The Country Beyond | Page 2

vastness of the water, and at the
white gulls circling near him in quest of dead fish flung ashore. Peter was three months
old. Yesterday he had been a timid pup, shrinking from the bigness and strangeness of
everything about him; but today he had braved the lake trail on his own nerve, and
nothing had dared to come near him in spite of his yipping, so that a great courage and a
great desire were born in him.
Therefore, in returning, he had paused in the edge of a great clump of balsams and spruce,
and lay flat on his belly, his sharp little eyes leveled yearningly at the black mystery of its
deeper shadows. The bit of forest filled a cup-like depression in the plain, and was
possibly half a rifle-shot distance from end to end--but to Peter it was as vast as life itself.
And something urged him to go in.
And as he lay there, desire and indecision struggling for mastery within him, no power
could have told Peter that destinies greater than his own were working through the soul of
the dog that was in him, and that on his decision to go in or not to go in--on the triumph
of courage or cowardice--there rested the fates of lives greater than his own, of men, and
women, and of little children still unborn. A glass of wine once lost a kingdom, a nail
turned the tide of a mighty battle, and a woman's smile once upon a time destroyed the
homes of a million people. Thus have trivial things played their potent parts in the history
of human lives, yet these things Peter did not know--nor that his greatest hour had come.
At last he rose from his squatting posture, and stood upon his feet. He was not a beautiful
pup, this Peter Pied-Bot--or Peter Club-foot, as Jolly Roger McKay--who lived over in
the big cedar swamp--had named him when he gave Peter to the girl. He was, in a way,
an accident and a homely one at that. His father was a blue- blooded fighting Airedale
who had broken from his kennel long enough to commit a MESALLIANCE with a huge
big footed and peace- loving Mackenzie hound--and Peter was the result. He wore the
fiercely bristling whiskers of his Airedale father at the age of three months; his ears were
flappy and big, his tail was knotted, and his legs were ungainly and loose, with huge feet
at the end of them--so big and heavy that he stumbled frequently, and fell on his nose.
One pitied him at first--and then loved him. For Peter, in spite of his homeliness, had the
two best bloods of all dog creation in his veins. Yet in a way it was like mixing nitro-
glycerin with olive oil, or dynamite and saltpeter with milk and honey.
Peter's heart was thumping rapidly as he took a step toward the deeper shadows. He

swallowed hard, as if to clear a knot out of his scrawny throat. But he had made up his
mind. Something was compelling him, and he would go in. Slowly the gloom engulfed
him, and once again the whimsical spirit of fatalism had chosen a trivial thing to work out
its ends in the romance and tragedy of human lives.
Grim shadows began to surround Peter, and his ears shot up, and a scraggly brush stood
out along his spine. But he did not bark, as he had barked along the shore of the lake, and
in the green opens. Twice he looked back to the shimmer of sunshine that was growing
more and more indistinct. As long as he could see this, and knew that his retreat was open,
there still remained a bit of that courage which was swiftly ebbing in the thickening
darkness. But the third time he looked back the light of the sun was utterly gone! For an
instant the knot rose up in his throat and choked him, and his eyes popped, and grew like
little balls of fire in his intense desire to see through the gloom. Even the girl, who was
afraid of only one thing in the world, would have paused where Peter stood, with a little
quickening of her heart. For all the light of the day, it seemed to Peter, had suddenly died
out. Over his head the spruce and cedar and balsam tops grew so thick they were like a
canopy of night. Through them the snow never came in winter, and under them the light
of a blazing sun was only a ghostly twilight.
And now, as he stood there, his whole soul burning with a desire to see his way out, Peter
began to hear strange sounds. Strangest of all, and most