“I’m done,” announced the doctor at last. “This medicine you can give him every three hours—one teaspoonful. It’s for the fever.”
The man with the scar came over to stand at the foot of the bed. “Leave something that’ll make him sleep,” he said.
“All right.” The doctor had thought of asking for coffee. But now he was eager to get away. There was that in the manner of his guide which he did not like—an anxiety that seemed apart from concern for the sick man.
Soon they were started on the return trip, the doctor blindfolded as before and tied by the wrists to his pommel. As they went he marked as well as he could ascents and descents, abrupt turns, level stretches and rough. Bobby travelled slowly, being tired with all the long miles he had covered since noon; and once or twice he stumbled, jerking at his headline.
The man with the scar cursed him. “Why don’t you ride a mule?” he called back. “A mule’s sure-footed, and he’s got more sense in a minute than a horse’s got in a week.”
“Ain’t nothin’ the matter with this horse’s smartness,” retorted the doctor. “Bobby knows as much as a man.”
“Oh, does he?” said the other with a mirthless laugh. “Well, you’d better look out or I’ll blindfold him, too.”
When the animals were once more brought to a standstill the man with the scar did not dismount, but rode close enough to untie the thongs at the doctor’s pommel and to jerk away the handkerchief.
They were beside the railroad track where the dim road branched east. The man with the scar addressed the doctor sharply. “Doc,” he said, “if you know what’s good for you you’ll just forget all about to-night.” Then: “So long.” But he stayed where he was in the road.
“So long,” returned the doctor. He headed north. When beyond the cemetery he looked round, the mule and its scar-faced rider were gone.