and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the
gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were
altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet; for
after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton could
be seen running from the store to his house, not far away.

"Something's wrong there," said Pierre.

"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked Macavoy.

Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following.
As they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards
them.

Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on
before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was
with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many
children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, over
the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the wild
duck had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on the
floor.

The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A
cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and a
part of this part had swept down into the path that led to the little
house, having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. It
blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was creeping
up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and her children
waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death below and
above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplicity. The