Under the ash tree, for a few moments Peter was the boy again; the boy
of yesterday, of years ago, when the world had held nothing for him
but his father; and there was no change in the touch of the hands that
had always given him comfort and courage and a love that was almost
like a woman's in its gentleness. Not until Donald McRae held his boy
off, with a hand on each shoulder, did something besides the madness
of joy at his father's homecoming begin to thrust itself upon Peter.
Then he saw the change--the naked breast, the half-bared arms, the mud
and the rags, and the face and hair in which years had stamped their
heels unpityingly. He tried to choke back his horror, to keep it out
of his face, and to do this he laughed--laughed through the tears and
sobbing breath--and pointed to a white birch tree in which a blue jay
was screaming.
"The blue jay, dad!" he cried. "Remember that day--behind the log--with
the blue jay in the tree-top, and the sapsucker pecking at our elbows,
and the violets between my knees----"
The hands on his shoulders were relaxing.
"I've never seen a blue jay but what I've thought--of you," said
Donald McRae. "And the river--behind us--and how we got away from
the police--and the rabbits we roasted--and--and----" The world was
twisting and turning round again. He tried to smile, and reached
out gropingly for Peter. "The swamp was hot, Peter. And I am
tired--tired----"
Peter's arms caught him as he swayed. His thin face was whiter, and his
eyes closed as he still tried to smile at his boy.
Mona, braiding her hair as she waited beyond the willows, heard Peter's
frightened call. When she came running to him he was kneeling beside
his father, cooling his face with water from the pond. Donald McRae lay
upon the grass. He was scarcely breathing, and under the scrub of beard
his emaciated face was like wax. An agony of fear and grief had driven
the happiness out of Peter's face, and he tried to speak as he looked
up at Mona.
She saw what had happened as she knelt beside him and took Donald
McRae's head tenderly in her arms. Excitement and his last great
effort to fight down his weakness had given a semblance of strength to
this shell of a man. But it was gone now, and the full measure of its
tragedy struck like a charge of lead to Peter's heart.
Mona, feeling Peter's grief, and guessing swiftly the thought that
had made his wordless lips white and trembling, said to comfort him:
"He hasn't been this way long, Peter. It was the swamp. He told me
the police were after him, and he hid himself there. The heat--bad
water----"
She tried futilely to explain away the horror of the thing--to make
Peter believe this wreck of a man was not the product of months and
years of hardship and suffering, but had reached his condition because
of a passing torment that had covered only a few days in the swamp.
But she knew she was failing, and she stopped before she had finished,
with her head bowed before Peter's eyes. She heard his tense lips
whisper "the police" as if the words choked him as they came out, and
then he went down again to the edge of the pool for water. She wet her
handkerchief when he returned and held it over Donald's eyes, and Peter
unlaced the worn-out, muddy boots--and suddenly a sound came from him,
a little cry of unutterable understanding as his hand found in the
trampled grass the half-eaten carrot which his father had dropped.
She had never seen Peter's face so white, and never before had she seen
a look in his blue eyes so unlike the Peter she had grown up with, and
played with, and loved.
"He is breathing easier," she said. "It was the excitement, the
shock----"
He nodded, and replied in a dead, even voice: "I know what it was,
_Ange_. I know." He took one of his father's hands and held it between
his own, looking at the face in Mona's arms into which life was
beginning to return and breath to come more evenly. "It has been a
long time, dad. Six years--six years like those three days when the
police were hunting us in the forest, and you caught rabbits for me to
eat. But it is ended now."
Mona's heart throbbed. "We will keep him with us, Peter--always! We
will hide him--somewhere--never let him go away again! Oh, it will be
easy for us to do that, and Father Albanel--and Simon--will help us----"
A deeper breath trembled on Donald McRae's lips, but it was not that
breath, or the faint moan that came with it, that stopped her before
she had finished. Peter was looking over her head at something beyond
her. He dropped his father's hand, and what she saw in his face drew
a gasping cry from her even before she knew its cause. She turned and
looked. And then, in an instant, she was on her feet with Peter.
So quietly that no sound of footfall or breaking twig had given warning
of his approach, a man had stolen upon them. He stood not a dozen feet
away, dressed in the field service uniform of the Provincial Police.
That was the first terrible fact which telegraphed itself to her brain;
the man was an officer, he was after Donald McRae, and he had caught
them! But this first alarm gave place to a greater shock as her eyes
saw the face above the uniform. It was a large, coarse face streaming
with sweat; the lips were heavy, the nose big, and the eyes were small
and too close together for one who bulked so large. It was a face
filled with triumph--an exultation which the man made dramatically
poignant as he stood with his heavy hands on his hips, looking from one
to the other with a smile that was deadly in its promise twisting the
corners of his mouth.
He did not speak, did not even move, but waited while his presence
crushed like a weight of horror upon the two who were staring at him.
His eyes rested on Mona, and the wicked gleam in them--the thought
which they could not hide, merciless, sure, almost gloating--drew
his name from her lips in a cry that was filled with fear, with half
disbelief, with a note that almost called for pity.
"_Aleck--Curry!_"
The man's heavy head nodded, but he did not speak. It was still too
great a moment of triumph to be broken by voice. He looked at Peter,
and then, slowly, significantly, at the unconscious form of Peter's
father. God could not have given him a greater hour than this! For if
it had not been for that man and for Peter, he might have had the girl.
It was Peter who had come in his way from that first day when they had
fought over Mona in the edge of the clearing; it was Peter who had
whipped him, Peter whom he had grown to hate above all other things on
earth--and it was Peter's heart and soul and happiness, almost his very
life, that he now held in the hollow of his hand!
And he would make him pay.
"Yes, _it is ended now_," he said, repeating Peter's words of a few
moments before. "And I'm rather glad. The swamp was hot and filled with
mosquitoes."
Something clinked as he fumbled at his belt and the sound sent a chill
of horror through Mona. He held out the manacle irons so that she could
see them.
"I've got to do it," he said, a mocking apology in his voice.
"Distasteful, but necessary." He faced Peter. "Your father knew we
were close behind him, and it won't do him any good to play dead. He's
slippery, and I'm going to put these on him. I guess----" He swung his
heavy head toward Mona again. "I guess Father Albanel and old Simon
can't help him very much from now on. It was nice of you to think of
it, though, Mona. You were always so tender-hearted--when it came to
Peter!"
He was still the old bully and his voice trembled with the suppression
of his triumph. This was his master stroke. It was not capture of the
man whom the law would condemn to hang that thrilled him most; it was
the twisted beauty in Mona's face, the shock and terror in her eyes,
and the helplessness and despair he saw in Peter's. He did not hurry,
did not call for an instant upon the dignity of the law, but twisted
the knife of his vengeance slowly.
When Mona's eyes turned from him to Peter her heart stood still. He
was gray. There was no blood in his lips. He was looking down upon the
still, upturned face of his father, and his hands were clenched. When
he raised his head she saw that his eyes were no longer Peter's eyes.
He advanced slowly toward Aleck Curry, and the manacles rattled as
Aleck dropped them to his belt and shifted a hand to his pistol holster.
Peter did not hear the click of steel or sense the menace of the
shifting hand. One thought pounded maddeningly in his brain; his father
had come back to him, he was _home_, and in the first hour of his
return this beast had come into their lives again to break down every
hope and prayer they had built up during the years. In Aleck Curry he
saw not only that merciless law which had run his father like a rat
from hole to hole, but a monster of vicious hate, a lustful, bullying
boy grown into a still more vicious giant--and Peter's desire was to
kill him.
Mona saw the deadly intent in his slow advance even as Aleck Curry
saw it. She saw more--the hand on the pistol, the tightening fingers,
the dangerous gleam that flashed in Aleck's eyes--and Peter with only
his naked hands! A cry of warning came to her lips--of a terror which
robbed her of the power to move. The cry ended in a scream, for as
Peter leaped in, Aleck raised the pistol and fired. A terrible sickness
came over her, a sickness which for an instant swept away her strength.
Peter felt the hot breath of the pistol in his face and the explosion
was so near it fell like a blow against his eardrums. It was not a shot
intended only to frighten him, for death had missed him by less than
the width of his hand. Aleck released the trigger of his automatic
and crooked his finger again, but even quicker than that movement was
Peter, who flung himself with all his weight under his enemy's arm
as the second shot was fired. He did not strike, but with both hands
clutched Aleck's wrist, and at the same time tripped his foe so that
they went to the earth together, with Aleck on his back.
In this instant there came upon Peter a crushing realization of the
almost deadly odds against him. Into every nerve of his body flashed
the truth--that he was fighting a man who wanted to kill him, who in
reality had the right to kill him, and whom the law would not only
vindicate but would commend for killing him. He was an outlaw, fighting
against the almighty omniscience of that law, and what the world would
regard as justice. And his survival now, like that of his father,
depended upon beating it. He must break his enemy's wrist. Get the gun.
Kill or be killed.
Every ounce of his strength he exerted upon the wrist as Aleck flung
his free arm in a powerful and throttling embrace about his neck. He
drew the wrist in, twisted it, and tried with a sudden effort to give
it the final breaking snap, but it was like a piece of steel that would
not break. The thick fingers did not loosen their hold on the pistol,
and in spite of his desperate effort Peter's staring eyes saw the black
muzzle of the weapon forcing itself a fraction of an inch at a time
toward his body.
Now, when it was too late, he knew that in this close embrace he was
not a match for Aleck. His quickness and his tirelessness counted for
nothing. Aleck, slow, heavy, with not a quarter of his endurance, but
with the brute strength of three men in his coarse body, could crush
the life out of him in close quarters. Yet these first few thrilling
instants Peter knew this thought was not in the other's mind. All of
his enemy's great strength was being exerted in an effort to point the
pistol at his body.
Those two or three minutes in which he knew he was fighting to save his
life seemed like an eternity to Peter. He saw Aleck's face, twisted in
a leering grin, its bloodshot eyes laughing at him, its thick mouth
mocking him as the powerful arm and wrist broke down with a slow,
torturing sureness all the force he was putting against it. The gun
was already at right angles to his body, and suddenly Peter realized
why Aleck Curry had not used the choking force of his other arm before
this. He had waited for the right moment--and that moment had come. The
arm tightened. It was like a half-ring of steel, crushing Peter's neck
and twisting his head so that his widening eyes left the pistol and
stared into the lower branches of the ash tree.
In that moment he saw Mona. She was staggering up from the edge of the
pond with something in her hands which looked like a chunk of mud. Her
face passed over him, desperately white, and then she had fallen on her
knees and he could hear the _beat_, _beat, eat_ of that something in
her hands close to his ears. A terrible cry came from Aleck Curry, and
the throttling arm about Peter's neck relaxed until he could turn his
head again, and he saw Mona pounding his foe's pistol hand with the
stone that had looked like a chunk of mud. He saw the hand redden with
blood saw the thick fingers loosen their grip on the pistol, and then
swift as a flash Mona had snatched the big automatic and was backing
away with it in her hand.
With a mighty, upward heave of his body Peter freed himself, and with
that movement came a wild cry out of him, a joyous approval of what
Mona had done. Aleck lunged after him. They came to their feet. Peter's
fist shot out to the other's jaw, and as Aleck staggered backward,
almost falling under the force of the blow, Peter turned to take the
pistol from Mona. She was halfway to the pond, and even as he cried out
in warning and dismay the weapon left her hand, circled through the air
and disappeared with a splash in the water. At his cry she faced him
and ran back and thrust the mud-covered rock in his hand. Then he saw
the terror in her eyes--the agony of fear that had made her throw away
the weapon that had almost taken his life.
He let the rock slip from his fingers and fall to the ground in spite
of the exclamation of protest which came from her white lips. He did
not see her stoop quickly and pick it up as he advanced to meet Aleck
Curry. His foe was hunched forward, like a gorilla, his head lowered,
his huge fists clenched, his face distorted by the shock of Peter's
blow and a rage which gave him a terrible aspect.
Then he rushed in, his arms apart, his great hands reaching for the man
he hated. With the quickness of a cat Peter met his attack, avoiding
the arms and the huge hands, leaping in, striking and darting back.
He drove blow after blow, and one of them, catching Aleck again on
the jaw, had behind it all the weight and force of his body. But even
that scarcely more than rocked the brutish head on its thick neck.
He advanced slowly and steadily, taking the blows as he moved like a
juggernaut upon Peter, driving him an inch at a time toward the edge of
the pool.
Suddenly Mona ran in from behind, and with both hands she raised her
stone and beat it between Aleck's shoulders. She raised it again,
trying to strike his neck or his head, when with a bellow Aleck flung
himself around, his great arm flying out like a beam. The blow caught
Mona with all its force and sent her in a crumpled heap to the earth.
Not a cry came from her lips, but a yell of fury burst from Peter's. He
rushed in, and a hurricane of blows smashed into Aleck's face, cutting
his lips, blinding him and choking the breath in his throat. But in
that blindness and pain his hand reached out and caught Peter as their
feet sank in the mud at the edge of the pond. A cry of triumph came
from his bleeding mouth. At last his moment had come.
As Peter felt himself dragged into the deadly embrace his mind worked
swiftly. His one chance now lay in the depths of the pool, and unless
he could get his enemy there he was lost. Thrusting up his hands, he
clenched them in Aleck's hair and put all his weight in dragging the
head downward. The movement had its effect, and a step was gained
toward the edge of the muddy shelf that terminated abruptly in eight
feet of water. Unconscious of the trap, Aleck bent himself forward,
putting all the crushing strength of his arms in the grip about Peter's
body, and as Peter flung the weight of his head and shoulders in the
same direction their balance was upset and they plunged into the pond.
As they struck the water Peter drew a great breath into his lungs,
and in the same moment his foe relaxed his grip and began to flounder
wildly in an element in which, even in the days of their boyhood, he
had never been at home. His face rose above the surface for an instant,
and Mona saw it as she staggered to the edge of the pond. It was then
a deadly weight attached itself to one of his kicking legs, and not
until Peter had dragged his burden to the muddy bottom of the beaver
stronghold did he release his hold. He shot up for air, and scarcely
had Aleck's body struggled to the surface when he dived again, and a
second time bore his victim under. This time he expelled most of the
air in his lungs, and for a few seconds hung on like an anchor.
A third and a fourth time, Aleck rose, fighting for his life, but
the fifth time it was Peter who buoyed him up and brought him nearly
unconscious to the shore. He noticed the livid mark made by Aleck's
hand on Mona's forehead as she helped him drag the heavy body out of
the water. In another half-minute he had the manacles intended for his
father about Curry's wrists, and with his belt he securely lashed his
prisoner's legs together. Then he faced Mona.
The same question was in their eyes. In Mona's it was a wordless
terror. Peter looked at his father. He was stirring. A hand rose weakly
from the grass. He had seen nothing of the struggle, heard nothing, and
thought of him was first to leap into Peter's mind.
"He doesn't know what has happened!" he panted. "We must get him
away, Mona. If anything would kill him now, it would be knowledge of
this--that the law has found him--and that I--in helping him--have
become an outlaw myself."
She came to him quickly and put her hands to his face, just as she
had done on that other day years ago when he had fought his great
battle with Aleck. "They can't blame you alone, Peter. I helped." She
held up her lips, but instead of kissing them he pressed his own to
the reddening mark on her forehead. "There is the little cabin," she
whispered. "We can take your father there. And--I love you, Peter!"
She stood back from him, her eyes shining with sudden inspiration.
Aleck Curry had coughed the water out of his lungs and was twisting
in his bonds. His voice called loudly as Peter bent over his father.
Donald's eyes were opening.
"We must hurry!" urged Mona. "We must get away--where he is safe--where
he cannot be found!"
Peter raised his father in his arms. The weight of the emaciated body
sent a stab of pain through him. It was as if he had picked up the limp
form of a boy.
Mona, close at his side, smiled into the grief-filled eyes he turned
toward her. Together they hurried across the meadow. And then Mona ran
on ahead, following a scarcely worn path through deep timber until in a
few moments she came to another little meadow; here, under a clump of
hardwoods, was a tiny cabin of logs--the "play-house" Peter had built
for her two winters ago as a refuge and rest place for her when she
came to visit her beaver pets. Inside a screened porch was a couch of
saplings, and on this she had spread blankets and cushions by the time
Peter arrived.
Donald's eyes were wide open, and he was smiling up wanly at Peter.
"Never thought the day would come when you'd be lugging your dad
around like this, did you, Peter?" he asked, and tried to laugh. But
the moment his head touched the soft cushions his eyes closed again.
Peter drew Mona away. "There is a boat down on the shore of the lake,"
he said, his voice steady again. "I'm going to force Aleck Curry
into it and take him out to that little rock island two miles from
the mainland. No one ever goes near it, and we can keep him there a
prisoner until dad gets well, and then----" An angry yell came from the
beaver pond. "Aleck is getting nervous," he finished. "You stay with
dad, Mona. Tell him I've gone to Five Fingers for things he needs. I'll
come back that way, and will get here before dark. Good-by, _Ange_!"
He kissed her. For a moment Mona clung to his hand.
"When you are down by the big stub--and if everything is all
right--send me back the call," she entreated.
She watched him until he disappeared. Then she sat down close beside
Donald McRae and held one of his limp hands. After what seemed to be a
long time there came back to her clearly Peter's signal-cry, telling
her that all was well, and that he was on his way to the prison island
with Aleck Curry.
Over the forest fell a deep and quieting silence. Never had it seemed
so intense to Mona, as she sat with Donald McRae's hand held closely
in her own. The man's fingers were intertwined with hers as if he was
afraid she would leave him; and his breath, coming more evenly and yet
as faintly as the breath of a child, told her that complete exhaustion
had at last overcome him with a sleep that was almost like death.
Twilight dusk began to fill the aisles of the woods, and with this dusk
the last red glow died out of the west, and with it came the hour Mona
loved more than all others--when darkness began to close in a velvety
mantle over the world. The stillness, the soft whisperings of the
forest and the peace that always came with night gave her courage and
strengthened her faith. And at last, from beyond the beaver pond, she
heard again Peter's cry. He was returning.
And as if he, too, had heard that cry, Donald McRae stirred softly and
whispered Peter's name.