Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here. Novaya Jezn. Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight and true—to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been. Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory of that prayer.
Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And how long must——?
A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and called out,
"Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?"
Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little louder now and from directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement.
"Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him.
And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the tree.
"Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply.
And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him. After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter.
Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that he did not speak.