No. The freedom he had it in his power to achieve for himself was not the freedom he sought. He would be alone, and he did not want to be alone. Solitude was something he abhorred. With his woman alive he had had the sort of partner with whom he could deal satisfactorily. He had been glad of her. She had been very useful. Somehow he felt the babe she had left behind her would also be some sort of companion. She would be a grievous burden. But——
The sea of woods claimed him again. They were limitless. They were forbidding. The mountains ... they were desperately lonesome. The winter, which had only just given way before the warmth of the new season, was one long nightmare of struggle for comfort, to keep the cold from his marrow, even to save life itself.
Yes. That crazy babe made for companionship. Besides, he liked the sound of her ridiculous crowing.
Pideau had no real understanding of the thing that was happening. Absorbed in a cold review of his own desires, he was without understanding of the subtle power with which Nature endows the weakness, the appealing helplessness of childhood. He had no realization that that dirty, dusky little life, from the very moment of its beginning, had been burrowing its way into the only really human spot which his savage soul possessed.
The half-breed kicked a stone with impotent impatience. He delved into a pocket in his rough tweed coat for his pipe. But he left it there. Then of a sudden he leaned down and lifted little Annette to his lap.
He would not destroy that life. He would keep his motherless babe. And queerly he found satisfaction that he would no longer have to share her with another—even her mother. She would be his—just his. And he would raise her somehow. But, in God’s name, how?
The tiny fingers seized his thick beard and tugged at it ruthlessly. The infant chuckled and made happy, inarticulate sounds. And Pideau laughed. He laughed outright.
The noon meal was over. The camp fire had been allowed to die down to smouldering ashes. The litter of Pideau’s activities lay scattered about. A plate had been flung aside unwashed. So, too, with a tin pannikin, and the cooking pot with its contents, sufficient to provide another meal or two. Then, near by, was an iron boiler half filled with soapy water, and beside it a little pile of the rags which had been removed from Annette’s body.
Pideau had spent a busy noon. Under his new-born resolve he had discovered new duties, which he had tackled in his naturally energetic way. He had eaten. And, having ministered to the comfort of his own stomach, he had done his best for the babe. New milk; rich, fat, creamy milk from his herd of stolen beasts. His understanding considered that milk was indicated. So forthwith he poured Annette’s rapidly expanding body as full of the creamy liquid as was conveniently possible.