As they sat there before the fire, the three of them, Gordon Duncan took from his pocket a small, well worn volume. After thumbing its pages for a moment, he found a place and began to read. The words of a very ancient poet, who had learned centuries ago to place his trust in a power that was higher and greater than all earthly things, came from the lips of the venerable Scot like a benediction.
When at last he closed the book and lifted his voice in petition, it was as if they were savages, children of nature, an old man, a girl and a boy, as if the earth were new again and they were asking the All Seeing One to send caribou, rabbit and ptarmigan, to withhold the cunning of the wolf and the power of the bear, to hold the bitter north wind in check and send the gentle south wind to fan their cheeks.
When it was over, when the old man and the girl had retired to their frail shelter for the night, and Johnny had wrapped himself in blankets before the fire of pine logs, he felt within him a glow of warmth and a sense of security such as he had not experienced before in all his wanderings.
The next day a strange discovery was made. A fresh mystery pressed itself upon them. In the unraveling of this mystery, Faye Duncan was to take a fair part.
CHAPTER III
THE KNIFE IN THE TREE
Next morning as they sat munching corn bread and strips of caribou broiled on the coals, Gordon Duncan put down his coffee cup and turned to Johnny.
“Young man,” he began, “in the home of my childhood on the crags of the Scottish Highlands, the word stranger spelled welcome. Here we have no home worthy of the name. Even this we are leaving for the unknown that lies just beyond. Your way leads down the river; or if you can so shape your course that it may be so, we would be glad to have you join us.”
There was a gentleness and a warmth in the old man’s tone that went to the boy’s heart. Before making reply, however, he turned toward the girl. At once he was rewarded by that frank and friendly smile.
“I am going nowhere in particular,” he said. “I am thankful for human companionship, more thankful than I can tell. Yesterday I was in a bad way. It may be that you have come between me and starvation. I should be ungrateful indeed did I not remain with you with a hope that I might in some way repay your kindness.”
“Young man,” in Gordon Duncan’s eyes shone a gleam of light, “in this world one seldom repays a kindness, an act of courtesy or a friendly lift along the way, but one may always pass it on to some other member of the great human family. He—but we are talking too long. The trail beckons.”