Nothing could be done
with the mother. She had insisted on the operation, and the Irishman
had undertaken it. The doctor and Courant would stay by them; Courant
was to hold the leg. He, David, couldn't stand it. It was like an
execution--barbarous--with a hunting knife and a saw.
In a half hour Courant came walking round the back of the wagon and
threw himself on the ground beside them. The leg had been amputated
and the boy was dying. Intense silence fell on the camp, only the
laughter and voices of the children rising clear on the thin air. Then
a wail arose, a penetrating, fearful cry, Rachel mourning for her
child. Courant raised his head and said with an unemotional air of
relief, "he's dead." The Mormon woman dropped her sewing, gave a low
exclamation, and sat listening with bitten lip. Susan leaned against
the wagon wheel full of horror and feeling sick, her eyes on David,
who, drawing up his knees, pressed his forehead on them. He rested
thus, his face hidden, while the keening of the mother, the cries of an
animal in pain, fell through the hot brightness of the morning like the
dropping of agonized tears down blooming cheeks.
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