r him on all sides of him, there had been
_life_. And tonight there was no life, nor smell of life. There was no
chirp of night bird, or flutter of owl's wing, no plash of duck or cry
of loon. He listened in vain for the crinkling snap of twig, and the
whisper of wind in treetops. And there was no smell--no musk of mink
that had crossed his path, no taste in the air of the strong scented
fox, no subtle breath of partridge and rabbit and fleshy porcupine. And
even from the far distances there came no sound, no howl of wolf, no
castanet clatter of stout moose horns against bending saplings--not
even the howl of a trapper's dog.

The stillness was of the earth, and yet unearthly. It was even as if
some fearsome thing was smothering the sound of his master's feet. To
McKay, sensing these same things that Peter sensed, came understanding
that brought with it an uneasiness which changed swiftly into the chill
of a growing fear. The utter lifelessness told him how vast the
destruction of the fire had been. Its obliteration was so great no life
had adventured back into the desolated country, though the
conflagration must have passed in the preceding autumn, many months
ago. The burned country was a grave and the nearest edge of it, judged
from the sepulchral stillness of the night, was many miles away.

For the first time came the horror of the thought that in such a fire
as this people must have died. It had swept upon them like a tidal
wave, galloping the forests with the speed of a race horse, with only
this thin line of rail leading to the freedom of life outside. In
places only a miracle could have made escape possible. And here, where
Nada had lived, with the pitch-wood forests crowding close, the fire
must have burned most fiercely. In this moment, when fear of the
unspeakable set his heart trembling, his faith fastened itself grimly
to the little old gray Missioner, Father John, in whose cabin Nada had
taken refuge many months ago, when Jed Hawkins lay dead in the trail
with his one-eyed face turned up to the thunder and lightning in the
sky. Father John, on that stormy night when he fled north, had promised
to care for Nada, and in silence he breathed a prayer that the
Missioner had saved her from the red death that had swept like an
avalanche upon them. He told himself it must be so. He cried out the
words aloud, and Peter heard him, and followed closer, so that his head
touched his master's leg as he walked.

But