Pete stood beside the ashes, searching mother's face with his slow brooding eyes. Her burning rage was gone, and she was afraid, for now she thought too late of all his loving pride in the work, the greatness of the thing which his knowledge and skill had made. That she had burned. Understanding how love had made this blunder, Pete said no word. He only knew that Bolt had paid him seven hundred dollars in cash and kind, which must be returned. In silence he turned away, and once more faced the terrible hill which led to the Hundred Mile House.
* * * * * *
The spring was in my blood, and I could not sleep. Can any creature sleep when the spring's sweet restless air calls to all nature? The bears were about again after their winter sleep, busy with last year's berries. The deer were feasting on new grass down in the lowlands, the wolverines and cougar were sneaking homeward after the night's hunting. Even the little birds were coming back to the north, for now and again as I strolled along the road I would hear a sleepy twitter. "Isn't it dawn yet?" "Not yet, have another nap." So I came to the brow of the great hill whence I should see the dawn.
Down in the lower country, on every pool the water-fowl lay abed, each, from the biggest goose to the littlest teal, with its head tucked under cover of a wing, and one quaint eye cocked up to catch the glint of dawn. A wan light was spreading in the northeastern sky, and presently the snowy brow of the hill revealed its wrinkled front, its frozen runnels. The sentinels of the wild fowl saw that first gleam of coming day, called the reveille along from pool to pool, roused thunder of innumerable wings, marshaled their echelons in soaring hosts, and broke away in the northward flight of spring. Far in the east a lone moose trumpeted.
I was turning back refreshed toward my duty, when I heard something moan. The sound came from underneath a pine tree, the one at the very top of the long climb which Pete had blazed with his inscription, "Got thar." With my heart in my mouth I went to find out what was the matter, and so discovered the old cargador crouched down against the trunk.
"Pete," I asked in a very shaky voice, "what on earth's the matter?"
"Dying, mum."
"But it's too damp here. Why, you'll catch your death of cold."
"That would never do. Say, mum, how's Bolt?"
"Oh, ever so much better."