Peter was conscious of the fact that he had lived a long time in the
last three days and four nights. His adventures during that brief
period of time had run the entire gamut of human emotions, with the
possible exception of a desire to laugh, and his fourteen years of life
seemed entirely out of fact. This philosophy did not strike Peter, but
it did work into the troubled soul of Simon McQuarrie as he told Pierre
Gourdon why it was that Peter's father was a hunted man, fleeing for
his life, and how it had come about that Peter was now in Five Fingers
seeking refuge with him.
"And I'm going to keep him," he said. "I love the boy."
What Simon had to say struck deep into Pierre Gourdon's heart, for it
recalled the day of years ago when he had made his great fight in the
sea to save a strange woman and her little girl, and had succeeded
in bringing only the child, Mona, ashore. And Mona had grown to be a
part of his soul. So when Simon had finished, Pierre nodded his head
thoughtfully and said:
"Mona brought Peter to me today. He has the making of a man in him. And
he has promised to whip Aleck Curry if he troubles Mona again." He
chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "Aleck is almost twice as big as
Peter," he added. "But the boy has courage. It may happen. And--we will
make this a home for him, Simon."
"And if that round-headed young blackguard of an Aleck sets upon Peter
again," said Simon slowly, "I'll make his father take it out of his
hide or never sell him another foot of lumber!"
The gentle smile did not leave Pierre's eyes. A forest man, and son of
many generations of wilderness people, a warm thrill of superstition
and an immeasurable faith in the God that had made his beautiful world
lay deep in his soul. Simon guessed what was in his mind when he saw
him looking at a green patch of flower-strewn slope where lay the
graves of Mona's father and mother.
The smile faded slowly from Pierre's face, and a little of anxiety, of
dread almost, replaced it.
"The years have been kind to us," he said, speaking more to himself
than to Simon. "It has been a long time since Dominique Beauvais and
I brought our wives through these forests for the first time, and now
there are more than fifty of us here--all our own people and friends.
There has been little of tragedy and much of happiness. The plot up
there is empty--except for Mona's people. Sometimes--I am afraid."
"Peace and comfort have been with us," agreed the Scotchman. Behind
them were the yellow piles of sawdust and the droning of the big steel
saw in Simon's little mill as it cut its way through the hearts of
timber. Simon loved the mill as Pierre loved the cabins he had helped
to build, for the mill had brought prosperity to the wilderness people.
It had also made necessary the ugly black tug which lay down in Middle
Finger Inlet. The creases grew deeper in Simon's hard face as his eyes
rested on the tug. "I wish some other man than Izaak Curry was taking
our lumber," he said. "Maybe I'd like him if it wasn't for his boy. If
that ugly lad ever puts his hands on Peter again, or on Mona----" He
hunched his gaunt shoulders with a suggestive grunt.
Pierre was looking off toward the timbered line behind which Lake
Superior was hidden, half a mile away. For a moment after Simon's
threatening words he remained silent. His face was thoughtful.
"It is strange," he said, giving voice to what was in his mind.
"Through children has come most of our happiness at Five Fingers,
Simon--and all of our tragedy. It was seven years ago that the strange
ship went to pieces out there and I saved Mona from the sea. She is one
of us now, and if she should be taken away our hearts would break. And
now comes Peter, whose mother is dead, and whose father is worse than
dead--for Peter--because he is an outlaw. It makes me think of a long
time ago when a boy came into Ste. Anne de Beaupré, away down on the
St. Lawrence, just as Peter came to Five Fingers three days ago. His
father and mother were dead of the plague back in the forest, and he
was ragged and starved, and the first person he met was a little girl,
just as Peter met Mona, and afterward he fought for her, and married
her when he grew old enough, and--she is Josette, my wife. It is almost
as if Peter was _me_. And I am wondering----"
He did not finish. But Simon nodded understandingly.
"Things happen like that," he said.
* * * * *
Out of the edge of the evergreen timber which ran down to the white
sands of Middle Finger Inlet Mona was leading Peter. One of his eyes
was entirely closed. His lips were swollen and his face was grimy
and red with the marks of battle. He was a little dizzy. There was a
ringing in his ears, and with his one good eye he could see the world
but dimly. The green forests were a blur. The sunlight was a mellow
glow. Mona's face, flaming with pride and joy, was an ethereal vision
of loveliness which he saw as if through a number of gossamer veils.
But in spite of his wrecked appearance his heart was beating with a
swift and glorious exultation. He had kept his promise to Mona, to
Simon McQuarrie and to Pierre Gourdon, for he had met and whipped Aleck
Curry. The tug-master's son had begged for mercy, and the riotous
thrill of it all was that Mona had looked upon that splendid battle and
the ignominious defeat of the overgrown bully upon whose head she had
earnestly prayed calamity might fall.
Peter was fighting hard to maintain a calm and dignified mental balance
as they came out of the forest. Mona's fingers clung to his hand. Her
face was flushed and her eyes were shining like lovely stars. But it
was the kiss he felt most of all--that warm and sweet and amazingly
unexpected tribute she had placed on his lips in the moment of his
triumph.
It was a new thing to Peter. Since his mother had died he had never
experienced anything like it and he could only faintly remember his
mother. Through the years since then his father had kissed him every
night before he went to sleep. But Mona's kiss was different. It
remained with him in a strange and embarrassingly persistent way.
"I knew you could do it," Mona was saying, a tremble of pleasure in her
voice. "I just knew it, Peter! Does your eye hurt?"
"Not much."
"Can you see?"
"Pretty good."
She drew in a breath of deep and sincere appreciation.
"I got there just in time to see you bite Aleck's ear," she said. "Oh,
how he did howl!"
Peter's conscience smote him.
"It ain't--I mean, it _isn't_ fair to bite another fellow's ear," he
explained, "but he stuck it in my mouth and I couldn't help it."
"I wish you'd bit off his nose," said Mona. "If I were a boy and had
hold of his ear with teeth like yours, I wouldn't let go."
A generous impulse filled Peter's breast. "I'll lick him again tomorrow
if you want me to," he offered.
They went up the green slope from the inlet. Peter could hear better
than he could see. He could hear the soft croaking of the gulls and the
singing of the birds and the steely music of the saw in the mill. His
bad eye was toward Mona, so that unless he gave his head a full turn he
could not see her at all. A sweaty discomfort possessed him whenever
he believed she was making a fresh survey of the disfigurements Aleck
had fastened upon him. With his triumph rode the humiliating conviction
that his face was out of joint and not pleasant to look at.
"It'll be better tomorrow," he said.
"What will?" she asked.
"My face. It must look sort of funny."
"Not half as funny as Aleck Curry's," she comforted him. "And if anyone
dares to laugh at you--after what happened out there----"
Peter caught the flash in her dark eyes. In spite of his protest she
pulled him through the open door of Jame Clamart's cabin. Adette was
bending over the crib of young Telesphore. Her big blue eyes widened
and she gave a little gasp when she saw Peter, his hand still held in
Mona's.
And then, to his horror, she giggled.
In an instant Mona was at her side.
"Adette Clamart, don't you dare laugh!" she cried. "If you had seen it!
If you had seen him whip Aleck Curry----"
"But his eye!" exclaimed Adette chokingly. "I mean _that_ eye,
Mona--the one that's open! It looks so--so funny!"
"He's better-looking right now than Jame Clamart will ever be,"
retorted Mona with fierce dignity. "He hasn't got a snub nose,
anyway--and that's what your baby is going to have when he grows up!"
"But his _eye_!" persisted Adette, the giggling choking her. "Why is it
so round and glassy, Mona? It's just like the end of my new glass salt
shaker! Oh, oh, _oh_----"
"_Adette Clamart!_"
Peter, stunned and speechless, watched Mona drag Adette into the
kitchen. As if drawn by an irresistible magnet, his one eye followed
them, and Adette--looking back--gave a final little screech of laughter
before the door closed behind her.
Peter heard the tittering beyond that door, and Mona's protesting voice
rising above it. He felt as if warm water had been poured down his
back. He was clammy, and his heart had sunk down into his middle. He
must be a terrible sight!
Then he saw young Telesphore looking at him over the edge of the crib.
In one of his fat fists the baby clutched the knife which Peter had
given him earlier in the day. Peter went nearer and grinned at his
young friend. The effort hurt him. Telesphore's mouth fell slowly ajar
as he stared at Peter. He gave no sign of recognition. The jovial
comradeship of a few hours ago was gone and his gaze was steady and
perplexed. And then, as if desirous of possessing another strange
article of interest, he dropped his knife and reached for Peter's one
eye.
Peter drew back. Adette was still laughing at him and Telesphore did
not recognize him! He remembered a little mirror hanging on the wall
and hurried to it. He was shocked. The thrill of triumph left him.
His pride sank--and he sneaked through the open door as quickly as he
could and trotted toward the big yellow piles of sawdust, hoping he
might reach them before Mona discovered his flight. Screened by the
piles, he came up behind Simon McQuarrie's cabin and almost bumped
into a little man with a great head of shaggy gray hair, a round face
with rosy cheeks, and eyes that were at first amazed and then twinkled
merrily as they looked at Peter. He was a stranger. But swiftly and
instinctively Peter liked him. Something in the way he rubbed his hands
together and chuckled built up a confidence and comradeship between
them immediately. Peter attempted a grin.
"I been in a fight," he acknowledged cheerfully, for there was an
attitude and quality about this little man that demanded some kind of
explanation. "I been in a fight with Aleck Curry."
"And he worsted you," guessed the merry stranger.
"No, sir. I beat him up. I made him howl, and he promised never to
bother Mona or her pets again. Mona knows. She saw it."
The little man placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle hand. Its
touch comforted Peter.
"Come in and let me fix you up, Peter. That is your name, isn't
it--Peter McRae?"
"Yes, sir."
They went into the cabin. The little man seemed at home in Simon's
place, for he found the medicine cupboard immediately, and was soon
busy poulticing and bandaging Peter's tortured face.
"Aleck is a troublesome boy," he said. "I hope you punished him well.
But he is so much larger than you! Aren't you afraid of what may happen
next time?"
Peter shook his head. "I know how to do it now. I run away from him
until he's winded, then beat him up. I'm going to lick him again
tomorrow if Mona wants me to."
"Good!" smiled the little man. His face grew rosier and a light was
in his eyes that pleased Peter. "But I wouldn't try it on Sunday," he
advised. "It's bad luck to fight on the Lord's Day. If you'll wait
until Monday, I will take you out into the woods and show you a few
tricks that may help you! And if it can be quietly arranged, Peter, I
would like to see the next fight you have with Aleck Curry.
"You like fights?" asked Peter.
"In a good cause--yes."
Peter was thoughtful as his cheerful and comforting companion fastened
a bandage over his closed eye.
"Sunday isn't such a bad day for a fight," he argued. "You could get
Aleck Curry out in the woods somewhere, tell 'im you wanted to show him
something, an' I could sneak up--an' we could have it right there. I
ain't--I mean I'm _not_ afraid of Sunday!"
"I'm not thinking so much of you as I am of myself," said the little
man, laughing softly. "I mustn't let pleasure come before duty--on
Sunday. You see, I have to preach tomorrow."
"You have to--_what_?"
"Preach. Down there in the little church. I'm Father Albanel, Peter."
For the second time in the last half-hour Peter's earth seemed slipping
unevenly under his feet. _Father Albanel!_ Mona had told him about the
wonderful forest missioner who had no church and no set religion, but
who wandered through hundreds of miles of wilderness, preaching the
faith of God wherever he went, and who came every few weeks to Five
Fingers. "All the forest people love him, and he is so good I think
God must love him most of all," she had said. "He buried my father
and mother." And this was Father Albanel--this little man with the
jolly face and twinkling eyes, and he--Peter McRae--had invited him to
witness a fight on Sunday! He squirmed uneasily. He could feel the hot
blood rising up through his neck into his face. He wet his swollen lips
and tried to save himself.
"I didn't know you was the preacher," he said. "I guess mebbe it isn't
right to fight on Sunday."
Father Albanel's hands pressed gently upon the boy's thin shoulders.
"It's right to fight any time, Peter--when you have a just fight to
make. God loves a peacemaker but He also has no use for a coward--and
no one but a coward would refuse to fight for Mona. Will you come and
hear me tomorrow?"
"I'll come," promised Peter.
When Father Albanel had gone he climbed up the ladder to his bed of
blankets close under the sweet-smelling cedar roof and undressed. The
sun was low in the west and the afternoon song of the mill had ceased.
The robins were chirping their evening notes. It was supper time, and
Simon McQuarrie was late. Half an hour passed before Peter heard him
enter the cabin. He came directly to the ladder and climbed up. In the
twilight he bent over Peter.
"Feeling sick, Peter?"
"No, sir."
Simon knelt upon the edge of the blankets.
"I've heard about the fight," he said, in a voice which trembled a
little in its unaccustomed softness. "Mona told me, and then Adette,
and after that I went down to the tug to have it out with Izaak
Curry--and his boy. But--Peter--lad, when I saw Aleck I had no heart
to speak harshly to his father. I'm proud of you!"
In the silence he bent his face nearer to Peter's.
"Want something to eat, lad?"
"I can't eat," explained Peter huskily. "My mouth is swollen shut."
It was then Simon McQuarrie's hard lips touched Peter's cheek--the
first kiss he had given in many years.
"Good night," he whispered. "You're Donald McRae's son--every inch of
you!" And Peter listened to his heavy feet as he slowly descended the
ladder.