“We have been together, The Pigeon and I,” she said.  “We have slept in each other’s arms, and the warmth of her head has lain against my breast.  I have learned the secrets, Neekewa—­all but one.  The spirits will not tell me where lies the Country Beyond.  But it is not up there—­beyond the stars.  It is not in death, but in life you will find it.  That they have told me.  And you must not go back to where The Pigeon lives, for you will find black desolation there—­but always you must keep on and on, seeking for the Country Beyond.  You will find it.  And there also you will find The Pigeon—­and happiness.  You cannot fail, Neekewa, yet my heart stings me that I cannot tell you where that strange country is.  But when I came to it gold and silver clouds shut it in, and I could see nothing, and yet out of it came the singing of birds and the promise of sweet voices that it shall be found—­if you seek faithfully, Neekewa.  I am glad.”

Each word that she spoke in her soft and tremulous Cree was a new message of hope in the empty heart of Jolly Roger McKay.  The world might laugh.  Men might tap their heads and smile.  His own voice might argue and taunt.  But deep in his heart he believed.

Something of the radiance of the new day came into his face, even as it was returning into Yellow Bird’s.  He looked about him—­east, west, north and south—­upon the sunlit glory of water and earth, and suddenly he reached out his arms.

“I’ll find it, Yellow Bird,” he cried.  “I’ll find this place you call the Country Beyond!  And when I do—­”

He turned and took one of Yellow Bird’s slim hands in both his own.

“And when I do, we’ll come back to you, Yellow Bird,” he said.

And like a cavalier of old he touched his lips gently to the palm of Yellow Bird’s little brown hand.

CHAPTER XI

Days of new hope and gladness followed in the camp of Yellow Bird and Slim Buck.  It was as if McKay, after a long absence, had come back to his own people.  The tenderness of mother and sister lay warm in Yellow Bird’s breast.  Slim Buck loved him as a brother.  The wrinkled faces of the old softened when he came near and spoke to them; little children followed him, and at dusk and dawn Sun Cloud held up her mouth to be kissed.  For the first time in years McKay felt as if he had found home.  The northland Indian Summer held the world in its drowsy arms, and the sun-filled days and the starry nights seemed overflowing with the promise of all time.  Each day he put off his going until tomorrow, and each day Slim Buck urged him to remain with them always.

But in Yellow Bird’s eyes was a strange, quiet mystery, and she did not urge.  Each day and night she was watching—­and waiting.

And at last that for which she watched and waited came to pass.

It was night, a dark, still night with a creeping restlessness in it.  This restlessness was like the ghostly pulse of a great living body, still for a time, then moving, hiding, whispering between the clouds in the sky and the deeper shadowed earth below.  A night of uneasiness, of unseen forces chained and stifled, of impending doubt and oppressive lifelessness.