With a scream the girl tore at him as his arm straightened out, and Peter went hurtling through the air.  Her stick struck him fiercely across the face, and in that same moment there was a sickening, crushing thud as Peter’s loosely-jointed little body struck against the face of the great rock.  When Nada turned Peter was groveling in the sand, his hips and back broken down, but his bright eyes were on her, and without a whimper or a whine he was struggling to drag himself toward her.  Only Jolly Roger could tell the story of how Peter’s mother had died for a woman, and in this moment it must have been that her spirit entered into Peter’s soul, for the pain of his terrible hurt was forgotten in his desire to drag himself back to the feet of the girl, and die facing her enemy—­the man.  He did not know that he was dragging his broken body only an inch at a time through the sand.  But the girl saw the terrible truth, and with a cry of agony which all of Hawkin’s torture could not have wrung from her she ran to him, and fell upon her knees, and gathered him tenderly in her arms.  Then, in a flash, she was on her feet, facing Jed Hawkins like a little demon.

“For that—­I’ll kill you!” she panted.  “I will.  I’ll kill you!”

The blow of her stick had half blinded the bootlegger’s one eye, but he was coming toward her.  Swift as a bird Nada turned and ran, and as the man’s footsteps crunched in the gravel and rock behind her a wild fear possessed her—­fear for Peter, and not for herself.  Very soon Hawkins was left behind, cursing at the futility of the pursuit, and at the fate that had robbed him of an eye.

Down the coulee and out into the green meadowland of the plain ran Nada, her hair streaming brightly in the sun, her arms clutching Peter to her breast.  Peter was whimpering now, crying softly and piteously, just as once upon a time she had heard a baby cry—­a little baby that was dying.  And her soul cried out in agony, for she knew that Peter, too, was dying.  And as she stumbled onward—­ on toward the black forest, she put her face down to Peter and sobbed over and over again his name.

“Peter—­Peter—­Peter—­”

And Peter, joyous and grateful for her love and the sound of her voice even in these moments, thrust out his tongue and caressed her cheek, and the girl’s breath came in a great sob as she staggered on.

“It’s all right now, Peter,” she crooned.  “It’s all right, baby.  He won’t hurt you any more, an’ we’re goin’ across the creek to Mister Roger’s cabin, an’ you’ll be happy there.  You’ll be happy—­ "

Her voice choked full, and her mother-heart seemed to break inside her, just as life had gone out of that other mother’s heart when the baby died.  For their grief, in God’s reckoning of things, was the same; and little Peter, sensing the greatness of this thing that had made them one in flesh and blood, snuggled his wiry face closer in her neck, crying softly to her, and content to die there close to the warmth of the creature he loved.