The Country Beyond Part 15

After all, there was something archaically crude in what he was trying to believe, when he came to a.n.a.lyze it. Yellow Bird possessed her powers, but they were definitely limited. And to believe beyond those limitations, to ride upon the wings of superst.i.tion and imagination, was sheer savagery.

Jolly Roger stretched himself upon his blankets again, repeating this final argument to himself. But as the night drew closer about him, and his eyes closed, and sleep came, there was a lightness in his heart which he had not known for many days. He dreamed, and his dream was of Nada. He was with her again and it seemed, in this dream, that Yellow Bird was always watching them, and they could not quite get away from her. They ran through the jackpine openings where the strawberries and blue violets grew, and he always ran behind Nada, so he could see her brown curls flying about her.

But they never could rid themselves of Yellow Bird, no matter how fast they ran or where they tried to hide. From somewhere Yellow Bird's dark eyes would look out at them, and finally, laughing at his own discomfiture, he drew Nada down beside him in a little fen, white and yellow and blue with wildflowers, and boldly took her head in his arms and kissed her--with Yellow Bird looking at them from behind a banksian clump twenty feet away. So real was the kiss, and so real the warm pressure of Nada's slim arms about his neck that he awoke with a glad cry--and sat up to find the dawn had come.

For a few moments he sat stupidly, looking about him as if not quite believing the unreality of it all. Then with Peter he went down to the edge of the lake.

All that day Peter sensed a quiet change in his master. Jolly Roger did not talk. He did not whistle or laugh, but moved quietly when he moved at all, with a set, strange look in his face. He was making his last big fight against the desire to return to Cragg's Ridge. Yellow Bird's predictions, and her warning, had no influence with him now. He was thinking of Nada alone. She was back there, waiting for him, praying for his return, ready and happy to become a fugitive with him--to accept her chances of life or death, of happiness or grief, in his company. A dozen times the determination to return for her almost won.

But each time came the other picture--a vision of ceaseless flight, of hiding, of hunger and cold and never ending hardship, and at the last, inevitable as the dawning of another day--prison, and possibly the hangman.

Not until late that afternoon did Peter see the old Jolly Roger in the face of his master. And Jolly Roger said:

"We've made up our mind, _Pied-Bot_. We can't go back. We'll hit north and spend the winter along the edge of the Barren Lands. It's the biggest country I know of, and if Ca.s.sidy comes--"

He shrugged his shoulders grimly.

In half an hour they had started, with the sun beginning to sink in the west.

For two days Jolly Roger and Peter paddled their way slowly up the eastern sh.o.r.e of Wollaston. That he had correctly a.n.a.lyzed the mental arguments which would guide Ca.s.sidy in his pursuit Jolly Roger had little doubt. He would keep to the west sh.o.r.e, and up through the Hatchet Lake and Black River waterways, as his quarry had never failed to hit straight for the farther north in time of peril. Meanwhile Jolly Roger had decided to make his way without haste up the east sh.o.r.e of Wollaston, and paddle north and east through the Du Brochet and Thiewiaza River waterways. If these courses were followed, each hour would add to the distance between them, and when the way was safe they would head straight for the Barren Lands.

Peter, and only Peter, sensed the glory of that third afternoon when they paddled slowly ash.o.r.e close to the shimmering stream of spring water that was called Limping Moose Creek. The sun was still two hours high in the west. There was no wind, and Wollaston was like a mirror; yet in the still air was the clean, cool tang of early autumn, and sh.o.r.eward the world reached out in ridges and billows of tinted forests, with a September haze pulsing softly over them, fleecy as the misty shower of a lady's powder puff. It was destined to be a memorable afternoon for Peter, a going down of the sun that he would never forget as long as he lived.

Yet there was no warning of the thing impending, and his eyes saw only the mystery and wonder of the big world, and his ears heard only the drowsing murmur of it, and his nose caught only the sweet scents of cedars and balsams and of flowering and ripening things. Straight ahead, beyond the white sh.o.r.e line, was a low ridge, and this ridge--where it was not purple and black with the evergreen--was red with the crimson blotches of mountain-ash berries, and patches of fire flowers that glowed like flame in the setting sun.

From out of this paradise, as they drew near to it, came softly the voice and song of birds and the chatter of red squirrels. A big jay was screeching over it all, and between the first ridge and the second--which rose still higher beyond it--a cloud of crows were circling excitedly over a mother black bear and her half grown cubs as they feasted on the red ash berries. But Peter could not smell the bears, nor hear them, and the distant crows were of less interest than the wonder and mystery of the sh.o.r.e close at hand.

He turned from his place in the bow of the canoe, and looked at his master. There was little of inspiration in Jolly Roger's face or eyes.

The glory of the world ahead gave him no promise, as it gave promise to Peter. Beyond what he could see there lay, for him, a vast emptiness, a chaos of loneliness, an eternity of shattered hopes and broken dreams.

Love of life was gone out of him. He saw no beauty. The sun had changed. The sky was different. The bigness of his wilderness no longer thrilled him, but oppressed him.

Peter sensed sharply the change in his master without knowing the reason for it. Just as the world had changed for Jolly Roger, so Jolly Roger had changed for Peter.

They landed on a beach of sand, soft as a velvet carpet. Peter jumped out. A long-legged sandpiper and her mate ran down the sh.o.r.e ahead of him. He perked up his angular ears, and then his nose caught a fresh scent under his feet where a porcupine had left his trail. And he heard more clearly the raucous tumult of the jay and the musical chattering of the red squirrels.

All these things were satisfactory to Peter. They were life, and life thrilled him, just as it had thrilled his master a few days ago. He adventured a little distance up to the edge of the green willows and the young birch and the crimson ma.s.ses of fire flowers that fringed the beginning of the forest. It had rained recently here, and the scents were fresh and sweet.

He found a wild currant bush, glistening with its luscious black berries, and began nibbling at them. A gopher, coming to his supper bush, gave a little squeak of annoyance, and Peter saw the bright eyes of the midget glaring at him from under a big fern leaf. Peter wagged his tail, for the savagery of his existence was qualified by that mellowing sense of humor which had always been a part of his master. He yipped softly, in a companionable sort of way.

And then there smote upon his ears a sound which hardened every muscle in his body.

"Throw up your hands, McKay!"

He turned his head. Close to him stood a man. In an instant he had recognized him. It was the man whose scent he had first discovered down at Cragg's Ridge, the man from whom his master was always running away, the man whose voice he had heard again at Yellow Bird's Camp a few nights ago--Corporal Terence Ca.s.sidy, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.

Twenty paces away stood McKay. His dunnage was on his back, his paddle in his hand. And Ca.s.sidy, smiling grimly, a dangerous humor in his eyes, was leveling an automatic at his breast. It was, in that instant, a tableau which no man could ever forget. Ca.s.sidy was bareheaded, and the sun burned hotly in his red hair. And his face was red, and in the pale blue of his Irish eyes was a fierce joy of achievement. At last, after months and years, the thrilling game of One against One was at an end. Ca.s.sidy had made the last move, and he was winner.

For half a minute after the command to throw up his hands McKay did not move. And Ca.s.sidy did not repeat the command, for he sensed the shock that had fallen upon his adversary, and was charitable enough to give him time. And then, with something like a deep sigh from between his lips, Jolly Roger's body sagged. The dunnage dropped from his shoulder to the sand. The paddle slipped from his hand. Slowly he raised his arms above his head, and Ca.s.sidy laughed softly.

A few days ago McKay would have grinned back, coolly, good humoredly, appreciative of the other's craftsmanship even in the hour of his defeat. But today there was another soul within him.

His eyes no longer saw the old Ca.s.sidy, brave and loyal to his duty, a chivalrous enemy, the man he had yearned to love as brother loves brother, even in the hours of sharpest pursuit. In Ca.s.sidy he saw now the hangman himself. The whole world had turned against him, and in this hour of his greatest despair and hopelessness a bitter fate had turned up Ca.s.sidy to deal him the finishing blow.

A swift rage burned in him, even as he raised his hands. It swept through his brain in a blinding inundation. He did not think of the law, or of death, or of freedom. It was the unfairness of the thing that filled his soul with the blackness of one last terrible desire for vengeance. Ca.s.sidy's gun, leveled at his breast, meant nothing. A thousand guns leveled at his breast would have meant nothing. A choking sound came from his lips, and like a shot his right hand went to his revolver holster.

In that last second or two Ca.s.sidy had foreseen the impending thing, and with the movement of the other's hand he cried out:

"Stop! For G.o.d's sake stop--or I shall fire!"

Even into the soul of Peter there came in that moment the electrical thrill of something terrific about to happen, of impending death, of tragedy close at hand. Once, a long time ago, Peter had felt another moment such as this--when he had buried his fangs in Jed Hawkins' leg to save Nada.

In that fraction of a second which carried Peter through s.p.a.ce, Corporal Ca.s.sidy's finger was pressing the trigger of his automatic, for McKay's gun was half out of its holster. He was aiming at the other's shoulder, somewhere not to kill.

The shock of Peter's a.s.sault came simultaneously with the explosion of his gun, and McKay heard the hissing spit of the bullet past his ear.

His arm darted out. And as Peter buried his teeth deeper into Ca.s.sidy's leg, he heard a second shot, and knew that it came from his master.

There was no third. Ca.s.sidy drooped, and something like a little laugh came from him--only it was not a laugh. His body sagged, and then crumpled down, so that the weight of him fell upon Peter.

For many seconds after that Jolly Roger stood with his gun in his hand, not a muscle of his body moving, and with something like stupor in his staring eyes. Peter struggled out from under Ca.s.sidy, and looked inquisitively from his master to the man who lay sprawled out like a great spider upon the sand. It was then that life seemed to come back into Jolly Roger's body. His gun fell, as if it was the last thing in the world to count for anything now, and with a choking cry he ran to Ca.s.sidy and dropped upon his knees beside him.

"Ca.s.sidy--Ca.s.sidy--" he cried. "Good G.o.d, I didn't mean to do it!

Ca.s.sidy, old pal--"

The agony in his voice stilled the growl in Peter's throat. McKay saw nothing for a s.p.a.ce, as he raised Ca.s.sidy's head and shoulders, and brushed back the mop of red hair. Everything was a blur before his eyes. He had killed Ca.s.sidy. He knew it. He had shot to kill, and not once in a hundred times did he miss his mark. At last he was what the law wanted him to be--a murderer. And his victim was Ca.s.sidy--the man who had played him fairly and squarely from beginning to end, the man who had never taken a mean advantage of him, and who had died there in the white sand because he had not shot to kill. With sobbing breath he cried out his grief, and then, looking down, he saw the miracle in Ca.s.sidy's face. The Irishman's eyes were wide open, and there was pain, and also a grin, about his mouth.

"I'm glad you're sorry," he said. "I'd hate to have a bad opinion of you, McKay. But--you're a rotten shot!"

His body sagged heavily, and the grin slowly left his lips, and a moan came from between them. He struggled and spoke.

"It may be--you'll want help, McKay. If you do--there's a cabin half a mile up the creek. Saw the smoke--heard axe--I don't blame you. You're a good sport--pretty quick--but--rotten shot! Oh, Lord--such--rotten--shot--"

And he tried vainly to grin up into Jolly Roger's face as he became a lifeless weight in the other's arms.

Jolly Roger was sobbing. He was sobbing, in a strange, hard man-fashion, as he tore open Ca.s.sidy's shirt and saw the red wound that went clean through Ca.s.sidy's right breast just under the shoulder. And Peter still heard that strange sound coming from his lips, a moaning as if for breath, as his master ran and brought up water, and worked over the fallen man. And then he got under Ca.s.sidy, and rose up with him on his shoulders, and staggered off with him toward the creek. There he found a path, a narrow foot trail, and not once did he stop with his burden until he came into a little clearing, out of which Ca.s.sidy had seen the smoke rising. In this clearing was a cabin, and from the cabin came an old man to meet him--an old man and a girl.

At first something shot up into Peter's throat, for he thought it was Nada who came behind the grizzled and white-headed man. There was the same lithe slimness in her body, the same brown glint in her hair, and the same--but he saw then that it was not Nada. She was older. She was a bit taller. And her face was white when she saw the bleeding burden on Jolly Roger's back.

"I shot him," panted McKay. "G.o.d knows I didn't mean to! I'm afraid--"

He did not finish giving voice to the fear that Ca.s.sidy was dead--or dying, and for a moment he saw only the big staring eyes of the girl as the gray-bearded man helped him with his burden. Not until the Irishman was on a cot in the cabin did he discover how childishly weak he had become and what a terrific struggle he had made with the weight on his shoulders. He sank into a chair, while the old trapper worked over Ca.s.sidy.

He heard the girl call him grandfather. She was no longer frightened, and she moved like a swift bird about the cabin, getting water and bandages and pillows, and the sight of fresh blood and of Ca.s.sidy's dead-white face brought a glow of tenderness into her eyes. McKay, sitting dumbly, saw that her hands were doing twice the work his own could have accomplished, and not until he heard a low moan from the wounded man did he come to her side.

"The bullet went through clean as a whistle," the old man said. "Lucky you don't use soft nosed bullets, friend."

A deep sigh came from Ca.s.sidy's lips. His eyelids fluttered, and then slowly his eyes opened. The girl was bending over him, and Ca.s.sidy saw only her face, and the brown sheen of her hair.

"He'll live?" Jolly Roger said tremulously.

The older man remained mute. It was Ca.s.sidy, turning his head a little, who answered weakly.