In
truth, Pete seemed ready to blame everyone. He threatened to destroy
the whole village if a dog was allowed to howl in the night, or if the
baby next door were permitted to cry in the day.
Silence settled over the little town--silence and the fear of Pete
Reeve. Pete himself never left the sickroom. Wide-eyed, silent-footed,
he was ever about. He seemed never to sleep, and the doctor swore that
the only reason Bull Hunter did not die was because death feared to
enter the room while the awful Reeve was there.
But the long hours of unconsciousness and delirium wore away. Then
came the critical period when a relapse was feared. Finally the time
came when it could be confidently stated that Bull was recovering his
health and his strength.
All this filled a matter of weeks. Bull was still unable to leave his
bed. He was dull and listless, bony of hand, and liable to sleep many
hours through the very heart of the day. At this point of his recovery
the door opened one day, and, in the warmth of the afternoon, a big
man came into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
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