“Look,” he said, “it is the very tree that made a bridge for us to cross the creek when it was in flood. Here are even the marks where the bullets cut the bark.”
It had been washed ashore and lay now, one end frozen in the ice, one high and dry upon the bank. Here it would lie for years to come, peaceful and undisturbed, the sun hot upon it, fishes darting about its outer end, the turtles climbing up to bask in the noonday summer heat. So it would lie, unmindful of the part it had played in the events of that stirring night, lie until the valley of the Promised Land was settled, until Oscar’s road, white and travel-worn, lay slanting across the hills to bear the gifts of the new country to the old. It would fall slowly into decay and the sharp hoof of the last of the wild deer or giant moose, coming down to drink, would stamp it into powder in the end. For the close of the struggle had come and peace had settled over the domain of the Pirate of Jasper Peak.
“You will stay to help us?” Oscar was saying.
