And Jolly Roger was changed. He was not the plump and rosy-faced wilderness freebooter who whistled and sang away down at Cragg"s Ridge even when he knew the Law was at his heels. The steadiness of their flight had thinned him, and a graver look had settled in his face. But in his clear eyes was still the love of life--a thing even stronger than the grief which was eating at his heart as their trail reached steadily toward the Barren Lands.
In the sunset glow of this late afternoon Peter"s watchful eyes saw his master draw forth their treasure.
It was something he had come to look for, and expect--once, twice, and sometimes half a dozen times between the rising and the setting of the sun. And at night, when they paused in their flight for the day, Jolly Roger never failed to do what he was doing now. Peter drew nearer to where his master was sitting with his back to the big rock, and his eyes glistened. Always he caught the sweet, illusive perfume of the girl when Jolly Roger drew out their preciously guarded package. He unwrapped it gently now, and in a moment held in his hands the tress of Nada"s hair, the last of her they would ever possess or see. And Peter wondered again why they did not go back to where they had left the rest of the girl. Many times, seeing his restlessness and his yearning, Jolly Roger had tried to make him understand. And Peter tried to comprehend. But always in his dreams he was with the girl he loved, following her, playing with her, fighting for her, hearing her voice--feeling the touch of her hand. In his dog soul he wanted her, just as Jolly Roger wanted her with all the yearning and heartbreak of the man. Yet always when he awoke from his dreams they went on again--not south--but north. To Peter this was hopeless mystery, and he possessed no power of reason to solve it. Nor could he speak in words the message which he carried in his heart--that last crying agony of the girl when she had sent him out on the trail of Roger McKay, entreating him to bring back the man she loved and would always love in spite of all the broken and unbroken laws in the world.
That night, as they lay beside the Burntwood, Peter heard his master crying out Nada"s name in his sleep.
And the next dawn they went on--still farther north.
In these days and weeks, with the hot inundation of the wilderness about him, McKay fought doggedly against the forces which were struggling to break down the first law of his creed. The law might catch him, and probably would, and when it caught him the law might hang him--and probably would. But it would never _know_ him. There was something grimly and tragically humorous in this. It would never know of the consuming purity of his worship for little children, and old people--and women. It would laugh at the religion he had built up for himself, and it would cackle tauntingly if he dared to say he was not wholly bad. For it believed he was bad, and it believed he had killed Jed Hawkins, and he knew that seven hundred men were anxious to get him, dead or alive.
But was he bad?
He took the matter up one evening, with Peter.
"If I"m bad, mebby it isn"t all my fault, _Pied-Bot_," he said. "Mebby it"s this--" and he swept his arms out to the gathering night. "I was born in the open, on a night just like this is going to be. My mother, before she died, told me many times how she watched the moon come up that night, and how it seemed to look down on her, and talk to her, like a living thing. And I"ve loved the moon ever since, and the sun, and everything that"s outdoors--and if there"s a G.o.d I don"t believe He ever intended man to make a law that wasn"t right according to the plans He laid out. That"s where I"ve got in wrong, _Pied-Bot_, I haven"t always believed in man-made law, and I"ve settled a lot of things in my own way. And I guess I"ve loved trees and flowers and sunshine and wind and storm too much. I"ve just wandered. And I"ve done things along the way. The thrill of it got into me, _Pied-Bot_, and--the law wants me!"
Peter heard the subdued humor of the man, a low laugh that held neither fear nor regret.
"It was the Treaty Money first," he went on, leaning very seriously toward Peter, as if he expected an argument. "You see, Yellow Bird was in that particular tribe, _Pied-Bot_. I remember her as she looked to me when a boy, with her two long, shining black braids and her face that was almost as beautiful to me as my mother"s. My mother loved her, and she loved my mother, and I loved Yellow Bird, just as a child loves a fairy. And always Yellow Bird has been my fairy, Peter. I guess child worship is the one thing that lasts through life, always remaining ideal, and never forgotten. Years after my mother"s death, when I was a young man, and had been down to Montreal and Ottawa and Quebec, I went back to Yellow Bird"s tribe. And it was starving, _Pied-Bot_. Starving to death!"
Reminiscent tenderness and humor were gone from McKay"s voice. It was hard and flinty.
"It was winter," he continued, "the dead of winter. And cold. So cold that even the wolves and foxes had buried themselves in. No fish that autumn, no game in the deep snows, and the Indians were starving.
_Pied-Bot_, my heart went dead when I saw Yellow Bird. There didn"t seem to be anything left of her but her eyes and her hair--those two great, shining braids, and eyes that were big and deep and dark, like beautiful pools. Boy, you never saw an Indian--an Indian like Yellow Bird--cry. They don"t cry very much. But when that childhood fairy of mine first saw me she just stood there, swaying in her weakness, and the tears filled those big, wide-open eyes and ran down her thin cheeks. She had married Slim Buck. Two of their three children had died within a fortnight. Slim Buck was dying of hunger and exhaustion. And Yellow Bird"s heart was broken, and her soul was crying out for G.o.d to let her lie down beside Slim Buck and die with him--when I happened along.
"Peter--" Jolly Roger leaned over in the thickening dusk, and his eyes gleamed. "Peter, if there"s a G.o.d, an" He thinks I did wrong then, let Him strike me dead right here! I"m willin". I found out what the trouble was. There was a new Indian Agent, a cur. And near the tribe was a Free Trader, another cur. The two got together. The Agent sent up the Treaty Money, and along with it--underground, mind you--he sent a lot of whiskey to the Free Trader. Inside of five days the whiskey got the Treaty Money from the Indians. Then came winter. Everything went bad, When I came--and found out what had happened--eighteen out of sixty had died, and inside of another two weeks half the others would follow. _Pied-Bot_, away back--somewhere--there must have been a pirate before me--mebby a great-grandfather of mine. I set out, I came back in three days, and I had a sledge-load of grub, and warm things to wear--plenty of them. My G.o.d, how those starving things did eat! I went again, and returned in another week, with a still bigger sledge-load.
And Yellow Bird was getting beautiful again, and Slim Buck was on his feet, growing strong, and there was happiness--and I think G.o.d A"mighty was glad. I kept it up for two months. Then the back-bone of the winter broke. Game came into the country I left them well supplied--and skipped. That was what made me an outlaw, _Pied-Bot_. That!"
He chuckled, and Peter heard the rubbing of his hands in the gloom.
"Want to know why?" he asked. "Well, you see, I went over to the Free Trader"s, and this G.o.d the law don"t take into account went with me, and we found the skunk alone. First I licked him until he was almost dead. Then, sticking a knife into him about half an inch, I made him write a note saying he was called south suddenly, and authorizing me to take charge in his absence. Then I chained him in a dugout in a place where n.o.body would find him. And I took charge. _Pied-Bot_, I sure did!
Everybody was on the trap-lines, and I wasn"t bothered much by callers.
And I fed and clothed my tribe for eight straight weeks, fed "em until they grew fat, Boy--and Yellow Bird"s eyes were bright as stars again.
Then I brought Roach--that was his name--back to his empty post, and I lectured him, an" gave him another licking--and left."
McKay rose to his feet. The first stars were peeping out of the velvety darkness of the sky, and Peter heard his master draw in a deep breath--the breath of a man whose lungs rejoice in the glory of life.
After a moment he said,
"And the Royal Mounted have been after me ever since that winter, Peter. And the harder they"ve chased me the more I"ve given them reason to chase me. I half killed Beaudin, the Government mail-runner, because he insulted another man"s wife when that man--my friend--was away. Then Beaudin, seeing his chance, robbed the mail himself, and the crime was laid to me. Well, I got even, and stuck up a mail-sledge myself--but I guess there was a good reason for it. I"ve done a lot of things since then, but I"ve done it all with my naked fists, and I"ve never put a bullet or a knife into a man except Roach the Free Trader. And the funniest thing of the whole business, _Pied-Bot_, is this--I didn"t kill Jed Hawkins. Some day mebby I"ll tell you about what happened on the trail, the thing which you and Nada didn"t see. But now--"
For a moment he stood very still, and Peter sensed the sudden thrill that was going through the man as he stood there in darkness. And then, suddenly, Jolly Roger bent over him.
"Peter, there"s three women we"ll love as long as we live," he whispered. "There"s my mother, and she is dead. There"s Nada back there, and we"ll never see her again--" His voice choked for an instant. "And then--there"s Yellow Bird--" he added. "It"s five years since I fed the tribe. Mebby they"ve had more kids! Boy, let"s go and see!"
CHAPTER X
North and west, in the direction of Yellow Bird"s people, went Jolly Roger and Peter after that night. They traveled slowly and cautiously, and with each day Peter came to understand more clearly there was some reason why they must be constantly on their guard. His master, he noticed, was thrillingly attentive whenever a sound came to their ears--perhaps the cracking of a twig, a mysterious movement of brush, or the tread of a cloven hoof. And instinctively he came to know they were evading Man. He remembered vividly their escape from Ca.s.sidy and their quiet hiding for many days in the ma.s.s of sun-baked rocks which Jolly Roger had called the Stew-Kettle. The same vigilance seemed to be a part of his master"s movements now. He did not laugh, or sing, or whistle, or talk loudly. He built fires so small that at first Peter was absorbed in an almost scientific a.n.a.lysis of them; and instead of shooting game which could have been easily secured he set little snares in the evening, and caught fish in the streams. At night they always slept half a mile or more from the place where they had built their tiny supper-fire. And during these hours of sleep Peter was ready to rouse himself at the slightest sound of movement near them. Scarcely a night pa.s.sed that his low growl of warning did not bring Jolly Roger out of his slumber, a hand on his gun, and his eyes and ears wide open.
Whether he would have used the gun had the red-coated police suddenly appeared, McKay had not quite a.s.sured himself. Day after day the same old fight went on within him. He a.n.a.lyzed his situation from every point of view, and always--no matter how he went about it--eventually found himself face to face with the same definite fact. If the law succeeded in catching Him it would not trouble itself to punish him for stealing back the Treaty Money, or for holding up Government mails, or for any of his other misdemeanors. It would hang him for the murder of Jed Hawkins. And the minions of the law would laugh at the truth, even if he told it--which he never would. More than once his imaginative genius had drawn up a picture of that impossible happening. For it was a truth so inconceivable that he found the absurdity of it a grimly humorous thing. Even Nada believed he had killed her scoundrelly foster-father. Yet it was she--herself--who had killed him! And it was Nada whom the law would hang, if the truth was known--and believed.
Frequently he went back over the scenes of that tragic night at Cragg"s Ridge when all the happiness in the world seemed to be offering itself to him--the night when Nada was to go with him to the Missioner"s, to become his wife, And then--the dark trail--the disheveled girl staggering to him through the starlight, and her sobbing story of how Jed Hawkins had tried to drag her through the forest to Mooney"s cabin, and how--at last--she had saved herself by striking him down with a stick which she had caught up out of the darkness. Would the police believe HIM--an outlaw--if he told the rest of the story?--how he had gone back to give Jed Hawkins the beating of his life, and had found him dead in the trail, where Nada had struck him down? Would they believe him if, in a moment of cowardice, he told them that to protect the girl he loved he had fastened the responsibility of the crime upon himself? No, they would not. He had made the evidence too complete. The world would call him a lying yellow-back if he betrayed what had actually happened on the trail between Cragg"s Ridge and Mooney"s cabin.
And this, after all, was the one remaining bit of happiness in Jolly Roger"s heart, the knowledge that he had made the evidence utterly complete, and that Nada would never know, and the world would never know--the truth. His love for the blue-eyed girl-woman who had given her heart and her soul into his keeping, even when she knew he was an outlaw, was an undying thing, like his love for the mother of years ago. "It will be easy to die for her," he told Peter, and this, in the end, was what he knew he was going to do. Thought of the inevitable did not make him afraid. He was determined to keep his freedom and his life as long as he could, but he was fatalistic enough, and sufficiently acquainted with the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, to know what the ultimate of the thing would be. And yet, with tragedy behind him, and a still grimmer tragedy ahead, the soul of Jolly Roger was not dead or in utter darkness. In it, waking and sleeping, he enshrined the girl who had been willing to give up all other things in the world for him, who had pleaded with him in the last hour of storm down on the edge of civilization that she be given the privilege of accompanying him wherever his fate might lead. That he was an outlaw had not destroyed her faith in him. That he had killed a man--a man unfit to live--had only drawn her arms more closely about him, and had made her more completely a part of him. And a thousand times the maddening thought possessed Jolly Roger--was he wrong, and not right, in refusing to accept the love and companionship which she had begged him to accept, in spite of all that had happened and all that might happen?
Day by day he slowly won for himself, and at last, as they traveled in the direction of Yellow Bird"s country, he crushed the final doubt that oppressed him, and knew that he was right. In his selfishness he had not shackled her to an outlaw. He had left her free. Life and hope and other happiness were ahead of her. He had not destroyed her, and this thought would strengthen him and leave something of gladness in his heart, even in that gray dawn when the law would compel him to make his final sacrifice.
It is a strange peace which follows grief, a secret happiness no other soul but one can understand. Out of it excitement and pa.s.sion have been burned, and it is then the Great G.o.d of things comes more closely into the possession of his own. And now, as they went westward and north toward the Wollaston Lake country, this peace possessed Jolly Roger. It mellowed his world. It was half an ache, half a steady and undying pain, but it drew Life nearer to him than he had ever known it before.
His love for the sun and the sky, for the trees and flowers and all growing things of the earth was more worship of the divine than a love for physical things, and each day he felt it drawing more closely about him in its comradeship, whispering to him of its might, and of its power to care for him in the darkest hours of stress that might come.
He did not travel fast after he had reached the decision to go to Yellow Bird"s people. And he tried to imagine, a great deal of the time, that Nada was with him. He succeeded in a way that bewildered Peter, for quite frequently the man talked to someone who was not there.
The slowness and caution with which they traveled developed Peter"s mental faculties with marvelous swiftness. His master, free of egoism and prejudice, had placed him on a plane of intimate equality, and Peter struggled each day to live up a little more to the responsibility of this intimacy and confidence. Instinct, together with human training, taught him woodcraft until in many ways he was more clever than his master. And along with this Jolly Roger slowly but surely impressed upon him the difference between wanton slaughter and necessary killing.
"Everything that"s got a breath of life must kill--up to a certain point," Jolly Roger explained to him, repeating the lesson over and over. "And that isn"t wrong, Peter. The sin is in killing when you don"t have to. See that tree over there, with a vine as big as my wrist winding around it, like a snake? Well, that vine is choking the life out of the tree, and in time the tree will die. But the vine is doing just what G.o.d A"mighty meant it to do. It needs a tree to live on. But I"m going to cut the vine, because I think more of the tree than I do the vine. That"s _my_ privilege--following my conscience. And we"re eating young partridges tonight, because we had to have something to keep us alive. It"s the necessity of the thing that counts, Peter.
Think you can understand that?"
It was pretty hard for Peter at first, but he was observant, and his mind worked quickly. The crime of destroying birdlings in their nest, or on the ground, was impressed upon him. He began to understand there was a certain humiliating shame attached to an attack upon a creature weaker than himself, unless there was a reason for it. He looked chiefly to his master for decisions in the matter. Snowshoe rabbits, young and half grown, were very tame in this month of August, and ordinarily he would have destroyed many of them in a day"s travel. But unless Jolly Roger gave him a signal, or he was hungry, he would pa.s.s a snowshoe unconcernedly. This phase of Peter"s development interested Jolly Roger greatly. The outlaw"s philosophy had not been punctured by the egotistical "I am the only reasoning being" arguments of narrow-gauged nature scientists. He believed that Peter possessed not only a brain and super-instinct, but also a very positive reasoning power which he was helping to develop. And the process was one that fascinated him. When he was not sleeping, or traveling, or teaching Peter he was usually reading the wonderful little red volumes of history which he had purloined from the mail sledge up near the Barren Lands. He knew their contents nearly by heart. His favorites were the life-stories of Napoleon, Margaret of Anjou, and Peter the Great, and always when he compared his own troubles with the difficulties and tragedies over which these people had triumphed he felt a new courage and inspiration, and faced the world with better cheer. If Nature was his G.o.d and Bible, and Nada his Angel, these finger-worn little books written by a man half a century dead were voices out of the past urging him on to his best. Their pages were filled with the vivid lessons of sacrifice, of courage and achievement, of loyalty, honor and dishonor--and of the crashing tragedy which comes always with the last supreme egoism and arrogance of man. He marked the dividing lines, and applied them to himself. And he told Peter of his conclusions. He felt a consuming tenderness for the glorious Margaret of Anjou, and his heart thrilled one day when a voice seemed to whisper to him out of the printed page that Nada was another Margaret--only more wonderful because she was not a princess and a queen.
"The only difference," he explained to Peter, "is that Margaret sacrificed and fought and died for a king, and our Nada is willing to do all that for a poor beggar of an outlaw. Which makes Margaret a second-rater compared with Nada," he added. "For Margaret wanted a kingdom along with her husband, and Nada would take--just you and me.
And that"s where we"re pulling some Peter the Great stuff," he tried to laugh. "We won"t let her do it!"
And so they went on, day after day, toward the Wollaston waterways--the country of Yellow Bird and her people.
It was early September when they crossed the Geikie and struck up the western sh.o.r.e of Wollaston Lake. The first golden tints were ripening in the canoe-birch leaves, and the tremulous whisper of autumn was in the rustle of the aspen trees. The poplars were yellowing, the ash were blood red with fruit, and in cool, dank thickets wild currants were glossy black and lusciously ripe. It was the season which Jolly Roger loved most of all, and it was the beginning of Peter"s first September.
The days were still hot, but at night there was a bracing something in the air that stirred the blood, and Peter found a sharp, new note in the voices of the wild. The wolf howled again in the middle of the night. The loon forgot his love-sickness, and screamed raucous defiance at the moon. The big snowshoes were no longer tame, but wary and alert, and the owls seemed to slink deeper into darkness and watch with more cunning. And Jolly Roger knew the human masters of the wilderness were returning from the Posts to their cabins and trap-lines, and he advanced with still greater caution. And as he went, watching for smoke and listening for sound, he began to reflect upon the many changes which five years might have produced among Yellow Bird"s people.
Possibly other misfortunes had come, other winters of hunger and pestilence, scattering and destroying the tribe. It might even be that Yellow Bird was dead.
For three days he followed slowly the ragged sh.o.r.e of Wollaston Lake, and foreboding of evil was oppressing him when he came upon the fish-racks of the Indians. They had been abandoned for many days, for black bear tracks fairly inundated the place, and Peter saw two of the bears--fat and unafraid--nosing along the sh.o.r.e where the fish offal had been thrown.
It was the next day, in the hour before sunset, that Jolly Roger and Peter came out on the edge of a shelving beach where Indian children were playing in the white sand. Among these children, playing and laughing with them, was a woman. She was tall and slim, with a skirt of soft buckskin that came only a little below her knees, and two shining black braids which tossed like velvety ropes when she ran. And she was running when they first saw her--running away from them, pursued by the children; and then she twisted suddenly, and came toward them, until with a startled cry she stopped almost within the reach of Jolly Roger"s hands. Peter was watching. He saw the half frightened look in her face, then the slow widening of her dark eyes, and the quick intake of her breath. And in that moment Jolly Roger cried out a name.
"Yellow Bird!"
He went to her slowly, wondering if it could be possible the years had touched Yellow Bird so lightly; and Yellow Bird reached out her hands to him, her face flaming up with sudden happiness, and Peter wondered what it was all about as he cautiously eyed the half dozen brown-faced little Indian children who had now gathered quietly about them. In another moment there was an interruption. A girl came through the fringe of willows behind them. It was as if another Yellow Bird had come to puzzle Peter--the same slim, graceful little body, the same shining eyes, and yet she was half a dozen years younger than Nada. For the first time Peter was looking at Sun Cloud, the daughter of Yellow Bird. And in that moment he loved her, just as something gave him confidence and faith in the starry-eyed woman whose hands were in his master"s. Then Yellow Bird called, and the girl went to her mother, and Jolly Roger hugged her in his arms and kissed her on the scarlet mouth she turned up to him. Then they hurried along the sh.o.r.e toward the fishing camp, the children racing ahead to tell the news, led by Sun Cloud--with Peter running at her heels.
[Ill.u.s.tration: They hurred to the camp, the children racing ahead to tell the news]
Never had Peter heard anything from a man"s throat like the two yells that came from Slim Buck, Yellow Bird"s husband and chief of the tribe, after he had greeted Jolly Roger McKay. It was a note harking back to the old war trails of the Crees, and what followed it that night was most exciting to Peter. Big fires were built of white driftwood, and there was singing and dancing, and a great deal of laughter and eating, and the interminable howling of half a hundred Siwash dogs. Peter did not like the dogs, but he did no fighting because his love for Sun Cloud kept him close to the touch of her little brown hand.
That night, in the glow of the big fire outside of Slim Buck"s tepee, Jolly Roger"s heart thrilled with a pleasure which it had not known for a long time. He loved to look at Yellow Bird. Five years had not changed her. Her eyes were starry bright. Her teeth were like milk. The color still came and went in her brown cheeks, even as it did in Sun Cloud"s. All of which, in this heart of a wilderness, meant that she had been happy and prosperous. And he also loved to look at Sun Cloud, who possessed all of that rare wildflower beauty sometimes given to the northern Crees. And it did him good to look at Slim Buck. He was a splendid mate, and a royal father, and Jolly Roger found himself strangely happy in their happiness. In the eyes of men and women and little children he saw that happiness all about him. For three winters there had been splendid trapping, Slim Buck told him, and this season they had caught and dried enough fish to carry them through the following winter, even if black days should come. His people were rich.
They had many warm blankets, and good clothes, and the best of tepees and guns and sledges, and several treasures besides. Two of these Yellow Bird and her husband disclosed to Jolly Roger this first night.
One of them was a sewing machine, and the other--a phonograph! And Jolly Roger listened to "Mother Machree" and "The Rosary" that night as he sat by Wollaston Lake with six hundred miles of wilderness between him and Cragg"s Ridge.