As for the second, there was nothing to do but watch. I could not take the initiative step. Action depended solely upon others, and as to the identity of these others I scarce could give a guess.
Louis Brookhouse had not been seen outside his home since his arrival, in a crippled condition, the day after Grace Ballou's escapade. I must see Louis Brookhouse. I must know the nature of that "injury" which Dr. Bethel had been called upon to attend.
For the first, I must bide my time until the youth was sufficiently recovered to appear in public. For the second, I must rely on Bethel, and, until the last sorrowful tribute of respect and affection had been paid the dead, I could scarcely hope for an interview with him.
A crisis must come soon, but it was not in our power to hasten it.
So long as Dimber Joe and Blake Simpson continued inert and seemingly aimless, so long as the days brought no new event and the nights brought neither discovery on our part nor movement on the part of the horse-thieves, Carnes and I had only to wait and watch—watch—watch.
Our days, to the onlooker, must have seemed only idle indeed, but still they were busy days.
Carnes roamed about the town, inspecting the barns and buildings closely, when he could venture a near approach without arousing suspicion or objection; at a distance, when intrusion would be unsafe or unwelcome.
Dr. Barnard was buried on Thursday, and on the afternoon of that day, as I was returning from the funeral in fact, I received a report from Wyman.
Stripped of its details, and reduced to bare facts, it amounted to this: