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[212] 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[213] 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[214] 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[215] 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[216] 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[217] 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[218] 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[219] 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,[220] 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,[221] 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.
[222]
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.
[223]
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.
[224]
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[225] 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[226] 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.
