little frock.
ut was before knew"-and Bill swal-
lowed the big lump rising in his throat
and tried 10 20 on. but his voice broke
and he trembled in the vain effort to sup
press his emotion. Rising suddenly he
left the cabin.
That was years ago. The mining camp
has disappeared and only the lonely cot
taSe marks the spot where il once stood.
Stanley Rivers lives with his wife and
dark eyed GiIl ia an eastern city and en-
joys the wealth he made in the pictur-
esque spot which now hears tho name of
Cheyenne canyon. Dill never married;
he loved the beautiful girl who sat BY
the bedside Of his sick "pard:' he loved
the tiny babe who Dlayed upOn his knees