ing, had no influence with him now. He was
thinking of Nada alone. She was back there, waiting for him, praying for
his return, ready and happy to become a fugitive with him--to accept her
chances of life or death, of happiness or grief, in his company. A dozen
times the determination to return for her almost won. But each time came
the other picture--a vision of ceaseless flight, of hiding, of hunger
and cold and never ending hardship, and at the last, inevitable as the
dawning of another day--prison, and possibly the hangman.

Not until late that afternoon did Peter see the old Jolly Roger in the
face of his master. And Jolly Roger said:

"We've made up our mind, Pied-Bot. We can't go back. We'll hit north and
spend the winter along the edge of the Barren Lands. It's the biggest
country 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 the
west.

For two days Jolly Roger and Peter paddled their way slowly up the
eastern shore of Wollaston. That he had correctly analyzed the mental
arguments which would guide Cassidy in his pursuit Jolly Roger had
little doubt. He would keep to the west shore, and up through the
Hatchet Lake and Black River waterways, as his quarry had never failed
to hit straight for the farther north in time of peril. Meanwhile Jolly
Roger had decided to make his way without haste up the east shore
of Wollaston, and paddle north and east through the Du Brochet and
Thiewiaza River waterways. If these courses were followed, each hour
would add to the distance between them, and when the way was safe they
would head straight for the Barren Lands.

Peter, and only Peter, sensed the glory of that third afternoon when
they paddled slowly ashore close to the shimmering stream of spring
water that was called Limping Moose Creek. The sun was still two hours
high 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, and
shoreward the world reached out in ridges and billows of tinted forests,
with a September haze pulsing softly over them, fleecy as the misty
shower of a lady's powder puff. It was destined to be a memorable
afternoon for Peter, a going down of the sun that he would never forget
as long as he lived.

Yet there was no warning of the thing impending, and his eyes saw only
the mystery and wonder of the big world, and his ears heard