Bill turned away without a word, though it was plain that his mind was full of troubled thoughts. They cooked breakfast and ate in silence. The wounded man had fallen asleep, with the sunlight softly warm on his blanketed shoulder.
Once Bill turned his head and stared long at the man, then looked at Abington, lips parted for speech that after all was withheld. Abington lifted an eyebrow inquiringly and Bill looked away.
“What’s on your mind?” Abington asked finally, setting down his empty cup. “They say confession is good for the soul.”
“Yeah. So’s a few other things. Come on over here on these rocks, professor. That old possum is liable to be listenin’.”
“I don’t think so,” Abington cheerfully disagreed, but he followed Bill to a pile of boulders some distance away, where they could talk without disturbing the patient, or being overheard by him.
“Now, there’s a question I’d like to ask you, professor. Who did you think you was shootin’ at last night, when you ventilated Jack Huntley’s liver?”
Abington’s lips twitched. “At you, Bill.”
“Yeah?” Bill’s jaw stiffened. “Want another try?”
“No, I don’t think so. This man has complicated matters, but he has also cleared up a few things for me.”
“Yeah, and he’ll clear up more—for me,” Bill opined. “If it’s a fair question, I’d like to know where you’ve been since yesterday.”