“It might 'a' been any one of a dozen fellers I know,” the sergeant said, for Jim was a feudsman and had his enemies by the score.
The man on the cot said nothing. Once, to be sure, when he was crossing the border of Etherland, and once only, he muttered: “Yes, she come from Happy Valley, but she was a cat, no doubt about that. Yes, sir, the old girl was a cat.” But when he was conscious that much even he never would say again. He simply lay grim, quiet, uncomplaining, and not even the surgeon, whose step he got quickly to know, could get him to tell who had done the deed.
On the fourth day he showed some cheer.
“Look here, doc,” he said, “when you goin' to take this rag off o' my eyes? I hain't seen a wink since I come in here.”
“Oh, pretty soon,” said the surgeon, and the nurse turned away again with drops in her eyes that would never be for the wounded man's eyes to shed again.
On the sixth day his pulse was fast and his blood was high—and that night the nurse knew precisely what meant the look in the surgeon's face when he motioned her to leave the room. Then he bent to lift the bandage once more.
“Why don't you take 'em all off, doc? I'd like to see the old girl again. Has she gone back to Happy Valley?”
“No—she's here.”
“Won't she come to see me?”
“Yes, she'll come, but she can't now—she's sick abed.” The man grinned.