With her his sole nurse and doctor, he had lain in one of their many retreats in the Cypress Hills until he was strong enough to entrust himself to the pace of the faithful Whiskers for the slow and painful journey to more expert treatment across the border. There he recovered rapidly. But Bilsy's bullet had extracted its toll. The blue-black face was darker now and more leathery, as if the blood behind were running more sluggishly. His cheeks were fallen in, and great hollows showed beneath the squinting eyes. It made him more the Indian than ever in appearance. He had lost weight and bulk, and the shoulder above the wound was an inch lower than its mate.
Time would perhaps return him his old form, as it had his strength.
But time was the very thing Blue Pete could not wait for.
Recklessly as he commenced his return along the banks of the river, instinct won; in a few steps he was moving with all the old soundlessness. Twigs and crackling leaves seemed to evade his feet; eye and ear were ever alert. Though he knew he was alone in the bush, the way of a lifetime refused to sleep within him. By a circuitous route he approached a tangle of trees that hung out from a steep projection in the rising sides of the ravine. His eyes were flitting now about at his feet, and sometimes he carefully passed a boot over marks only he could detect. Once, whistling in soft surprise, he scattered a handful of spruce needles.
Into the heart of the thickest clump of trees he disappeared. The green fell behind him, the woods was lifeless again.
In the dim light of the cave Mira knew he was worried, but he would tell her when it was good for her to know.
"It's gone," he growled, after a long silence.
In their intimate way she understood.
"Perhaps it broke loose."
He looked his surprise that she should imagine he had not satisfied himself. She came to him and laid tender hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, Pete, for your sake. Really it doesn't matter. We could go now—"