The pursuers gave up the hunt early. It was nonsense, hunting a fugitive in such a fog. Sounds of the village grew fainter behind the groping, stumbling, tight-lipped Yankee. A vastness as of infinity between the planets enveloped him. There were no stars or lights. He wore neither hat nor coat—only his khaki shirt—and the fog penetrated to his marrow.
He had found the road out of town, and he tried to keep the road out of town. The only way he knew that he was keeping the road out of town was by the muck in which he staggered and sloughed his way. The moment he found himself walking on hard, frost-nipped grass, he returned to the slough.
Foot by foot, yard by yard, rod by rod, he went out and on, into absolute blackness, not daring to stop an instant, fearing the morning might find the fog lifted and disclose him. That would mean recapture and a consummation of the fate he had dodged that night.
His face became splashed with blood and muck. He could not tie a bandage about his head, first because he had no bandage, second because his left arm was useless and negligible for the tying of anything. He did not have a left arm. Only a stiff Something hitched to his left shoulder. Not that his arm had been shot away. The chance bullet had struck a nerve and effected temporary paralysis.
On! On! On!
Ankles were wrenched and twisted. Again and again he fell forward. He only saved his face by plunging his good arm, elbow deep, in bog. At times he had to stop, go back and picked up his route again.
That fog! It was thick like cheese, black like paint. It shut out noises. The slough! slough! slough! of his boots were the only sounds he heard. He might have been groping across a world-wide pit of the damned. Yet he had to go on. He must go on. He prayed for the morning and yet he feared what the morning might disclose.
He lost track of time. He could not recollect how long he and Roach had slept before that murderous crash. Roach! Poor Roach! Then it must have taken the cavalcade an hour to ride down that long defile in the hills; how many hours after that to reach the village, he had no memory or conception. He had been before the Commandant another half-hour. After a time he was obsessed with the notion that he had been going on, hours upon hours, himself. Morning must come soon. Or wasn’t it yet midnight?
Leg movement began to grow mechanical. He counted his progress by steps,—one, two, three, four, five, six! One, two, three, four, five, six! He felt of his left hand and discovered the blood had caked hard. Then the bleeding must have stopped. It was queer. But thank God for it, nevertheless.
On! On! On! One, two, three, four, five, six! One, two, three, four, five six! Lost in Siberia! Lost in Siberia! One, two, three, four, five, six!—One—two—three—four—five—six!