Mahon covered the thirty miles to the Police post at Medicine Lodge without a rest. A fever of uncertainty was consuming him. The Inspector's faith in the halfbreed made the whole uncanny affair a deeper mystery than ever. For eight months Blue Pete had been "on the run," and then had come the great sacrifice they had all believed—at least all but the Inspector—to be his death. During those eight months the Sergeant himself had traced northward the horses the halfbreed had stolen. He had actually caught Mira Stanton, Blue Pete's partner, in the act of rustling.
Yet, insisted the Inspector, the halfbreed was not rustling. Mahon gave it up.
Ahead of him loomed the dark line of the beloved Hills, swelling as he cantered along. Over the yellow glare of the dead prairie grass his eyes rested on the deep green with the affection of a long-absent friend. There swept over him an irrepressible longing to dash into the cool shadows and feast his eyes on the maze of hill and dell, rocky height and grass-grown bottom, mirrored lake and whispering stream; to hear the leap of fish and the rustle of creeping things unseen, the cry of distant birds and the howl of prowling wolf. There he would be in touch with the spirit of his old friend, wherever he might be now.
Some day—he felt certain of it—he would grasp the hand of Blue Pete somewhere within the Hills.
Constable Priest was not at the post when he pushed open the barracks door. He was glad of that. Leaving a short note, he galloped off south-east toward the Hills. His horse, with memories of many a free run there, made straight for Windy Coulee, the familiar western entrance to the mysteries of the Cypress Hills.
Mahon did not direct. When the sloping trail leading up into the trees rose before him, he smiled. With Windy Coulee the halfbreed's memory was bound by a hundred incidents. There they had entered their first great adventure together; there they had dived into the shadows on the trail of many a rustler. And there he had erected the rough stone that marked his grief when he thought Blue Pete had given his life for him.
Wrapped in the past, Mahon gave the horse his head.
At the top of the hollowed trail, just where the trees began, the horse came to a halt so suddenly that Mahon jerked against the pommel and lifted his eyes in surprise.
Not thirty yards ahead stood the granite column with its simple tribute, "Greater Love." But Mahon did not notice it. All he saw was a man slouched on its pedestal. He was smiling at him—a twisted, awkward smile of embarrassed affection.
Mahon's lips parted, but he could not speak. With unsteady hand he quieted the impatient horse—blinking incredulously. There were the high cheek bones, the bluish tinge—darker now—the pleading smile, the leather chaps and dirty Stetson and polka dot neckerchief and huge spurs, there the coarse brown hands hanging limply over the leather-clad knees. Two changes had come—one shoulder hung lower than its mate, and the stiff black hair was tidier. The first, he knew, was the result of the old wound; the last the outward token of a woman's care.