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He paused, and Lawless spoke. “And when you have killed that puma, Pourcette–if you ever do-what then?”

Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up again before he replied.

“Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl–she is there with her father–and sell all the skins to the factor, and give her the money.” He waved his hand round the room. “There are many skins here, but I have more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour and bullets. A dog-team and a bois-brule bring them, and then I am alone as before. When all that is done I will come back.”

“And then, Pourcette?” said Shon.

“Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney where his gun is–and go out and kill more pumas. What else can one do? When I stop killing I shall be killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth the life of my friend.”

Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, the gun, the bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the skins. He got up, came over, and touched Pourcette on the shoulder.

“Little man,” he said, “give it up, and come with me. Come to Fort St. John, sell the skins, give the money to the girl, and then let us travel to the Barren Grounds together, and from there to the south country again. You will go mad up here. You have killed enough–Gawdor and many pumas. If Jo could speak, he would say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was my good friend before he was yours–mine and M’Gann’s here–and we searched for him to travel with us. He would have done so, I think, for we had sport and trouble of one kind and another together. And he would have asked you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven’t told you our names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this is Shon M’Gann.”

Pourcette nodded: “I do not know how it come to me, but I was sure from the first you are his friends. He speak often of you and of two others–where are they?”

Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, Shon hid his forehead in his hand, in a troubled way. “And you will come with us,” said Lawless, “away from this loneliness?”

“It is not lonely,” was the reply. “To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines–all music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas is my joy…. So, I cannot go. These hills are mine. Few strangers come, and none stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show you the way to the valley where the gold is. Perhaps riches is there, perhaps not, you shall find.”

Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. The old man had but one idea, and nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things–call it madness, what you will. In busy life we have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to go to the primeval hills and the wild plains for them. When we leave the hills and the plains, we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. He was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him if one day he could empty ample gold into his wife’s lap. Lawless was not greedy, but he and good gold were not at variance.

“See,” said Shon, “the valley’s the thing. We can hunt as we go, and if there’s gold for the scrapin’, why, there y’are–fill up and come again. If not, divil the harm done. So here’s thumbs up to go, say I. But I wish, Lawless, I wish that I’d niver known how Jo wint off, an’ I wish we were all t’gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley.”