CHAPTER XII
In Cassidy's canoe, driving himself with steady strokes deeper into themystery of the starlit waters of Wollaston, Jolly Roger felt the nightsuddenly filled with an exhilarating tonic. Its deadness was gone. Itsweight had lifted. A ripple broke the star gleams where an increasingbreeze touched the surface of the lake. And the thrill of adventurestirred in his blood. He laughed as he put his skill and strength in thesweep of his paddle, and for a time the thought that he was an outlaw,and in losing Nada had lost everything in life worth righting for, wasnot so oppressive. It was the old, joyous laugh, stirred by his sense ofhumor, and the trick he had played on Cassidy. He could imagine Cassidyback on the shore, his temper redder than his hair as he cursed and toreup the sand in his search for another canoe.
"We're inseparable," Jolly Roger explained to Peter. "Wherever I go,Cassidy is sure to follow. You see, it's this way. A long timeago someone gave Cassidy what they call an assignment, and in thatassignment it says 'go get Jolly Roger McKay, dead or alive'--orsomething to that effect. And Cassidy has been on the job ever since.But he can't quite catch up with me, Pied-Bot. I'm always a littleahead."
And yet, even as he laughed, there was in Jolly Roger's heart a yearningto which he had never given voice. Half a dozen times he might havekilled Cassidy, and an equal number of times Cassidy might have killedhim. But neither had taken advantage of the opportunity to destroy.They had played the long and thrilling game like men, and because of thefairness and sportsmanship of the man who hunted him Jolly Roger thoughtof Cassidy as he might have thought of a brother, and more than once heyearned to go to him, and hold out his hand in friendship. Yet he knewCorporal Cassidy was the deadliest menace the earth held for him,a menace that had followed him like a shadow through months andyears--across the Barren Lands, along the rim of the Arctic, down theMackenzie, and back again--a menace that never tired, and was neverfar behind in that ten thousand miles of wilderness they had covered.Together in the bloodstirring game of One against One they had faced thedeadliest perils of the northland. They had gone hungry, and cold, andmore than once a thousand miles of nothingness lay behind them, anddeath seemed preferable to anything that might lie ahead. Yet in thataloneness, when companionship was more precious than anything else onearth, neither had cried quits. The game had gone on, Cassidy after hisman--and Jolly Roger McKay fighting for his freedom.
As he headed his canoe north and east, Jolly Roger thought again ofthe wager made weeks ago down at Cragg's Ridge, when he had turned thetables on Cassidy and when Cassidy had made a solemn oath to resign fromthe service if he failed to get his man in their next encounter. He knewCassidy would keep his word, and something told him that tonight thelast act in this tragedy of two had begun. He chuckled again as hepictured the probable course of events on shore. Cassidy, backed by thelaw, was demanding another canoe and a necessary outfit of Slim Buck.Slim Buck, falling back on his tribal dignity, was killing all possibletime in making the preparations. When pursuit was resumed Jolly Rogerwould have at least a mile the start of the red-headed nemesis who hungto his trail. And Wollaston Lake, sixty miles from end to end, and halfas wide, offered plenty of room in which to find safety.
The rising of the wind, which came from the south and west, was pleasingto Jolly Roger, and he put less caution and more force into the sweepof his paddle. For two hours he kept steadily eastward, and then swung alittle north, guiding himself by the stars. With the breaking of dawn hemade out the thickly wooded shore on the opposite side of the lake fromSlim Buck's camp, and before the sun was half an hour high he had drawnup his canoe at the tip of a headland which gave him a splendid view ofthe lake in all directions.
From this point, comfortably encamped in the cool shadows of a thickclump of spruce, Jolly Roger and Peter watched all that day for a signof their enemy. As far as the eye could reach no movement of human lifeappeared on the quiet surface of Wollaston. Not until that hazy hourbetween sunset and dusk did he build a fire and cook a meal from thesupplies in Cassidy's pack, for he knew smoke could be discerned muchfarther than a canoe. Yet even as he observed this caution he wasconfident there was no longer any danger in returning to Yellow Bird andher people.
"You see, Pied-Bot," he said, discussing the matter with Peter, while hesmoked a pipeful of tobacco in the early evening, "Cassidy thinks we'reon our way north, as fast as we can go. He'll hit for the upper endof the Lake and the Black River waterway, and keep right on into thePorcupine country. It's a big country up there, and we've always takenplenty of space for our travels. Shall we go back to Yellow Bird, Peter?And Sun Cloud?"
Peter tried to answer, and thumped his tail, but even as he asked thequestions there was a doubt growing in Jolly Roger's mind. He wantedto go back, and as darkness gathered about him he was urged by a greatloneliness. Only Yellow Bird grieved with him in his loss of Nada, andunderstood how empty life had become for him. She had, in a way, becomea part of Nada; her presence raised him out of despair, her voice gavehim hope, her unconquerable spirit--fighting for his happiness--inspiredhim until he saw light where there had been only darkness. The impellingdesire to return to her brought him to his feet and down to the pebblyshore of the lake, where the water rippled softly in the thickeninggloom. But a still more powerful force held him back, and he went to hisblankets, spread over a thick couch of balsam boughs. For hours his eyeswere wide open and sleepless.
He no longer thought of Cassidy, but of Yellow Bird. Doubt--a charitableinclination to half believe--gave way in him to a conviction which hecould not fight down. More than once in his years of wilderness lifestrange facts had compelled him to give some credence to the power ofthe Indian conjurer. Belief in the mastery of the mind was part of hisfaith in nature. It had come to him from his mother, who had lived anddied in the strength of her creed.
"Think hard, and with faith, if you want anything to come true," she hadtold him. And this was also Yellow Bird's creed. Was it possible shehad told him the truth? Had her mind actually communed with the mindof Nada? Had she, through the sheer force of her illimitable faith,projected her subconscious self into the future that she might show himthe way? His eyes were staring, his ears unhearing, as he thought ofthe proof which Yellow Bird had given to him. A few hours ago she hadbrought him warning of impending danger. There had been no hesitationand no doubt. She had come to him unequivocal and sure. Without seeing,without hearing, she knew Cassidy was stealing upon him through thenight.
In the darkness Jolly Roger sat up, his heart beating fast. Withouteffort, and with no thought of the necessity of proof, Yellow Bird hadgiven him a test of her power. It had been a spontaneous and unstagedthing, a woman's heart reaching out for him--as she had promised that itwould. And yet, even as the simplicity and truth of it pressed upon him,doubt followed with its questions. If, after this, Yellow Bird had toldhim to return to Nada as swiftly as he could, he would have believed,and this night would have seen him on his way. But she had warned himagainst this, predicting desolation and grief if he returned. She hadurged him to go on, somewhere, anywhere, seeking for an illusion and anunreality which the spirits had named, to her as the Country Beyond.And when he reached this Country Beyond, wherever it might be, he wouldpossess Nada again, and happiness for all time. After all, there wassomething archaically crude in what he was trying to believe, when hecame to analyze it. Yellow Bird possessed her powers, but they weredefinitely limited. And to believe beyond those limitations, to rideupon the wings of superstition and imagination, was sheer savagery.
Jolly Roger stretched himself upon his blankets again, repeating thisfinal argument to himself. But as the night drew closer about him, andhis eyes closed, and sleep came, there was a lightness in his heartwhich he had not known for many days. He dreamed, and his dream was ofNada. He was with her again and it seemed, in this dream, that YellowBird was always watching them, and they could not quite get away fromher. They ran through the jackpine openings where the strawberries andblue violets grew, and he always ran behind Nada,
so he could see herbrown curls flying about her.
But they never could rid themselves of Yellow Bird, no matter how fastthey ran or where they tried to hide. From somewhere Yellow Bird'sdark eyes would look out at them, and finally, laughing at his owndiscomfiture, he drew Nada down beside him in a little fen, white andyellow and blue with wildflowers, and boldly took her head in his armsand kissed her--with Yellow Bird looking at them from behind a banksianclump twenty feet away. So real was the kiss, and so real the warmpressure of Nada's slim arms about his neck that he awoke with a gladcry--and sat up to find the dawn had come.
For a few moments he sat stupidly, looking about him as if not quitebelieving the unreality of it all. Then with Peter he went down to theedge of the lake.
All that day Peter sensed a quiet change in his master. Jolly Roger didnot talk. He did not whistle or laugh, but moved quietly when he movedat all, with a set, strange look in his face. He was making his lastbig fight against the desire to return to Cragg's Ridge. Yellow Bird'spredictions, and her warning, had no influence with him now. He wasthinking of Nada alone. She was back there, waiting for him, praying forhis return, ready and happy to become a fugitive with him--to accept herchances of life or death, of happiness or grief, in his company. A dozentimes the determination to return for her almost won. But each time camethe other picture--a vision of ceaseless flight, of hiding, of hungerand cold and never ending hardship, and at the last, inevitable as thedawning of another day--prison, and possibly the hangman.
Not until late that afternoon did Peter see the old Jolly Roger in theface of his master. And Jolly Roger said:
"We've made up our mind, Pied-Bot. We can't go back. We'll hit north andspend the winter along the edge of the Barren Lands. It's the biggestcountry I know of, and if Cassidy comes--"
He shrugged his shoulders grimly.
In half an hour they had started, with the sun beginning to sink in thewest.
For two days Jolly Roger and Peter paddled their way slowly up theeastern shore of Wollaston. That he had correctly analyzed the mentalarguments which would guide Cassidy in his pursuit Jolly Roger hadlittle doubt. He would keep to the west shore, and up through theHatchet Lake and Black River waterways, as his quarry had never failedto hit straight for the farther north in time of peril. Meanwhile JollyRoger had decided to make his way without haste up the east shoreof Wollaston, and paddle north and east through the Du Brochet andThiewiaza River waterways. If these courses were followed, each hourwould add to the distance between them, and when the way was safe theywould head straight for the Barren Lands.
Peter, and only Peter, sensed the glory of that third afternoon whenthey paddled slowly ashore close to the shimmering stream of springwater that was called Limping Moose Creek. The sun was still two hourshigh 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, andshoreward the world reached out in ridges and billows of tinted forests,with a September haze pulsing softly over them, fleecy as the mistyshower of a lady's powder puff. It was destined to be a memorableafternoon for Peter, a going down of the sun that he would never forgetas long as he lived.
Yet there was no warning of the thing impending, and his eyes saw onlythe mystery and wonder of the big world, and his ears heard only thedrowsing murmur of it, and his nose caught only the sweet scents ofcedars and balsams and of flowering and ripening things. Straight ahead,beyond the white shore line, was a low ridge, and this ridge--where itwas not purple and black with the evergreen--was red with the crimsonblotches of mountain-ash berries, and patches of fire flowers thatglowed like flame in the setting sun.
From out of this paradise, as they drew near to it, came softly thevoice and song of birds and the chatter of red squirrels. A big jaywas screeching over it all, and between the first ridge and thesecond--which rose still higher beyond it--a cloud of crows werecircling excitedly over a mother black bear and her half grown cubsas they feasted on the red ash berries. But Peter could not smell thebears, nor hear them, and the distant crows were of less interest thanthe wonder and mystery of the shore close at hand.
He turned from his place in the bow of the canoe, and looked at hismaster. 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 toPeter. Beyond what he could see there lay, for him, a vast emptiness, achaos 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 thrilledhim, but oppressed him.
Peter sensed sharply the change in his master without knowing the reasonfor it. Just as the world had changed for Jolly Roger, so Jolly Rogerhad changed for Peter.
They landed on a beach of sand, soft as a velvet carpet. Peter jumpedout. A long-legged sandpiper and her mate ran down the shore ahead ofhim. He perked up his angular ears, and then his nose caught a freshscent under his feet where a porcupine had left his trail. And he heardmore clearly the raucous tumult of the jay and the musical chattering ofthe red squirrels.
All these things were satisfactory to Peter. They were life, and lifethrilled him, just as it had thrilled his master a few days ago. Headventured a little distance up to the edge of the green willows andthe young birch and the crimson masses of fire flowers that fringed thebeginning of the forest. It had rained recently here, and the scentswere fresh and sweet.
He found a wild currant bush, glistening with its luscious blackberries, and began nibbling at them. A gopher, coming to his supperbush, gave a little squeak of annoyance, and Peter saw the bright eyesof the midget glaring at him from under a big fern leaf. Peter waggedhis tail, for the savagery of his existence was qualified by thatmellowing sense of humor which had always been a part of his master. Heyipped softly, in a companionable sort of way.
And then there smote upon his ears a sound which hardened every musclein his body.
"Throw up your hands, McKay!"
He turned his head. Close to him stood a man. In an instant he hadrecognized him. It was the man whose scent he had first discovered downat 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 fewnights ago--Corporal Terence Cassidy, of the Royal Northwest MountedPolice.
Twenty paces away stood McKay. His dunnage was on his back, his paddlein his hand. And Cassidy, smiling grimly, a dangerous humor in his eyes,was leveling an automatic at his breast. It was, in that instant, atableau which no man could ever forget. Cassidy was bareheaded, and thesun burned hotly in his red hair. And his face was red, and in the paleblue of his Irish eyes was a fierce joy of achievement. At last, aftermonths and years, the thrilling game of One against One was at an end.Cassidy had made the last move, and he was winner.
For half a minute after the command to throw up his hands McKay did notmove. And Cassidy did not repeat the command, for he sensed the shockthat had fallen upon his adversary, and was charitable enough to givehim time. And then, with something like a deep sigh from between hislips, Jolly Roger's body sagged. The dunnage dropped from his shoulderto the sand. The paddle slipped from his hand. Slowly he raised his armsabove his head, and Cassidy 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 hisdefeat. But today there was another soul within him.
His eyes no longer saw the old Cassidy, brave and loyal to his duty,a chivalrous enemy, the man he had yearned to love as brother lovesbrother, even in the hours of sharpest pursuit. In Cassidy he saw nowthe hangman himself. The whole world had turned against him, and in thishour of his greatest despair and hopelessness a bitter fate had turnedup Cassidy to deal him the finishing blow.
A swift rage burned in him, even as he raised his hands. It sweptthrough his brain in a blinding inundation. He did not think of thelaw, or of death, or of freedom. It was the unfairness of the thingthat fill
ed his soul with the blackness of one last terrible desirefor vengeance. Cassidy's gun, leveled at his breast, meant nothing. Athousand guns leveled at his breast would have meant nothing. A chokingsound came from his lips, and like a shot his right hand went to hisrevolver holster.
In that last second or two Cassidy had foreseen the impending thing, andwith the movement of the other's hand he cried out:
"Stop! For God's sake stop--or I shall fire!"
Even into the soul of Peter there came in that moment the electricalthrill of something terrific about to happen, of impending death, oftragedy close at hand. Once, a long time ago, Peter had felt anothermoment such as this--when he had buried his fangs in Jed Hawkins' leg tosave Nada.
In that fraction of a second which carried Peter through space, CorporalCassidy's finger was pressing the trigger of his automatic, for McKay'sgun was half out of its holster. He was aiming at the other's shoulder,somewhere not to kill.
The shock of Peter's assault came simultaneously with the explosion ofhis 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 Cassidy'sleg, he heard a second shot, and knew that it came from his master.There was no third. Cassidy drooped, and something like a little laughcame from him--only it was not a laugh. His body sagged, and thencrumpled 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 inhis staring eyes. Peter struggled out from under Cassidy, and lookedinquisitively from his master to the man who lay sprawled out like agreat spider upon the sand. It was then that life seemed to come backinto Jolly Roger's body. His gun fell, as if it was the last thing inthe world to count for anything now, and with a choking cry he ran toCassidy and dropped upon his knees beside him.
"Cassidy--Cassidy--" he cried. "Good God, I didn't mean to do it!Cassidy, old pal--"
The agony in his voice stilled the growl in Peter's throat. McKay sawnothing for a space, as he raised Cassidy's head and shoulders, andbrushed back the mop of red hair. Everything was a blur before his eyes.He had killed Cassidy. He knew it. He had shot to kill, and not once ina hundred times did he miss his mark. At last he was what the law wantedhim to be--a murderer. And his victim was Cassidy--the man who hadplayed him fairly and squarely from beginning to end, the man who hadnever taken a mean advantage of him, and who had died there in the whitesand because he had not shot to kill. With sobbing breath he cried outhis grief, and then, looking down, he saw the miracle in Cassidy'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 ofyou, McKay. But--you're a rotten shot!"
His body sagged heavily, and the grin slowly left his lips, and a moancame from between them. He struggled and spoke.
"It may be--you'll want help, McKay. If you do--there's a cabin half amile 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 alifeless weight in the other's arms.
Jolly Roger was sobbing. He was sobbing, in a strange, hard man-fashion,as he tore open Cassidy's shirt and saw the red wound that went cleanthrough Cassidy's right breast just under the shoulder. And Peter stillheard that strange sound coming from his lips, a moaning as if forbreath, as his master ran and brought up water, and worked over thefallen man. And then he got under Cassidy, and rose up with him on hisshoulders, and staggered off with him toward the creek. There he founda path, a narrow foot trail, and not once did he stop with his burdenuntil he came into a little clearing, out of which Cassidy had seen thesmoke rising. In this clearing was a cabin, and from the cabin came anold man to meet him--an old man and a girl.
At first something shot up into Peter's throat, for he thought it wasNada who came behind the grizzled and white-headed man. There was thesame lithe slimness in her body, the same brown glint in her hair, andthe same--but he saw then that it was not Nada. She was older. She wasa bit taller. And her face was white when she saw the bleeding burden onJolly Roger's back.
"I shot him," panted McKay. "God knows I didn't mean to! I'm afraid--"
He did not finish giving voice to the fear that Cassidy was dead--ordying, and for a moment he saw only the big staring eyes of the girl asthe gray-bearded man helped him with his burden. Not until the Irishmanwas on a cot in the cabin did he discover how childishly weak he hadbecome and what a terrific struggle he had made with the weight onhis shoulders. He sank into a chair, while the old trapper worked overCassidy.
He heard the girl call him grandfather. She was no longer frightened,and she moved like a swift bird about the cabin, getting water andbandages and pillows, and the sight of fresh blood and of Cassidy'sdead-white face brought a glow of tenderness into her eyes. McKay,sitting dumbly, saw that her hands were doing twice the work his owncould have accomplished, and not until he heard a low moan from thewounded man did he come to her side.
"The bullet went through clean as a whistle," the old man said. "Luckyyou don't use soft nosed bullets, friend."
A deep sigh came from Cassidy's lips. His eyelids fluttered, and thenslowly his eyes opened. The girl was bending over him, and Cassidy sawonly her face, and the brown sheen of her hair.
"He'll live?" Jolly Roger said tremulously.
The older man remained mute. It was Cassidy, turning his head a little,who answered weakly.
"Don't worry, McKay. I'll--live."
Jolly Roger bent over the cot, between Cassidy and the girl. Gently hetook one of the wounded man's hands in both his own.
"I'm sorry, old man," he whispered. "You won, fair and square. And Iwon't go far away. I'll be waiting for you when you get on your feet. Ipromise that. I'll wait."
A wan smile came over Cassidy's lips, and then he moaned again, and hiseyes closed. The girl thrust Jolly Roger back.
"No--you better not go far, an' you better wait," she said, and therewas an unspoken thing in the dark glow of her eyes that made him thinkof Nada on that day when she told him how Jed Hawkins had struck her inthe cabin at Cragg's Ridge.
That night Jolly Roger made his camp close to the mouth of the LimpingMoose. And for three days thereafter his trail led only between thiscamp and the cabin of old Robert Baron and his granddaughter, Giselle.All this time Cassidy was telling things in a fever. He talked a greatdeal about Jolly Roger. And the girl, nursing him night and day, withscarcely a wink of sleep between, came to believe they had been greatcomrades, and had been inseparable for a long time. Even then shewould not let McKay take her place at Cassidy's side. The third day shestarted him off for a post sixty miles away to get a fresh supply ofbandages and medicines.
It was evening, three days later, when Jolly Roger and Peter returned.The windows of the cabin were brightly lighted, and McKay came up to oneof these windows and looked in. Cassidy was bolstered up in his cot.He was very much alive, and on the floor at his side, sitting on abear rug, was the girl. A lump rose in Jolly Roger's throat. Quietly heplaced the bundle which he had brought from the post close up againstthe door, and knocked. When Giselle opened it he had disappeared intodarkness, with Peter at his heels.
The next morning he found old Robert and said to him:
"I'm restless, and I'm going to move a little. I'll be back in twoweeks. Tell Cassidy that, will you?"
Ten minutes later he was paddling up the shore of Wollaston, and for aweek thereafter he haunted the creeks and inlets, always on the move.Peter saw him growing thinner each day. There was less and less of cheerin his voice, seldom a smile on his lips, and never did his laugh ringout as of old. Peter tried to understand, and Jolly Roger talked to him,but not in the old happy way.
"We might have finished him, an' got rid of him for good," he said toPeter one chilly night beside their campfire. "But we couldn't,
justlike we couldn't have brought Nada up here with us. And we're goingback. I'm going to keep that promise. We're going back, Peter, if wehang for it!"
And Jolly Roger's jaw would set grimly as he measured the time between.
The tenth day came and he set out for the mouth of the Canoe River. Onthe afternoon of the twelfth he paddled slowly into Limping MooseCreek. Without any reason he looked at his watch when he started forold Robert's cabin. It was four o'clock. He was two days ahead of hispromise, and there was a bit of satisfaction in that. There was anodd thumping at his heart. He had faith in Cassidy, a belief that theIrishman would call their affair a draw, and tell him to take anotherchance in the big open. He was the sort of man to live up to the letterof a wager, when it was honestly made. But, if he didn't--
Jolly Roger paused long enough to take the cartridges from his gun.There would be no more shooting'--on his part.
The mellow autumn sun was flooding the open door of the cabin when hecame up. He heard laughter. It was Giselle. She was talking, too. Andthen he heard a man's voice--and from far off to his right came thechopping of an axe. Old Robert was at work. Giselle and Cassidy were athome.
He stepped up to the door, coughing to give notice of his approach. Andthen, suddenly, he stopped, staring thunderstruck at what was happeningwithin.
Terence Cassidy was sitting in a big chair. The girl was behind him. Herwhite arms were around his neck, her face was bent down, her lips werekissing him.
In an instant Cassidy's eyes had caught him.
"Come in," he cried, so suddenly and so loudly that it startled thegirl. "McKay, come in!"
Jolly Roger entered, and the girl stood up straight behind Cassidy'schair, her cheeks aflame and her eyes filled with the glow of thesunset. And Terence Cassidy was grinning in that old triumphant way ashe leaned forward in his chair, gripping the arms of it with both hands.
"McKay, you've lost," he cried. "I'm the winner!"
In the same moment he took the girl's hand and drew her from behind hischair.
"Giselle, do as you said you were going to do. Prove to him that I'vewon."
Slowly she came to Jolly Roger. Her cheeks were like the red of thesunset. Her eyes were flaming. Her lips were parted. And dumbly hewaited, and wondered, until she stood close to him. Then, swiftly, herarms were around his neck, and she kissed him. In an instant she wasback on her knees at the wounded man's side, her burning face hiddenagainst him, and Cassidy was laughing, and holding out both hands toMcKay.
"McKay, Roger McKay, I want you to meet Mrs. Terence Cassidy, my wife,"he said. And the girl raised her face, so that her shining eyes were onJolly Roger.
Still dumbly he stood where he was.
"The Missioner from Du Brochet was here yesterday, and married us," heheard Cassidy saying. "And we've written out my resignation together,old man. We've both won. I thank God you put that bullet into me downon the shore, for it's brought me paradise. And here's my hand on it,McKay--forever and ever!"
Half an hour later, when McKay stumbled out into the forest trail again,his eyes were blinded by tears and his heart choked by a new hope as bigas the world itself. Yellow Bird was right, and God must have been withher that night when her soul went to commune with Nada's. For YellowBird had proved herself again. And now he believed her.
He believed in the world again. He believed in love and happiness andthe glory of life, and as he went down the narrow trail to his canoe,with Peter close behind him, his heart was crying out Nada's name andYellow Bird's promise that sometime--somewhere--they two would findhappiness together, as Giselle and Terence Cassidy had found it.
And Peter heard the chopping of the distant axe, and the song of birds,and the chattering of squirrels--but thrilling his soul most of all wasthe voice of his master, the old voice, the glad voice, the voice he hadfirst learned to love at Cragg's Ridge in the days of blue violets andred strawberries, when Nada had filled his world.
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