He was not the plump and rosy-faced wilderness freebooter who whistled and sang away down at Cragg's Ridge even when he knew the Law was at his heels.

The steadiness of their flight had thinned him, and a graver look had settled in his face.

But in his clear eyes was still the love of life--a thing even stronger than the grief which was eating at his heart as their trail reached steadily toward the Barren Lands.
In the sunset glow of this late afternoon Peter's watchful eyes saw his master draw forth their treasure.
It was something he had come to look for, and expect--once, twice, and sometimes half a dozen times between the rising and the setting of the sun.

And at night, when they paused in their flight for the day, Jolly Roger never failed to do what he was doing now.

Peter drew nearer to where his master was sitting with his back to the big rock, and his eyes glistened.