“Kroof!” she cried, in a tone of fierce command; and Kroof heeded her no more than if she had been the wind whispering. “Kroof! Kroof!” she cried again, in anguished appeal, in piercing terror, as the savage animal crept on. Dave did not turn his head, but he called down in a quiet voice: “Ye can’t do it this time, Mirandy. I guess it’s good-by now, for good!”
But Miranda’s face had suddenly set itself to stone. She snatched up the rifle. “Hold on!” she cried, and taking a careful, untrembling aim she pulled first one trigger, then the other, in such quick succession that the two reports came almost as one. Then she dropped the weapon, and stood staring wildly.
The bear’s body heaved convulsively for a moment, then seemed to fall together on the branch, clutching at it. A second later and it rolled off, with a leisurely motion, and came plunging downward, soft, massive, enormous. It struck the ground with a sobbing thud. Miranda gave a low cry at the sound, turned away, and leaned against the trunk of the hemlock. Her face was toward the tree, and hidden in the bend of her arm.
Dave knew now that all he had hoped for was his. Yet, after the first overwhelming, choking throb of exultation, his heart swelled with pity for the girl, with pity and immeasurable tenderness. He descended from his refuge, put on his hunting-shirt and belt, looked curiously at the empty rifle where it lay on the moss, and kicked the corded package of meat into a thicket. Then he went and stood close beside Miranda.
After a moment or two he laid an arm about her shoulders and touched her with his large hand, lightly firm. “Ye wonderful Mirandy,” he said, “you’ve give me life over agin! I ain’t a-goin’ to thank ye, though, till I know what ye’re goin’ to do with me. My life’s been jest all yours since first I seen ye a woman grown. What’ll ye do with the life ye’ve saved, Mirandy?”
He pressed her shoulder close against his heart, and leaned over, not quite daring to kiss the bronze-dark hair on which he breathed. The girl turned suddenly, with a sob, and caught hold of him, and hid her face in his breast. “Oh, Dave!” she cried, in a piteous voice, “take mother and me away from this place; I don’t want to live at the clearing any more. You’ve killed the old life I loved.” And she broke into a storm of tears.
Dave waited till she was quieter. Then he said: “If I’ve changed your life, Mirandy, ye’ve changed mine a sight, too. I’ll hunt and trap no more, dear, an’ the beasts’ll hev no more trouble ’long o’ me. We’ll sell the clearin’, an’ go ’way down onto the Meramichi, where I can git a good job surveyin’ lumber. I’m right smart at that. An’ I reckon—oh, I love ye, an’ I need ye, an’ I reckon I can make ye happy, ye wonderful Mirandy.”
The girl heard him through, then gently released herself from his arms. “You go an’ tell mother what I’ve done, Dave,” she said, in a steady voice, “and leave me here a little while with Kroof.”
That evening, after Miranda had returned to the cabin, Kirstie and Dave came with spades and a lantern to the beech tree by the pool. Where they could find room in the rocky soil, they dug a grave; and there they buried old Kroof deeply, that neither might the claws of the wolverine disturb her, nor any lure of spring suns waken her from her sleep.
PLYMOUTH
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, PRINTERS