It seemed an interminable wait to Peter, back in the cabin. Jolly Roger
had put out the light, and when the moon came up the glow of it did not
come into the dark room where Peter lay, for the open door was to the
west, and curtains were drawn closely at both windows. But through the
door he could see the first mellowing of the night, and after that the
swift coming of a soft, golden radiance which swallowed all darkness
and filled his world with the ghostly shadows which seemed alive, yet
never made a sound. It was a big, splendid moon this night, and Peter
loved the moon, though he had seen it only a few times in his three
months of life. It fascinated him more than the sun, for it was always
light when the sun came, and he had never seen the sun eat up darkness,
as the moon did. Its mystery awed him, but did not frighten. He could
not quite understand the strange, still shadows which were always
unreal when he nosed into them, and it puzzled him why the birds did
not fly about in the moon glow, and sing as they did in the day-time.
And something deep in him, many generations older than himself, made
his blood run faster when this thing that ate up darkness came creeping
through the sky, and he was filled with a yearning to adventure out
into the strange glow of it, quietly and stealthily, watching and
listening for things he had never seen or heard.
In the gloom of the cabin his eyes remained fixed steadily upon the
open door, and for a long time he listened only for the returning
footsteps of Jolly Roger and Nada. Twice he made efforts to drag
himself to the edge of the bunk, but the movement sent such a cutting
pain through him that he did not make a third. And outside, after a
time, he heard the Night People rousing themselves. They were very
cautious, these Night People, for unlike the creatures of the dawn,
waking to greet the sun with song and happiness, most of them were
sharp-fanged and long-clawed-rovers and pirates of the great
wilderness, ready to kill. And this, too, Peter sensed through the
generations of northland dog that was in him. He heard a wolf howl,
coming faintly through the night from miles away, and something told
him it was not a dog. From nearer came the call of a moose, and that
same sense told him he had heard a monster bear which his eyes had
never seen. He did not know of the soft-footed, night-eyed creatures of
prey--the fox, the lynx, the fisher-cat, the mink and the ermine, nor
of the round-eyed, feathered murderers in the tree-tops--yet that same
something told him they were out there among the shadows, under the
luring glow of the moon. And a thing happened, all at once, to stab the
truth home to him. A baby snowshoe rabbit, a third grown, hopped out
into the open close to the cabin door, and as it nibbled at the green
grass, a gray catapult of claw and feathers shot out of the air, and
Peter heard the crying agony of the rabbit as the owl bore it off into
the thick spruce tops. Even then--unafraid--Peter wanted to go out into
the moon glow!
At last, there was an end to his wait. He heard footsteps, and Jolly
Roger came from out of the yellow moon-mist of the night and stopped in
front of the door. There he stood, making no sound, and looking into
the west, where the sky was ablaze with stars over the tree-tops. There
was a glad little yip in Peter's throat, but he choked it back. Jolly
Roger was strangely quiet, and Peter could not hear Nada, and as he
sniffed, and gulped the lump in his throat, he seemed to catch the
breath of something impending in the air. Then Jolly Roger came in, and
sat down in darkness near the table, and for a long time Peter kept his
eyes fixed on the shadowy blotch of him there in the gloom, and
listened to his breathing, until he could stand it no longer, and
whined.
The sound stirred Jolly Roger. He got up, struck a match--and then blew
the match out, and came and sat down beside Peter, and stroked him with
his hand.
"Peter," he said in a low voice, "I guess we've got a job on our hands.
You began it today--and I've got to finish it. We're goin' to kill Jed
Hawkins!"
Peter snuggled closer.
"Mebby I'm bad, and mebby the law ought to have me," Jolly Roger went
on in the darkness, "but until tonight I never made up my mind to kill
a man. I'm ready--now. If Jed Hawkins hurts her again we're goin' to
kill him! Understand, _Pied-Bot_?"
He got up, and Peter could hear him undressing. Then he made a nest for
Peter on the floor, and stretched himself out in the bunk; and after
that, for a long time, there seemed to be something heavier than the
gloom of night in the cabin for Peter, and he listened and waited and
prayed in his dog way for Nada's return, and wondered why it was that
she left him so long. And the Night People held high carnival under the
yellow moon, and there was flight and terror and slaughter in the glow
of it--and Jolly Roger slept, and the wolf howled nearer, and the creek
chortled its incessant song of running water, and in the end Peter's
eyes closed, and a red-eyed ermine peeped over the sill into the
man-and dog-scented stillness of the outlaw's cabin.
For many days after this first night in the cabin, Peter did not see
Nada. There was more rain, and the creek flooded higher, so that each
time Jolly Roger went over to Cragg's Ridge he took his life in his
hands in fording the stream. Peter saw no one but Jolly Roger, and at
the end of the second week he was going about on his mended leg. But
there would always be a limp in his gait, and always his right
hind-foot would leave a peculiar mark in the trail.
These two weeks of helplessness were an education in Peter's life and
were destined to leave their mark upon him always. He learned to know
Jolly Roger, not alone from seeing events, but through an intuitive
instinct that grew swiftly somewhere in his shrewd head. This instinct,
given widest scope in these weeks of helplessness, developed faster
than any other in him, until in the end, he could judge Jolly Roger's
humor by the sound of his approaching footsteps. Never was there a
waking hour in which he was not fighting to comprehend the mystery of
the change that had come over his life. He knew that Nada was gone, and
each day that passed put her farther away from him, yet he also sensed
the fact that Jolly Roger went to her, and when the outlaw returned to
the cabin Peter was filled with a yearning hope that Nada was returning
with him.
But gradually Peter came to think less about Nada, and more about Jolly
Roger, until at last his heart beat with a love for this man which was
greater than all other things in his world. And in these days Jolly
Roger found in Peter's comradeship and growing understanding a
comforting outlet for the things which at times consumed him. Peter saw
it all--hours when Jolly Roger's voice and laughter filled the cabin
with cheer and happiness, and others when his face was set in grim
lines, with that hard, far-away look in his eyes that Peter could never
quite make out. It was at such times, when Jolly Roger held a choking
grip on the love in his heart, that he told Peter things which he had
never revealed to a human soul.
In the dusk of one evening, as he sat wet with the fording of the
creek, he said to Peter,
"We ought to go, Peter. We ought to pack up--and go tonight.
Because--sometimes I'm afraid of myself, _Pied-Bot_. I'd kill for her.
I'd die for her. I'd give up the whole world, and live in a prison
cell--if I could have her with me. And that's dangerous, Peter, because
we can't have her. It's impossible, boy. She doesn't guess why I'm
here. She doesn't know I've been outlawin' it for years, and that I'm
hiding here because the Police would never think of looking for Jolly
Roger McKay this close to civilization. If I told her, she would think
I was worse than Jed Hawkins, and she wouldn't believe me if I told her
I've outlawed with my wits instead of a gun, and that I've never
criminally hurt a person in my life. No, she wouldn't believe that,
Peter. And she--she cares for me, _Pied-Bot_. That's the hell of it! And
she's got faith in me, and would go with me to the Missioner's
tomorrow. I know it. I can see it, feel it, and I--"
His fingers tightened in the loose hide of Peter's neck.
"Peter," he whispered in the thickening darkness. "I believe there's a
God, but He's a different sort of God than most people believe in. He
lives in the trees out there, in the flowers, in the birds, the sky, in
everything--and I hope that God will strike me dead if I do what isn't
right with her, Peter! I do. I hope he strikes me dead!"
And that night Peter knew that Jolly Roger tossed about restlessly in
his bunk, and slept but little.
But the next morning he was singing, and the warm sun flooding over the
wilderness was not more cheerful than his voice as he cooked their
breakfast. That, to Peter, was the most puzzling thing about this man.
With gloom and oppression fastened upon him he would rise up suddenly,
and start whistling or singing, and once he said to Peter,
"I take my cue from the sun, Peter Clubfoot. It's always shining, no
matter if the clouds are so thick underneath that we can't see it. A
laugh never hurts a man, unless he's got a frozen lung."
Jolly Roger did not cross the ford that day.