It was the blue jay that mellowed the fear of death in the swiftly
beating heart of Peter McRae. He had always been a friend of the blue
jays, and this particular bird had perched himself in a spruce top a
hundred feet away, screaming defiance at Peter's enemies and telling
him to keep up his nerve and not be afraid.
Without going beyond his fourteen-year-old power of reasoning Peter had
a strange and abiding faith in the Canadian blue jay tribe. He was a
boy's bird, if there ever was one, with his everlasting cocksureness,
his persevering courage and his hundred and one little tricks of
outlawry and piracy--a bird who was always ready for a fight, never ran
away from trouble, and who lived up beautifully to the man-made law,
"Do others before others do you." He was a gentleman and a sportsman
even if he was a robber and a pest, and Peter loved him.
He could see this particular blue jay very clearly. Shouting voices
and the crack of rifles had not frightened him away, and he was making
a great commotion in the spruce tops, screaming until it seemed his
raucous cries must split his throat. Then, too, there was the cheerful
little sapsucker who persisted in pecking for grubs in the end of the
big log behind which Peter and his father were hidden, and two newly
mated red squirrels who chattered and ran up and down a tree a little
farther on, one chasing the other. A big yellow butterfly slowly opened
and closed its fan-like wings almost within reach of Peter's hand.
These things kept the madness of utter fear out of the boy's brain. His
thin, rather frail face was very white; his blue eyes were round, and
staring; his body, not so strong as it should have been, was doubled up
behind the log, and his heart throbbed like a hammer inside him--but
his courage was not gone. There were no tear stains about his eyes. In
one of his hands he clutched a twisted stick.
From the blue jay and the sapsucker and the yellow butterfly his eyes
rested upon the face of Donald McRae, his father. That father, so far
back as Peter could remember clearly, had been not only a father, but
mother and brother and pal as well. "One thing you must live up to
all your life, Peter," this father had told him a hundred times, "and
that is to be a pal to your own boy when you have one, just as you
are now a pal of your dad's. If a dad and his boy are not pals they
shouldn't have been born." So they had been that, with no secrets
between them except one that had led up to this tragedy of today, and
which the boy had not yet begun to understand. All he knew was that for
some mysterious reason they were fighting for their lives, and were
now sheltered behind a log, and that men a little distance away were
watching and waiting to kill them with guns.
The man smiled at him and chuckled in a way Peter loved. But the smile
and the chuckle did not hide the flame smoldering deep in his eyes,
nor the pallid tenseness of his face, nor the trickle of blood that
persisted in running down his cheek and wetting the soft roll of his
collar. He was bareheaded and sweaty; his blond hair, very much like
Peter's, was wildly disheveled; his hands gripped a gun, and lying on
his stomach, he had made himself a loophole by digging leaves and mold
from under a crooked elbow in the log. Through this he had watched for
his enemies. His grin was chummy and companionable as he turned to
Peter.
"Everything all right?" he asked. "Not afraid, are you?"
Peter shook his head. "I'm not much scared."
"Getting hungry?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"A little--not much."
The man laughed. He did not feel like laughing. But he laughed,
fighting to make it appear natural and unstrained.
"You're a trump, Peter. God knows you're a trump!"
A rifle cracked in the thick fringe of balsams and jack pines a
hundred and fifty yards from them, and a bullet struck the log with
a sodden _chug_. The man wiped the blood from his cheek with a
handkerchief that was stained red.
"Does it hurt, dad?"
"Nothing but a scratch, Peter."
He put his face to the ground and peered under the log again.
Peter changed his position, uncramped his legs and doubled himself up
in another fashion, hugging the earth closely. The blue jay was having
a fit, and the sapsucker perked his bright-eyed little head at him not
more than a dozen feet away. He could hear a bird singing, and one of
the red squirrels was chattering his late afternoon song in a mountain
ash tree overhanging the river. Between his knees was a clump of
violets.
The log was almost at the edge of the river, which was a swollen flood,
and the stream bent itself around like a hairpin, shutting them in on
three sides. That was why they were safe, Peter's father had told him.
No living thing could swim it to get behind them, and in front of them
was a narrow neck of land which was open and clear right up to the
thick edge of the swamp a rifle shot away. Across that open no one had
dared to come.
A dozen times during the past hour Peter had wished the river was not
there, for it held them prisoners even if it did keep their enemies
back. Across it, not much farther away than he could have thrown a
stone, was a deep, dense forest of primeval darkness, low and swampy,
in which he conceived a thousand hiding-places for himself and his
father. Peter's mind sometimes traveled beyond his years, and as he
looked at the stream, yearning for the safety of the other side, he
wondered why the blue jay and the sapsucker and the singing brush
sparrow should have wings while they had only legs and arms.
Only wings could carry them over the stream. In the dry months of
summer it was not much more than a creek, with sand bars and pebbly
shores and polished rocks sticking out of it. Now, in this flood time
of spring, it had no shores and was a thing gone mad. It was deep and
black, and swept past with a steady, growling roar, eating into the
banks on its way, uprooting trees and slashing itself into caldrons
of boiling fury where the channel narrowed or where it leaped over
the great boulders and rock débris of rapids. From where he crouched
Peter could see one of these places a quarter of a mile below, and
there the water was not black but white, and leaped and spouted as if
huge monsters were churning it. Under ordinary conditions the swollen
stream would have lured and fascinated him. It came out of a vast and
mysterious Canadian wilderness, and it disappeared into an adventure
land of forests equally vast and strange. With it rode many things of
interest--huge piles of driftwood, shooting down on the crest of the
flood like islands; big logs that sped with the swiftness of monster
serpents; and great trees, freshly torn out by the roots, and with
their tops trailing and swishing like whips urging on a living thing.
Peter was staring at it when a hand rested itself gently on his head.
Donald McRae was watching him, and a slow torture had burned itself
like the scar of a living coal in his eyes and face. More than the
earth he walked upon and more than the God he believed in, he loved
this boy. It was Peter, with his thin, quizzical face, and his mind
and courage developed beyond his strength and years, who had made life
bearable and joyous for him. As he had worshiped the mother, linking
his soul with hers until it had been taken away, so he worshiped this
one precious part of her she had left to him. Without Peter....
He choked back the thickness in his throat as he placed his hand on the
boy's head. It was a habit with him to talk with Peter at times as if
he were a man, and the man-way in which Peter's eyes met his now gave
him courage.
"They won't try to cross that open before dark," he said. "They're
afraid of us in the light, Peter. But they'll come when it's dark. And
we can't wait for them. We've got to get away."
The boy's face brightened. He had a consummate faith in this father
of his. He waited, keenly expectant, twisting one of the blue violets
between his thin fingers.
"Does the creek frighten you, son?" asked the man.
"It's pretty swift, but I'm not much scared of it."
"Of course not. You wouldn't be your dad's boy, if you were. See that
log down there, the big dry one, half in the water?" He pointed, and
Peter nodded. "When it begins to get dusk we'll crawl down and take a
ride on that. It won't be hard to get away."
For the first time a tremor came in the boy's voice.
"Dad, what are they trying to shoot us for? What have we done?"
Donald McRae made a pretense of peering through his loophole again.
He wanted to cry out with the sickness that was in his heart, and in
the same voice call down the vengeance of God upon the makers of that
grim and merciless law which at last had come to corner and destroy him
where he had built his little cabin home in the edge of the wilderness.
It was impossible--now--to answer that question of Peter's, "_What have
we done?_"
He raised his head, and faced his boy.
"It's five o'clock. We'd better have a bite to eat. When we take to the
water it will spoil our grub."
From the pocket of a coat which lay at his side he took some biscuits
and meat. Peter made a sandwich and munched at it, yearning for a
little of the black river-water to go with it. When the man had
finished he drew from an inside pocket of the same coat a wallet, a
pencil and a corked bottle half filled with matches. In the wallet he
found a sheet of paper, and on this he wrote for several minutes, after
which he folded the sheet of paper very tightly, thrust it into the
bottle with the matches, and corked it in securely. Then he gave the
bottle to Peter.
"Put that in your pocket," he said, "and remember what I'm telling you
now, Peter. We're going to make for a place called Five Fingers. A man
lives there whose name is Simon McQuarrie. Don't forget those two--Five
Fingers and Simon McQuarrie. What I have written and put in the bottle
is for him. If anything should happen to me----" He broke in upon
himself with a cheerful laugh. "Of course nothing _will_ happen, Peter,
but if it should--you promise to take that bottle to him?"
"I'll take it."
"Where?"
"Five Fingers."
"Who?"
"Simon McQuarrie."
"Right. Now keep watch through this hole while I cut some leather
strings out of the tops of my boots. We may need them to harness the
log with when we go to sea. Won't they be surprised when they come and
find us gone--eh--Peter?"
"You bet they will!" agreed Peter fervently.
Quietly he began watching the open through the hole which his father
had made under the log. He breathed a little more tensely, for he
realized the deadly importance of his vigil. Yesterday one of his
ambitions had been to wear a uniform when he was old enough, one with
stripes and brass buttons, and with a big revolver fastened to a cord
hung around his neck. He had looked upon the wilderness police with
the awe of a youngster who loved romance and adventure. Today he hated
them. Only a little while ago he had waited for his father at their
cabin, with a good dinner ready for him. Then his father had come,
galloping on a horse Peter had never seen before.
"I've had a little trouble with the police, Peter, and we've got to hit
into the woods," he had said.
The suddenness of it had taken Peter's breath away. They did not wait
to eat any of the dinner he had prepared. Even then the police almost
caught them before they reached this log. There were four of them. His
father had kept them back with his rifle, and Peter was disappointed in
his marksmanship. He was sure he could have done better himself. His
father missed every time, even though his bullets did go close enough
to make their enemies dodge behind trees. And always before that he had
been proud of his father's shooting!
His hand touched the cool barrel of the rifle, and a thrill ran
through him. It was a thing he had never felt before. He was sure _he_
would not miss if he could only be given a chance, for he had often
hit rabbits at that distance of a hundred and fifty yards, and a man
was many times larger than a rabbit. An inch at a time, slowly and
carefully so that his father would not notice what he was doing, he
poked the barrel of the rifle through the hole. He would be ready,
anyway. He had forgotten fear. His blood was hot. His father had
always talked to him about playing square, and never taking a mean
advantage, and always to fight for women, no matter who they were.
Well, there were no women here, but it wasn't playing square when four
men came after his father like this. If they would come out, clean and
sportsmanlike, one at a time, and fight with fists instead of guns....
"You see, Peter," his father was saying as he cut a thin strip from his
boot top, "I couldn't leave you in the cabin alone. I've got to get you
down to Five Fingers. If Simon McQuarrie isn't there, you wait for him.
And don't show anyone else that paper in the bottle!"
Peter was not listening. His heart had given a sudden terrific jump
and was half choking him. In the edge of a clump of dwarf banksians
something had moved. And then his father turned--just in time to catch
his hand, to stop his finger at the trigger, to drag him back from the
hole. Never as long as he lived would he forget the terrible look that
had come into his father's face. To hide it Donald McRae leaned over
his son and hugged him close to his arms, and for a space the law might
have descended upon them without resistance.
From the shelter of the evergreens Corporal Crear of the Provincial
Police was looking toward the log. His men were lying close about him.
"We've got to go out and get him when it's dark enough," he said.
"Don't shoot unless you have to, but if that happens--shoot straight.
Only be sure it's not the kid. That's what puzzles me--why McRae has
the kid with him out there behind the log!"
Only Donald McRae and Peter could have solved that mystery for Crear,
and even then Crear might not have understood. It was something which
belonged entirely to Peter and his father. As they waited for the sun
to dip behind the tall evergreen forest across the river, they lay
very close together, and their eyes met frequently and their hands and
bodies touched.
There was something pathetically doglike in the man's dependence upon
his boy. Take Peter away from him and his heart was gone, for Peter
was the one thing he had left of a great faith and a great love that
would never die. More than once a cold fear had swept over him at the
thought of something happening to him, and he had always prayed that
if anything did happen, it would come to both at the same time. Even
now he would not have sent Peter back to the safety of the cabin.
That would have meant dissolution for himself--and strangers and a
heartbreaking tragedy of aloneness for Peter.
Across the river there was hope, and a refuge for Peter at Five Fingers
with Simon McQuarrie. A woman had put an undying faith in the justness
of God in Donald McRae's soul, and always there were two things in his
breast, faith and memory of the woman, like stars which no darkness
could dim. Their glow lay warmly in his eyes as he saw the courage with
which the boy waited for the setting of the sun.
As the long shadows came creeping across the river Peter no longer
felt the fear which had made his heart beat so uncomfortably fast. His
father's presence and the touch of his hand filled him with an utter
confidence. The man even pointed out to him the mysteries of an ant
home which they had accidentally destroyed in the log, and told him a
story of how once upon a time he had gone down a flooded stream like
this, and what fun it had been.
Then the shadows came more swiftly. The sun at last left only a golden
glow above the forest. The blue jay and the sapsucker were gone. Out of
the woods came the melodious dusk song of many red squirrels. A flock
of crows sailed overhead on their way to the evening roosting place.
The rush of the river seemed more gentle and lost its menace for Peter.
The churning turmoil of the distant rapids was mellowed in a soft mist,
and a little later they could not make out clearly the driftwood going
down with the stream.
"Now is our time," said Peter's father. "Creep after me, flat on your
stomach."
It took them only a minute to reach the big dry log. They could move
freely here, for the upward dip of the bank concealed them. Donald
McRae did not let Peter guess the tension he was under as he worked.
He stood his rifle where the police would easily find it and laughed
softly as he tied one end of a stout leather thong about Peter's wrist
and the other end about his own. After that he rolled the log into
the water and tested it to get its proper balance and tied the other
leather thongs to a projecting stub.
"It's just right," he announced cheerfully. "A canoe couldn't have been
better built for us, Peter. Are you ready?"
"I'm ready," said Peter.
He was in the water to his knees; now he went in to his waist. It was
cold, biting cold; his teeth clicked, but he did not say anything about
it. He looped his arms about the stub and through one of the leather
thongs, and from the opposite side of the log his father twisted the
fingers of one hand tightly in his coat. Then they began to move. His
feet lost bottom and the cold water shot up to his armpits, taking his
breath away. His father grinned cheerfully at him and he tried to grin
back. In a moment they were in the current and the shore began to slip
past them with amazing swiftness. It was not unpleasant, except for the
icy chill of the water, which seemed to take the place of blood in his
veins. There was no resistance against his body; the log carried them
buoyantly and smoothly, so that after a little he had courage to look
about him.
Their log had swung quickly into mid-stream, and they were overtaking
a more slowly moving mass of driftwood. The thought came to Peter
that it was like a race. Then something alive caught his eyes on the
flotsam. It was a furry, catlike creature with short, perky ears and
a fox's face, and he could almost have touched it with his hands when
they passed.
"A fisher-cat," said his father. "He will have a nice swim when he hits
the rapids!"
Peter was wondering just how much of a chance the fisher-cat had when
something drifted against him. It was a drowned porcupine, floating
belly up. The porky must have had a nice swim, too!
He shivered. The roar of the rapids was growing, and it was no longer
pleasant to hear. The musical cadence which distance had given it was
gone, and a sullen, snarling undertone of menace and wrath began to
pound at the drums of his ears. In the twilight it looked as though
they were racing straight into the mouth of a huge churn out of which
milky froth was spouting.
Then two things happened which seemed odd to Peter. The dead porcupine
was clinging to the log as if some sort of life held it there, and the
fisher-cat's raft of driftwood which they had overtaken and passed was
now _passing them_. To Peter this last was unaccountable, but to Donald
McRae, who understood the whims and caprices of flood currents, there
was no mystery about it. For a moment the fisher-cat seemed about to
make a leap for the log. Then he huddled back and disappeared with his
raft in the rougher water that preceded the gray wall of spume.
The man's hand tightened its hold on Peter.
"Hang on and don't get scared," he cried. "We'll go through this like a
rubber ball!"
That was the last Peter heard of his voice, and suddenly his father's
face was blotted out from his vision. A huge mouth opened and engulfed
them. He could feel himself going down it, with roaring gloom and
mighty explosions of water bursting itself against great rocks all
about him. For a space which seemed an eternity he gave himself up
for lost, and he wanted to scream out to his father. But the water
smothered him. It thrust him under, buried him, then tossed him up to
breathe. He hung on, as his father had told him, and after three or
four minutes which were so many hours to him he could breathe easier
and the roaring grew less.
They had come through a half-mile of the rapids then. The last of the
rocks snapped at them, like growling dogs at their heels, and suddenly
the water grew deep and smooth where it swung shoreward in a great
eddy. For the first time Peter felt a hurt. It was his father's hand,
holding him in a grip that only death could have broken. And then he
saw his father's face. Donald McRae was gasping for breath. Even Peter
would never know the fight he had made to keep the log running right
during those three or four minutes in the rapids.
Slowly the current brought them to the shore. It was the shore they
wanted, too, with its deep evergreen forests and its hundreds of miles
of untrailed hiding-places. The big pool was dotted with drifting
masses of débris. One of these, very near to them, Peter was sure he
recognized. But the fisher-cat was no longer on it.
He was terribly cold, and when at last his father brought the end of
the log to the shore and helped him out to dry ground the boy fell down
in a sodden heap. He was ashamed of himself and tried to get up.
Donald McRae took one of his hands.
"You must walk, Peter--run if you can. Come on!"
He almost dragged him into the darkness of the forest, and Peter began
to use his legs. It made him feel better. But his teeth chattered and
his body shook as if he had the ague. Two or three hundred yards in the
shelter of the timber they came to an overturned spruce tree, and near
this was a birch with festoons of loose bark hanging from it.
Donald McRae stripped off an armful of the bark, and one of Peter's
blue hands fished out the precious bottle of matches from his pocket.
Very soon the flames were leaping up joyously, and he felt their warmth
entering into his body. He helped to gather wood. In a quarter of an
hour there was a glow in his face, and the big backlog of pitch-filled
cedar was a flaming furnace. Darkness settled heavily in the forest,
and he was no longer afraid or uncomfortable as he continued to dry
his clothes. His father, in a period between wood-gathering, cleaned
his pipe and began to dry out some of his soaked tobacco. That was
cheerful and inspiring. It always seemed chummier and more homelike to
Peter when his father was smoking his pipe.
Later they broke off cedar and balsam boughs until they had a soft
bed two feet deep within the warmth of the fire. When the last thread
in his clothing was dry Peter crept into this bed. He had no idea of
sleeping but made himself a comfortable nest and sat bright-eyed and
watchful while his father rested with his back against the log and
smoked.
A hundred times they had made camps together that were very much like
this one. On hunting and fishing expeditions, and when berries were
ripe, and on the trap lines, they had slept out many nights with
boughs for a bed. But there had never been the thrill of tonight. The
cumulative significance of what had happened was just beginning to find
itself in Peter's head. This night was different from all other nights.
The darkness which had gathered heavily about them was different,
the fire did not seem as friendly, and his father, smoking his pipe,
was changed. Always in their adventuring they had been in quest of
something--fish or venison, berries or fur. Now something was after
them. It was this slow process of mental and physical change from the
hunter into the hunted, and its understanding, that was creeping into
Peter's soul.
He loved night with its mystery of darkness, its stars and its moon,
but now he could feel and hear it breathing secret plottings and
danger. When the fire crackled too loudly or its flames leaped too high
he shivered, fearing it would betray them. He wondered why his father
remained in the light now that they were warm and dry, for there were
safer hiding-places in the great pits of gloom that encompassed them.
But he said nothing, feeling strangely that even to voice fear would
bring reality upon them.
He watched his father, and the brightness in his eyes--something
new and strange that lay in them--was like a stab to Donald McRae.
In this hour he saw the boy's soul changing. Peter, at last, was
beginning to build up the truth. Something terrible must have
happened--somewhere--or the police would not be after his father. He
had believed the police were omniscient, that they hunted only bad
people. That was what they were for--to shut bad people in prisons, or
hang them, or shoot them. _And they were after his father!_
The man saw these things in Peter's eyes and in his pale, thin face.
And suddenly a revulsion of horror and of rage swept over Peter. If the
police said his father was bad they were liars. He hated them, and if
the chance came to him he would get even with them. He would beat out
their lives with a club. He would kill them--if they didn't leave his
father alone!
He said nothing. But he got out of his nest in the evergreen boughs
and sat close to his father against the log, and Donald McRae put his
arm around him and puffed hard at his pipe to keep the firelight from
revealing what was in his eyes. The world might be against him, but
Peter would be like this, his friend and pal to the last. He knew it,
and thanked God.