which was
greater than all other things in his world. And in these days Jolly
Roger found in Peter's comradeship and growing understanding a
comforting outlet for the things which at times consumed him. Peter saw
it all--hours when Jolly Roger's voice and laughter filled the cabin
with cheer and happiness, and others when his face was set in grim
lines, with that hard, far-away look in his eyes that Peter could never
quite make out. It was at such times, when Jolly Roger held a choking
grip on the love in his heart, that he told Peter things which he had
never revealed to a human soul.

In the dusk of one evening, as he sat wet with the fording of the
creek, he said to Peter,

"We ought to go, Peter. We ought to pack up--and go tonight.
Because--sometimes I'm afraid of myself, _Pied-Bot_. I'd kill for her.
I'd die for her. I'd give up the whole world, and live in a prison
cell--if I could have her with me. And that's dangerous, Peter, because
we can't have her. It's impossible, boy. She doesn't guess why I'm
here. She doesn't know I've been outlawin' it for years, and that I'm
hiding here because the Police would never think of looking for Jolly
Roger McKay this close to civilization. If I told her, she would think
I was worse than Jed Hawkins, and she wouldn't believe me if I told her
I've outlawed with my wits instead of a gun, and that I've never
criminally hurt a person in my life. No, she wouldn't believe that,
Peter. And she--she cares for me, _Pied-Bot_. That's the hell of it! And
she's got faith in me, and would go with me to the Missioner's
tomorrow. I know it. I can see it, feel it, and I--"

His fingers tightened in the loose hide of Peter's neck.

"Peter," he whispered in the thickening darkness. "I believe there's a
God, but He's a different sort of God than most people believe in. He
lives in the trees out there, in the flowers, in the birds, the sky, in
everything--and I hope that God will strike me dead if I do what isn't
right with her, Peter! I do. I hope he strikes me dead!"

And that night Peter knew that Jolly Roger tossed about restlessly in
his bunk, and slept but little.

But the next morning he was singing, and the warm sun flooding over the
wilderness was not more cheerful than his voice as he cooked their
breakfast. That, to Peter, was the most puzzling thing about this man.
With gloom and oppression fastened upon him he would rise up suddenly,
and start whistling or singing, and once h