She followed Peter. For a long time the storm had been gathering in her
brain, a storm which she had held back, smothered under her
unhappiness, so that only Peter had seen the lightning-flashes of it.
But today the betrayal had forced itself from her lips, and in a hard
little voice she had told Jolly Roger--the stranger who had come into
the black forest--how her mother and father had died of the same plague
more than ten years ago, and how Jed Hawkins and his woman had promised
to keep her for three silver fox skins which her father had caught
before the sickness came. That much the woman had confided in her, for
she was only six when it happened. And she had not dared to look at
Jolly Roger when she told him of what had passed since then, so she saw
little of the hardening in his face as he listened. But he had blown
his nose--hard. It was a way with Jolly Roger, and she had not known
him long enough to understand what it meant. And a little later he had
asked her if he might touch her hair--and his big hand had lain for a
moment on her head, as gently as a woman's.
Like a warm glow in her heart still remained the touch of that hand. It
had given her a new courage, and a new thrill, just as Peter's
vanquishment of unknown monsters that day had done the same for him.
Peter was no longer afraid, and the girl was no longer afraid, and
together they went along the slope of the ridge, until they came to a
dried-up coulee which was choked with a wild upheaval of rock. Here
Peter suddenly stopped, with his nose to the ground, and then his legs
stiffened, and for the first time the girl heard the babyish growl in
his throat. For a moment she stood very still, and listened, and
faintly there came to her a sound, as if someone was scraping rock
against rock. The girl drew in a quick breath; she stood straighter,
and Peter--looking up--saw her eyes flashing, and her lips apart. And
then she bent down, and picked up a jagged stick.
"We'll go up, Peter," she whispered. "It's one of his hiding-places!"
There was a wonderful thrill in the knowledge that she was no longer
afraid, and the same thrill was in Peter's swiftly beating little heart
as he followed her. They went very quietly, the girl on tip-toe, and
Peter making no sound with his soft footpads, so that Jed Hawkins was
still on his knees, with his back toward them, when they came out into
a square of pebbles and sand between two giant masses of rock.
Yesterday, or the day before, both Peter and Nada would have slunk
back, for Jed was at his devil's work, and only evil could come to the
one who discovered him at it. He had scooped out a pile of sand from
under the edge of the biggest rock, and was filling half a dozen grimy
leather flasks from a jug which he had pulled from the hole. And then
he paused to drink. They could hear the liquor gurgling down his throat.
Nada tapped the end of her stick against the rock, and like a shot the
man whirled about to face them. His face turned livid when he saw who
it was, and he drew himself up until he stood on his feet, his two big
fists clenched, his yellow teeth snarling at her.
"You damned--spy!" he cried chokingly. "If you was a man--I'd kill you!"
The girl did not shrink. Her face did not whiten. Two bright spots
flamed in her cheeks, and Hawkins saw the triumph shining in her eyes.
And there was a new thing in the odd twist of her red lips, as she said
tauntingly.
"If I was a man, Jed Hawkins--you'd run!"
He took a step toward her.
"You'd run," she repeated, meeting him squarely, and taking a tighter
grip of her stick. "I ain't ever seen you hit anything but a woman, an'
a girl, or some poor animal that didn't dare bite back. You're a
coward, Jed Hawkins, a low-down, sneakin,' whiskey-sellin' coward--and
you oughta die!"
Even Peter sensed the cataclysmic change that had come in this moment
between the two big rocks. It held something in the air, like the
impending crash of dynamite, or the falling down of the world. He
forgot himself, and looked up at his mistress, a wonderful, slim little
thing standing there at last unafraid before the future--and in his dog
heart and soul a part of the truth came to him, and he planted his big
feet squarely in front of Jed Hawkins, and snarled at him as he had
never snarled before in his life.
And the bootlegger, for a moment, was stunned, For a while back he had
humored the girl a little, to hold her in peace and without suspicion
until Mooney was able to turn over her body-money. After that--after he
had delivered her to the other's shack--it would all be up to Mooney,
he figured. And this was what had come of his peace-loving efforts! She
was taking advantage of him, defying him, spying upon him--the brat he
had fed and brought up for ten years! Her beauty as she stood there did
not hold him back. It was punishment she needed, a beating, a
hair-pulling, until there was no breath left in her impudent body. He
sprang forward, and Peter let out a wild yip as he saw Nada raise her
stick. But she was a moment too slow. The man's hand caught it, and his
right hand shot forward and buried itself in the thick, soft mass of
her hair.
It was then that something broke loose in Peter. For this day, this
hour, this minute the gods of destiny had given him birth. All things
in the world were blotted out for him except one--the six inches of
naked shank between the bootlegger's trouser-leg and his shoe. He dove
in. His white teeth, sharp as stiletto-points, sank into it. And a wild
and terrible yell came from Jed Hawkins as he loosed the girl's hair.
Peter heard the yell, and his teeth sank deeper in the flesh of the
first thing he had ever hated. It was the girl, more than Peter, who
realized the horror of what followed. The man bent down and his
powerful fingers closed round Peter's scrawny neck, and Peter felt his
wind suddenly shut off, and his mouth opened. Then Jed Hawkins drew
back the arm that held him, as he would have drawn it back to fling a
stone.
With a scream the girl tore at him as his arm straightened out, and
Peter went hurtling through the air. Her stick struck him fiercely
across the face, and in that same moment there was a sickening,
crushing thud as Peter's loosely-jointed little body struck against the
face of the great rock. When Nada turned Peter was groveling in the
sand, his hips and back broken down, but his bright eyes were on her,
and without a whimper or a whine he was struggling to drag himself
toward her. Only Jolly Roger could tell the story of how Peter's mother
had died for a woman, and in this moment it must have been that her
spirit entered into Peter's soul, for the pain of his terrible hurt was
forgotten in his desire to drag himself back to the feet of the girl,
and die facing her enemy--the man. He did not know that he was dragging
his broken body only an inch at a time through the sand. But the girl
saw the terrible truth, and with a cry of agony which all of Hawkin's
torture could not have wrung from her she ran to him, and fell upon her
knees, and gathered him tenderly in her arms. Then, in a flash, she was
on her feet, facing Jed Hawkins like a little demon.
"For that--I'll kill you!" she panted. "I will. I'll kill you!"
The blow of her stick had half blinded the bootlegger's one eye, but he
was coming toward her. Swift as a bird Nada turned and ran, and as the
man's footsteps crunched in the gravel and rock behind her a wild fear
possessed her--fear for Peter, and not for herself. Very soon Hawkins
was left behind, cursing at the futility of the pursuit, and at the
fate that had robbed him of an eye.
Down the coulee and out into the green meadowland of the plain ran
Nada, her hair streaming brightly in the sun, her arms clutching Peter
to her breast. Peter was whimpering now, crying softly and piteously,
just as once upon a time she had heard a baby cry--a little baby that
was dying. And her soul cried out in agony, for she knew that Peter,
too, was dying. And as she stumbled onward--on toward the black forest,
she put her face down to Peter and sobbed over and over again his name.
"Peter--Peter--Peter--"
And Peter, joyous and grateful for her love and the sound of her voice
even in these moments, thrust out his tongue and caressed her cheek,
and the girl's breath came in a great sob as she staggered on.
"It's all right now, Peter," she crooned. "It's all right, baby. He
won't hurt you any more, an' we're goin' across the creek to Mister
Roger's cabin, an' you'll be happy there. You'll be happy--"
Her voice choked full, and her mother-heart seemed to break inside her,
just as life had gone out of that other mother's heart when the baby
died. For their grief, in God's reckoning of things, was the same; and
little Peter, sensing the greatness of this thing that had made them
one in flesh and blood, snuggled his wiry face closer in her neck,
crying softly to her, and content to die there close to the warmth of
the creature he loved.
"Don't cry, baby," she soothed. "Don't cry, Peter, dear. It'll soon be
all right--all right--" And the sob came again into her throat, and
clung there like a choking fist, until they came to the edge of the big
forest.
She looked down, and saw that Peter's eyes were closed; and not until
then did the miracle of understanding come upon her fully that there
was no difference at all between the dying baby's face and dying
Peter's, except that one had been white and soft, and Peter's was
different--and covered with hair.
"God'll take care o' you, Peter," she whispered. "He will--God, 'n' me,
and Mister Roger--"
She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not even
God, would ever take care of Peter again--in life. His still little
face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that. For Peter's
back was broken, and he was going--going even now--as she ran moaningly
with him through the deep aisles of the forest. But before he died,
before his heart stopped beating in her arms, she wanted to reach Jolly
Roger's friendly cabin, in the big swamp beyond the creek. It was not
that he could save Peter, but something told her that Jolly Roger's
presence would make Peter's dying easier, both for Peter and for her,
for in this first glad spring of her existence the stranger in the
forest shack had brought sunshine and hope and new dreams into her
life; and they had set him up, she and Peter, as they would have set up
a god on a shrine.
So she ran for the fording place on Sucker Creek, which was a good half
mile above the shack in which the stranger was living. She was
staggering, and short of wind, when she came to the ford, and when she
saw the whirl and rush of water ahead of her she remembered what Jolly
Roger had said about the flooding of the creek, and her eyes widened.
Then she looked down at Peter, piteously limp and still in her arms,
and she drew a quick breath and made up her mind. She knew that at this
shallow place the water could not be more than up to her waist, even at
the flood-tide. But it was running like a mill-race.
She put her lips down to Peter's fuzzy little face, and held them there
for a moment, and kissed him.
"We'll make it, Peter," she whispered. "We ain't afraid, are we, baby?
We'll make it--sure--sure--we'll make it--"
She set out bravely, and the current swished about her ankles, to her
knees, to her hips. And then, suddenly, unseen hands under the water
seemed to rouse themselves, and she felt them pulling and tugging at
her as the water deepened to her waist. In another moment she was
fighting, fighting to hold her feet, struggling to keep the forces from
driving her downstream. And then came the supreme moment, close to the
shore for which she was striving. She felt herself giving away, and she
cried out brokenly for Peter not to be afraid. And then something drove
pitilessly against her body, and she flung out one arm, holding Peter
close with the other--and caught hold of a bit of stub that protruded
like a handle from the black and slippery log the flood-water had
brought down upon her.
"We're all right, Peter," she cried, even in that moment when she knew
she had lost. "We're all ri--"
And then suddenly the bright glory of her head went down, and with her
went Peter, still held to her breast under the sweeping rush of the
flood.
Even then it was thought of Peter that filled her brain. Somehow she
was not afraid. She was not terrified, as she had often been of the
flood-rush of waters that smashed down the creeks in springtime. An
inundating roar was over her, under her, and all about her; it beat in
a hissing thunder against the drums of her ears, yet it did not
frighten her as she had sometimes been frightened. Even in that black
chaos which was swiftly suffocating the life from her, unspoken words
of cheer for Peter formed in her heart, and she struggled to hold him
to her, while with her other hand she fought to raise herself by the
stub of the log to which she clung. For she was not thinking of him as
Peter, the dog, but as something greater--something that had fought for
her that day, and because of her had died.
Suddenly she felt a force pulling her from above. It was the big log,
turning again to that point of equilibrium which for a space her weight
had destroyed. In the edge of a quieter pool where the water swirled
but did not rush, her brown head appeared, and then her white face, and
with a last mighty effort she thrust up Peter so that his dripping body
was on the log. Sobbingly she filled her lungs with air. But the drench
of water and her hair blinded her so that she could not see. And she
found all at once that the strength had gone from her body. Vainly she
tried to drag herself up beside Peter, and in the struggle she raised
herself a little, so that a low-hanging branch of a tree swept her like
a mighty arm from the log.
With a cry she reached out for Peter. But he was gone, the log was
gone, and she felt a vicious pulling at her hair, as Jed Hawkins
himself had often pulled it, and for a few moments the current pounded
against her body and the tree-limb swayed back and forth as it held her
there by her hair.
If there was pain from that tugging, Nada did not feel it. She could
see now, and thirty yards below her was a wide, quiet pool into which
the log was drifting. Peter was gone. And then, suddenly, her heart
seemed to stop its beating, and her eyes widened, and in that moment of
astounding miracle she forgot that she was hanging by her hair in the
ugly lip of the flood, with slippery hands beating and pulling at her
from below. For she saw Peter--Peter in the edge of the pool--making
his way toward the shore! For a space she could not believe. It must be
his dead body drifting. It could not be Peter--swimming! And yet--his
head was above the water--he was moving shoreward--he was struggling--
Frantically she tore at the detaining clutch above her. Something gave
way. She felt the sharp sting of it, and then she plunged into the
current, and swept down with it, and in the edge of the pool struck out
with all her last strength until her feet touched bottom, and she could
stand. She wiped the water from her eyes, sobbing in her breathless
fear--her mighty hope. Peter had reached the shore. He had dragged
himself out, and had crumpled down in a broken heap--but he was facing
her, his bright eyes wide open and questing for her. Slowly Nada went
to him. Until now, when it was all over, she had not realized how
helplessly weak she was. Something was turning round and round in her
head, and she was so dizzy that the shore swam before her eyes, and it
seemed quite right to her that Peter should be alive--and not dead. She
was still in a foot of water when she fell on her knees and dragged
herself the rest of the way to him, and gathered him in her arms again,
close up against her wet, choking breast.
And there the sun shone down upon them, without the shade of a twig
overhead; and the water that a little while before had sung of death
rippled with its old musical joy, and about them the birds sang, and
very near to them a pair of mating red-squirrels chattered and played
in a mountain-ash tree. And Nada's hair brightened in the sun, and
began to ripple into curls at the end, and Peter's bristling whiskers
grew dry--so that half an hour after she had dragged herself out of the
water there was a new light in the girl's eyes, and a color in her
cheeks that was like the first dawning of summer pink in the heart of a
rose.
"We're a'most dry enough to go to Mister Jolly Roger, Peter," she
whispered, a little thrill in her voice.
She stood up, and shook out her half dry hair, and then picked up
Peter--and winced when he gave a little moan.
"He'll fix you, Peter," she comforted. "An' it'll be so nice over
here--with him."
Her eyes were looking ahead, down through the glory of the sun-filled
forest, and the song of birds and the beauty of the world filled her
soul, and a new and wonderful freedom seemed to thrill in the touch of
the soft earth under her feet.
"Flowers," she cried softly. "Flowers, an' birds, an' the sun, Peter--"
She paused a moment, as if listening to the throb of light and life
about her. And then, "I guess we'll go to Mister Jolly Roger now," she
said.
She shook her hair again, so that it shone in a soft and rebellious
glory about her, and the violet light grew a little darker in her eyes,
and the color a bit deeper in her cheeks as she walked on into the
forest over the faintly worn foot-trail that led to the old cabin where
Jolly Roger was keeping himself away from the eyes of men.