civilization. If I told her, she would think I was worse than Jed
Hawkins, and she wouldn't believe me if I told her I've outlawed
with my wits instead of a gun, and that I've never criminally hurt
a person in my life. No, she wouldn't believe that, Peter. And
she--she cares for me, Pied-Bot. That's the hell of it! And she's
got faith in me, and would go with me to the Missioner's tomorrow.
I know it. I can see it, feel it, and I--"

His fingers tightened in the loose hide of Peter's neck.

"Peter," he whispered in the thickening darkness. "I believe
there's a God, but He's a different sort of God than most people
believe in. He lives in the trees out there, in the flowers, in
the birds, the sky, in everything--and I hope that God will strike
me dead if I do what isn't right with her, Peter! I do. I hope he
strikes me dead!"

And that night Peter knew that Jolly Roger tossed about restlessly
in his bunk, and slept but little

But the next morning he was singing, and the warm sun flooding
over the wilderness was not more cheerful than his voice as he
cooked their breakfast. That, to Peter, was the most puzzling
thing about this man. With gloom and oppression fastened upon him
he would rise up suddenly, and start whistling or singing, and
once he said to Peter,

"I take my cue from the sun, Peter Clubfoot. It's always shining,
no matter if the clouds are so thick underneath that we can't see
it. A laugh never hurts a man, unless he's got a frozen lung."