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diff --git a/2795-h/2795-h.htm b/2795-h/2795-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d41196e --- /dev/null +++ b/2795-h/2795-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12485 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Bob, Son of Battle, by Alfred Ollivant + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bob, Son of Battle, by Alfred Ollivant + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Bob, Son of Battle + +Author: Alfred Ollivant + +Release Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2795] +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOB, SON OF BATTLE *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + BOB, SON OF BATTLE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Alfred Ollivant + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_PART"> PART I. </a> <b>THE COMING OF + THE TAILLESS TYKE</b> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter I. + </a> THE GRAY DOG <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter + II. </a> A SON OF HAGAR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> + Chapter III. </a> RED WULL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> + Chapter IV. </a> FIRST BLOOD <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_PART2"> + PART II. </a> <b>THE LITTLE MAN</b> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter V. </a> A MAN'S SON <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter VI. </a> A LICKING OR A LIE + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter VII. </a> THE + WHITE WINTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter VIII. </a> M'ADAM + AND HIS COAT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART III. </a> <b>THE + SHEPHERDS' TROPHY</b> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter IX. + </a> RIVALS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter X. + </a> RED WULL WINS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> + Chapter XI. </a> OOR BOB <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> + Chapter XII. </a> HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter XIII. </a> THE FACE IN THE + FRAME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_PART4"> PART IV. </a> <b>THE + BLACK KILLER</b> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter XIV. </a> A + MAD MAN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter XV. </a> DEATH + ON THE MARCHES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter XVI. </a> THE + BLACK KILLER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter XVII. </a> A + MAD DOG <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter XVIII. </a> HOW + THE KILLER WAS SINGED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter XIX. + </a> LAD AND LASS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter + XX. </a> THE SNAPPING OF THE STRING <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter XXI. </a> HORROR OF DARKNESS + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_PART5"> PART V. </a> <b>OWD BOB O' + KENMUIR</b> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter XXII. </a> A + MAN AND A MAID <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter XXIII. </a> TH' + OWD UN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter XXIV. </a> A + SHOT IN THE NIGHT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter XXV. </a> THE + SHEPHERDS' TROPHY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_PART6"> PART VI. </a> <b>THE + BLACK KILLER</b> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter XXVI. </a> RED-HANDED + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter XXVII. </a> FOR + THE DEFENCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> Chapter XXVIII. </a> THE + DEVIL'S BOWL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> Chapter XXIX. </a> THE + DEVIL'S BOWL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> Chapter XXX. </a> THE + TAILLESS TYKE AT BAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> POSTSCRIPT. + </a> <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter I. THE GRAY DOG + </h2> + <p> + THE sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse lying, long and low in + the shadow of the Muir Pike; on the ruins of peel-tower and barmkyn, + relics of the time of raids, it looked; on ranges of whitewashed + outbuildings; on a goodly array of dark-thatched ricks. + </p> + <p> + In the stack-yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men were + thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the other stood + perched on a ladder at a lower level. + </p> + <p> + The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut-brown countenance, was Tammas + Thornton, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for more than half a + century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped apparently in gloomy + meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales—man, he, with huge hands + and hairy arms; about his face an uncomely aureole of stiff, red hair; and + on his features, deep-seated, an expression of resolute melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!” the old man was saying. “Yo' canna beat + 'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I have, and niver knew + a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on 'em cooms up to Rex son o' + Rally. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! We's never won Cup since his day.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor niver shall agin, yo' may depend,” said the other gloomily. + </p> + <p> + Tammas clucked irritably. + </p> + <p> + “G'long, Sam'! Todd!” he cried, “Yo' niver happy onless yo' making' + yo'self miser'ble. I niver see sich a chap. Niver win agin? Why, oor young + Bob he'll mak' a right un, I tell yo', and I should know. Not as what + he'll touch Rex son o' Rally, mark ye! I'm niver saying' so, Sam'l Todd. + Ah, he was a one, was Rex! I could tell yo' a tale or two o' Rex. I mind + me hoo—” + </p> + <p> + The big man interposed hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard it afore, Tammas, I welly 'ave,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Tammas paused and looked angrily up. + </p> + <p> + “Yo've heard it afore, have yo', Sam'l Todd?” he asked sharply. “And what + have yo' heard afore?” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' stories, owd lad—yo' stories o' Rex son o' Rally.” + </p> + <p> + “Which on' em + </p> + <p> + “All on 'em, Tammas, all on 'em—mony a time. I'm fair sick on 'em, + Tammas, I welly am,” he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + The old man gasped. He brought down his mallet with a vicious smack. + </p> + <p> + “I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin, Sam'l Todd, not if yo' was to go on yo' + bended knees for't. Nay; it bain't no manner o' use talkin'. Niver agin, + says I.” + </p> + <p> + “I niver askt yo',” declared honest Sam'l. + </p> + <p> + “Nor it wouldna ha' bin no manner o' use if yo' had,” said the other + viciously. “I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin if I was to live to be a + hunderd.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo'll not live to be a hunderd, Tammas Thornton, nor near it,” said Sam'l + brutally. + </p> + <p> + “I'll live as long as some, I warrant,” the old man replied with spirit. + “I'll live to see Cup back i' Kenmuir, as I said afore.” + </p> + <p> + “If yo' do,” the other declared with emphasis, “Sam'l Todd niver spake a + true word. Nay, nay, lad; yo're owd, yo're wambly, your time's near run or + I'm the more mistook.” + </p> + <p> + “For mussy's sake hold yo' tongue, Sam'l Todd! It's clack-clack all day—” + The old man broke off suddenly, and buckled to his work with suspicious + vigor. “Mak' a show yo' bin workin', lad,” he whispered. “Here's Master + and oor Bob.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, a tall gaitered man with weather-beaten face, strong, lean, + austere, and the blue-gray eyes of the hill-country, came striding into + the yard. And trotting soberly at his heels, with the gravest, saddest + eyes ever you saw, a sheep-dog puppy. + </p> + <p> + A rare dark gray he was, his long coat, dashed here and there with lighter + touches, like a stormy sea moonlit. Upon his chest an escutcheon of purest + white, and the dome of his head showered, as it were, with a sprinkling of + snow. Perfectly compact, utterly lithe, inimitably graceful with his + airy-fairy action; a gentleman every inch, you could not help but stare at + him—Owd Bob o' Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the ladder the two stopped. And the young dog, placing his + forepaws on a lower rung, looked up, slowly waving his silvery brush. + </p> + <p> + “A proper Gray Dog!” mused Tammas, gazing down into the dark face beneath + him. “Small, yet big; light to get about on backs o' his sheep, yet not + too light. Wi' a coat hard a-top to keep oot Daleland weather, soft as + sealskin beneath. And wi' them sorrerful eyes on him as niver goes but wi' + a good un. Amaist he minds me o' Rex son o' Rally.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” groaned Sam'l. But the old man heard him not. + </p> + <p> + “Did 'Enry Farewether tell yo' hoo he acted this mornin', Master?” he + inquired, addressing the man at the foot of the ladder. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said the other, his stern eyes lighting. + </p> + <p> + “Why, 'twas this way, it seems,” Tammas continued. “Young bull gets + 'isseif loose, somegate and marches oot into yard, o'erturns milkpail, and + prods owd pigs i' ribs. And as he stands lookin' about un, thinking' what + he shall be up to next, oor Bob sees un 'An' what yo' doin' here, Mr. + Bull?' he seems to say, cockin' his ears and trottin' up gay-like. Wi' + that bull bloats fit to bust 'isseif, lashes wi's tail, waggles his head, + and gets agate o' chargin' 'im. But Bob leaps oot o' way, quick as + lightnin' yet cool as butter, and when he's done his foolin drives un back + agin.” + </p> + <p> + “Who seed all this?” interposed Sam'l, sceptically. + </p> + <p> + “'Enry Farewether from the loft. So there, Fat'ead!” Tammas replied, and + continued his tale. “So they goes on; bull chargin' and Bob drivin' un + back and back, hoppin' in and oot agin, quiet as a cowcumber, yet + determined. At last Mr. Bull sees it's no manner o' use that gate, so he + turns, rares up, and tries to jump wall. Nary a bit. Young dog jumps in on + un and nips him by tail. Wi' that, bull tumbles down in a hurry, turns wi' + a kind o' groan, and marches back into stall, Bob after un. And then, dang + me!”—the old man beat the ladder as he loosed off this last titbit,—“if + he doesna sit' isseif i' door like a sentrynel till 'Enry Farewether coom + up. Hoo's that for a tyke not yet a year?” + </p> + <p> + Even Sam'l Todd was moved by the tale. + </p> + <p> + “Well done, oor Bob!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Good, lad!” said the Master, laying a hand on the dark head at his knee. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' may well say that,” cried Tammas in a kind of ecstasy. “A proper Gray + Dog, I tell yo'. Wi' the brains of a man and the way of a woman. Ah, yo' + canna beat 'em nohow, the Gray Dogs o' Kenmuir!” + </p> + <p> + The patter of cheery feet rang out on the plank-bridge over the stream + below them. Tammas glanced round. + </p> + <p> + “Here's David,” he said. “Late this mornin' he be.” + </p> + <p> + A fair-haired boy came spurring up the slope, his face all aglow with the + speed of his running. Straightway the young dog dashed off to meet him + with a fiery speed his sober gait belied. The two raced back together into + the yard. + </p> + <p> + “Poor lad!” said Sam'l gloomily, regarding the newcomer. + </p> + <p> + “Poor heart!” muttered Tammas. While the Master's face softened visibly. + Yet there looked little to pity in this jolly, rocking lad with the tousle + of light hair and fresh, rosy countenance. + </p> + <p> + “G'mornin', Mister Moore! Morn'n, Tammas! Morn'n, Sam'l!” he panted as he + passed; and ran on through the hay-carpeted yard, round the corner of the + stable, and into the house. + </p> + <p> + In the kitchen, a long room with red-tiled floor and latticed windows, a + woman, white-aproned and frail-faced, was bustling about her morning + business. To her skirts clung a sturdy, bare-legged boy; while at the oak + table in the centre of the room a girl with brown eyes and straggling hair + was seated before a basin of bread and milk. + </p> + <p> + “So yo've coom at last, David!” the woman cried, as the boy entered; and, + bending, greeted him with a tender, motherly salutation, which he returned + as affectionately. “I welly thowt yo'd forgot us this mornin'. Noo sit + you' doon beside oor Maggie.” And soon he, too, was engaged in a task twin + to the girl's. + </p> + <p> + The two children munched away in silence, the little bare-legged boy + watching them, the while, critically. Irritated by this prolonged stare, + David at length turned on him. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, little Andrew,” he said, speaking in that paternal fashion in which + one small boy loves to address another. “Weel, ma little lad, yo'm coomin' + along gradely.” He leant back in his chair the better to criticise his + subject. But Andrew, like all the Moores, slow of speech, preserved a + stolid silence, sucking a chubby thumb, and regarding his patron a thought + cynically. + </p> + <p> + David resented the expression on the boy's countenance, and half rose to + his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' put another face on yo', Andrew Moore,” he cried threateningly, “or + I'll put it for yo'.” + </p> + <p> + Maggie, however, interposed opportunely. + </p> + <p> + “Did yo' feyther beat yo' last night?” she inquired in a low voice; and + there was a shade of anxiety in the soft brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” the boy answered; “he was a-goin' to, but he never did. Drunk,” he + added in explanation. + </p> + <p> + “What was he goin' to beat yo' for, David?” asked Mrs. Moore. + </p> + <p> + “What for? Why, for the fun o't—to see me squiggle,” the boy + replied, and laughed bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' shouldna speak so o' your dad, David,” reproved the other as severely + as was in her nature. + </p> + <p> + “Dad! a fine dad! I'd dad him an I'd the chance,” the boy muttered beneath + his breath. Then, to turn the conversation: + </p> + <p> + “Us should be startin', Maggie,” he said, and going to the door. “Bob! Owd + Bob, lad! Ar't coomin' along?” he called. + </p> + <p> + The gray dog came springing up like an antelope, and the three started off + for school together. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Moore stood in the doorway, holding Andrew by the hand, and watched + the departing trio. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis a pretty pair, Master, surely,” she said softly to her husband, who + came up at the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, he'll be a fine lad if his fether'll let him,” the tall man answered. + </p> + <p> + “Tis a shame Mr. M'Adam should lead him such a life,” the woman continued + indignantly. She laid a hand on her husband's arm, and looked up at him + coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + “Could yo' not say summat to un, Master, think 'ee? Happen he'd 'tend to + you,” she pleaded. For Mrs. Moore imagined that there could be no one but + would gladly heed what James Moore, Master of Kenmuir, might say to him. + “He's not a bad un at bottom, I do believe,” she continued. “He never took + on so till his missus died. Eh, but he was main fond o' her.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband shook his head “Nay, mother,” he said “'Twould nob' but mak' + it worse for t' lad. M'Adam'd listen to no one, let alone me.” And, + indeed, he was right; for the tenant of the Grange made no secret of his + animosity for his straight-going, straight-speaking neighbor. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Owd Bob, in the mean time, had escorted the children to the larch-copse + bordering on the lane which leads to the village. Now he crept stealthily + back to the yard, and established himself behind the water-butt. + </p> + <p> + How he played and how he laughed; how he teased old Whitecap till that + gray gander all but expired of apoplexy and impotence; how he ran the roan + bull-calf, and aroused the bitter wrath of a portly sow, mother of many, + is of no account. + </p> + <p> + At last, in the midst of his merry mischief-making, a stern voice arrested + him. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad, I see 'tis time we larned you yo' letters.” + </p> + <p> + So the business of life began for that dog of whom the simple farmer-folk + of the Daleland still love to talk,—Bob, son of Battle, last of the + Gray Dogs of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter II. A SON OF HAGAR + </h2> + <p> + It is a lonely country, that about the Wastrel-dale. + </p> + <p> + Parson Leggy Hornbut will tell you that his is the smallest church in the + biggest parish north of the Derwent, and that his cure numbers more square + miles than parishioners. Of fells and ghylls it consists, of becks and + lakes; with here a scattered hamlet and there a solitary hill sheep-farm. + It is a country in which sheep are paramount; and every other Dalesman is + engaged in that profession which is as old as Abel. And the talk of the + men of the land is of wethers and gimmers, of tup-hoggs, ewe tegs in wool, + and other things which are but fearsome names to you and me; and always of + the doings or misdoings, the intelligence or stupidity, of their + adjutants, the sheep-dogs. + </p> + <p> + Of all the Daleland, the country from the Black Water to Grammoch Pike is + the wildest. Above the tiny stone-built village of Wastrel-dale the Muir + Pike nods its massive head. Westward, the desolate Mere Marches, from + which the Sylvesters' great estate derives its name, reach away in mile on + mile of sheep infested, wind-swept moorland. On the far side of the + Marches is that twin dale where flows the gentle Silver Lea. And it is + there in the paddocks at the back of the Dalesman's Daughter, that, in the + late summer months, the famous sheep-dog Trials of the North are held. + There that the battle for the Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds' Trophy, + is fought out. + </p> + <p> + Past the little inn leads the turnpike road to the market-centre of the + district—Grammoch-town. At the bottom of the paddocks at the back of + the inn winds the Silver Lea. Just there a plank bridge crosses the + stream, and, beyond, the Murk Muir Pass crawls up the sheer side of the + Scaur on to the Mere Marches. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the Pass, before it debouches on to those lonely + sheep-walks which divide the two dales, is that hollow, shuddering with + gloomy possibilities, aptly called the Devil's Bowl. In its centre the + Lone Tarn, weirdly suggestive pool, lifts its still face to the sky. It + was beside that black, frozen water, across whose cold surface the storm + was swirling in white snow-wraiths, that, many, many years ago (not in + this century), old Andrew Moore came upon the mother of the Gray Dogs of + Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + In the North, every one who has heard of the Muir Pike—and who has + not?—has heard of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir, every one who has heard + of the Shepherd's Trophy—and who has not?—knows their fame. In + that country of good dogs and jealous masters the pride of place has long + been held unchallenged. Whatever line may claim to follow the Gray Dogs + always lead the van. And there is a saying in the land: “Faithfu' as the + Moores and their tykes.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On the top dresser to the right of the fireplace in the kitchen of Kenmuir + lies the family Bible. At the end you will find a loose sheet—the + pedigree of the Gray Dogs; at the beginning, pasted on the inside, an + almost similar sheet, long since yellow with age—the family register + of the Moores of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + Running your eye down the loose leaf, once, twice, and again it will be + caught by a small red cross beneath a name, and under the cross the one + word “Cup.” Lastly, opposite the name of Rex son of Rally, are two of + those proud, tell-tale marks. The cup referred to is the renowned Dale Cup—Champion + Challenge Dale Cup, open to the world. Had Rex won it but once again the + Shepherds' Trophy, which many men have lived to win, and died still + striving after, would have come to rest forever in the little gray house + below the Pike. + </p> + <p> + It was not to be, however. Comparing the two sheets, you read beneath the + dog's name a date and a pathetic legend; and on the other sheet, written + in his son's boyish hand, beneath the name of Andrew Moore the same date + and the same legend. + </p> + <p> + From that day James Moore, then but a boy, was master of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + So past Grip and Rex and Rally, and a hundred others, until at the foot of + the page you come to that last name—Bob, son of Battle. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + From the very first the young dog took to his work in a manner to amaze + even James Moore. For a while he watched his mother, Meg, at her business, + and with that seemed to have mastered the essentials of sheep tactics. + </p> + <p> + Rarely had such fiery élan been seen on the sides of the Pike; and with it + the young dog combined a strange sobriety, an admirable patience, that + justified, indeed, the epithet. “Owd.” Silent he worked, and resolute; and + even in those days had that famous trick of coaxing the sheep to do his + wishes;—blending, in short, as Tammas put it, the brains of a man + with the way of a woman. + </p> + <p> + Parson Leggy, who was reckoned the best judge of a sheep or sheep-dog + 'twixt Tyne and Tweed, summed him up in the one word “Genius.” And James + Moore himself, cautious man, was more than pleased. + </p> + <p> + In the village, the Dalesmen, who took a personal pride in the Gray Dogs + of Kenmuir, began to nod sage heads when “oor” Bob was mentioned. Jim + Mason, the postman, whose word went as far with the villagers as Parson + Leggy's with the gentry, reckoned he'd never seen a young un as so took + his fancy. + </p> + <p> + That winter it grew quite the recognized thing, when they had gathered of + a night round the fire in the Sylvester Arms, with Tammas in the centre, + old Jonas Maddox on his right, Rob Saunderson of the Holt on the left, and + the others radiating away toward the sides, for some one to begin with: + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what o' oor Bob, Mr. Thornton?” + </p> + <p> + To which Tammas would always make reply: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yo' ask Sam'l there. He'll tell yo' better'n me, “—and would + forthwith plunge, himself, into a yarn. + </p> + <p> + And the way in which, as the story proceeded, Tupper of Swinsthwaite + winked at Ned Hoppin of Fellsgarth, and Long Kirby, the smith, poked Jem + Burton, the publican, in the ribs, and Sexton Ross said, “Ma word, lad!” + spoke more eloquently than many words. + </p> + <p> + One man only never joined in the chorus of admiration. Sitting always + alone in the background, little M'Adam would listen with an incredulous + grin on his sallow face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ma certes! The devil's in the dog! It's no cannie ava!” he would + continually exclaim, as Tammas told his tale. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In the Daleland you rarely see a stranger's face. Wandering in the wild + country about the twin dales at the time of this story, you might have met + Parson Leggy, striding along with a couple of varmint terriers at his + heels, and young Cyril Gilbraith, whom he was teaching to tie flies and + fear God, beside him; or Jim Mason, postman by profession, poacher by + predilection, honest man and sportsman by nature, hurrying along with the + mail-bags on his shoulder, a rabbit in his pocket, and the faithful Betsy + a yard behind. Besides these you might have hit upon a quiet shepherd and + a wise-faced dog; Squire Sylvester, going his rounds upon a sturdy cob; + or, had you been lucky, sweet Lady Eleanour bent upon some errand of mercy + to one of the many tenants. + </p> + <p> + It was while the Squire's lady was driving through the village on a visit* + to Tammas's slobbering grandson—it was shortly after Billy + Thornton's advent into the world—that little M'Adam, standing in the + door of the Sylvester Arms, with a twig in his mouth and a sneer fading + from his lips, made his ever-memorable remark: + </p> + <p> + “Sall!” he said, speaking in low, earnest voice; “'tis a muckle wumman.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Note:* It was this visit which figured in the Grammoch-town + <i>Argus</i> (local and radical) under the heading of “Alleged + Wholesale Corruption by Tory Agents.” And that is why, on + the following market day, Herbert Trotter, journalist, + erstwhile gentleman, and Secretary of the Dale Trials, found + himself trying to swim in the public horse-trough. +</pre> + <p> + “What? What be sayin', mon?” cried old Jonas, startled out of his usual + apathy. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam turned sharply on the old man. + </p> + <p> + “I said the wumman wears a muckle hat!” he snapped. + </p> + <p> + Blotted out as it was, the observation still remains—a tribute of + honest admiration. Doubtless the Recording Angel did not pass it by. That + one statement anent the gentle lady of the manor is the only personal + remark ever credited to little M'Adam not born of malice and all + uncharitableness. And that is why it is ever memorable. + </p> + <p> + The little Scotsman with the sardonic face had been the tenant of the + Grange these many years; yet he had never grown acclimatized to the land + of the Southron. With his shrivelled body and weakly legs he looked among + the sturdy, straight-limbed sons of the hill-country like some brown, + wrinkled leaf holding its place midst a galaxy of green. And as he + differed from them physically, so he did morally. + </p> + <p> + He neither understood them nor attempted to. The North-country character + was an unsolved mystery to him, and that after ten years' study. “One-half + o' what ye say they doot, and they let ye see it; t'ither half they + disbelieve, and they tell ye so,” he once said. And that explained his + attitude toward them, and consequently theirs toward him. + </p> + <p> + He stood entirely alone; a son of Hagar, mocking. His sharp, ill tongue + was rarely still, and always bitter. There was hardly a man in the land, + from Langholm How to the market-cross in Grammoch-town, but had at one + time known its sting, endured it in silence—for they are slow of + speech, these men of the fells and meres—and was nursing his + resentment till a day should bring that chance which always comes. And + when at the Sylvester Arms, on one of those rare occasions when M'Adam was + not present, Tammas summed up the little man in that historic phrase of + his, “When he's drunk he's wi'lent, and when he bain't he's wicious,” + there was an applause to gratify the blasé heart of even Tammas Thornton. + </p> + <p> + Yet it had not been till his wife's death that the little man had allowed + loose rein to his ill-nature. With her firmly gentle hand no longer on the + tiller of his life, it burst into fresh being. And alone in the world with + David, the whole venom of his vicious temperament was ever directed + against the boy's head. It was as though he saw in his fair-haired son the + unconscious cause of his ever-living sorrow. All the more strange this, + seeing that, during her life, the boy had been to poor Flora M'Adam as her + heart's core. And the lad was growing up the very antithesis of his + father. Big and hearty, with never an ache or ill in the whole of his + sturdy young body; of frank, open countenance; while even his speech was + slow and burring like any Dale-bred boy's. And the fact of it all, and + that the lad was palpably more Englishman than Scot—ay, and gloried + in it—exasperated the little man, a patriot before everything, to + blows. While, on top of it, David evinced an amazing pertness fit to have + tried a better man than Adam M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + On the death of his wife, kindly Elizabeth Moore had, more than once, + offered such help to the lonely little man as a woman only can give in a + house that knows no mistress. On the last of these occasions, after + crossing the Stony Bottom, which divides the two farms, and toiling up the + hill to the Grange, she had met M'Adam in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' maun let me put yo' bit things straight for yo', mister,” she had + said shyly; for she feared the little man. + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye, Mrs. Moore,” he had answered with the sour smile the Dalesmen + knew so well, “but ye maun think I'm a waefu' cripple.” And there he had + stood, grinning sardonically, opposing his small bulk in the very centre + of the door. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Moore had turned down the hill, abashed and hurt at the reception of + her offer; and her husband, proud to a fault, had forbidden her to repeat + it. Nevertheless her motherly heart went out in a great tenderness for the + little orphan David. She knew well the desolateness of his life; his + father's aversion from him, and its inevitable consequences. + </p> + <p> + It became an institution for the boy to call every morning at Kenmuir, and + trot off to the village school with Maggie Moore. And soon the lad came to + look on Kenmuir as his true home, and James and Elizabeth Moore as his + real parents. His greatest happiness was to be away from the Grange. And + the ferret-eyed little man there noted the fact, bitterly resented it, and + vented his ill-humor accordingly. + </p> + <p> + It was this, as he deemed it, uncalled-for trespassing on his authority + which was the chief cause of his animosity against James Moore. The Master + of Kenmuir it was at whom he was aiming when he remarked one day at the + Arms: “Masel', I aye prefaire the good man who does no go to church, to + the bad man who does. But then, as ye say, Mr. Burton, I'm peculiar.” + </p> + <p> + The little man's treatment of David, exaggerated as it was by eager + credulity, became at length such a scandal to the Dale that Parson Leggy + determined to bring him to task on the matter. + </p> + <p> + Now M'Adam was the parson's pet antipathy. The bluff old minister, with + his brusque manner and big heart, would have no truck with the man who + never went to church, was perpetually in liquor, and never spoke good of + his neighbors. Yet he entered upon the interview fully resolved not to be + betrayed into an unworthy expression of feeling; rather to appeal to the + little man's better nature. + </p> + <p> + The conversation had not been in progress two minutes, however, before he + knew that, where he had meant to be calmly persuasive, he was fast become + hotly abusive. + </p> + <p> + “You, Mr. Hornbut, wi' James Moore to help ye, look after the lad's soul, + I'll see to his body,” the little man was saying. + </p> + <p> + The parson's thick gray eyebrows lowered threateningly over his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk like that. Which d'you think + the more important, soul or body? Oughtn't you, his father, to be the very + first to care for the boy's soul? If not, who should? Answer me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The little man stood smirking and sucking his eternal twig, entirely + unmoved by the other's heat. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're right, Mr. Hornbut, as ye aye are. But my argiment is this: that I + get at his soul best through his leetle carcase.” + </p> + <p> + The honest parson brought down his stick with an angry thud. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam, you're a brute—a brute!” he shouted. At which outburst the + little man was seized with a spasm of silent merriment. + </p> + <p> + “A fond dad first, a brute afterward, aiblins—he! he! Ah, Mr. + Hornbut! ye 'ford me vast diversion, ye do indeed, 'my loved, my honored, + much-respected friend.” + </p> + <p> + “If you paid as much heed to your boy's welfare as you do to the bad + poetry of that profligate ploughman—” + </p> + <p> + An angry gleam shot into the other's eyes. “D'ye ken what blasphemy is, + Mr. Hornbut?” he asked, shouldering a pace forward. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in the dispute the parson thought he was about to score + a point, and was calm accordingly. + </p> + <p> + “I should do; I fancy I've a specimen of the breed before me now. And + d'you know what impertinence is?” + </p> + <p> + “I should do; I fancy I've—I awd say it's what gentlemen aften are + unless their mammies whipped 'em as lads.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment the parson looked as if about to seize his opponent and shake + him. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam,” he roared, “I'll not stand your insolences!” + </p> + <p> + The little man turned, scuttled indoors, and came running back with a + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me!” he said blandly, holding it before him like a haircutter for + a customer. + </p> + <p> + The parson turned away. At the gap in the hedge he paused. + </p> + <p> + “I'll only say one thing more,” he called slowly. “When your wife, whom I + think we all loved, lay dying in that room above you, she said to you in + my presence—” + </p> + <p> + It was M'Adam's turn to be angry. He made a step forward with burning + face. + </p> + <p> + “Aince and for a', Mr. Hornbut,” he cried passionately, “onderstand I'll + not ha' you and yer likes lay yer tongues on ma wife's memory whenever it + suits ye. You can say what ye like aboot me—lies, sneers, snash—and + I'll say naethin'. I dinna ask ye to respect me; I think ye might do sae + muckle by her, puir lass. She never harmed ye. Gin ye canna let her bide + in peace where she lies doon yonder”—he waved in the direction of + the churchyard—“ye'll no come on ma land. Though she is dead she's + mine.” + </p> + <p> + Standing in front of his house, with flushed face and big eyes, the little + man looked almost noble in his indignation. And the parson, striding away + down the hill, was uneasily conscious that with him was not the victory. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter III. RED WULL + </h2> + <p> + THE winter came and went; the lambing season was over, and spring already + shyly kissing the land. And the back of the year's work broken, and her + master well started on a fresh season, M'Adam's old collie, Cuttie Sark, + lay down one evening and passed quietly away. + </p> + <p> + The little black-and-tan lady, Parson Leggy used to say, had been the only + thing on earth M'Adam cared for. Certainly the two had been wondrously + devoted; and for many a market-day the Dalesmen missed the shrill, + chuckling cry which heralded the pair's approach: “Weel done, Cuttie + Sark!” + </p> + <p> + The little man felt his loss acutely, and, according to his wont, vented + his ill-feeling on David and the Dalesmen. In return, Tammas, whose forte + lay in invective and alliteration, called him behind his back, “A wenomous + one!” and “A wiralent wiper!” to the applause of tinkling pewters. + </p> + <p> + A shepherd without his dog is like a ship without a rudder, and M'Adam + felt his loss practically as well as otherwise. Especially did he + experience this on a day when he had to take a batch of draft-ewes over to + Grammoch-town. To help him Jem Burton had lent the services of his + herring-gutted, herring-hearted, greyhound lurcher, Monkey. But before + they had well topped Braithwaite Brow, which leads from the village on to + the marches, M'Adam was standing in the track with a rock in his hand, a + smile on his face, and the tenderest blandishments in his voice as he + coaxed the dog to him. But Master Monkey knew too much for that. However, + after gamboling a while longer in the middle of the flock, a boulder, + better aimed than its predecessors, smote him on the hinder parts and sent + him back to the Sylvester Arms, with a sore tail and a subdued heart. + </p> + <p> + For the rest, M'Adam would never have won over the sheep-infested marches + alone with his convoy had it not been for the help of old Saunderson and + Shep, who caught him on the way and aided him. + </p> + <p> + It was in a very wrathful mood that on his way home he turned into the + Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale. + </p> + <p> + The only occupants of the tap-room, as he entered, were Teddy Bolstock, + the publican, Jim Mason, with the faithful Betsy beneath his chair and the + post-bags flung into the corner, and one long-limbed, drover-like man—a + stranger. + </p> + <p> + “And he coom up to Mr. Moore,” Teddy was saying, “and says he, 'I'll gie + ye twal' pun for yon gray dog o' yourn.' 'Ah,' says Moore, 'yo' may gie me + twal' hunner'd and yet you'll not get ma Bob.'—Eh, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “And he did thot,” corroborated Jim. “'Twal' hunner'd,' says he.” + </p> + <p> + “James Moore and his dog agin” snapped M'Adam. “There's ithers in the + warld for bye them twa.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, but none like 'em,” quoth loyal Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Na, thanks be. Gin there were there'd be no room for Adam M'Adam in this + 'melancholy vale.'” + </p> + <p> + There was silence a moment, and then—: + </p> + <p> + “You're wantin' a tyke, bain't you, Mr. M'Adam?” Jim asked. + </p> + <p> + The little man hopped round all in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “What!” he cried in well-affected eagerness, scanning the yellow mongrel + beneath the chair. “Betsy for sale! Guid life! Where's ma check-book?” + Whereat Jim, most easily snubbed of men, collapsed. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam took off his dripping coat and crossed the room to hang it on a + chair-back. The stranger drover followed the meagre, shirt-clad figure + with shifty eyes; then he buried his face in his mug. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam reached out a hand for the chair; and as he did so, a bomb in + yellow leapt out from beneath it, and, growling horribly, attacked his + ankles. + </p> + <p> + “Curse ye!” cried M'Adam, starting back. + </p> + <p> + “Ye devil, let me alone!” Then turning fiercely on the drover, “Yours, + mister?” he asked. The man nodded. “Then call him aff, can't ye? D—n + ye!” At which Teddy Bolstock withdrew, sniggering; and Jim Mason slung the + post-bags on to his shoulder and plunged out into the rain, the faithful + Betsy following, disconsolate. + </p> + <p> + The cause of the squall, having beaten off the attacking force, had + withdrawn again beneath its chair. M'Adam stooped down, still cursing, his + wet coat on his arm, and beheld a tiny yellow puppy, crouching defiant in + the dark, and glaring out with fiery light eyes. Seeing itself remarked, + it bared its little teeth, raised its little bristles, and growled a + hideous menace. + </p> + <p> + A sense of humor is many a man's salvation, and was M'Adam's one redeeming + feature. The laughableness of the thing—this ferocious atomy defying + him—struck home to the little man. Delighted at such a display of + vice in so tender a plant, he fell to chuckling. + </p> + <p> + “Ye leetle devil!” he laughed. “He! he! ye leetle devil!” and flipped + together finger and thumb in vain endeavor to coax the puppy to him. + </p> + <p> + But it growled, and glared more terribly. + </p> + <p> + “Stop it, ye little snake, or I'll flatten you!” cried the big drover, and + shuffled his feet threateningly. Whereat the puppy, gurgling like hot + water in a kettle, made a feint as though to advance and wipe them out, + these two bad men. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam laughed again, and smote his leg. + </p> + <p> + “Keep a ceevil tongue and yer distance,” says he, “or I'll e'en ha' to + mak' ye. Though he is but as big as a man's thumb, a dog's a dog for a' + that—he! he! the leetle devil.” And he fell to flipping finger and + thumb afresh. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're maybe wantin' a dog?” inquired the stranger. “Yer friend said as + much.” + </p> + <p> + “Ma friend lied; it's his way,” M'Adam replied. + </p> + <p> + “I'm willin' to part wi' him,” the other pursued. + </p> + <p> + The little man yawned. “Weel, I'll tak' him to oblige ye,” he said + indifferently. + </p> + <p> + The drover rose to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “It's givin' 'im ye, fair givin' im ye, mind! But I'll do it!”—he + smacked a great fist into a hollow palm. “Ye may have the dog for a pun'—I'll + only ask <i>you</i> a pun',” and he walked away to the window. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam drew back, the better to scan his would-be benefactor; his lower + jaw dropped, and he eyed the stranger with a drolly sarcastic air. + </p> + <p> + “A poun', man! A pouxi'—for yon noble dorg!” he pointed a crooked + forefinger at the little creature, whose scowling mask peered from beneath + the chair. “Man, I couldna do it. Na, na; ma conscience wadna permit me. + 'Twad be fair robbin' ye. Ah, ye Englishmen!” he spoke half to himself, + and sadly, as if deploring the unhappy accident of his nationality; “it's + yer grand, open-hairted generosity that grips a puir Scotsman by the + throat. A poun'! and for yon!” He wagged his head mournfully, cocking it + sideways the better to scan his subject. + </p> + <p> + “Take him or leave him,” ordered the drover truculently, still gazing out + of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Wi' yer permission I'll leave him,” M'Adam answered meekly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm short o' the ready,” the big man pursued, “or I wouldna part with + him. Could I bide me time there's many'd be glad to give me a tenner for + one o' that bree—” he caught himself up hastily—“for a dog sic + as that.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet ye offer him me for a poun'! Noble indeed!” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless the little man had pricked his ears at the other's slip and + quick correction. Again he approached the puppy, dangling his coat before + him to protect his ankles; and again that wee wild beast sprang out, + seized the coat in its small jaw, and worried it savagely. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam stooped quickly and picked up his tiny assailant; and the puppy, + suspended by its neck, gurgled and slobbered; then, wriggling desperately + round, made its teeth meet in its adversary's shirt. At which M'Adam shook + it gently and laughed. Then he set to examining it. + </p> + <p> + Apparently some six weeks old; a tawny coat, fiery eyes, a square head + with small, cropped ears, and a comparatively immense jaw; the whole + giving promise of great strength, if little beauty. And this effect was + enhanced by the manner of its docking. For the miserable relic of a tail, + yet raw, looked little more than a red button adhering to its wearer's + stern. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam's inspection was as minute as it was apparently absorbing; he + omitted nothing from the square muzzle to the lozenge-like scut. And every + now and then he threw a quick glance at the man at the window, who was + watching the careful scrutiny a thought uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “Ye've cut him short,” he said at length, swinging round on the drover. + </p> + <p> + “Ay; strengthens their backs,” the big man answered with averted gaze. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam's chin went up in the air; his mouth partly opened and his eyelids + partly closed as he eyed his informant. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ay,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Gie him back to me,” ordered the drover surlily. He took the puppy and + set it on the floor; whereupon it immediately resumed its former fortified + position. “Ye're no buyer; I knoo that all along by that face on ye,” he + said in insulting tones. + </p> + <p> + “Ye wad ha' bought him yerseif', nae doot?” M'Adam inquired blandly. + </p> + <p> + “In course; if you says so.” + </p> + <p> + “Or airblins ye bred him?” + </p> + <p> + “'Appen I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll no be from these parts?” + </p> + <p> + “Will I no?” answered the other. + </p> + <p> + A smile of genuine pleasure stole over M'Adam's face. He laid his hand on + the other's arm. + </p> + <p> + “Man,” he said gently, “ye mind me o' hame.” Then almost in the same + breath: “Ye said ye found him?” + </p> + <p> + It was the stranger's turn to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! Ye teekle me, little mon. Found 'im? Nay; I was give 'im by a + friend. But there's nowt amiss wi' his breedin', ye may believe me.” + </p> + <p> + The great fellow advanced to the chair under which the puppy lay. It leapt + out like a lion, and fastened on his huge boot. + </p> + <p> + “A rare bred un, look 'ee! a rare game un. Ma word, he's a big-hearted un! + Look at the back on him; see the jaws to him; mark the pluck of him!” He + shook his booted foot fiercely, tossing his leg to and fro like a tree in + a wind. But the little creature, now raised ceilingward, now dashed to the + ground, held on with incomparable doggedness, till its small jaw was all + bloody and muzzle wrinkled with the effort. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay, that'll do,” M'Adam interposed, irritably. + </p> + <p> + The drover ceased his efforts. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I'll mak' ye a last offer.” He thrust his head down to a level with + the other's, shooting out his neck. “It's throwin' him at ye, mind. + 'Tain't buyin' him ye'll be—don't go for to deceive yourself. Ye may + have him for fifteen shillin'. Why do I do it, ye ask? Why, 'cos I think + ye'll be kind to him,” as the puppy retreated to its chair, leaving a + spotted track of red along its route. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ye wadna be happy gin ye thocht he'd no a comfortable hame, + conseederate man?” M'Adam answered, eyeing the dark track on the floor. + Then he put on his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Na, na, he's no for me. Weel, I'll no detain ye. Good-nicht to ye, + mister!” and he made for the door. + </p> + <p> + “A gran' worker he'll be,” called the drover after him. + </p> + <p> + “Ay; muckle wark he'll mak' amang the sheep wi' sic a jaw and sic a + temper. Weel, I maun be steppin'. Good-nicht to ye.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll niver have sich anither chanst.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor niver wush to. Na, na; he'll never mak' a sheep-dog”; and the little + man turned up the collar of his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Will he not?” cried the other scornfully. “There niver yet was one o' + that line—” he stopped abruptly. + </p> + <p> + The little man spun round. + </p> + <p> + “Iss?” he said, as innocent as any child; “ye were sayin'?” + </p> + <p> + The other turned to the window and watched the rain falling monotonously. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll be wantin' wet,” he said adroitly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, we could do wi' a drappin'. And he'll never mak' a sheep-dog.” He + shoved his cap down on his head. “Weel, good-nicht to ye!” and he stepped + out into the rain. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was long after dark when the bargain was finally struck. + </p> + <p> + Adam M'Adam's Red Wull became that little man's property for the following + realizable assets: ninepence in cash—three coppers and a doubtful + sixpence; a plug of suspicious tobacco in a well-worn pouch; and an old + watch. + </p> + <p> + “It's clean givin' 'im ye,” said the stranger bitterly, at the end of the + deal. + </p> + <p> + “It's mair the charity than aught else mak's me sae leeberal,” the other + answered gently. “I wad not like to see ye pinched.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye kindly,” the big man replied with some acerbity, and plunged out + into the darkness and rain. Nor was that long-limbed drover-man ever again + seen in the countryside. And the puppy's previous history—whether he + was honestly come by or no, whether he was, indeed, of the famous Red + McCulloch* strain, ever remained a mystery in the Daleland. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *N. B.—You may know a Red McCulloch anywhere by the ring of + white upon his tail some two inches from the root. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter IV. FIRST BLOOD + </h2> + <p> + AFTER that first encounter in the Dalesman's Daughter, Red Wull, for so + M'Adam called him, resigned himself complacently to his lot; recognizing, + perhaps, his destiny. + </p> + <p> + Thenceforward the sour little man and the vicious puppy grew, as it were, + together. The two were never apart. Where M'Adam was, there was sure to be + his tiny attendant, bristling defiance as he kept ludicrous guard over his + master. + </p> + <p> + The little man and his dog were inseparable. M'Adam never left him even at + the Grange. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I couldna trust ma Wullie at hame alone wi' the dear lad,” was his +explanation. “I ken weel I'd come back to find a wee corpse on the +floor, and David singin': + + 'My heart is sair, I daur na tell, + My heart is sair for somebody.' +</pre> + <p> + Ay, and he'd be sair elsewhere by the time I'd done wi' him—he! he!” + </p> + <p> + The sneer at David's expense was as characteristic as it was unjust. For + though the puppy and the boy were already sworn enemies, yet the lad would + have scorned to harm so small a foe. And many a tale did David tell at + Kenmuir of Red Wull's viciousness, of his hatred of him (David), and his + devotion to his master; how, whether immersed in the pig-bucket or chasing + the fleeting rabbit, he would desist at once, and bundle, panting, up at + his master's call; how he routed the tomcat and drove him from the + kitchen; and how he clambered on to David's bed and pinned him murderously + by the nose. + </p> + <p> + Of late the relations between M'Adam and James Moore had been unusually + strained. Though they were neighbors, communications between the two were + of the rarest; and it was for the first time for many a long day that, on + an afternoon shortly after Red Wull had come into his possession, M'Adam + entered the yard of Kenmuir, bent on girding at the master for an alleged + trespass at the Stony Bottom. + </p> + <p> + “Wi' yer permission, Mr. Moore,” said the little man, “I'll wheestle ma + dog,” and, turning, he whistled a shrill, peculiar note like the cry of a + disturbed peewit. + </p> + <p> + Straightway there came scurrying desperately up, ears back, head down, + tongue out, as if the world depended on his speed, a little tawny beetle + of a thing, who placed his forepaws against his master's ankles and looked + up into his face; then, catching sight of the strangers, hurriedly he took + up his position between them and M'Adam, assuming his natural attitude of + grisly defiance. Such a laughable spectacle he made, that martial mite, + standing at bay with bristles up and teeth bared, that even James Moore + smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Ma word! Ha' yo' brought his muzzle, man?” cried old Tammas, the + humorist; and, turning, climbed all in a heat on to an upturned bucket + that stood by. Whereat the puppy, emboldened by his foe's retreat, + advanced savagely to the attack, buzzing round the slippery pail like a + wasp on a windowpane, in a vain attempt to reach the old man. + </p> + <p> + Tammas stood on the top, hitching his trousers and looking down on his + assailant, the picture of mortal fear. + </p> + <p> + “'Elp! Oh, 'elp!” he bawled. “Send for the sogers! Fetch the p'lice! For + lawk-amussy's sake call him off, man!” Even Sam'l Todd, watching the scene + from the cart-shed, was tickled and burst into a loud guffaw, heartily + backed by 'Enry and oor Job. While M'Adam remarked: “Ye're fitter for a + stage than a stable-bucket, Mr. Thornton.” + </p> + <p> + “How didst come by him?” asked Tammas, nodding at the puppy. + </p> + <p> + “Found him,” the little man replied, sucking his twig. “Found him in ma + stockin' on ma birthday. A present from ma leetle David for his auld dad, + I doot.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said Tammas, and was seized with sudden spasm of seemingly + causeless merriment. For looking up as M'Adam was speaking, he had caught + a glimpse of a boy's fair head, peering cautiously round the cow-shed, + and, behind, the flutter of short petticoats. They disappeared as silently + as they had come; and two small figures, just returned from school, glided + away and sought shelter in the friendly darkness of a coal-hole. + </p> + <p> + “Coom awa', Maggie, coom awa'! 'Tis th' owd un, 'isself,” whispered a + disrespectful voice. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam looked round suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” he asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + At the moment, however, Mrs. Moore put her head out of the kitchen window. + </p> + <p> + “Coom thy ways in, Mister M'Adam, and tak' a soop o' tea,” she called + hospitably. + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will,” he answered, politely for him. And + this one good thing must be allowed of Adam M'Adam: that, if there was + only one woman of whom he was ever known to speak well, there was also + only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he ever insinuated + evil—and that was years afterward, when men said his brain was + sapped. Flouts and jeers he had for every man, but a woman, good or bad, + was sacred to him. For the sex that had given him his mother and his wife + he had that sentiment of tender reverence which, if a man still preserve, + he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned into the house he looked back at + Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, we may leave him,” he said. “That is, gin ye're no afraid, Mr. + Thornton?” + </p> + <p> + Of what happened while the men were within doors, it is enough to tell two + things. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of + sheep-dog honor there is written a word in stark black letters; and + opposite it another word, writ large in the color of blood. The first is + “Sheep-murder”; the second, “Death.” It is the one crime only to be wiped + away in blood; and to accuse of the crime is to offer the one unpardonable + insult. Every sheep-dog knows it, and every shepherd. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung + with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: “Shot for sheep-murder”—“Shot + for sheep-murder”; followed by a hollow stillness. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, + mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three + went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak + on David's behalf. + </p> + <p> + “He's such a good little lad, I do think,” she was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore,” the little man answered, a thought bitterly; + “ye see enough of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' mun be main proud of un, mester,” the woman continued, heedless of + the sneer: “an' 'im growin' such a gradely lad.” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I barely ken the lad,” he said. “By sight I know him, of course, but + barely to speak to. He's but seldom at hame.” + </p> + <p> + “An' hoo proud his mother'd be if she could see him,” the woman continued, + well aware of his one tender place. “Eh, but she was fond o' him, so she + was.” + </p> + <p> + An angry flush stole over the little man's face. Well he understood the + implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore,” he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him—“Where's + ma Wullie?” he cried excitedly. “James Moore!” whipping round on the + Master, “ma Wullie's gone—gone, I say!” + </p> + <p> + Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. “I do declar' he tak's more fash + after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh,” + she muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he's gone—ma + Wullie's gone!” cried the little man, running about the yard, searching + everywhere. + </p> + <p> + “Cannot 'a' gotten far,” said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him. + </p> + <p> + “Niver no tellin',” said Sam'l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in + hand. “I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister.” He turned + sorrowfully to M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on + his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master. + </p> + <p> + “It's robbed I am—robbed, I tell ye!” he cried recklessly. “Ma wee + Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir,” the Master answered + sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Then where is he? It's for you to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I've ma own idee, I 'aye,” Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket + uplifted. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam turned on him. + </p> + <p> + “What, man? What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister,” Sam'l repeated, as if he + was supplying the key to the mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it,” ordered his master. + </p> + <p> + Sam'l grunted sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “Wheer's oor Bob, then?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + At that M'Adam turned on the Master. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer —— + dog. I might ha' kent it,”—and he loosed off a volley of foul words. + </p> + <p> + “Sweerin' will no find him,” said the Master coldly. “Noo, Sam'l.” + </p> + <p> + The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas 'appen 'aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin' oot o' yard + wi' little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin—and + theer! little yaller 'un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin' a-lickin' his + chops. Gone foriver, I do reck'n. Ah, yo' may well take on, Tammas + Thornton!” For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with + merriment. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair. + </p> + <p> + “Man, Moore,” he cried piteously, “it's yer gray dog has murdered ma wee + Wull! Ye have it from yer ain man.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” said the Master encouragingly. “'Tis but yon girt oof.” + </p> + <p> + Sam'l tossed his head and snorted. + </p> + <p> + “Coom, then, and i'll show yo',” he said, and led the way out of the yard. + And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like Justice at + the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob. + </p> + <p> + Straightway Sam'l whose humor was something of the calibre of old Ross's, + the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. “Why's he sittin' so still, think + 'ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin' his chops—ha! ha!”—and he roared + afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of 'Enry and + oor Job. + </p> + <p> + At the sight, M'Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and would + have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained him. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad,” called the Master, “coom here!” + </p> + <p> + But even as he spoke, the gray dog cocked his ears, listened a moment, and + then shot down the slope. At the same moment Tammas hallooed: “Theer he + be! yon's yaller un coomin' oot o' drain! La, Sam'l!” And there, indeed, + on the slope below them, a little angry, smutty-faced figure was crawling + out of a rabbit-burrow. + </p> + <p> + “Ye murderin' devil, wad ye duar touch ma Wullie?” yelled M'Adam, and, + breaking away, pursued hotly down the hill; for the gray dog had picked up + the puppy, like a lancer a tent-peg, and was sweeping on, his captive in + his mouth, toward the stream. + </p> + <p> + Behind, hurried James Moore and Sam'l, wondering what the issue of the + comedy would be. After them toddled old Tammas, chuckling. While over the + yard-wall was now a little cluster of heads: 'Enry, oor Job, Maggie and + David, and Vi'let Thornton, the dairy-maid. + </p> + <p> + Straight on to the plank-bridge galloped Owd Bob. In the middle he halted, + leant over, and dropped his prisoner; who fell with a cool plop into the + running water beneath. + </p> + <p> + Another moment and M'Adam had reached the bank of the stream. In he + plunged, splashing and cursing, and seized the struggling puppy; then + waded back, the waters surging about his waist, and Red Wull, limp as a + wet rag, in his hand. The little man's hair was dripping, for his cap was + gone; his clothes clung to him, exposing the miserableness of his figure; + and his eyes blazed like hot ashes in his wet face. + </p> + <p> + He sprang on to the bank, and, beside himself with passion, rushed at Owd + Bob. + </p> + <p> + “Curse ye for a ——” + </p> + <p> + “Stan' back, or yo'll have him at your throat!” shouted the Master, + thundering up. “Stan' back, I say, yo' fule!” And, as the little man still + came madly on, he reached forth his hand and hurled him back; at the same + moment, bending, he buried the other hand deep in Owd Bob's shaggy neck. + It was but just in time; for if ever the fierce desire of battle gleamed + in gray eyes, it did in the young dog's as M'Adam came down on him. + </p> + <p> + The little man staggered, tottered, and fell heavily. At the shock, the + blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his face, ran + down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while Red Wull, jerked + from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay motionless. + </p> + <p> + “Curse ye!” M'Adam screamed, his face dead-white save for the running red + about his jaw. “Curse ye for a cowardly Englishman!” and, struggling to + his feet, he made at the Master. + </p> + <p> + But Sam'l interposed his great bulk between the two. + </p> + <p> + “Easy, little mon,” he said leisurely, regarding the small fury before him + with mournful interest. “Eh, but thee do be a little spit-cat, surely!” + </p> + <p> + James Moore stood, breathing deep, his hand still buried in Owd Bob's + coat. + </p> + <p> + “If yo'd touched him,” he explained, “I couldna ha' stopped him. He'd ha' + mauled yo' afore iver I could ha' had him off. They're bad to hold, the + Gray Dogs, when they're roosed.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ma word, that they are!” corroborated Tammas, speaking from the + experience of sixty years. “Once on, yo' canna get 'em off.” + </p> + <p> + The little man turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're all agin me,” he said, and his voice shook. A pitiful figure he + made, standing there with the water dripping from him. A red stream was + running slowly from his chin; his head was bare, and face working. + </p> + <p> + James Moore stood eyeing him with some pity and some contempt. Behind was + Tammas, enjoying the scene. While Sam'l regarded them all with an + impassive melancholy. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam turned and bent over Red Wull, who still lay like a dead thing. As + his master handled him, the button-tail quivered feebly; he opened his + eyes, looked about him, snarled faintly, and glared with devilish hate at + the gray dog and the group with him. + </p> + <p> + The little man picked him up, stroking him tenderly. Then he turned away + and on to the bridge. Half-way across he stopped. It rattled feverishly + beneath him, for he still trembled like a palsied man. + </p> + <p> + “Man, Moore!” he called, striving to quell the agitation in his voice—“I + wad shoot yon dog.” + </p> + <p> + Across the bridge he turned again. “Man, Moore!” he called and paused. + “Ye'll not forget this day.” And with that the blood flared up a dull + crimson into his white face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II THE LITTLE MAN + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter V. A MAN'S SON + </h2> + <p> + THE storm, long threatened, having once burst, M'Adam allowed loose rein + to his bitter animosity against James Moore. + </p> + <p> + The two often met. For the little man frequently returned home from the + village by the footpath across Kenmuir. It was out of his way, but he + preferred it in order to annoy his enemy and keep a watch upon his doings. + </p> + <p> + He haunted Kenmuir like its evil genius. His sallow face was perpetually + turning up at inopportune moments. When Kenmuir Queen, the prize + short-horn heifer, calved unexpectedly and unattended in the dip by the + lane, Tammas and the Master, summoned hurriedly by Owd Bob, came running + up to find the little man leaning against the stile, and shaking with + silent merriment. Again, poor old Staggy, daring still in his dotage, took + a fall while scrambling on the steep banks of the Stony Bottom. There he + lay for hours, unnoticed and kicking, until James Moore and Owd Bob came + upon him at length, nearly exhausted. But M'Adam was before them. Standing + on the far bank with Red Wull by his side, he called across the gulf with + apparent concern: “He's bin so sin' yesternight.” Often James Moore, with + all his great strength of character, could barely control himself. + </p> + <p> + There were two attempts to patch up the feud. Jim Mason, who went about + the world seeking to do good, tried in his shy way to set things right. + But M'Adam and his Red Wull between them soon shut him and Betsy up. + </p> + <p> + “You mind yer letters and yer wires, Mr. Poacher-Postman. Ay, I saw 'em + baith: th' ain doon by the Haughs, t'ither in the Bottom. And there's + Wullie, the humorsome chiel, havin' a rare game wi' Betsy.” There, indeed, + lay the faithful Betsy, suppliant on her back, paws up, throat exposed, + while Red Wull, now a great-grown puppy, stood over her, his habitually + evil expression intensified into a fiendish grin, as with wrinkled muzzle + and savage wheeze he waited for a movement as a pretext to pin: “Wullie, + let the leddy be—ye've had yer dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Parson Leggy was the other would-be mediator; for he hated to see the two + principal parishioners of his tiny cure at enmity. First he tackled James + Moore on the subject; but that laconic person cut him short with, “I've + nowt agin the little mon,” and would say no more. And, indeed, the quarrel + was none of his making. + </p> + <p> + Of the parson's interview with M'Adam, it is enough to say here that, in + the end, the angry old minister would of a surety have assaulted his + mocking adversary had not Cyril Gilbraith forcibly withheld him. + </p> + <p> + And after that the vendetta must take its course unchecked. + </p> + <p> + David was now the only link between the two farms. Despite his father's + angry commands, the boy clung to his intimacy with the Moores with a + doggedness that no thrashing could overcome. Not a minute of the day when + out of school, holidays and Sundays included, but was passed at Kenmuir. + It was not till late at night that he would sneak back to the Grange, and + creep quietly up to his tiny bare room in the roof—not supperless, + indeed, motherly Mrs. Moore had seen to that. And there he would lie awake + and listen with a fierce contempt as his father, hours later, lurched into + the kitchen below, lilting liquorishly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We are na fou, we're nae that fou, + But just a drappie in our e'e; + The cock may craw, the day may daw', + And ay we'll taste the barley bree!” + </pre> + <p> + And in the morning the boy would slip quietly out of the house while his + father still slept; only Red Wull would thrust out his savage head as the + lad passed, and snarl hungrily. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes father and son would go thus for weeks without sight of one + another. And that was David's aim—to escape attention. It was only + his cunning at this game of evasion that saved him a thrashing. + </p> + <p> + The little man seemed devoid of all natural affection for his son. He + lavished the whole fondness of which his small nature appeared capable on + the Tailless Tyke, for so the Dalesmen called Red Wull. And the dog he + treated with a careful tenderness that made David smile bitterly. + </p> + <p> + The little man and his dog were as alike morally as physically they were + contrasted. Each owed a grudge against the world and was determined to pay + it. Each was an Ishmael among his kind. + </p> + <p> + You saw them thus, standing apart, leper-like, in the turmoil of life; and + it came quite as a revelation to happen upon them in some quiet spot of + nights, playing together, each wrapped in the game, innocent, tender, + forgetful of the hostile world. + </p> + <p> + The two were never separated except only when M'Adam came home by the path + across Kenmuir. After that first misadventure he never allowed his friend + to accompany him on the journey through the enemy's country; for well he + knew that sheep-dogs have long memories. + </p> + <p> + To the stile in the lane, then, Red Wull would follow him. There he would + stand, his great head poked through the bars, watching his master out of + sight; and then would turn and trot, self-reliant and defiant, sturdy and + surly, down the very centre of the road through the village—no + playing, no enticing away, and woe to that man or dog who tried to stay + him in his course! And so on, past Mother Ross's shop, past the Sylvester + Arms, to the right by Kirby's smithy, over the Wastrel by the Haughs, to + await his master at the edge of the Stony Bottom. + </p> + <p> + The little man, when thus crossing Kenmuir, often met Owd Bob, who had the + free run of the farm. On these occasions he passed discreetly by; for, + though he was no coward, yet it is bad, single-handed, to attack a Gray + Dog of Kenmuir; while the dog trotted soberly on his way, only a steely + glint in the big gray eyes betraying his knowledge of the presence of his + foe. As surely, however, as the little man, in his desire to spy out the + nakedness of the land, strayed off the public path, so surely a gray + figure, seeming to spring from out the blue, would come fiercely, silently + driving down on him; and he would turn and run for his life, amid the + uproarious jeers of any of the farm-hands who were witness to the + encounter. + </p> + <p> + On these occasions David vied with Tammas in facetiousness at his father's + expense. + </p> + <p> + “Good on yo', little un!” he roared from behind a wall, on one such + occurrence. + </p> + <p> + “Bain't he a runner, neither?” yelled Tammas, not to be outdone. + </p> + <p> + “See un skip it—ho! ho! Look to his knees a-wamblin'! from the + undutiful son in ecstasy. An' I'd knees like yon, I'd wear petticoats.” As + he spoke, a swinging box on the ear nearly knocked the young reprobate + down. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' think God gave you a dad for you to jeer at? Y'ought to be ashamed + o' yo'self. Serve yo' right if he does thrash yo' when yo' get home.” And + David, turning round, found James Moore close behind him, his heavy + eyebrows lowering over his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Luckily, M'Adam had not distinguished his son's voice among the others. + But David feared he had; for on the following morning the little man said + to him: + </p> + <p> + “David, ye'll come hame immediately after school to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Will I?” said David pertly. + </p> + <p> + ''Ye will. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I tell ye to, ma lad”; and that was all the reason he would give. + Had he told the simple fact that he wanted help to drench a “husking” ewe, + things might have gone differently. As it was, David turned away defiantly + down the hill. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon wore on. Schooltime was long over; still there was no David. + </p> + <p> + The little man waited at the door of the Grange, fuming, hopping from one + leg to the other, talking to Red Wull, who lay at his feet, his head on + his paws, like a tiger waiting for his prey. + </p> + <p> + At length he could restrain himself no longer; and started running down + the hill, his heart burning with indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till we lay hands on ye, ma lad,” he muttered as he ran. “We'll warm + ye, we'll teach ye.” + </p> + <p> + At the edge of the Stony Bottom he, as always, left Red Wull. Crossing it + himself, and rounding Langholm How, he espied James Moore, David, and Owd + Bob walking away from him and in the direction of Kenmuir. The gray dog + and David were playing together, wrestling, racing, and rolling. The boy + had never a thought for his father. + </p> + <p> + The little man ran up behind them, unseen and unheard, his feet softly + pattering on the grass. His hand had fallen on David's shoulder before the + boy had guessed his approach. + </p> + <p> + “Did I bid ye come hame after school, David?” he asked, concealing his + heat beneath a suspicious suavity. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. Did I say I would come?” + </p> + <p> + The pertness of tone and words, alike, fanned his father's resentment into + a blaze. In a burst of passion he lunged forward at the boy with his + stick. But as he smote, a gray whirlwind struck him fair on the chest, and + he fell like a snapped stake, and lay, half stunned, with a dark muzzle an + inch from his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Git back, Bob!” shouted James Moore, hurrying up. “Git back, I tell yo'!” + He bent over the prostrate figure, propping it up anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Are yo' hurt, M'Adam? Eh, but I am sorry. He thought yo' were going for + to strike the lad.” + </p> + <p> + David had now run up, and he, too, bent over his father with a very scared + face. + </p> + <p> + “Are yo' hurt, feyther?” he asked, his voice trembling. + </p> + <p> + The little man rose unsteadily to his feet and shook off his supporters. + His face was twitching, and he stood, all dust-begrimed, looking at his + son. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're content, aiblins, noo ye've seen yer father's gray head bowed in + the dust,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas an accident,” pleaded James Moore. “But I <i>am</i> sorry. He + thought yo' were goin' to beat the lad.” + </p> + <p> + “So I was—so I will.” + </p> + <p> + “If ony's beat it should be ma Bob here tho' he nob'but thought he was + doin' right. An' yo' were aff the path.” + </p> + <p> + The little man looked at his enemy, a sneer on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Ye canna thrash him for doin' what ye bid him. Set yer dog on me, if ye + will, but dinna beat him when he does yer biddin'!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not set him on yo', as you know,” the Master replied warmly. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I'll no argie wi' ye, James Moore,” he said. “I'll leave you and what ye + call yer conscience to settle that. My business is not wi' you.—David!” + turning to his son. + </p> + <p> + A stranger might well have mistaken the identity of the boy's father. For + he stood now, holding the Master's arm; while a few paces above them was + the little man, pale but determined, the expression on his face betraying + his consciousness of the irony of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Will ye come hame wi' me and have it noo, or stop wi' him and wait till + ye get it?” he asked the boy. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam, I'd like yo' to—” + </p> + <p> + “None o' that, James Moore.—David, what d'ye say?” + </p> + <p> + David looked up into his protector's face. + </p> + <p> + “Yo'd best go wi' your feyther, lad,” said the Master at last, thickly. + The boy hesitated, and clung tighter to the shielding arm; then he walked + slowly over to his father. + </p> + <p> + A bitter smile spread over the little man's face as he marked this new + test of the boy's obedience to the other. + </p> + <p> + “To obey his frien' he foregoes the pleasure o' disobeyin' his father,” he + muttered. “Noble!” Then he turned homeward, and the boy followed in his + footsteps. + </p> + <p> + James Moore and the gray dog stood looking after them. + </p> + <p> + “I know yo'll not pay off yer spite agin me on the lad's head, M'Adam,” he + called, almost appealingly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do ma duty, thank ye, James Moore, wi'oot respect o' persons,” the + little man cried back, never turning. + </p> + <p> + Father and son walked away, one behind the other, like a man and his dog, + and there was no word said between them. Across the Stony Bottom, Red + Wull, scowling with bared teeth at David, joined them. Together the three + went up the bill to the Grange. + </p> + <p> + In the kitchen M'Adam turned. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, I'm gaein' to gie ye the gran'est thrashin' ye iver dreamed of. Tak' + aff yer coat!” + </p> + <p> + The boy obeyed, and stood up in his thin shirt, his face white and set as + a statue's. Red Wull seated himself on his haunches close by, his ears + pricked, licking his lips, all attention. + </p> + <p> + The little man suppled the great ash-plant in his hands and raised it. But + the expression on the boy's face arrested his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Say ye're sorry and I'll let yer aff easy.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not.” + </p> + <p> + “One mair chance—yer last! Say yer 'shamed o' yerself'!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not.” + </p> + <p> + The little man brandished his cruel, white weapon, and Red Wull shifted a + little to obtain a better view. + </p> + <p> + “Git on wi' it,” ordered David angrily. + </p> + <p> + The little man raised the stick again and—threw it into the farthest + corner of the room. + </p> + <p> + It fell with a rattle on the floor, and M'Adam turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're the pitifulest son iver a man had,” he cried brokenly. “Gin a man's + son dinna haud to him, wha can he expect to?—no one. Ye're + ondootiful, ye're disrespectfu', ye're maist ilka thing ye shouldna be; + there's but ae thing I thocht ye were not—a coward. And as to that, + ye've no the pluck to say ye're sorry when, God knows, ye might be. I + canna thrash ye this day. But ye shall gae nae mair to school. I send ye + there to learn. Ye'll not learn—ye've learnt naethin' except + disobedience to me—ye shall stop at hame and work.” + </p> + <p> + His father's rare emotion, his broken voice and working face, moved David + as all the stripes and jeers had failed to do. His conscience smote him. + For the first time in his life it dimly dawned on him that, perhaps, his + father, too, had some ground for complaint; that, perhaps, he was not a + good son. + </p> + <p> + He half turned. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther—” + </p> + <p> + “Git oot o' ma sight!” M'Adam cried. + </p> + <p> + And the boy turned and went. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VI. A LICKING OR A LIE + </h2> + <p> + THENCEFORWARD David buckled down to work at home, and in one point only + father and son resembled—industry. A drunkard M'Adam was, but a + drone, no. + </p> + <p> + The boy worked at the Grange with tireless, indomitable energy; yet he + could never satisfy his father. + </p> + <p> + The little man would stand, a sneer on his face and his thin lips + contemptuously curled, and flout the lad's brave labors. + </p> + <p> + “Is he no a gran' worker, Wullie? 'Tis a pleasure to watch him, his hands + in his pockets, his eyes turned heavenward!” as the boy snatched a + hard-earned moment's rest. “You and I, Wullie, we'll brak' oorsel's + slavin' for him while he looks on and laffs.” + </p> + <p> + And so on, the whole day through, week in, week out; till he sickened with + weariness of it all. + </p> + <p> + In his darkest hours David thought sometimes to run away. He was miserably + alone on the cold bosom of the world. The very fact that he was the son of + his father isolated him in the Daleland. Naturally of a reserved + disposition, he had no single friend outside Kenmuir. And it was only the + thought of his friends there that withheld him. He could not bring himself + to part from them; they were all he had in the world. + </p> + <p> + So he worked on at the Grange, miserably, doggedly, taking blows and abuse + alike in burning silence. But every evening, when work was ended, he + stepped off to his other home beyond the Stony Bottom. And on Sundays and + holidays—for of these latter he took, unasking, what he knew to be + his due—all day long, from cock-crowing to the going down of the + sun, he would pass at Kenmuir. In this one matter the boy was invincibly + stubborn. Nothing his father could say or do sufficed to break him of the + habit. He endured everything with white-lipped, silent doggedness, and + still held on his way. + </p> + <p> + Once past the Stony Bottom, he threw his troubles behind him with a + courage that did him honor. Of all the people at Kenmuir two only ever + dreamed the whole depth of his unhappiness, and that not through David. + James Moore suspected something of it all, for he knew more of M'Adam than + did the others. While Owd Bob knew it as did no one else. He could tell it + from the touch of the boy's hand on his head; and the story was writ large + upon his face for a dog to read. And he would follow the lad about with a + compassion in his sad gray eyes greater than words. + </p> + <p> + David might well compare his gray friend at Kenmuir with that other at the + Grange. + </p> + <p> + The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and + huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot jaw, square and lengthy and + terrible; vicious, yellow-gleaming eyes; cropped ears; and an expression + incomparably savage. His coat was a tawny, lion-like yellow, short, harsh, + dense; and his back, running up from shoulder to loins, ended abruptly in + the knob-like tail. He looked like the devil of a dogs' hell. And his + reputation was as bad as his looks. He never attacked unprovoked; but a + challenge was never ignored, and he was greedy of insults. Already he had + nigh killed Rob Saunderson's collie, Shep; Jem Burton's Monkey fled + incontinently at the sound of his approach; while he had even fought a + round with that redoubtable trio, the Vexer, Venus, and Van Tromp. + </p> + <p> + Nor, in the matter of war, did he confine himself to his own kind. His + huge strength and indomitable courage made him the match of almost + anything that moved. Long Kirby once threatened him with a broomstick; the + smith never did it again. While in the Border Ram he attacked Big Bell, + the Squire's underkeeper, with such murderous fury that it took all the + men in the room to pull him off. + </p> + <p> + More than once had he and Owd Bob essayed to wipe out mutual memories, Red + Wull, in this case only, the aggressor. As yet, however, while they fenced + a moment for that deadly throat-grip, the value of which each knew so + well, James Moore had always seized the chance to intervene. + </p> + <p> + “That's right, hide him ahint yer petticoats,” sneered M'Adam on one of + these occasions. + </p> + <p> + “Hide? It'll not be him I'll hide, I warn you, M'Adam,” the Master + answered grimly, as he stood, twirling his good oak stick between the + would-be duellists. Whereat there was a loud laugh at the little man's + expense. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if there were to be other points of rivalry between the two + than memories. For, in the matter of his own business—the handling + of sheep—Red Wull bid fair to be second only throughout the Daleland + to the Gray Dog of Kenmuir. And M'Adam was patient and painstaking in the + training of his Wullie in a manner to astonish David. It would have been + touching, had it not been so unnatural in view of his treatment of his own + blood, to watch the tender carefulness with which the little man moulded + the dog beneath his hands. After a promising display he would stand, + rubbing his palms together, as near content as ever he was. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Weel done, Wullie! Weel done. Bide a wee and we'll show 'em a thing or +two, you and I, Wullie. + + “'The warld's wrack we share o't, + The warstle and the care o't.' +</pre> + <p> + For it's you and I alane, lad.” And the dog would trot up to him, place + his great forepaws on his shoulders, and stand thus with his great head + overtopping his master's, his ears back, and stump tail vibrating. + </p> + <p> + You saw them at their best when thus together, displaying each his one + soft side to the other. + </p> + <p> + From the very first David and Red Wull were open enemies: under the + circumstances, indeed, nothing else was possible. Sometimes the great dog + would follow on the lad's heels with surly, greedy eyes, never leaving him + from sunrise to sundown, till David could hardly hold his hands. + </p> + <p> + So matters went on for a never-ending year. Then there came a climax. + </p> + <p> + One evening, on a day throughout which Red Wull had dogged him thus + hungrily, David, his work finished, went to pick up his coat, which he had + left hard by. On it lay Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “Git off ma coat!” the boy ordered angrily, marching up. But the great dog + never stirred: he lifted a lip to show a fence of white, even teeth, and + seemed to sink lower in the ground; his head on his paws, his eyes in his + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Come and take it!” he seemed to say. + </p> + <p> + Now what, between master and dog, David had endured almost more than he + could bear that day. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' won't, won't yo', girt brute!” he shouted, and bending, snatched a + corner of the coat and attempted to jerk it away. At that, Red Wull rose, + shivering, to his feet, and with a low gurgle sprang at the boy. + </p> + <p> + David, quick as a flash, dodged, bent, and picked up an ugly stake, lying + at his feet. Swinging round, all in a moment, he dealt his antagonist a + mighty buffet on the side of the head. Dazed with the blow, the great dog + fell; then, recovering himself, with a terrible, deep roar he sprang + again. Then it must have gone hard with the boy, fine-grown, muscular + young giant though he was. For Red Wull was now in the first bloom of that + great strength which earned him afterward an undying notoriety in the + land. + </p> + <p> + As it chanced, however, M'Adam had watched the scene from the kitchen. And + now he came hurrying out of the house, shrieking commands and curses at + the combatants. As Red Wull sprang, he interposed between the two, head + back and eyes flashing. His small person received the full shock of the + charge. He staggered, but recovered, and in an imperative voice ordered + the dog to heel. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned on David, seized the stake from his hand, and began + furiously belaboring the boy. + </p> + <p> + “I'll teach ye to strike—a puir—dumb—harmless—creetur, + ye—cruel—cruel—-lad!” he cried. “Hoo daur ye strike—ma——Wullie? + yer—father's——Wullie? Adam—M 'Adam's—Red + Wull?” He was panting from his exertions, and his eyes were blazing. “I + pit up as best I can wi' all manner o' disrespect to masel'; but when it + comes to takin' ma puir Wullie, I canna thole it. Ha' ye no heart?” he + asked, unconscious of the irony of the question. + </p> + <p> + “As much as some, I reck'n,” David muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, what's that? What d'ye say?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye may thrash me till ye're blind; and it's nob'but yer duty; but if only + one daurs so much as to look at yer Wullie ye're mad,” the boy answered + bitterly. And with that he turned away defiantly and openly in the + direction of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam made a step forward, and then stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I'll see ye agin, ma lad, this evenin',” he cried with cruel + significance. + </p> + <p> + “I doot but yo'll be too drunk to see owt—except, 'appen, your + bottle,” the boy shouted back; and swaggered down the hill. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + At Kenmuir that night the marked and particular kindness of Elizabeth + Moore was too much for the overstrung lad. Overcome by the contrast of her + sweet motherliness, he burst into a storm of invective against his father, + his home, his life—everything. + </p> + <p> + “Don't 'ee, Davie, don't 'ee, dearie!” cried Mrs. Moore, much distressed. + And taking him to her she talked to the great, sobbing boy as though he + were a child. At length he lifted his face and looked up; and, seeing the + white, wan countenance of his dear comforter, was struck with tender + remorse that he had given way and pained her, who looked so frail and thin + herself. + </p> + <p> + He mastered himself with an effort; and, for the rest of the evening, was + his usual cheery self. He teased Maggie into tears; chaffed stolid little + Andrew; and bantered Sam'l Todd until that generally impassive man + threatened to bash his snout for him. + </p> + <p> + Yet it was with a great swallowing at his throat that, later, he turned + down the slope for home. + </p> + <p> + James Moore and Parson Leggy accompanied him to the bridge over the + Wastrel, and stood a while watching as he disappeared into the summer + night. + </p> + <p> + “Yon's a good lad,” said the Master half to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the parson replied; “I always thought there was good in the boy, if + only his father'd give him a chance. And look at the way Owd Bob there + follows him. There's not another soul outside Kenmuir he'd do that for.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, sir,” said the Master. “Bob knows a mon when he sees one.” + </p> + <p> + “He does,” acquiesced the other. “And by the by, James, the talk in the + village is that you've settled not to run him for the Cup. Is, that so?” + </p> + <p> + The Master nodded. + </p> + <p> + “It is, sir. They're all mad I should, but I mun cross 'em. They say he's + reached his prime—and so he has o' his body, but not o' his brain. + And a sheep-dog—unlike other dogs—is not at his best till his + brain is at its best—and that takes a while developin', same as in a + mon, I reck'n.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said the parson, pulling out a favorite phrase, “waiting's + winning—waiting's winning.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + David slipped up into his room and into bed unseen, he hoped. Alone with + the darkness, he allowed himself the rare relief of tears; and at length + fell asleep. He awoke to find his father standing at his bedside. The + little man held a feeble dip-candle in his hand, which lit his sallow face + in crude black and white. In the doorway, dimly outlined, was the great + figure of Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “Whaur ha' ye been the day?” the little man asked. Then, looking down on + the white stained face beneath him, he added hurriedly: “If ye like to + lie, I'll believe ye.” + </p> + <p> + David was out of bed and standing up in his night-shirt. He looked at his + father contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' bin at Kenmuir. I'll not lie for yo' or your likes,” he said + proudly. + </p> + <p> + The little man shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “'Tell a lee and stick to it,' is my rule, and a good one, too, in honest + England. I for one 'll no think ony the worse o' ye if yer memory plays + yer false.” + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' think I care a kick what yo' think o' me?” the boy asked brutally. + “Nay; there's 'nough liars in this fam'ly wi'oot me.” + </p> + <p> + The candle trembled and was still again. + </p> + <p> + “A lickin' or a lie—tak' yer choice!” + </p> + <p> + The boy looked scornfully down on his father. Standing on his naked feet, + he already towered half a head above the other and was twice the man. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' think I'm fear'd o' a thrashin' fra yo'? Goo' gracious me!” he + sneered. “Why, I'd as lief let owd Grammer Maddox lick me, for all I + care.” + </p> + <p> + A reference to his physical insufficiencies fired the little man as surely + as a lighted match powder. + </p> + <p> + “Ye maun be cauld, standin' there so. Rin ye doon and fetch oor little + frien'”—a reference to a certain strap hanging in the kitchen. “I'll + see if I can warm ye.” + </p> + <p> + David turned and stumbled down the unlit, narrow stairs. The hard, cold + boards struck like death against his naked feet. At his heels followed Red + Wull, his hot breath fanning the boy's bare legs. + </p> + <p> + So into the kitchen and back up the stairs, and Red Wull always following. + </p> + <p> + “I'll no despair yet o' teachin' ye the fifth commandment, though I kill + masel' in doin' it!” cried the little man, seizing the strap from the + boy's numb grasp. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + When it was over, M'Adam turned, breathless, away. At the threshold of the + room he stopped and looked round: a little, dim-lit, devilish figure, + framed in the door; while from the blackness behind, Red Wull's eyes + gleamed yellow. + </p> + <p> + Glancing back, the little man caught such an expression on David's face + that for once he was fairly afraid. He banged the door and hobbled + actively down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VII. THE WHITE WINTER + </h2> + <p> + M'ADAM—in his sober moments at least—never touched David + again; instead, he devoted himself to the more congenial exercise of the + whiplash of his tongue. And he was wise; for David, who was already nigh a + head the taller of the two, and comely and strong in proportion, could, if + he would, have taken his father in the hollow of his hand and crumpled him + like a dry leaf. Moreover, with his tongue, at least, the little man + enjoyed the noble pleasure of making the boy wince. And so the war was + carried on none the less vindictively. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile another summer was passing away, and every day brought fresh + proofs of the prowess of Owd Bob. Tammas, whose stock of yarns anent Rex + son of Rally had after forty years' hard wear begun to pall on the loyal + ears of even old Jonas, found no lack of new material now. In the + Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale and in the Border Ram at Grammoch-town, + each succeeding market day brought some fresh tale. Men told how the gray + dog had outdone Gypsy Jack, the sheep-sneak; how he had cut out a Kenmuir + shearling from the very centre of Londesley's pack; and a thousand like + stories. + </p> + <p> + The Gray Dogs of Kenmuir have always been equally heroes and favorites in + the Daleland. And the confidence of the Dalesmen in Owd Bob was now + invincible. Sometimes on market days he would execute some unaccountable + maneuvre, and... strange shepherd would ask: “What's the gray dog at?” To + which the nearest Dalesman would reply: “Nay, I canno tell ye! But he's + reet enough. Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir.” + </p> + <p> + Whereon the stranger would prick his ears and watch with close attention. + </p> + <p> + “Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, is he?” he would say; for already among the + faculty the name was becoming known. And never in such a case did the + young dog fail to justify the faith of his supporters. + </p> + <p> + It came, therefore, as a keen disappointment to every Dalesman, from + Herbert Trotter, Secretary of the Trials, to little Billy Thornton, when + the Master persisted in his decision not to run the dog for the Cup in the + approaching Dale Trials; and that though parson, squire, and even Lady + Eleanour essayed to shake his purpose. It was nigh fifty years since Rex + son o' Rally had won back the Trophy for the land that gave it birth; it + was time, they thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog of Kenmuir—the + terms are practically synonymous—to bring it home again. And Tammas, + that polished phrase-maker, was only expressing the feelings of every + Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he declared of Owd Bob + that “to ha' run was to ha' won.” At which M'Adam sniggered audibly and + winked at Red Wull. “To ha' run was to ha' one—lickin'; to rin next + year'll be to—” + </p> + <p> + “Win next year.” Tammas interposed dogmatically. “Onless”—with + shivering sarcasm—“you and yer Wullie are thinkin' o' winnin'.” + </p> + <p> + The little man rose from his solitary seat at the back of the room and + pattered across. “Wullie and I are thinkin' o' t,” he whispered loudly in + the old man's ear. “And mair: what Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull think o' + doin', that, ye may remairk, Mr. Thornton, they do. Next year we rin, and + next year—we win. Come, Wullie, we'll leave 'em to chew that”; and + he marched out of the room amid the jeers of the assembled topers. + </p> + <p> + When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: “One thing + certain, win or no, they'll not be far off.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Meanwhile the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a sweltering + autumn the winter came down. In that year the Daleland assumed very early + its white cloak. The Silver Mere was soon ice-veiled; the Wastrel rolled + sullenly down below Kenmuir, its creeks and quiet places tented with + jagged sheets of ice; while the Scaur and Muir Pike raised hoary heads + against the frosty blue. It was the season still remembered in the North + as the White Winter—the worst, they say, since the famous 1808. + </p> + <p> + For days together Jim Mason was stuck with his bags in the Dalesman's + Daughter, and there was no communication between the two Dales. On the + Mere Marches the snow massed deep and impassable in thick, billowy drifts. + In the Devil's Bowl men said it lay piled some score feet deep. And sheep, + seeking shelter in the ghylls and protected spots, were buried and lost in + their hundreds. + </p> + <p> + That is the time to test the hearts of shepherds and sheep-dogs, when the + wind runs ice-cold across the waste of white, and the low woods on the + upland walks shiver black through a veil of snow, and sheep must be found + and folded or lost: a trial of head as well as heart, of resource as well + as resolution. + </p> + <p> + In that winter more than one man and many a dog lost his life in the quiet + performance of his duty, gliding to death over the slippery snow-shelves, + or overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of the warm, suffocating white: + “smoored,” as they call it. Many a deed was done, many a death died, + recorded only in that Book which holds the names of those—men or + animals, souls or no souls—who tried. + </p> + <p> + They found old Wrottesley, the squire's head shepherd, lying one morning + at Gill's foot, like a statue in its white bed, the snow gently blowing + about the venerable face, calm and beautiful in death. And stretched upon + his bosom, her master's hands blue, and stiff, still clasped about her + neck, his old dog Jess. She had huddled there, as a last hope, to keep the + dear, dead master warm, her great heart riven, hoping where there was no + hope. + </p> + <p> + That night she followed him to herd sheep in a better land. Death from + exposure, Dingley, the vet., gave it; but as little M'Adam, his eyes + dimmer than their wont, declared huskily; “We ken better, Wullie.” + </p> + <p> + Cyril Gilbraith, a young man not overburdened with emotions, told with a + sob in his voice how, at the terrible Rowan Rock, Jim Mason had stood, + impotent, dumb, big-eyed, watching Betsy—Betsy, the friend and + partner of the last ten years—slipping over the ice-cold surface, + silently appealing to the hand that had never failed her before—sliding + to Eternity. + </p> + <p> + In the Daleland that winter the endurance of many a shepherd and his dog + was strained past breaking-point. From the frozen Black Water to the + white-peaked Grammoch Pike two men only, each always with his shaggy + adjutant, never owned defeat; never turned back; never failed in a thing + attempted. + </p> + <p> + In the following spring, Mr. Tinkerton, the squire's agent, declared that + James Moore and Adam M'Adam—Owd Bob, rather, and Red Wull—had + lost between them fewer sheep than any single farmer on the whole March + Mere Estate—a proud record. + </p> + <p> + Of the two, many a tale was told that winter. They were invincible, + incomparable; worthy antagonists. + </p> + <p> + It was Owd Bob who, when he could not drive the band of Black Faces over + the narrow Razorback which led to safety, induced them to <i>follow</i> + him across that ten-inch death-track, one by one, like children behind + their mistress. It was Red Wull who was seen coming down the precipitous + Saddler's How, shouldering up that grand old gentleman, King o' the Dale, + whose leg was broken. + </p> + <p> + The gray dog it was who found Cyril Gilbraith by the White Stones, with a + cigarette and a sprained ankle, on the night the whole village was out + with lanterns searching for the well-loved young scapegrace. It was the + Tailless Tyke and his master who one bitter evening came upon little Mrs. + Burton, lying in a huddle beneath the lea of the fast-whitening Druid's + Pillar with her latest baby on her breast. It was little M'Adam who took + off his coat and wrapped the child in it; little M'Adam who unwound his + plaid, threw it like a breastband across the dog's great chest, and tied + the ends round the weary woman's waist. Red Wull it was who dragged her + back to the Sylvester Arms and life, straining like a giant through the + snow, while his master staggered behind with the babe in his arms. When + they reached the inn it was M'Adam who, with a smile on his face, told the + landlord what he thought of him for sending <i>his</i> wife across the + Marches on such a day and on his errand. To which: “I'd a cauld,” pleaded + honest Jem. + </p> + <p> + For days together David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir. His + enforced confinement to the Grange led, however, to no more frequent + collisions than usual with his father. For M'Adam and Red Wull were out, + at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work of + salvation. + </p> + <p> + At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a point where + a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. He stayed but a + little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home it was snowing + again. + </p> + <p> + By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over the Wastrel, a + blizzard was raging. The wind roared past him, smiting him so that he + could barely stand; and the snow leaped at him so that he could not see. + But he held on doggedly; slipping, sliding, tripping, down and up again, + with one arm shielding his face. On, on, into the white darkness, blindly + on sobbing, stumbling, dazed. + </p> + <p> + At length, nigh dead, he reached the brink of the Stony Bottom. He looked + up and he looked down, but nowhere in that blinding mist could he see the + fallen thorn-tree. He took a step forward into the white morass, and 'sank + up to his thigh. He struggled feebly to free himself, and sank deeper. The + snow wreathed, twisting, round him like a white flame, and he collapsed, + softly crying, on that soft bed. + </p> + <p> + “I canna—I canna!” he moaned. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Little Mrs. Moore, her face whiter and frailer than ever, stood at the + window, looking out into the storm. + </p> + <p> + “I canna rest for thinkin' o' th' lad,” she said. Then, turning, she saw + her husband, his fur cap down over his ears, buttoning his pilot-coat + about his throat, while Owd Bob stood at his feet, waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're no goin', James?” she asked, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “But I am, lass,” he answered; and she knew him too well to say more. + </p> + <p> + So those two went quietly out to save life or lose it, nor counted the + cost. + </p> + <p> + Down a wind-shattered slope—over a spar of ice—up an eternal + hill—a forlorn hope. + </p> + <p> + In a whirlwind chaos of snow, the tempest storming at them, the white + earth lashing them, they fought a good fight. In front, Owd Bob, the snow + clogging his shaggy coat, his hair cutting like lashes of steel across + eyes, his head lowered as he followed the finger of God; and close behind, + James Moore, his back stern against the storm, stalwart still, yet swaying + like a tree before the wind. + </p> + <p> + So they battled through to the brink of the Stony Bottom—only to + arrive too late. + </p> + <p> + For, just as the Master peering about him, had caught sight of a shapeless + lump lying motionless in front, there loomed across the snow-choked gulf + through the white riot of the storm a gigantic figure forging, doggedly + forward, his great head down to meet the hurricane. And close behind, + buffeted and bruised, stiff and staggering, a little dauntless figure + holding stubbornly on, clutching with one hand at the gale; and a shrill + voice, whirled away on the trumpet tones of the wind, crying: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Noo, Wullie, wi' me! + Scots wha' hae wi' Wallace bled! + Scots wham Bruce has often led! + Welcome to ——!' +</pre> + <p> + “Here he is, Wullie!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + '—or to victorie!” + </pre> + <p> + The brave little voice died away. The quest; was over; the lost sheep + found. And the last James Moore saw of them was the same small, gallant + form, half carrying, half dragging the rescued boy out of the Valley of + the Shadow and away. + </p> + <p> + David was none the worse for his adventure, for on reaching home M'Adam + produced a familiar bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Here's something to warm yer inside, and”—making a feint at the + strap on the walls—' “here's something to do the same by yer ——. + But, Wullie, oot again!” + </p> + <p> + And out they went—unreckoned heroes. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was but a week later, in the very heart of the bitter time, that there + came a day when, from gray dawn to grayer eve, neither James Moore nor Owd + Bob stirred out into the wintry white. And the Master's face was hard and + set as it always was in time of trouble. + </p> + <p> + Outside, the wind screamed down the Dale; while the snow fell + relentlessly; softly fingering the windows, blocking the doors, and piling + deep against the walls. Inside the house there was a strange quiet; no + sound save for hushed voices, and upstairs the shuffling of muffled feet. + </p> + <p> + Below, all day long, Owd Bob patrolled the passage like some silent, gray + spectre. + </p> + <p> + Once there came a low knocking at the door; and David, his face and hair + and cap smothered in the all-pervading white, came in with an eddy of + snow. He patted Owd Bob, and moved on tiptoe into the kitchen. To him came + Maggie softly, shoes in hand, with white, frightened face. The two + whispered anxiously awhile like brother and sister as they were; then the + boy crept quietly away; only a little pool of water on the floor and wet, + treacherous foot-dabs toward the door testifying to the visitor. + </p> + <p> + Toward evening the wind died down, but the mourning flakes still fell. + </p> + <p> + With the darkening of night Owd Bob retreated to the porch and lay down on + his blanket. The light from the lamp at the head of the stairs shone + through the crack of open door on his dark head and the eyes that never + slept. + </p> + <p> + The hours passed, and the gray knight still kept his vigil. Alone in the + darkness—alone, it almost seemed, in the house—he watched. His + head lay motionless along his paws, but the steady gray eyes never + flinched or drooped. + </p> + <p> + Time tramped on on leaden foot, and still he waited; and ever the pain of + hovering anxiety was stamped deeper in the gray eyes. + </p> + <p> + At length it grew past bearing; the hollow stillness of the house overcame + him. He rose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered across the + passage. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, his + grave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. The dim + light fell on the raised head; and the white escutcheon on his breast + shone out like the snow on Salmon. + </p> + <p> + At length, with a sound like a sob, he dropped to the ground, and stood + listening, his tail dropping and head raised. Then he turned and began + softly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gate of + death. + </p> + <p> + Up and down, up and down, softly as the falling snow, for a weary, weary + while. + </p> + <p> + Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of the stairs; + and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draught. + </p> + <p> + Of a sudden, the deathly stillness of the house was broken. Upstairs, feet + were running hurriedly. There was a cry, and again silence. + </p> + <p> + A life was coming in; a life was going out. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed; hours passed; and, at the sunless dawn, a life passed. + </p> + <p> + And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood, still + as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first chill + breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man sorrowing + for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a new-born child + wailing because its mother was not, came down to his ears, the Gray + Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a little whimpering + note, crept back to his blanket. + </p> + <p> + A little later the door above opened, and James Moore tramped down the + stairs. He looked taller and gaunter than his wont, but there was no trace + of emotion on his face. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He came crouching + up, head and tail down, in a manner no man ever saw before or since. At + his master's feet he stopped. + </p> + <p> + Then, for one short moment, James Moore's whole face quivered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, lad,” he said, quite low, and his voice broke; “she's awa'!” + </p> + <p> + That was all; for they were an undemonstrative couple. + </p> + <p> + Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VIII. M'ADAM AND HIS COAT + </h2> + <p> + To David M'Adam the loss of gentle Elizabeth Moore was as real a grief as + to her children. Yet he manfully smothered his own aching heart and + devoted himself to comforting the mourners at Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + In the days succeeding Mrs. Moore's death the boy recklessly neglected his + duties at the Grange. But little M'Adam forbore to rebuke him. At times, + indeed, he essayed to be passively kind. David, however, was too deeply + sunk in his great sorrow to note the change. + </p> + <p> + The day of the funeral came. The earth was throwing off its ice-fetters; + and the Dale was lost in a mourning mist. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon M'Adam was standing at the window of the kitchen, + contemplating the infinite weariness of the scene, when the door of the + house opened and shut noiselessly. Red Wull raised himself on to the sill + and growled, and David hurried past the window making for Kenmuir. M'Adam + watched the passing figure indifferently; then with an angry oath sprang + to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Bring me back that coat, ye thief!” he cried, tapping fiercely on the + pane. “Tak' it aff at onst, ye muckle gowk, or I'll come and tear it aff + ye. D'ye see him, Wullie? the great coof has ma coat—me black coat, + new last Michaelmas, and it rainin' 'nough to melt it.” + </p> + <p> + He threw the window up with a bang and leaned out. + </p> + <p> + “Bring it back, I tell ye, ondootiful, or I'll summons ye. Though ye've no + respect for me, ye might have for ma claithes. Ye're too big for yer ain + boots, let alane ma coat. D'ye think I had it cut for a elephant? It's + burst-in', I tell ye. Tak' it aff! Fetch it here, or I'll e'en send Wullie + to bring it!” + </p> + <p> + David paid no heed except to begin running heavily down the hill. The coat + was stretched in wrinkled agony across his back; his big, red wrists + protruded like shank-bones from the sleeves; and the little tails flapped + wearily in vain attempts to reach the wearer's legs. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam, bubbling over with indignation, scrambled half through the open + window. Then, tickled at the amazing impudence of the thing, he paused, + smiled, dropped to the ground again, and watched the uncouth, retreating + figure with chuckling amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Did ye ever see the like o' that, Wullie?” he muttered. “Ma puir coat—puir + wee coatie! it gars me greet to see her in her pain. A man's coat, Wullie, + is aften unco sma' for his son's back; and David there is strainin' and + stretchin' her nigh to brakin', for a' the world as he does ma + forbearance. And what's he care aboot the one or t'ither?—not a + finger-flip.” + </p> + <p> + As he stood watching the disappearing figure there began the slow tolling + of the minute-bell in the little Dale church. Now near, now far, now loud, + now low, its dull chant rang out through the mist like the slow-dropping + tears of a mourning world. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam listened, almost reverently, as the bell tolled on, the only sound + in the quiet Dale. Outside, a drizzling rain was falling; the snow + dribbled down the hill in muddy tricklets; and trees and roofs and windows + dripped. + </p> + <p> + And still the bell tolled on, calling up relentlessly sad memories of the + long ago. + </p> + <p> + It was on just such another dreary day, in just such another December, and + not so many years gone by, that the light had gone forever out of his + life. + </p> + <p> + The whole picture rose as instant to his eyes as if it had been but + yesterday. That insistent bell brought the scene surging back to him: the + dismal day; the drizzle; the few mourners; little David decked out in + black, his fair hair contrasting with his gloomy clothes, his face swollen + with weeping; the Dale hushed, it seemed in death, save for the tolling of + the bell; and his love had left him and gone to the happy land the + hymn-books talk of. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull, who had been watching him uneasily, now came up and shoved his + muzzle into his master's hand. The cold touch brought the little man back + to earth. He shook himself, turned wearily away from the window, and went + to the door of the house. + </p> + <p> + He stood there looking out; and all round him was the eternal drip, drip + of the thaw. The wind lulled, and again the minute-bell tolled out clear + and inexorable, resolute to recall what was and what had been. + </p> + <p> + With a choking gasp the little man turned into the house, and ran up the + stairs and into his room. He dropped on his knees beside the great chest + in the corner, and unlocked the bottom drawer, the key turning noisily in + its socket. + </p> + <p> + In the drawer he searched with feverish fingers, and produced at length a + little paper packet wrapped about with a stained yellow ribbon. It was the + ribbon she had used to weave on Sundays into her soft hair. + </p> + <p> + Inside the packet was a cheap, heart-shaped frame, and in it a photograph. + </p> + <p> + Up there it was too dark to see. The little man ran down the stairs, Red + Wull jostling him as he went, and hurried to the window in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + It was a sweet, laughing face that looked up at him from the frame, demure + yet arch, shy yet roguish—a face to look at and a face to love. + </p> + <p> + As he looked a wintry smile, wholly tender, half tearful, stole over the + little man's face. + </p> + <p> + “Lassie,” he whispered, and his voice was infinitely soft, “it's lang sin' + I've daured look at ye. But it's no that ye're forgotten, dearie.” + </p> + <p> + Then he covered his eyes with his hand as though he were blinded. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna look at me sae, lass!” he cried, and fell on his knees, kissing the + picture, hugging it to him and sobbing passionately. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull came up and pushed his face compassionately into his master's; + but the little man shoved him roughly away, and the dog retreated into a + corner, abashed and reproachful. + </p> + <p> + Memories swarmed back on the little man. + </p> + <p> + It was more than a decade ago now, and yet he dared barely think of that + last evening when she had lain so white and still in the little room + above. + </p> + <p> + “Pit the bairn on the bed, Adam man,” she had said in low tones. “I'll be + gaein' in a wee while noo. It's the lang good-by to you—and him.” + </p> + <p> + He had done her bidding and lifted David up. The tiny boy lay still a + moment, looking at this white-faced mother whom he hardly recognized. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie!” he called piteously. Then, thrusting a small, dirty hand into + his pocket, he pulled out a grubby sweet. + </p> + <p> + “Minnie, ha' a sweetie—ain o' Davie's sweeties!” and he held it out + anxiously in his warm plump palm, thinking it a certain cure for any ill. + </p> + <p> + “Eat it for mither,” she said, smiling tenderly; and then: “Davie, ma + heart, I'm leavin' ye.” + </p> + <p> + The boy ceased sucking the sweet, and looked at her, the corners of his + mouth drooping pitifully. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're no gaein' awa', mither?” he asked, his face all working. “Ye'll no + leave yen wee laddie?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, laddie, awa'—reet awa'. HE's callin' me.” She tried to smile; + but her mother's heart was near to bursting. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll tak' yen wee Davie wi' ye mither!” the child pleaded, crawling up + toward her face. + </p> + <p> + The great tears rolled, unrestrained, down her wan cheeks, and M'Adam, at + the head of the bed, was sobbing openly. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, ma bairn, ma bairn, I'm sair to leave ye!” she cried brokenly. “Lift + him for me, Adam.” + </p> + <p> + He placed the child in her arms; but she was too weak to hold him. So he + laid him upon his mother's pillows; and the boy wreathed his soft arms + about her neck and sobbed tempestuously. + </p> + <p> + And the two lay thus together. + </p> + <p> + Just before she died, Flora turned her head and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Adam, ma man, ye'll ha' to be mither and father baith to the lad noo”; + and she looked at him with tender confidence in her dying eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I wull! afore God as I stan' here I wull!” he declared passionately. Then + she died, and there was a look of ineffable peace upon her face. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Mither and father baith!” + </p> + <p> + The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him. Red + Wull pounced upon it; but M'Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it. + </p> + <p> + “Git awa', ye devil!” he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it lovingly + with trembling fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Maither and father baith!” + </p> + <p> + How had he fulfilled his love's last wish? How! + </p> + <p> + “Oh God! “—and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the + picture, sobbing and praying. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining up + to where his master knelt. But M'Adam heeded him not, and the great dog + slunk away again. + </p> + <p> + There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winter's afternoon, a + miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his + hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting tones. + </p> + <p> + “Gie me grace, O God! 'Father and mither baith,' ye said, Flora—and + I ha'na done it. But 'tis no too late—say it's no, lass. Tell me + there's time yet, and say ye forgie me. I've tried to bear wi' him mony + and mony a time. But he's vexed me, and set himself agin me, and stiffened + my back, and ye ken hoo I was aye quick to tak' offence. But I'll mak' it + up to him—mak' it up to him, and mair. I'll humble masel' afore him, + and that'll be bitter enough. And I'll be father and mither baith to him. + But there's bin none to help me; and it's bin sair wi'oot ye. And—. + but, eh, lassie, I'm wearyin' for ye!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was a dreary little procession that wound in the drizzle from Kenmuir + to the little Dale Church. At the head stalked James Moore, and close + behind David in his meagre coat. While last of all, as if to guide the + stragglers in the weary road, come Owd Bob. + </p> + <p> + There was a full congregation in the tiny church now. In the squire's pew + were Cyril Gilbraith, Muriel Sylvester, and, most conspicuous, Lady + Eleanour. Her slender figure was simply draped in gray, with gray fur + about the neck and gray fur edging sleeves and jacket; her veil was + lifted, and you could see the soft hair about her temples, like waves + breaking on white cliffs, and her eyes big with tender sympathy as she + glanced toward the pew upon her right. + </p> + <p> + For there were the mourners from Kenmuir: the Master, tall, grim, and + gaunt; and beside him Maggie, striving to be calm, and little Andrew, the + miniature of his father. + </p> + <p> + Alone, in the pew behind, David M'Adam in his father's coat. + </p> + <p> + The back of the church was packed with farmers from the whole March Mere + Estate; friends from Silverdale and Grammoch-town; and nearly every soul + in Wastrel-dale, come to show their sympathy for the living and reverence + for the dead. + </p> + <p> + At last the end came in the wet dreariness of the little churchyard, and + slowly the mourners departed, until at length were left only the parson, + the Master, and Owd Bob. + </p> + <p> + The parson was speaking in rough, short accents, digging nervously at the + wet ground. The other, tall and gaunt, his face drawn and half-averted, + stood listening. By his side was Owd Bob, scanning his master's + countenance, a wistful compassion deep in the sad gray eyes; while close + by, one of the parson's terriers was nosing inquisitively in the wet + grass. + </p> + <p> + Of a sudden, James Moore, his face still turned away, stretched out a + hand. The parson, broke off abruptly and grasped it. Then the two men + strode away in opposite directions, the terrier hopping on three legs and + shaking the rain off his hard coat. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + David's steps sounded outside. M'Adam rose from his knees. The door of the + house opened, and the boy's feet shuffled in the passage. + </p> + <p> + “David!” the little man called in a tremulous voice. + </p> + <p> + He stood in the half-light, one hand on the table, the other clasping the + picture. His eyes were bleared, his thin hair all tossed, and he was + shaking. + </p> + <p> + “David,” he called again; “I've somethin' I wush to say to ye!” + </p> + <p> + The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and rain; and + the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front, and on the elbows + were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way home, he had flung himself + down in the Stony Bottom just as he was, heedless of the wet earth and his + father's coat, and, lying on his face thinking of that second mother lost + to him, had wept his heart out in a storm of passionate grief. + </p> + <p> + Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door. + </p> + <p> + “What d'yo' want?” + </p> + <p> + The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Help me, Flora—he'll no,” he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he + began: “I'd like to say—I've bin thinkin'—I think I should + tell ye—it's no an easy thing for a man to say—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could + accomplish. + </p> + <p> + He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of understanding + in that white, set countenance. + </p> + <p> + “O God, it's maist mair than I can do!” the little man muttered; and the + perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began: “David, after I saw + ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill—” Again he paused. His + glance rested unconsciously upon the coat. David mistook the look; mistook + the dimness in his father's eyes; mistook the tremor in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!” he cried passionately; and, tearing it off, + flung it down at his father's feet. “Tak' it—and—-and—curse + yo'.” + </p> + <p> + He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw + himself on to his bed and sobbed. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to + his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little M'Adam was + looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Curse ye,” he repeated softly. “Curse ye—ye heard him. Wullie?” + </p> + <p> + A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now + lying crushed in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,” he muttered, and + slipped it into his pocket. “Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to + ask it.” + </p> + <p> + Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter + smile. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton + found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At + the little man's head lay a great dog. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' beast!” said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best + customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the + little man's hand: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?” he leered. “Gie us a look at 'er,” + and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at the + attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical + expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Two on ye!” he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; “beasts baith!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter IX. RIVALS + </h2> + <p> + M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of the + funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The little man + had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and the bitterness of + defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like a poisoned barb in his + bosom. + </p> + <p> + Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but + against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of James Moore + he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself accordingly. In public or + in private, in tap-room or market, he never wearied of abusing his enemy. + </p> + <p> + “Feel the loss o' his wife, d'ye say?” he would cry. “Ay, as muckle as I + feel the loss o' my hair. James Moore can feel naethin', I tell ye, + except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog.” + </p> + <p> + When the two met, as they often must, it was always M'Adam's endeavor to + betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But James Moore, + sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the little man's + sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tongued antagonist + with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurt his + adversary more than words. + </p> + <p> + Only once was he spurred into reply. It was in the tap-room of the + Dalesman's Daughter on the occasion of the big spring fair in + Grammoch-town, when there was a goodly gathering of farmers and their dogs + in the room. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam was standing at the fireplace with Red Wull at his side. + </p> + <p> + “It's a noble pairt ye play, James Moore,” he cried loudly across the + room, “settin' son against father, and dividin' hoose against hoose. It's + worthy o' ye we' yer churchgoin', and yer psalm-singin', and yer + godliness.” + </p> + <p> + The Master looked up from the far end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Happen yo're not aware, M'Adam,” he said sternly, “that, an' it had not + bin for me, David'd ha' left you years agone—and 'twould nob'but ha' + served yo' right, I'm thinkin'.” + </p> + <p> + The little man was beaten on his own ground, so he changed front. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna shout so, man—I have ears to hear, Forbye ye irritate + Wullie.” + </p> + <p> + The Tailless Tyke, indeed, had advanced from the fireplace, and now stood, + huge and hideous, in the very centre of the room. There was distant + thunder in his throat, a threat upon his face, a challenge in every + wrinkle. And the Gray Dog stole gladly out from behind his master to take + up the gage of battle. + </p> + <p> + Straightway there was silence; tongues ceased to wag, tankards to clink. + Every man and every dog was quietly gathering about those two central + figures. Not one of them all but had his score to wipe off against the + Tailless Tyke; not one of them but was burning to join in, the battle once + begun. And the two gladiators stood looking past one another, muzzle to + muzzle, each with a tiny flash of teeth glinting between his lips. + </p> + <p> + But the fight was not to be; for the twentieth time the Master intervened. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad, coom in!” he called, and, bending, grasped his favorite by the + neck. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried. “The look o' you's enough for that + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “If they get fightin' it'll no be Bob here I'll hit, I warn yo', M'Adam,” + said the Master grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Gin ye sae muckle as touched Wullie d'ye ken what I'd do, James Moore?” + asked the little man very smoothly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—sweer,” the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a + roar of derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense. + </p> + <p> + Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. Parson Leggy + declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the days of Rex son + of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a heroic favorite, his prowess and + gentle ways winning him friends on every hand. But the point that told + most heavily for him was that in all things he was the very antithesis of + Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + Barely a man in the country-side but owed that ferocious savage a grudge; + not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby, full of beer and + valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on M'Adam and Red Wull as he + was driving into Grammoch-town, he leant over and with his thong dealt the + dog a terrible sword-like slash that raised an angry ridge of red from hip + to shoulder; and was twenty yards down the road before the little man's + shrill curse reached his ear, drowned in a hideous bellow. + </p> + <p> + He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young un, + soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he saw a + hounding form behind, catching him as though he were walking. His face + turned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he looked back. Right + beneath the tail-board was the red devil in the dust; while racing a + furlong behind on the turnpike road was the mad figure of M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail. With a + tiger-like bound the murderous brute leapt on the flying trap. At the + shock of the great body the colt was thrown violently on his side; Kirby + was tossed over the hedge; and Red Wull pinned beneath the debris. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam had time to rush up and save a tragedy. + </p> + <p> + “I've a mind to knife ye, Kirby,” he panted, as he bandaged the smith's + broken head. + </p> + <p> + After that you may be sure the Dalesmen preferred to swallow insults + rather than to risk their lives; and their impotence only served to fan + their hatred to white heat. + </p> + <p> + The working methods of the antagonists were as contrasted as their + appearances. In a word, the one compelled where the other coaxed. + </p> + <p> + His enemies said the Tailless Tyke was rough; not even Tammas denied he + was ready. His brain was as big as his body, and he used them both to some + purpose. “As quick as a cat, with the heart of a lion and the temper of + Nick's self,” was Parson Leggy's description. + </p> + <p> + What determination could effect, that could Red Wall; but achievement by + inaction—supremest of all strategies—was not for him. In + matters of the subtlest handling, where to act anything except + indifference was to lose, with sheep restless, fearful forebodings hymned + to them by the wind, panic hovering unseen above them, when an + ill-considered movement spelt catastrophe—then was Owd Bob o' + Kenmuir incomparable. + </p> + <p> + Men still tell how, when the squire's new thrashing-machine ran amuck in + Grammoch-town, and for some minutes the market square was a turbulent sea + of blaspheming men, yelping dogs, and stampeding sheep, only one flock + stood calm as a mill-pond by the bull-ring, watching the riot with almost + indifference. And in front, sitting between them and the storm, was a + quiet gray dog, his mouth stretched in a capacious yawn: to yawn was to + win, and he won. + </p> + <p> + When the worst of the uproar was over, many a glance of triumph was shot + first at that one still pack, and then at M'Adam, as he waded through the + disorder of huddling sheep. + </p> + <p> + “And wheer's your Wullie noo?” asked Tapper scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “Weel,” the little man answered with a quiet smile, “at this minute he's + killin' your Rasper doon by the pump.” Which was indeed the case; for big + blue Rasper had interfered with the great dog in the performance of his + duty, and suffered accordingly. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Spring passed into summer; and the excitement as to the event of the + approaching Trials, when at length the rivals would be pitted against one + another, reached such a height as old Jonas Maddox, the octogenarian, + could hardly recall. + </p> + <p> + Down in the Sylvester Arms there was almost nightly a conflict between + M'Adam and Tammas Thornton, spokesman of the Dales men. Many a long-drawn + bout of words had the two anent the respective merits and Cup chances of + red and gray. In these duels Tammas was usually worsted. His temper would + get the better of his discretion; and the cynical debater would be lost in + the hot-tongued partisan. + </p> + <p> + During these encounters the others would, as a rule, maintain a rigid + silence. Only when their champion was being beaten, and it was time for + strength of voice to vanquish strength of argument, they joined in right + lustily and roared the little man down, for all the world like the + gentlemen who rule the Empire at Westminster. + </p> + <p> + Tammas was an easy subject for M'Adam to draw, but David was an easier. + Insults directed at himself the boy bore with a stolidity born of long + use. But a poisonous dart shot against his friends at Kenmuir never failed + to achieve its object. And the little man evinced an amazing talent for + the concoction of deft lies respecting James Moore. + </p> + <p> + “I'm hearin',” said he, one evening, sitting in the kitchen, sucking his + twig; “I'm hearin' James Moore is gaein' to git married agin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo're hearin' lies—or mair-like tellin' 'em,” David answered + shortly. For he treated his father now with contemptuous indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Seven months sin' his wife died,” the little man continued meditatively. + “Weel, I'm on'y 'stonished he's waited sae lang. Ain buried, anither come + on—that's James Moore.” + </p> + <p> + David burst angrily out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Gaein' to ask him if it's true?” called his father after him. “Gude luck + to ye—and him.” + </p> + <p> + David had now a new interest at Kenmuir. In Maggie he found an endless + source of study. On the death of her mother the girl had taken up the + reins of government at Kenmuir; and gallantly she played her part, whether + in tenderly mothering the baby, wee Anne, or in the sterner matters of + household work. She did her duty, young though she was, with a surprising, + old-fashioned womanliness that won many a smile of approval from her + father, and caused David's eyes to open with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + And he soon discovered that Maggie, mistress of Kenmuir, was another + person from his erstwhile playfellow and servant. + </p> + <p> + The happy days when might ruled right were gone, never to be recalled. + David often regretted them, especially when in a conflict of tongues, + Maggie, with her quick answers and teasing eyes, was driving him sulky and + vanquished from the field. The two were perpetually squabbling now. In the + good old days, he remembered bitterly, squabbles between them were + unknown. He had never permitted them; any attempt at independent thought + or action was as sternly quelled as in the Middle Ages. She must follow + where he led on—“Ma word!” + </p> + <p> + Now she was mistress where he had been master; hers was to command, his to + obey. In consequence they were perpetually at war. And yet he would sit + for hours in the kitchen and watch her, as she went about her business, + with solemn, interested eyes, half of admiration, half of amusement. In + the end Maggie always turned on him with a little laugh touched with + irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?” she asked + one Saturday about a month before Cup Day. + </p> + <p> + “No, I han't,” the pert fellow rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so like ony + cat a mouse.” + </p> + <p> + “Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench,” he answered calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' wench, indeed!” she cried, tossing her head. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, or will be,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be sure, and + no sooner.” + </p> + <p> + The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Don't yo', Mrs. M'A——” + </p> + <p> + The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David laughed + quietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On the same evening at the Sylvester Arms an announcement was made that + knocked the breath out of its hearers. + </p> + <p> + In the debate that night on the fast-approaching Dale Trials and the + relative abilities of red and gray, M'Adam on the one side, and Tammas, + backed by Long Kirby and the rest, on the other, had cudgelled each other + with more than usual vigor. The controversy rose to fever-heat; abuse + succeeded argument; and the little man again and again was hooted into + silence. + </p> + <p> + “It's easy laffin',” he cried at last, “but ye'll laff t'ither side o' yer + ugly faces on Cup Day.” + </p> + <p> + “Will us, indeed? Us'll see,” came the derisive chorus. + </p> + <p> + “We'll whip ye till ye're deaf, dumb, and blind, Wullie and I.” + </p> + <p> + ''Yo'll not!'' + </p> + <p> + “We will!” + </p> + <p> + The voices were rising like the east wind in March. + </p> + <p> + “Yo'll not, and for a very good reason too,” asseverated Tammas loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Gie us yer reason, ye muckle liar,” cried the little man, turning on him. + </p> + <p> + “Becos——” began Jim Mason and stopped to rub his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' 'old yo' noise, Jim,” recommended Rob Saunderson. + </p> + <p> + “Becos——” it was Tammas this time who paused. + </p> + <p> + “Git on wi' it, ye stammerin' stirk!” cried M'Adam. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Becos—Owd Bob'll not rin.” + </p> + <p> + Tammas sat back in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “What!” screamed the little man, thrusting forward. + </p> + <p> + “What's that!” yelled Long Kirby, leaping to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Mon, say it agin!” shouted Rob. + </p> + <p> + “What's owd addled eggs tellin'?” cried Liz Burton. + </p> + <p> + “Dang his 'ead for him!” shouts Tupper. + </p> + <p> + “Fill his eye!” says Ned Hoppin. + </p> + <p> + They jostled round the old man's chair: M'Adam in front; Jem Burton and + Long Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saunderson + and Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered and elbowed + in the rear. + </p> + <p> + The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them. + </p> + <p> + Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him. Pride + at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenance with + genuine sorrow for the matter of it. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, yo' may well 'earken all on yo'. Tis enough to mak' the deadies + listen. I says agin: We's'll no rin oor Bob fot' Cup. And yo' may guess + why. Bain't every mon, Mr. M'Adam, as'd pit aside his chanst o' the Cup, + and that 'maist a gift for him”—M'Adam's tongue was in his cheek—“and + it a certainty,” the old man continued warmly, “oot o' respect for his + wife's memory.” + </p> + <p> + The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise, coupled + with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slow tongues of his + listeners. + </p> + <p> + Only one small voice broke the stillness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the feelin' man! He should git a reduction o' rent for sic a display + o' proper speerit. I'll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvester ken o't.” + </p> + <p> + Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not Cyril + Gilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric could + lay hands upon him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter X. RED WULL WINS + </h2> + <p> + TAMMAS had but told the melancholy truth. Owd Bob was not to run for the + cup. And this self-denying ordinance speaks more for James Moore's love of + his lost wife than many a lordly cenotaph. + </p> + <p> + To the people of the Daleland, from the Black Water to the market-cross in + Grammoch-town, the news came with the shock of a sudden blow. They had set + their hearts on the Gray Dog's success; and had felt serenely confident of + his victory. But the sting of the matter lay in this: that now the + Tailless Tyke might well win. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam, on the other hand, was plunged into a fervor of delight at the + news. For to win the Shepherds' Trophy was the goal of his ambition. David + was now less than nothing to the lonely little man, Red Wull everything to + him. And to have that name handed down to posterity, gallantly holding its + place among those of the most famous sheep-dogs of all time, was his + heart's desire. + </p> + <p> + As Cup Day drew near, the little man, his fine-drawn temperament strung to + the highest pitch of nervousness, was tossed on a sea of apprehension. His + hopes and fears ebbed and flowed on the tide of the moment. His moods were + as uncertain as the winds in March; and there was no dependence on his + humor for a unit of time. At one minute he paced up and down the kitchen, + his face already flushed with the glow of victory, chanting: + </p> + <p> + “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!” + </p> + <p> + At the next he was down at the table, his head buried in his hands, his + whole figure shaking, as he cried in choking voice: “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, + they're all agin us.” + </p> + <p> + David found that life with his father now was life with an unamiable + hornet. Careless as he affected to be of his father's vagaries, he was + tried almost to madness, and fled away at every moment to Kenmuir; for, as + he told Maggie, “I'd sooner put up wi' your h'airs and h'imperences, miss, + than wi' him, the wemon that he be!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + At length the great day came. Fears, hopes, doubts, dismays, all dispersed + in the presence of the reality. + </p> + <p> + Cup Day is always a general holiday in the Daleland, and every soul crowds + over to Silverdale. Shops were shut; special trains ran in to + Grammoch-town; and the road from the little town was dazed with + char-a-bancs, brakes, wagonettes, carriages, carts, foot-passengers, + wending toward the Dalesman's Daughter. + </p> + <p> + And soon the paddock below that little inn was humming with the crowd of + sportsmen and spectators come to see the battle for the Shepherd's Trophy. + </p> + <p> + There, very noticeable with its red body and yellow wheels, was the great + Kenmuir wagon. Many an eye was directed on the handsome young pair who + stood in it, conspicuous and unconscious, above the crowd: Maggie, looking + in her simple print frock as sweet and fresh as any mountain flower; while + David's fair face was all gloomy and his brows knit. + </p> + <p> + In front of the wagon was a black cluster of Dalesmen, discussing M'Adam's + chances. In the centre was Tammas holding forth. Had you passed close to + the group you might have heard: “A man, d'yo say, Mr. Maddox? A h'ape, I + call him”; or: “A dog? more like an 'og, I tell yo'.” Round the old orator + were Jonas, 'Enry, and oor Job, Jem Burton, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Jim + Mason, Hoppin, and others; while on the outskirts stood Sam'l Todd + prophesying rain and M'Adam's victory. Close at hand Bessie Bolstock, who + was reputed to have designs on David, was giggling spitefully at the pair + in the Kenmuir wagon, and singing: + </p> + <p> + “Let a lad aloan, lass, Let a lad a-be.” + </p> + <p> + While her father, Teddy, dodged in and out among the crowd with tray and + glasses: for Cup Day was the great day of the year for him. + </p> + <p> + Past the group of Dalesmen and on all sides was a mass of bobbing heads—Scots, + Northerners, Yorkshiremen, Taffies. To right and left a long array of + carriages and carts, ranging from the squire's quiet landau and Viscount + Birdsaye's gorgeous barouche to Liz Burton's three-legged moke-cart with + little Mrs. Burton, the twins, young Jake (who should have walked), and + Monkey (ditto) packed away inside. Beyond the Silver Lea the gaunt Scaur + raised its craggy peak, and the Pass, trending along its side, shone white + in the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + At the back of the carriages were booths, cocoanut-shies, Aunt Sallies, + shows, bookmakers' stools, and all the panoply of such a meeting. Here + Master Launcelot Bilks and Jacky Sylvester were fighting; Cyril Gilbraith + was offering to take on the boxing man; Long Kirby was snapping up the + odds against Red Wull; and Liz Burton and young Ned Hoppin were being + photographed together, while Melia Ross in the background was pretending + she didn't care. + </p> + <p> + On the far bank of the stream was a little bevy of men and dogs, observed + of all. + </p> + <p> + The Juvenile Stakes had been run and won; Londesley's Lassie had carried + off the Locals; and the fight for the Shepherds' Trophy was about to + begin. + </p> + <p> + “Yo're not lookin' at me noo,” whispered Maggie to the silent boy by her + side. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; nor niver don't wush to agin.” David answered roughly. His gaze was + directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond the Silver Lea, + a group of shepherds and their dogs was clustered. While standing apart + from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was the bent figure of his + father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke. + </p> + <p> + “Doest'o not want yo' feyther to win?” asked Maggie softly, following his + gaze. + </p> + <p> + “I'm prayin' he'll be beat,” the boy answered moodily. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?” cried the girl, shocked. + </p> + <p> + “It's easy to say, 'Eh, David,'” he snapped. “But if yo' lived along o' + them two “—he nodded toward the stream—“'appen yo'd understand + a bit.... 'Eh, David,' indeed! I never did!” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, lad,” she said tenderly; and he was appeased. + </p> + <p> + “He'd give his right hand for his bless'd Wullie to win; I'd give me right + arm to see him beat.... And oor Bob there all the while,”—he nodded + to the far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob, with + Parson Leggy and the Squire. + </p> + <p> + When at length Red Wull came out to run his course, he worked with the + savage dash that always characterized him. His method was his own; but the + work was admirably done. + </p> + <p> + “Keeps right on the back of his sheep,” said the parson, watching + intently. “Strange thing they don't break!” But they didn't. There was no + waiting, no coaxing; it was drive and devilry all through. He brought his + sheep along at a terrific rate, never missing a turn, never faltering, + never running out. And the crowd applauded, for the crowd loves a dashing + display. While little M'Adam, hopping agilely about, his face ablaze with + excitement, handled dog and sheep with a masterly precision that compelled + the admiration even of his enemies. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam wins!” roared a bookmaker. “Twelve to one agin the field!” + </p> + <p> + “He wins, dang him!” said David, low. + </p> + <p> + “Wull wins!” said the parson, shutting his lips. + </p> + <p> + “And deserves too!” said James Moore. + </p> + <p> + “Wull wins!” softly cried the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “We don't!” said Sam'l gloomily. + </p> + <p> + And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save Tammas, the + bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of his wife's money and a + little of his own, to challenge the justice of the verdict. + </p> + <p> + The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint cheering; + but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of inanition. To + get up an ovation, there must be money at the back, or a few roaring + fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither; ugly stories, + disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds who did not know took + their tone, as always, from those who said they did. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed up through + the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice hailed him victor; + no friendly hand smote its congratulations. Broad backs were turned; + contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful remarks shot. Only the foreign + element looked curiously at the little bent figure with the glowing face, + and shrank back at the size and savage aspect of the great dog at his + heels. + </p> + <p> + But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the best + sheep-dog of the year; and the little man was happy. They could turn their + backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford to be + indifferent. “They dinna like it, lad—he! he! But they'll e'en ha' + to thole it. Ye've won it, Wullie—won it fair.” + </p> + <p> + He elbowed through the press, making for the rope-guarded inclosure in + front of the committee tent, round which the people were now packing. In + the door of the tent stood the secretary, various stewards, and members of + the committee. In front, alone in the roped-off space, was Lady Eleanour, + fragile, dainty, graceful, waiting with a smile upon her face to receive + the winner. And on a table beside her, naked and dignified, the Shepherd's + Trophy. + </p> + <p> + There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with + many names; cradled in three shepherds' crooks; and on the top, as if to + guard the Cup's contents, an exquisitely carved collie's head. The + Shepherds' Trophy, the goal of his life's race, and many another man's. + </p> + <p> + He climbed over the rope, followed by Red Wull, and took off his hat with + almost courtly deference to the fair lady before him. + </p> + <p> + As he walked up to the table on which the Cup stood, a shrill voice, + easily recognizable, broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “You'd like it better if 'twas full and yo' could swim in it, you and yer + Wullie,” it called. Whereat the crowd giggled, and Lady Eleanour looked + indignant. + </p> + <p> + The little man turned. + </p> + <p> + “I'll mind drink yer health, Mr. Thornton, never fear, though I ken ye'd + prefaire to drink yer ain,” he said. At which the crowd giggled afresh; + and a gray head at the back, which had hoped itself unrecognized, + disappeared suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The little man stood there in the stillness, sourly smiling, his face + still wet from his exertions; while the Tailless Tyke at his side fronted + defiantly the serried ring of onlookers, a white fence of teeth faintly + visible between his lips. + </p> + <p> + Lady Eleanour looked uneasy. Usually the lucky winner was unable to hear + her little speech, as she gave the Cup away, so deafening was the + applause. Now there was utter silence. She glanced up at the crowd, but + there was no response to her unspoken appeal in that forest of hostile + faces. And her gentle heart bled for the forlorn little man before her. To + make it up she smiled on him so sweetly as to more than compensate him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure you deserve your success, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “You and Red + Wull there worked splendidly—everybody says so.” + </p> + <p> + “I've heard naethin' o't,” the little man answered dryly. At which some + one in the crowd sniggered. + </p> + <p> + “And we all know what a grand dog he is; though”—with a reproving + smile as she glanced at Red Wull's square, truncated stern—“he's not + very polite.” + </p> + <p> + “His heart is good, your Leddyship, if his manners are not,” M'Adam + answered, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Liar!” came a loud voice in the silence. Lady Eleanour looked up, hot + with indignation, and half rose from her seat. But M'Adam merely smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, turn and mak' yer bow to the leddy,” he said. “They'll no hurt us + noo we're up; it's when we're doon they'll flock like corbies to the + carrion.” + </p> + <p> + At that Red Wull walked up to Lady Eleanour, faintly wagging his tail; and + she put her hand on his huge bull head and said, “Dear old Ugly!” at which + the crowd cheered in earnest. + </p> + <p> + After that, for some moments, the only sound was the gentle ripple of the + good lady's voice and the little man's caustic replies. + </p> + <p> + “Why, last winter the country was full of Red Wull's doings and yours. It + was always M'Adam and his Red Wull have done this and that and the other. + I declare I got quite tired of you both, I heard such a lot about you.” + </p> + <p> + The little man, cap in hand, smiled, blushed and looked genuinely pleased. + </p> + <p> + “And when it wasn't you it was Mr. Moore and Owd Bob.” + </p> + <p> + “Owd Bob, bless him!” called a stentorian voice. “There cheers for oor + Bob!” + </p> + <p> + “'Ip! 'ip! 'ooray!” It was taken up gallantly, and cast from mouth to + mouth; and strangers, though they did not understand, caught the contagion + and cheered too; and the uproar continued for some minutes. + </p> + <p> + When it was ended Lady Eleanour was standing up, a faint flush on her + cheeks and her eyes flashing dangerously, like a queen at bay. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she cried, and her clear voice thrilled through the air like a + trumpet. “Yes; and now three cheers for Mr. M'Adam and his Red Wull! Hip! + hip—” + </p> + <p> + “Hooray!” A little knowt of stalwarts at the back—James Moore, + Parson Leggy, Jim Mason, and you may be sure in heart, at least, Owd Bob—responded + to the call right lustily. The crowd joined in; and, once off, cheered and + cheered again. + </p> + <p> + “Three cheers more for Mr. M'Adam!” + </p> + <p> + But the little man waved to them. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna be bigger heepocrites than ye can help,” he said. “Ye've done + enough for one day, and thank ye for it.” + </p> + <p> + Then Lady Eleanour handed him the Cup. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. M'Adam, I present you with the Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open to + all comers. Keep it, guard it, love it as your own, and win it again if + you can. Twice more and it's yours, you know, and it will stop forever + beneath the shadow of the Pike. And the right place for it, say I—the + Dale Cup for Dalesmen.” + </p> + <p> + The little man took the Cup tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “It shall no leave the Estate or ma hoose, yer Leddyship, gin Wullie and I + can help it,” he said emphatically. + </p> + <p> + Lady Eleanour retreated into the tent, and the crowd swarmed over the + ropes and round the little man, who held the Cup beneath his arm. + </p> + <p> + Long Kirby laid irreverent hands upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna finger it!” ordered M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + “Shall!'' + </p> + <p> + “Shan't! Wullie, keep him aff.” Which the great dog proceeded to do amid + the laughter of the onlookers. + </p> + <p> + Among the last, James Moore was borne past the little man. At sight of + him, M'Adam's face assumed an expression of intense concern. + </p> + <p> + “Man, Moore!” he cried, peering forward as though in alarm; “man, Moore, + ye're green—positeevely verdant. Are ye in pain?” Then, catching + sight of Owd Bob, he started back in affected horror. + </p> + <p> + “And, ma certes! so's yer dog! Yer dog as was gray is green. Oh, guid + life! “—and he made as though about to fall fainting to the ground. + </p> + <p> + Then, in bantering tones: “Ah, but ye shouldna covet ——” + </p> + <p> + “He'll ha' no need to covet it long, I can tell yo',” interposed Tammas's + shrill accents. + </p> + <p> + “And why for no?” + </p> + <p> + “Becos next year he'll win it fra yo'. Oor Bob'll win it, little mon. Why? + thot's why.” + </p> + <p> + The retort was greeted with a yell of applause from the sprinkling of + Dalesmen in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + But M'Adam swaggered away into the tent, his head up, the Cup beneath his + arm, and Red Wull guarding his rear. + </p> + <p> + “First of a' ye'll ha' to beat Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull!” he cried + back proudly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XI. OOR BOB + </h2> + <p> + M'ADAM'S pride in the great Cup that now graced his kitchen was supreme. + It stood alone in the very centre of the mantelpiece, just below the old + bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung upon the wall. The only ornament in the + bare room, it shone out in its silvery chastity like the moon in a gloomy + sky. + </p> + <p> + For once the little man was content. Since his mother's death David had + never known such peace. It was not that his father became actively kind; + rather that he forgot to be actively unkind. + </p> + <p> + “Not as I care a brazen button one way or t'ither,” the boy informed + Maggie. + </p> + <p> + “Then yo' should,” that proper little person replied. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam was, indeed, a changed being. He forgot to curse James Moore; he + forgot to sneer at Owd Bob; he rarely visited the Sylvester Arms, to the + detriment of Jem Burton's pocket and temper; and he was never drunk. + </p> + <p> + “Soaks 'isseif at home, instead,” suggested Tammas, the prejudiced. But + the accusation was untrue. + </p> + <p> + “Too drunk to git so far,” said Long Kirby, kindly man. + </p> + <p> + “I reck'n the Cup is kind o' company to him,” said Jim Mason. “Happen it's + lonesomeness as drives him here so much.” And happen you were right, + charitable Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Best mak' maist on it while he has it, 'cos he'll not have it for long,” + Tammas remarked amid applause. + </p> + <p> + Even Parson Leggy allowed—rather reluctantly, indeed, for he was but + human—that the little man was changed wonderfully for the better. + </p> + <p> + “But I am afraid it may not last,” he said. “We shall see what happens + when Owd Bob beats him for the Cup, as he certainly will. That'll be the + critical moment.” + </p> + <p> + As things were, the little man spent all his spare moments with the Cup + between his knees, burnishing it and crooning to Wullie: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I never saw a fairer, + I never lo'ed a dearer, + And neist my heart I'll wear her, + For fear my jewel tine.” + </pre> + <p> + “There, Wullie! look at her! is she no bonnie? She shines like a twinkle—twinkle + in the sky.” And he would hold it out at arm's length, his head cocked + sideways the better to scan its bright beauties. + </p> + <p> + The little man was very jealous for his treasure. David might not touch + it; might not smoke in the kitchen lest the fumes should tarnish its + glory; while if he approached too closely he was ordered abruptly away. + </p> + <p> + “As if I wanted to touch his nasty Cup!” he complained to Maggie. “I'd + sooner ony day—” + </p> + <p> + “Hands aff, Mr. David, immediate!” she cried indignantly. “'Pertinence, + indeed!” as she tossed her head clear of the big fingers that were + fondling her pretty hair. + </p> + <p> + So it was that M'Adam, on coming quietly into the kitchen one day, was + consumed with angry resentment to find David actually handling the object + of his reverence; and the manner of his doing it added a thousandfold to + the offence. + </p> + <p> + The boy was lolling indolently against the mantelpiece, his fair head + shoved right into the Cup, his breath dimming its lustre, and his two + hands, big and dirty, slowly revolving it before his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bursting with indignation, the little man crept up behind the boy. David + was reading through the long list of winners. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's the first on 'em,” he muttered, shooting out his tongue to + indicate the locality: “'Andrew Moore's Rough, 178—.' And theer agin—' + James Moore's Pinch, 179—.' And agin—'Beck, 182—.' Ah, + and theer's 'im Tammas tells on! 'Rex, 183—,' and Rex, 183—.' + Ay, but he was a rare un by all tell-in's! If he'd nob'but won but onst + agin! Ah, and theer's none like the Gray Dogs—they all says that, + and I say so masel'; none like the Gray Dogs o' Kenmuir, bless 'em! And + we'll win agin too—” he broke off short; his eye had travelled down + to the last name on the list. + </p> + <p> + “'M'Adam's Wull'!” he read with unspeakable contempt, and put his great + thumb across the name as though to wipe it out. “'M'Adam's Wull'! Goo' + gracious sakes! P-hg-h-r-r! “—and he made a motion as though to spit + upon the ground. + </p> + <p> + But a little shoulder was into his side, two small fists were beating at + his chest, and a shrill voice was yelling: “Devil! devil! stan' awa'!”—and + he was tumbled precipitately away from the mantelpiece, and brought up + abruptly against the side-wall. + </p> + <p> + The precious Cup swayed on its ebony stand, the boy's hands, rudely + withdrawn, almost overthrowing it. But the little man's first impulse, + cursing and screaming though he was, was to steady it. + </p> + <p> + “'M'Adam's Wull'! I wish he was here to teach ye, ye snod-faced, ox-limbed + profleegit!” he cried, standing in front of the Cup, his eyes blazing. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, 'M'Adam's Wull'! And why not 'M'Adam's Wull'? Ha' ye ony objections + to the name?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know yo' was theer,” said David, a thought sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “Na; or ye'd not ha' said it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd ha' thought it, though,” muttered the boy. + </p> + <p> + Luckily, however, his father did not hear. He stretched his hands up + tenderly for the Cup, lifted it down, and began reverently to polish the + dimmed sides with his handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're thinkin', nae doot,” he cried, casting up a vicious glance at + David, “that Wullie's no gude enough to ha' his name alangside o' they + cursed Gray Dogs. Are ye no? Let's ha' the truth for aince—for a + diversion.” + </p> + <p> + “Reck'n he's good enough if there's none better,” David replied + dispassionately. + </p> + <p> + “And wha should there be better? Tell me that, ye muckle gowk.” + </p> + <p> + David smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, but that'd be long tellin', he said. + </p> + <p> + “And what wad ye mean by that?” his father cried. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; I was but thinkin' that Mr. Moore's Bob'll look gradely writ under + yon.” He pointed to the vacant space below Red Wull's name. + </p> + <p> + The little man put the Cup back on its pedestal with hurried hands. The + handkerchief dropped unconsidered to the floor; he turned and sprang + furiously at the boy, who stood against the wall, still smiling; and, + seizing him by the collar of his coat, shook him to and fro with fiery + energy. + </p> + <p> + “So ye're hopin', prayin', nae doot, that James Moore—curse him!—will + win ma Cup awa' from me, yer ain dad. I wonder ye're no 'shamed to crass + ma door! Ye live on me; ye suck ma blood, ye foul-mouthed leech. Wullie + and me brak' oorsel's to keep ye in hoose and hame—and what's yer + gratitude? Ye plot to rob us of oor rights.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped the boy's coat and stood back. + </p> + <p> + “No rights about it,” said David, still keeping his temper. + </p> + <p> + “If I win is it no ma right as muckle as ony Englishman's?” + </p> + <p> + Red Wull, who had heard the rising voices, came trotting in, scowled at + David, and took his stand beside his master. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, <i>if</i> yo' win it,” said David, with significant emphasis on the + conjunction. + </p> + <p> + “And wha's to beat us?” + </p> + <p> + David looked at his father in well-affected surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I tell yo' Owd Bob's rinin',” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “And what if he is?” the other cried. + </p> + <p> + “Why, even yo' should know so much,” the boy sneered. + </p> + <p> + The little man could not fail to understand. + </p> + <p> + “So that's it!” he said. Then, in a scream, with one finger pointing to + the great dog: “And what o' him? What'll ma Wullie be doin' the while? + Tell me that, and ha' a care! Mind ye, he stan's here hearkenin'!” And, + indeed, the Tailless Tyke was bristling for battle. + </p> + <p> + David did not like the look of things; and edged away toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “What'll Wullie be doin', ye chicken-hearted brock?” his father cried. + </p> + <p> + “Im?” said the boy, now close on the door. “Im!” he said, with a slow + contempt that made the red bristles quiver on the dog's neck. “Lookin' on, + I should think—lookin' on. What else is he fit for? I tell yo' oor + Bob—” + </p> + <p> + “—'Oor Bob'!” screamed the little man darting forward. “'Oor Bob'! + Hark to him. I'll 'oor—' At him, Wullie! at him!” + </p> + <p> + But the Tailless Tyke needed no encouragement. With a harsh roar he sprang + through the air, only to crash against the closing door! + </p> + <p> + The outer door banged, and in another second a mocking finger tapped on + the windowpane. + </p> + <p> + “Better luck to the two on yo' next time!” laughed a scornful voice; and + David ran down the hill toward Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XII. HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE + </h2> + <p> + FROM that hour the fire of M'Adam's jealousy blazed into a mighty flame. + The winning of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won it + once, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all the + undutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact of + his having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And now + he felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own—won + outright. + </p> + <p> + At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood. + </p> + <p> + “I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel. + Wullie and me won it—you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James + Moore and James Moore's dog.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took from ye?” + </p> + <p> + So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearer + breaking-point. + </p> + <p> + In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of the + Dalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master. + </p> + <p> + Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had been rarely + still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least, had no + cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wull beside him, + the little man would sit watching and listening as the Dalesmen talked of + Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, and coming victory. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would spring to his + feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce them passionately + in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations always concluded in set + fashion. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're all agin us!” the little man would cry in quivering voice. + </p> + <p> + “We are that,” Tammas would answer complacently. + </p> + <p> + “Fair means or foul, ye're content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat. I + wonder ye dinna poison him—a little arsenic, and the way's clear for + your Bob.” + </p> + <p> + “'The way is clear enough wi'oot that,” from Tammas caustically. + </p> + <p> + Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry: “Eh, + Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + And always the rivals—red and gray—went about seeking their + opportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and stern eyes, + was ever ready for them. Toward the end, M'Adam, silent and sneering, + would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one day in + Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering. “D'yo' + think, yo' little fule,” he cried in that hard voice of his, “that onst + they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?” It seemed to + strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment, he was ever + the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his small form, buffer-like, + between the would-be combatants. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Curse as M'Adam might, threaten as he might, when the time came Owd Bob + won. + </p> + <p> + The styles of the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, the + insinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; and + the fierce, driving fury of the other. + </p> + <p> + The issue was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of the + Tailless Tyke gave in the time of trial; it may have been that his sheep + were wild, as M'Adam declared; certainly not, as the little man alleged in + choking voice, that they had been chosen and purposely set aside to ruin + his chance. Certain it is that his tactics scared them hopelessly: and he + never had them in hand. + </p> + <p> + Act for Owd Bob, his dropping, his driving, his penning, aroused the + loud-tongued admiration of crowd and competitors alike. He was patient yet + persistent, quiet yet firm, and seemed to coax his charges in the right + way in that inimitable manner of his own. + </p> + <p> + When, at length, the verdict was given, and it was known that, after an + interval of half a century, the Shepherds' Trophy was won again by a Gray + Dog of Kenmuir, there was such a scene as has been rarely witnessed on the + slope behind the Dalesman's Daughter. + </p> + <p> + Great fists were slapped on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on the + sun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; stalwart lungs were strained to their + uttermost capacity; and roars of “Moore!” “Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” “The Gray + Dogs!” thundered up the hillside, and were flung, thundering, back. + </p> + <p> + Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through the + cheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity, seemed + to wave his silvery brush in acknowledgment. + </p> + <p> + Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cart-wheels and felled the Hon. + Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks flushed with + pleasure, waved her parasol, and attempted to restrain her son's + exuberance. Parson Leggy danced an unclerical jig, and shook hands with + the squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face. + Long Kirby selected a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat down over + his eyes. While Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley, and the + rest joined hands and went raving round like so many giddy girls. + </p> + <p> + Of them all, however, none was so uproarious in the mad heat of his + enthusiasm as David M'Adam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie, a + conspicuous figure above the crowd, as he roared in hoarse ecstasy: + </p> + <p> + “Weel done, oor Bob! Weel done, Mr. Moore! Yo've knocked him! Knock him + agin! Owd Bob o' Kenmuir! Moore! Moore o' Kenmuir! Hip! Hip!” until the + noisy young giant attracted such attention in his boisterous delight that + Maggie had to lay a hand upon his arm to restrain his violence. + </p> + <p> + Alone, on the far bank of the stream, stood the vanquished pair. + </p> + <p> + The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from his + exertions; and as he listened to the ovation accorded to his conqueror, + there was a piteous set grin upon his face. In front stood the defeated + dog, his lips wrinkling and hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heard and + understood. + </p> + <p> + “It's a gran' thing to ha' a dutiful son. Wullie,” the little man + whispered, watching David's waving figure. “He's happy—and so are + they a'—not sae much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are + beat.” + </p> + <p> + Then, breaking down for a moment: + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Wullie, Wullie! They're all agin us. It's you and I alane, lad.” + </p> + <p> + Again, seeing the squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye, and + others of the gentry, forcing their way through the press to shake hands + with the victor, he continued: + </p> + <p> + “It's good to be in wi' the quality, Wullie. Niver mak' a friend of a man + beneath ye in rank, nor an enemy of a man aboon ye: that's a soond + principle, Wullie, if ye'd get on in honest England.” + </p> + <p> + He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slope as + it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only when the + black mass had packed itself in solid phalanges about that ring, inside + which, just a year ago, he had stood in very different circumstances, and + was at length still, a wintry smile played for a moment about his lips. He + laughed a mirthless laugh. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bide a wee, Wullie—he! he! Bide a wee. + 'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men + Gang aft agley.'” + </pre> + <p> + As he spoke, there came down to him, above the tumult, a faint cry of + mingled surprise and anger. The cheering ceased abruptly. There was + silence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation. + </p> + <p> + The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye was directed across the + stream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the solitary figure there. + There were hoarse yells of: “There he be Yon's him! What's he done wi' it? + Thief! Throttle him!” + </p> + <p> + The mob came lumbering down the slope like one man, thundering their + imprecations on a thousand throats. They looked dangerous, and their wrath + was stimulated by the knot of angry Dalesmen who led the van. There was + more than one white face among the women at the top of the slope as they + watched the crowd blundering blindly down the hill. There were more men + than Parson Leggy, the squire, James Moore, and the local constables in + the thick of it all, striving frantically with voice and gesture, ay, and + stick too, to stem the advance. + </p> + <p> + It was useless; on the dark wave rolled, irresistible. + </p> + <p> + On the far bank stood the little man, motionless, awaiting them with a + grin upon his face. And a little farther in front was the Tailless Tyke, + his back and neck like a new-shorn wheat-field, as he rumbled a vast + challenge. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, gentlemen!” the little man cried. “Come on! I'll bide for ye, + never fear. Ye're a thousand to one and a dog. It's the odds ye like, + Englishmen a'.” + </p> + <p> + And the mob, with murder in its throat, accepted the invitation and came + on. + </p> + <p> + At the moment, however, from the slope above, clear above the tramp of the + multitude, a great voice bellowed: “Way! Way! Way for Mr. Trotter!” The + advancing host checked and opened out; and the secretary of the meeting + bundled through. + </p> + <p> + He was a small, fat man, fussy at any time, and perpetually perspiring. + Now his face was crimson with rage and running; he gesticulated wildly; + vague words bubbled forth, as his short legs twinkled down the slope. + </p> + <p> + The crowd paused to admire. Some one shouted a witticism, and the crowd + laughed. For the moment the situation was saved. + </p> + <p> + The fat secretary hurried on down the slope, unheeding of any insult but + the one. He bounced over the plank-bridge: and as he came closer, M'Adam + saw that in each hand brandished a brick. + </p> + <p> + “Hoots, man! dinna throw!” he cried, making a feint as though to turn in + sudden terror. + </p> + <p> + “What's this? What's this?” gasped the secretary, waving his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Bricks, 'twad seem,” the other answered, staying his flight. + </p> + <p> + The secretary puffed up like a pudding in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the Cup? Champion, Challenge, etc.,” he jerked out. “Mind, sir, + you're responsible! wholly responsible! Dents, damages, delays! What's it + all mean, sir? These—these monstrous creations “—he brandished + the bricks, and M'Adam started back—“wrapped, as I live, in straw, + sir, in the Cup case, sir! the Cup case! No Cup! Infamous! Disgraceful! + Insult me—meeting—committee—every one! What's it mean, + sir?” He paused to pant, his body filling and emptying like a bladder. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam approached him with one eye on the crowd, which was heaving forward + again, threatening still, but sullen and silent. + </p> + <p> + “I pit 'em there,” he whispered; and drew back to watch the effect of his + disclosure. + </p> + <p> + The secretary gasped. + </p> + <p> + “You—you not only do this—amazing thing—these + monstrosities”—he hurled the bricks furiously on the unoffending + ground—“but you dare to tell me so!” + </p> + <p> + The little man smiled. + </p> + <p> + “'Do wrang and conceal it, do right and confess it,' that's Englishmen's + motto, and mine, as a rule; but this time I had ma reasons.” + </p> + <p> + “Reasons, sir! No reasons can justify such an extraordinary breach of all + the—the decencies. Reasons? the reasons of a maniac. Not to say + more, sir. Fraudulent detention—fraudulent, I say, sir! What were + your precious reasons?” + </p> + <p> + The mob with Tammas and Long Kirby at their head had now well nigh reached + the plank-bridge. They still looked dangerous, and there were isolated + cries of: + </p> + <p> + “Duck him!” + </p> + <p> + “Chuck him in!” + </p> + <p> + “An' the dog!” + </p> + <p> + “Wi' one o' they bricks about their necks!” + </p> + <p> + “There are my reasons!” said M'Adam, pointing to the forest of menacing + faces. “Ye see I'm no beloved amang yonder gentlemen, and”—in a + stage whisper in the other's ear—“I thocht maybe I'd be 'tacked on + the road.” + </p> + <p> + Tammas foremost of the crowd, had now his foot upon the first plank. + </p> + <p> + “Ye robber! ye thief! Wait till we set hands on ye, you and yer gorilla!” + he called. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam half turned. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie,” he said quietly, “keep the bridge.” + </p> + <p> + At the order the Tailless Tyke shot gladly forward, and the leaders on the + bridge as hastily back. The dog galloped on to the rattling plank, took + his post fair and square in the centre of the narrow way, and stood facing + the hostile crew like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell: his bull-head + was thrust forward, hackles up, teeth glinting, and a distant rumbling in + his throat, as though daring them to come on. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' first, ole lad!” said Tammas, hopping agilely behind Long Kirby. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; the old uns lead!” cried the big smith, his face gray-white. He + wrenched round, pinned the old man by the arms, and held him forcibly + before him as a covering shield. There ensued an unseemly struggle betwixt + the two valiants, Tammas bellowing and kicking in the throes of mortal + fear. + </p> + <p> + “Jim Mason'll show us,” he suggested at last. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said honest Jim; “I'm fear'd.” He could say it with impunity; for + the pluck of Postie Jim was a matter long past dispute. + </p> + <p> + Then Jem Burton'd go first? + </p> + <p> + Nay; Jem had a lovin' wife and dear little kids at 'ome. + </p> + <p> + Then Big Bell? + </p> + <p> + Big Bell'd see 'isseif further first. + </p> + <p> + A tall figure came forcing through the crowd, his face a little paler than + its wont, and a formidable knob-kerry in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin'!” said David. + </p> + <p> + “But yo're not,” answered burly Sam'l, gripping the boy from behind with + arms like the roots of an oak. “Your time'll coom soon enough by the look + on yo' wi' niver no hurry.” + </p> + <p> + And the sense of the Dalesmen was with the big man; for, as old Rob + Saunderson said: + </p> + <p> + “I reck'n he'd liefer claw on to your throat, lad, nor ony o' oors.” + </p> + <p> + As there was no one forthcoming to claim the honor of the lead, Tammas + came forward with cunning counsel. + </p> + <p> + “Tell yo' what, lads, we'd best let 'em as don't know nowt at all aboot + him go first. And onst they're on, mind, we winna let 'em off; but keep + a-shovin' and a-bovin 'on 'em forra'd. <i>Then</i> us'll foller.” + </p> + <p> + By this time there was a little naked space of green round the + bridge-head, like a fairy circle, into which the uninitiated might not + penetrate. Round this the mob hedged: the Dalesmen in front, striving + knavishly back and bawling to those behind to leggo that shovin'; and + these latter urging valorously forward, yelling jeers and contumely at the + front rank. “Come on! 'O's afraid? Lerrus through to 'em, then, ye Royal + Stan'-backs!”—for well they knew the impossibility of their demand. + </p> + <p> + And as they wedged and jostled thus, there stole out from their midst as + gallant a champion as ever trod the grass. He trotted out into the ring, + the observed of all, and paused to gaze at the gaunt figure on the bridge. + The sun lit the sprinkling of snow on the dome of his head; one forepaw + was off the ground; and he stood there, royally alert, scanning his + antagonist. + </p> + <p> + “Th' Owd Un!” went up in a roar fit to split the air as the hero of the + day was recognized. And the Dalesmen gave a pace forward spontaneously as + the gray knight-errant stole across the green. + </p> + <p> + “Oor Bob'll fetch him!” they roared, their blood leaping to fever heat, + and gripped their sticks, determined in stern reality to follow now. + </p> + <p> + The gray champion trotted up on to the bridge, and paused again, the long + hair about his neck rising like a ruff, and a strange glint in his eyes; + and the holder of the bridge never moved. Red and Gray stood thus, face to + face: the one gay yet resolute, the other motionless, his great head + slowly sinking between his forelegs, seemingly petrified. + </p> + <p> + There was no shouting now: it was time for deeds, not words. Only, above + the stillness, came a sound from the bridge like the snore of a giant in + his sleep, and blending, with it, a low, deep, purring thunder like some + monster cat well pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie,” came a solitary voice from the far side, “keep the bridge!” + </p> + <p> + One ear went back, one ear was still forward; the great head was low and + lower between his forelegs and the glowing eyes rolled upward so that the + watchers could see the murderous white. + </p> + <p> + Forward the gray dog stepped. + </p> + <p> + Then, for the second time that afternoon, a voice, stern and hard, came + ringing down from the slope above over the heads of the many. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad, coom back!” + </p> + <p> + “He! he! I thocht that was comin',” sneered the small voice over the + stream. + </p> + <p> + The gray dog heard, and checked. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad, coom in, I say!” + </p> + <p> + At that he swung round and marched slowly back, gallant as he had come, + dignified still in his mortification. + </p> + <p> + And Red Wull threw back his head and bellowed a paean of victory—challenge, + triumph, scorn, all blended in that bull-like, blood-chilling blare. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In the mean time, M'Adam and the secretary had concluded their business. + It had been settled that the Cup was to be delivered over to James Moore + not later than the following Saturday. + </p> + <p> + “Saturday, see! at the latest!” the secretary cried as he turned and + trotted off. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Trotter,” M'Adam called after him. “I'm sorry, but ye maun bide this + side the Lea till I've reached the foot o' the Pass. Gin they gentlemen”—nodding + toward the crowd—“should set hands on me, why—” and he + shrugged his shoulders significantly. “Forbye, Wullie's keepin' the + bridge.” + </p> + <p> + With that the little man strolled off leisurely; now dallying to pick a + flower, now to wave a mocking hand at the furious mob, and so slowly on to + the foot of the Muirk Muir Pass. + </p> + <p> + There he turned and whistled that shrill peculiar note. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he called. + </p> + <p> + At that, with one last threat thrown at the' thousand souls he had held at + bay for thirty minutes, the Tailless Tyke swung about and galloped after + his lord. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XIII. THE FACE IN THE FRAME + </h2> + <p> + ALL Friday M'Adam never left the kitchen. He sat opposite the Cup, in a + coma, as it were; and Red Wull lay motionless at his feet. + </p> + <p> + Saturday came, and still the two never budged. Toward the evening the + little man rose, all in a tremble, and took the Cup down from the + mantelpiece; then he sat down again with it in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Wullie, Wullie, is it a dream? Ha' they took her fra us? Eh, but it's + you and I alane, lad.” + </p> + <p> + He hugged it to him, crying silently, and rocking to and fro like a mother + with a dying child. And Red Wull sat up on his haunches, and weaved from + side to side in sympathy. + </p> + <p> + As the dark was falling, David looked in. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of the opening door the little man swung round noiselessly, + the Cup nursed in his arms, and glared, sullen and suspicious, at the boy; + yet seemed not to recognize him. In the half-light David could see the + tears coursing down the little wizened face. + </p> + <p> + “'Pon ma life, he's gaein' daft!” was his comment as he turned away to + Kenmuir. And again the mourners were left alone. + </p> + <p> + “A few hours noo, Wullie,” the little man wailed, “and she'll be gane. We + won her, Wullie, you and I, won her fair: she's lit the hoose for us; + she's softened a' for us—and God kens we needed it; she was the ae + thing we had to look to and love. And noo they're takin' her awa', and + 'twill be night agin. We've cherished her, we've garnished her, we've + loved her like oor ain; and noo she maun gang to strangers who know her + not.” + </p> + <p> + He rose to his feet, and the great dog rose with him. His voice heightened + to a scream, and he swayed with the Cup in his arms till it seemed he must + fall. + </p> + <p> + “Did they win her fair, Wullie? Na; they plotted, they conspired, they + worked ilka ain o' them agin us, and they beat us. Ay, and noo they're + robbin' us—robbin' us! But they shallna ha' her. Oor's or naebody's, + Wullie! We'll finish her sooner nor that.” + </p> + <p> + He banged the Cup down on the table and rushed madly out of the room, Red + Wull at his heels. In a moment he came running back, brandishing a great + axe about his head. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Wullie!” he cried. “'Scots wha hae'! Noo's the day and noo's the + hour! Come on!” + </p> + <p> + On the table before him, serene and beautiful, stood the target of his + madness. The little man ran at it, swinging his murderous weapon like a + flail. + </p> + <p> + “Oor's or naebody's Wullie! Come on! 'Lay the proud usurpers low'!” He + aimed a mighty buffet; and the Shepherds' Trophy—the Shepherds' + Trophy which had won through the hardships of a hundred years—was + almost gone. It seemed to quiver as the blow fell. But the cruel steel + missed, and the axe-head sank into the wood, clean and deep, like a spade + in snow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Red Wull had leapt on to the table, and in his cavernous voice was +grumbling a chorus to his master's yells. The little man danced up and +down, tugging and straining at the axe-handle. + + “You and I, Wullie! + 'Tyrants fall in every foe! + Liberty's in every blow!'” + </pre> + <p> + The axe-head was as immoveable as the Muir Pike. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Let us do or die!'” + </pre> + <p> + The shaft snapped, and the little man tottered back. Red Wull jumped down + from the table, and, in doing so, brushed against the Cup. It toppled* + over on to the floor, and rolled tinkling away in the dust. And the little + man fled madly out of the house, still screaming his war-song. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *N.B.—You may see the dent in the Cup's white sides to this + day. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + When, late that night, M'Adam returned home, the Cup was gone. Down on his + hands and knees he traced out its path, plain to see, where it had rolled + along the dusty floor. Beyond that there was no sign. + </p> + <p> + At first he was too much overcome to speak. Then he raved round the room + like a derelict ship, Red Wull following uneasily behind. He cursed; he + blasphemed; he screamed and beat the walls with feverish hands. A + stranger, passing, might well have thought this was a private Bedlam. At + last, exhausted, he sat down and cried. + </p> + <p> + “It's David, Wullie, ye may depend; David that's robbed his father's + hoose. Oh, it's a grand thing to ha' a dutiful son!”—and he bowed + his gray head in his hands. + </p> + <p> + David, indeed, it was. He had come back to the Grange during his father's + absence, and, taking the Cup from its grimy bed, had marched it away to + its rightful home. For that evening at Kenmuir, James Moore had said to + him: + </p> + <p> + “David, your father's not sent the Cup. I shall come and fetch it + to-morrow.” And David knew he meant it. Therefore, in order to save a + collision between his father and his friend—a collision the issue of + which he dared hardly contemplate, knowing, as he did, the unalterable + determination of the one and the lunatic passion of the other—the + boy had resolved to fetch the Cup himself, then and there, in the teeth, + if needs be, of his father and the Tailless Tyke. And he had done it. + </p> + <p> + When he reached home that night he marched, contrary to his wont, straight + into the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + There sat his father facing the door, awaiting him, his hands upon his + knees. For once the little man was alone; and David, brave though he was, + thanked heaven devoutly that Red Wull was elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + For a while father and son kept silence, watching one another like two + fencers. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas you as took ma Cup?” asked the little man at last, leaning forward + in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas me as took Mr. Moore's Cup,” the boy replied. “I thowt yo' mun ha' + done wi' it—I found it all bashed upon the floor.” + </p> + <p> + “You took it—pit up to it, nae doot, by James Moore.” + </p> + <p> + David made a gesture of dissent. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, by James Moore,” his father continued. “He dursena come hissel' for + his ill-gotten spoils, so he sent the son to rob the father. The coward!”—his + whole frame shook with passion. “I'd ha' thocht James Moore'd ha' bin man + enough to come himself for what he wanted. I see noo I did him a wrang—I + misjudged him. I kent him a heepocrite; ain o' yer unco gudes; a man as + looks one thing, says anither, and does a third; and noo I ken he's a + coward. He's fear'd o' me, sic as I am, five foot twa in ma stockin's.” He + rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full height. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Moore had nowt to do wi' it,” David persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're lyin'. James Moore pit ye to it.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell yo' he did not.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye'd ha' bin willin' enough wi'oot him, if ye'd thocht o't, I grant ye. + But ye've no the wits. All there is o' ye has gane to mak' yer muckle + body. Hooiver, that's no matter. I'll settle wi' James Moore anither time. + I'll settle wi' you noo, David M'Adam.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and looked the boy over from bead to foot. + </p> + <p> + “So, ye're not only an idler! a wastrel! a liar!”—he spat the words + out. “Ye're—God help ye—a thief!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm no thief!” the boy returned hotly. “I did but give to a mon what ma + feyther—shame on him!—wrongfully kept from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Wrangfully?” cried the little man, advancing with burning face. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas honorably done, keepin' what wasna your'n to keep! Holdin' back his + rights from a man! Ay, if ony one's the thief, it's not me: it's you, I + say, you!”—and he looked his father in the face with flashing eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I'm the thief, am I?” cried the other, incoherent with passion. “Though + ye're three times ma size, I'll teach ma son to speak so to me.” + </p> + <p> + The old strap, now long disused, hung in the chimney corner. As he spoke + the little man sprang back, ripped it from the wall, and, almost before + David realized what he was at, had brought it down with a savage slash + across his son's shoulders; and as he smote he whistled a shrill, + imperative note: + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” + </p> + <p> + David felt the blow through his coat like a bar of hot iron laid across + his back. His passion seethed within him; every vein throbbed; every nerve + quivered. In a minute he would wipe out, once and for all, the score of + years; for the moment, however, there was urgent business on hand. For + outside he could hear the quick patter of feet hard-galloping, and the + scurry of a huge creature racing madly to a call. + </p> + <p> + With a bound he sprang at the open door; and again the strap came lashing + down, and a wild voice: + </p> + <p> + “Quick, Wullie! For God's sake, quick!” + </p> + <p> + David slammed the door to. It shut with a rasping snap; and at the same + moment a great body from without thundered against it with terrific + violence, and a deep voice roared like the sea when thwarted of its prey. + </p> + <p> + “Too late, agin!” said David, breathing hard; and shot the bolt home with + a clang. Then he turned on his father. + </p> + <p> + “Noo,” said he, “man to man!” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” cried the other, “father to son!” + </p> + <p> + The little man half turned and leapt at the old musketoon hanging on the + wall. He missed it, turned again, and struck with the strap full at the + other's face. David caught the falling arm at the wrist, hitting it aside + with such tremendous force that the bone all but snapped. Then he smote + his father a terrible blow on the chest, and the little man staggered + back, gasping, into the corner; while the strap dropped from his numbed + fingers. + </p> + <p> + Outside Red Wull whined and scratched; but the two men paid no heed. + </p> + <p> + David strode forward; there was murder in his face. The little man saw it: + his time was come; but his bitterest foe never impugned Adam M'Adam's + courage. + </p> + <p> + He stood huddled in the corner, all dishevelled, nursing one arm with the + other, entirely unafraid. + </p> + <p> + “Mind, David,” he said, quite calm, “murder 'twill be, not manslaughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Murder 'twill be,” the boy answered, in thick, low voice, and was across + the room. + </p> + <p> + Outside Red Wull banged and clawed high up on the door with impotent pats. + </p> + <p> + The little man suddenly slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out + something, and flung it. The missile pattered on his son's face like a + rain-drop on a charging bull, and David smiled as he came on. It dropped + softly on the table at his side; he looked down and—it was the face + of his mother which gazed up at him! + </p> + <p> + “Mither!” he sobbed, stopping short. “Mither! Ma God, ye saved him—and + me!” + </p> + <p> + He stood there, utterly unhinged, shaking and whimpering. + </p> + <p> + It was some minutes before he pulled himself together; then he walked to + the wall, took down a pair of shears, and seated himself at the table, + still trembling. Near him lay the miniature, all torn and crumpled, and + beside it the deep-buried axe-head. + </p> + <p> + He picked up the strap and began cutting it into little pieces. + </p> + <p> + “There! and there! and there!” he said with each snip. “An' ye hit me agin + there may be no mither to save ye.” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam stood huddling in the corner. He shook like an aspen leaf; his eyes + blazed in his white face; and he still nursed one arm with the other. + </p> + <p> + “Honor yer father,” he quoted in small, low voice. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART IV THE BLACK KILLER + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XIV. A MAD MAN + </h2> + <p> + TAMMAS is on his feet in the tap-room of the Arms, brandishing a pewter + mug. + </p> + <p> + “Gen'lemen!” he cries, his old face flushed; “I gie you a toast. Stan' + oop!” + </p> + <p> + The knot of Dalesmen round the fire rises like one. The old man waves his + mug before him, reckless of the good ale that drips on to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “The best sheep-dog i' th' North—Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” he cries. In + an instant there is uproar: the merry applause of clinking pewters; the + stamping of feet; the rattle of sticks. Rob Saunderson and old Jonas are + cheering with the best; Tupper and Ned Hoppin are bellowing in one + another's ears; Long Kirby and Jem Burton are thumping each other on the + back; even Sam'l Todd and Sexton Ross are roused from their habitual + melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “Here's to Th' Owd Un! Here's to oor Bob!” yell stentorian voices; while + Rob Saunderson has jumped on to a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Wi' the best sheep-dog i' th' North I gie yo' the Shepherd's Trophy!—won + outreet as will be!” he cries. Instantly the clamor redoubles. + </p> + <p> + “The Dale Cup and Th' Owd Un! The Trophy and oor Bob! 'Ip, 'ip, for the + gray dogs! 'Ip, 'ip, for the best sheep-dog as ever was or will be! + 'Ooray, 'ooray!” + </p> + <p> + It is some minutes before the noise subsides; and slowly the enthusiasts + resume their seats with hoarse throats and red faces. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen a'!” + </p> + <p> + A little unconsidered man is standing up at the back of the room. His face + is aflame, and his hands twitch spasmodically; and, in front, with hackles + up and eyes gleaming, is a huge, bull-like dog. + </p> + <p> + “Noo,” cries the little man, “I daur ye to repeat that lie!” + </p> + <p> + “Lie!” screams Tammas; “lie! I'll gie 'im lie! Lemme at im', I say!” + </p> + <p> + The old man in his fury is half over the surrounding ring of chairs before + Jim Mason on the one hand and Jonas Maddox on the other can pull him back. + </p> + <p> + “Coom, Mr. Thornton,” soothes the octogenarian, “let un be. Yo' surely + bain't angered by the likes o' 'im!”—and he jerks contemptuously + toward the solitary figure at his back. + </p> + <p> + Tammas resumes his seat unwillingly. + </p> + <p> + The little man in the far corner of the room remains silent, waiting for + his challenge to be taken up. It is in vain. And as he looks at the range + of broad, impassive backs turned on him, he smiles bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “They dursen't Wullie, not a man of them a'!” he cries. “They're one—two—three—four—eleven + to one, Wullie, and yet they dursen't. Eleven of them, and every man a + coward! Long Kirby—Thornton—Tupper—Todd—Hoppin—Ross—Burton—and + the rest, and not one but's a bigger man nor me, and yet—Weel, we + might ha' kent it. We should ha' kent Englishmen by noo. They're aye the + same and aye have bin. They tell lies, black lies—” + </p> + <p> + Tammas is again half out his chair and, only forcibly restrained by the + men on either hand. + </p> + <p> + “—and then they ha' na the courage to stan' by 'em. Ye're English, + ivery man o' ye, to yer marrow.” + </p> + <p> + The little man's voice rises as he speaks. He seizes the tankard from the + table at his side. + </p> + <p> + “Englishmen!” he cries, waving it before him. “Here's a health! The best + sheep-dog as iver penned a flock—Adam M'Adam's Red Wull!” + </p> + <p> + He pauses, the pewter at his lips, and looks at his audience with flashing + eyes. There is no response from them. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, here's to you!” he cries. “Luck and life to ye, ma trusty fier! + Death and defeat to yer enemies!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'The warld's warld's wrack we share o't, + The warstle and the care o't;” + </pre> + <p> + He raises the tankard and drains it to its uttermost dreg. + </p> + <p> + Then drawing himself up, he addresses his audience once more: + </p> + <p> + “An' noo I'll warn ye aince and for a', and ye may tell James Moore I said + it: He may plot agin us, Wullie and me; he may threaten us; he may win the + Cup outright for his muckle favorite; but there was niver a man or dog yet + as did Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull a hurt but in the end he wush't his + mither hadna borne him.” + </p> + <p> + A little later, and he walks out of the inn, the Tailless Tyke at his + heels. + </p> + <p> + After he is gone it is Rob Saunderson who says: “The little mon's mad; + he'll stop at nothin”; and Tammas who answers: + </p> + <p> + “Nay; not even murder.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The little man had aged much of late. His hair was quite white, his eyes + unnaturally bright, and his hands were never still, as though he were in + everlasting pain. He looked the picture of disease. + </p> + <p> + After Owd Bob's second victory he had become morose and untalkative. At + home he often sat silent for hours together, drinking and glaring at the + place where the Cup had been. Sometimes he talked in low, eerie voice to + Red Wull; and on two occasions, David, turning, suddenly, had caught his + father glowering stealthily at him with such an expression on his face as + chilled the boy's blood. The two never spoke now; and David held this + silent, deadly enmity far worse than the old-time perpetual warfare. + </p> + <p> + It was the same at the Sylvester Arms. The little man sat alone with Red + Wull, exchanging words with no man, drinking steadily, brooding over his + wrongs, only now and again galvanized into sudden action. + </p> + <p> + Other people than Tammas Thornton came to the conclusion that M'Adam would + stop at nothing in the undoing of James Moore or the gray dog. They said + drink and disappointment had turned his head; that he was mad and + dangerous. And on New Year's day matters seemed coming to a crisis; for it + was reported that in the gloom of a snowy evening he had drawn a knife on + the Master in the High Street, but slipped before he could accomplish his + fell purpose. + </p> + <p> + Most of them all, David was haunted with an ever-present anxiety as to the + little man's intentions. The boy even went so far as to warn his friend + against his father. But the Master only smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye, lad,” he said. “But I reck'n we can 'fend for oorsel's, Bob and + I. Eh, Owd Un?” + </p> + <p> + Anxious as David might be, he was not so anxious as to be above taking a + mean advantage of this state of strained apprehension to work on Maggie's + fears. + </p> + <p> + One evening he was escorting her home from church, when, just before they + reached the larch copse: “Goo' sakes! What's that?” he ejaculated in + horror-laden accents, starting back. + </p> + <p> + “What, Davie?” cried the girl, shrinking up to him all in a tremble. + </p> + <p> + “Couldna say for sure. It mought be owt, or agin it mought be nowt. But + yo' grip my arm, I'll grip yo' waist.” + </p> + <p> + Maggie demurred. + </p> + <p> + “Canst see onythin'?” she asked, still in a flutter. + </p> + <p> + “Be'ind the 'edge.” + </p> + <p> + “Wheer?” + </p> + <p> + “Theer! “—pointing vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “I canna see nowt.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, theer, lass. Can yo' not see? Then yo' pit your head along o' mine—so—closer—closer.” + Then, in aggrieved tones: “Whativer is the matter wi' yo', wench? I might + be a leprosy.” + </p> + <p> + But the girl was walking away with her head high as the snow-capped Pike. + </p> + <p> + “So long as I live, David M'Adam,” she cried, “I'll niver go to church wi' + you agin!” + </p> + <p> + “Iss, but you will though—onst,” he answered low. + </p> + <p> + Maggie whisked round in a flash, superbly indignant. + </p> + <p> + “What d'yo' mean, sir-r-r?” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' know what I mean, lass,” he replied sheepish and shuffling before her + queenly anger. + </p> + <p> + She looked him up and down, and down and up again. + </p> + <p> + “I'll niver speak to you agin, Mr. M'Adam,” she cried; “not if it was ever + so—Nay, I'll walk home by myself, thank you. I'll ha' nowt to do wi' + you.” + </p> + <p> + So the two must return to Kenmuir, one behind the other, like a lady and + her footman. + </p> + <p> + David's audacity had more than once already all but caused a rupture + between the pair. And the occurrence behind the hedge set the cap on his + impertinences. That was past enduring and Maggie by her bearing let him + know it. + </p> + <p> + David tolerated the girl's new attitude for exactly twelve minutes by the + kitchen clock. Then: “Sulk wi' me, indeed! I'll teach her!” and he marched + out of the door, “Niver to cross it agin, ma word!” + </p> + <p> + Afterward, however, he relented so far as to continue his visits as + before; but he made it clear that he only came to see the Master and hear + of Owd Bob's doings. On these occasions he loved best to sit on the + window-sill outside the kitchen, and talk and chaff with Tammas and the + men in the yard, feigning an uneasy bashfulness when reference made to + Bessie Bolstock. And after sitting thus for some time, he would half turn, + look over his shoulder, and remark in indifferent tones to the girl + within: “Oh, good-evenin'! I forgot yo', “—and then resume his + conversation. While the girl within, her face a little pinker, her lips a + little tighter, and her chin a little higher, would go about her business, + pretending neither to hear nor care. + </p> + <p> + The suspicions that M'Adam nourished dark designs against James Moore were + somewhat confirmed in that, on several occasions in the bitter dusks of + January afternoons, a little insidious figure was reported to have been + seen lurking among the farm-buildings of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + Once Sam'l Todd caught the little man fairly, skulking away in the + woodshed. Sam'l took him up bodily and carried him down the slope to the + Wastrel, shaking him gently as he went. + </p> + <p> + Across the stream he put him on his feet. + </p> + <p> + “If I catches yo' cadgerin' aroun' the farm agin, little mon,” he + admonished, holding up a warning finger; “I'll tak' yo' and drap yo' in t' + Sheep-wash, I warn yo' fair. I'd ha' done it noo an' yo'd bin a bigger and + a younger mon. But theer! yo'm sic a scrappety bit. Noo, rin whoam.” And + the little man slunk silently away. + </p> + <p> + For a time he appeared there no more. Then, one evening when it was almost + dark, James Moore, going the round of the outbuildings, felt Owd Bob + stiffen against his side. + </p> + <p> + “What's oop, lad” he whispered, halting; and, dropping his hand on the old + dog's neck felt a ruff of rising hair beneath it. + </p> + <p> + “Steady, lad, steady,” he whispered; “what is 't?” He peered forward into + the gloom; and at length discerned a little familiar figure huddled away + in the crevice between two stacks. + </p> + <p> + “It's yo, is it, M'Adam?” he said, and, bending, seized a wisp of Owd + Bob's coat in a grip like a vice. + </p> + <p> + Then, in a great voice, moved to rare anger: + </p> + <p> + “Oot o' this afore I do ye a hurt, ye meeserable spyin' creetur” he + roared. “Yo' mun wait till dark cooms to hide yo', yo' coward, afore yo + daur coom crawlin' aboot ma hoose, frightenin' the women-folk and up to + yer devilments. If yo've owt to say to me, coom like a mon in the open + day. Noo git aff wi' yo', afore I lay hands to yo'!” + </p> + <p> + He stood there in the dusk, tall and mighty, a terrible figure, one hand + pointing to the gate, the other still grasping the gray dog. + </p> + <p> + The little man scuttled away in the half-light, and out of the yard. + </p> + <p> + On the plank-bridge he turned and shook his fist at the darkening house. + </p> + <p> + “Curse ye, James Moore!” he sobbed, “I'll be even wi' ye yet.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XV. DEATH ON THE MARCHES + </h2> + <p> + ON the top of this there followed an attempt to poison Th' Owd Un. At + least there was no other accounting for the affair. + </p> + <p> + In the dead of a long-remembered night James Moore was waked by a low + moaning beneath his room. He leapt out of bed and ran to the window to see + his favorite dragging about the moonlit yard, the dark head down, the + proud tail for once lowered, the lithe limbs wooden, heavy, unnatural—altogether + pitiful. + </p> + <p> + In a moment he was downstairs and out to his friend's assistance. + “Whativer is't, Owd Un?” he cried in anguish. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of that dear voice the old dog tried to struggle to him, + could not, and fell, whimpering. + </p> + <p> + In a second the Master was with him, examining him tenderly, and crying + for Sam'l, who slept above the stables. + </p> + <p> + There was every symptom of foul play: the tongue was swollen and almost + black; the breathing labored; the body twitched horribly; and the soft + gray eyes all bloodshot and straining in agony. + </p> + <p> + With the aid of Sam'l and Maggie, drenching first and stimulants after, + the Master pulled him around for the moment. And soon Jim Mason and Parson + Leggy, hurriedly summoned, came running hot-foot to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + Prompt and stringent measures saved the victim—but only just. For a + time the best sheep-dog in the North was pawing at the Gate of Death. In + the end, as the gray dawn broke, the danger passed. + </p> + <p> + The attempt to get at him, if attempt it was, aroused passionate + indignation in the countryside. It seemed the culminating-point of the + excitement long bubbling. + </p> + <p> + There were no traces of the culprit; not a vestige to lead to + incrimination, so cunningly had the criminal accomplished his foul task. + But as to the perpetrator, if there where no proofs there were yet fewer + doubts. + </p> + <p> + At the Sylvester Arms, Long Kirby asked M'Adam point-blank for his + explanation of the matter. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo do I 'count for it?” the little man cried. “I dinna 'count for it + ava.” + </p> + <p> + “Then hoo did it happen?” asked Tammas with asperity. + </p> + <p> + “I dinna believe it did happen,” the little man replied. “It's a lee o' + James Moore's—a characteristic lee.” Whereon they chucked him out + incontinently; for the Terror for once was elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Now that afternoon is to be remembered for threefold causes. Firstly, + because, as has been said, M'Adam was alone. Secondly, because, a few + minutes after his ejectment, the window of the tap-room was thrown open + from without, and the little man looked in. He spoke no word, but those + dim, smouldering eyes of his wandered from face to face, resting for a + second on each, as if to burn them on his memory. “I'll remember ye, + gentlemen,” he said at length quietly, shut the window, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + Thirdly, for a reason now to be told. + </p> + <p> + Though ten days had elapsed since the attempt on him, the gray dog had + never been his old self since. He had attacks of shivering; his vitality + seemed sapped; he tired easily, and, great heart, would never own it. At + length on this day, James Moore, leaving the old dog behind him, had gone + over to Grammoch-town to consult Dingley, the vet. On his way home he met + Jim Mason with Gyp, the faithful Betsy's unworthy successor, at the + Dalesman's Daughter. Together they started for the long tramp home over + the Marches. And that journey is marked with a red stone in this story. + </p> + <p> + All day long the hills had been bathed in impenetrable fog. Throughout + there had been an accompanying drizzle; and in the distance the wind had + moaned a storm-menace. To the darkness of the day was added the sombreness + of falling night as the three began the ascent of the Murk Muir Pass. By + the time they emerged into the Devil's Bowl it was altogether black and + blind. But the threat of wind had passed, leaving utter stillness; and + they could hear the splash of an otter on the far side of the Lone Tarn as + they skirted that gloomy water's edge. When at length the last steep rise + on to the Marches had been topped, a breath of soft air smote them + lightly, and the curtain of fog began drifting away. + </p> + <p> + The two men swung steadily through the heather with that reaching stride + the birthright of moor-men and highlanders. They talked but little, for + such was their nature: a word or two on sheep and the approaching + lambing-time; thence on to the coming Trials; the Shepherds' Trophy; Owd + Bob and the attempt on him; and from that to M'Adam and the Tailless Tyke. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' reck'n M'Adam had a hand in't?” the postman was asking. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; there's no proof.” + </p> + <p> + “Ceptin' he's mad to get shut o' Th' Owd Un afore Cup Day.” + </p> + <p> + “Im or me—it mak's no differ. For a dog is disqualified from + competing for the Trophy who has changed hands during the six months prior + to the meeting. And this holds good though the change be only from father + to son on the decease of the former.” + </p> + <p> + Jim looked up inquiringly at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' think it'll coom to that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—murder.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I can help it,” the other answered grimly. + </p> + <p> + The fog had cleared away by now, and the moon was up. To their right, on + the crest of a rise some two hundred yards away, a low wood stood out + black against the sky. As they passed it, a blackbird rose up screaming, + and a brace of wood-pigeons winged noisily away. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo! hark to the yammerin'!” muttered Jim, stopping; “and at this time + o' night too!” + </p> + <p> + Some rabbits, playing in the moonlight on the outskirts of the wood, sat + up, listened, and hopped back into security. At the same moment a big + hill-fox slunk out of the covert. He stole a pace forward and halted, + listening with one ear back and one pad raised; then cantered silently + away in the gloom, passing close to the two men and yet not observing + them. + </p> + <p> + “What's up, I wonder?” mused the postman. + </p> + <p> + “The fox set 'em clackerin', I reck'n,” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Not he; he was scared 'maist oot o' his skin,” the other answered. Then + in tones of suppressed excitement, with his hands on James Moore's arm: + “And, look'ee, theer's ma Gyp a-beckonin' on us!” + </p> + <p> + There, indeed, on the crest of the rise beside the wood, was the little + lurcher, now looking back at his master, now creeping stealthily forward. + </p> + <p> + “Ma word! theer's summat wrong yonder!” cried Jim, and jerked the + post-bags off his shoulder. “Coom on, Master! “—and he set off + running toward the dog; while James Moore, himself excited now, followed + with an agility that belied his years. + </p> + <p> + Some score yards from the lower edge of the spinney, upon the farther side + of the ridge, a tiny beck babbled through its bed of peat. The two men, as + they topped the rise, noticed a flock of black-faced mountain-sheep + clustered in the dip 'twixt wood and stream. They stood martialled in + close array, facing half toward the wood, half toward the newcomers, heads + up, eyes glaring, handsome as sheep only look when scared. + </p> + <p> + On the crest of the ridge the two men halted beside Gyp. The postman stood + with his head a little forward, listening intently. Then he dropped in the + heather like a dead man, pulling the other with him. + </p> + <p> + “Doon, mon!” he whispered, clutching at Gyp with his spare hand. + </p> + <p> + “What is't, Jim?” asked the Master, now thoroughly roused. + </p> + <p> + “Summat movin' i' th' wood,” the other whispered, listening weasel-eared. + </p> + <p> + So they lay motionless for a while; but there came no sound from the + copse. + </p> + <p> + “'Appen 'twas nowt,” the postman at length allowed, peering cautiously + about. “And yet I thowt—I dunno reetly what I thowt.” + </p> + <p> + Then, starting to his knees with a hoarse cry of terror: “Save us! what's + yon theer?” + </p> + <p> + Then for the first time the Master raised his head and noticed, lying in + the gloom between them and the array of sheep, a still, white heap. + </p> + <p> + James Moore was a man of deeds, not words. + </p> + <p> + “It's past waitin'!” he said, and sprang forward, his heart in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + The sheep stamped and shuffled as he came, and yet did not break. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, thanks be!” he cried, dropping beside the motionless body; “it's + nob'but a sheep.” As he spoke his hands wandered deftly over the carcase. + “But what's this?” he called. “Stout* she was as me. Look at her fleece—crisp, + close, strong; feel the flesh—firm as a rock. And ne'er a bone + broke, ne're a scrat on her body a pin could mak'. As healthy as a mon—and + yet dead as mutton!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *N.B. Stout—Hearty. +</pre> + <p> + Jim, still trembling from the horror of his fear, came up, and knelt + beside his friend. “Ah, but there's bin devilry in this!” he said; “I + reck'ned they sheep had bin badly skeared, and not so long agone.” + </p> + <p> + “Sheep-murder, sure enough!” the other answered. “No fox's doin'—a + girt-grown two-shear as could 'maist knock a h'ox.” + </p> + <p> + Jim's hands travelled from the body to the dead creature's throat. He + screamed. + </p> + <p> + “By gob, Master! look 'ee theer!” He held his hand up in the moonlight, + and it dripped red. “And warm yet! warm!” + </p> + <p> + “Tear some bracken, Jim!” ordered the other, “and set alight. We mun see + to this.” + </p> + <p> + The postman did as bid. For a moment the fern smouldered and smoked, then + the flame ran crackling along and shot up in the darkness, weirdly + lighting the scene: to the right the low wood, a block of solid blackness + against the sky; in front the wall of sheep, staring out of the gloom with + bright eyes; and as centre-piece that still, white body, with the kneeling + men and lurcher sniffing tentatively round. + </p> + <p> + The victim was subjected to a critical examination. The throat, and that + only, had been hideously mauled; from the raw wounds the flesh hung in + horrid shreds; on the ground all about were little pitiful dabs of wool, + wrenched off apparently in a struggle; and, crawling among the fern-roots, + a snake-like track of red led down to the stream. + </p> + <p> + “A dog's doin', and no mistakin' thot,” said Jim at length, after a minute + inspection. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” declared the Master with slow emphasis, “and a sheep-dog's too, and + an old un's, or I'm no shepherd.” + </p> + <p> + The postman looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Why thot?” he asked, puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Becos,” the Master answered, “'im as did this killed for blood—and + for blood only. If had bin ony other dog—greyhound, bull, tarrier, + or even a young sheep-dog—d'yo' think he'd ha' stopped wi' the one? + Not he; he'd ha' gone through 'em, and be runnin' 'em as like as not yet, + nippin' 'em, pullin' 'em down, till he'd maybe killed the half. But 'im as + did this killed for blood, I say. He got it—killed just the one, and + nary touched the others, d'yo 'see, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + The postman whistled, long and low. + </p> + <p> + “It's just what owd Wrottesley'd tell on,” he said. “I never nob'but half + believed him then—I do now though. D'yo' mind what th' owd lad'd + tell, Master?” + </p> + <p> + James Moore nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Thot's it. I've never seen the like afore myself, but I've heard ma + grandad speak o't mony's the time. An owd dog'll git the cravin' for + sheep's blood on him, just the same as a mon does for the drink; he creeps + oot o' nights, gallops afar, hunts his sheep, downs 'er, and satisfies the + cravin'. And he nary kills but the one, they say, for he knows the value + o' sheep same as you and me. He has his gallop, quenches the thirst, and + then he's for home, maybe a score mile away, and no one the wiser i' th' + mornin'. And so on, till he cooms to a bloody death, the murderin' + traitor.” + </p> + <p> + “If he does!” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “And he does, they say, nigh always. For he gets bolder and bolder wi' not + bein' caught, until one fine night a bullet lets light into him. And some + mon gets knocked nigh endways when they bring his best tyke home i' th' + mornin', dead, wi' the sheep's wool yet stickin' in his mouth.” + </p> + <p> + The postman whistled again. + </p> + <p> + “It's what owd Wrottesley'd tell on to a tick. And he'd say, if ye mind, + Master, as hoo the dog'd niver kill his master's sheep—kind o' + conscience-like.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I've heard that,” said the Master. “Queer too, and 'im bein' such a + bad un!” + </p> + <p> + Jim Mason rose slowly from his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Ma word,” he said, “I wish Th' Owd Un was here. He'd 'appen show us + summat!” + </p> + <p> + “I nob'but wish he was, pore owd lad!” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke there was a crash in the wood above them; a sound as of some + big body bursting furiously through brushwood. + </p> + <p> + The two men rushed to the top of the rise. In the darkness they could see + nothing; only, standing still and holding their breaths, they could hear + the faint sound, ever growing fainter, of some creature splashing in a + hasty gallop over the wet moors. + </p> + <p> + “Yon's him! Yon's no fox, I'll tak' oath. And a main big un, too, hark to + him!” cried Jim. Then to Gyp, who had rushed off in hot pursuit: “Coom + back, chunk-'ead. What's use o' you agin a gallopin' potamus?” + </p> + <p> + Gradually the sounds died away and away, and were no more. + </p> + <p> + “Thot's 'im, the devil!” said the Master at length. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; the devil has a tail, they do say,” replied Jim thoughtfully. For + already the light of suspicion was focusing its red glare. + </p> + <p> + “Noo I reck'n we're in for bloody times amang the sheep for a while,” said + the Master, as Jim picked up his bags. + </p> + <p> + “Better a sheep nor a mon,” answered the postman, still harping on the old + theme. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XVI. THE BLACK KILLER + </h2> + <p> + THAT, as James Moore had predicted, was the first only of a long + succession of such solitary crimes. + </p> + <p> + Those who have not lived in a desolate country like that about the Muir + Pike, where sheep are paramount and every other man engaged in the + profession pastoral, can barely imagine the sensation aroused. In market + place, tavern, or cottage, the subject of conversation was always the + latest sheep-murder and the yet-undetected criminal. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes there would be a lull, and the shepherds would begin to breathe + more freely. Then there would come a stormy night, when the heavens were + veiled in the cloak of crime, and the wind moaned fitfully over meres and + marches, and another victim would be added to the lengthening list. + </p> + <p> + It was always such black nights, nights of wind and weather, when no man + would be abroad, that the murderer chose for his bloody work; and that was + how he became known from the Red Screes to the Muir Pike as the Black + Killer. In the Daleland they still call a wild, wet night “A Black + Killer's night:” for they say: “His ghaist'll be oot the night.” + </p> + <p> + There was hardly a farm in the countryside but was marked with the seal of + blood. Kenmuir escaped, and the Grange; Rob Saunderson at the Holt, and + Tupper at Swinsthwaite; and they were about the only lucky ones. + </p> + <p> + As for Kenmuir, Tammas declared with a certain grim pride: “He knows + better'n to coom wheer Th' Owd Un be.” Whereat M'Adam was taken with a fit + of internal spasms, rubbing his knees and cackling insanely for a + half-hour afterward. And as for the luck of the Grange—well, there + was a reason for that too, so the Dalesmen said. + </p> + <p> + Though the area of crime stretched from the Black Water to Grammoch-town, + twenty-odd miles, there was never a sign of the perpetrator. The Killer + did his bloody work with a thoroughness and a devilish cunning that defied + detection. + </p> + <p> + It was plain that each murder might be set down to the same agency. Each + was stamped with the same unmistakable sign-manual: one sheep killed, its + throat torn into red ribands, and the others untouched. + </p> + <p> + It was at the instigation of Parson Leggy that the squire imported a + bloodhound to track the Killer to his doom. Set on at a fresh killed + carcase at the One Tree Knowe, he carried the line a distance in the + direction of the Muir Pike; then was thrown out by a little bustling beck, + and never acknowledged the scent again. Afterward he became unmanageable, + and could be no further utilized. Then there was talk of inducing Tommy + Dobson and his pack to come over from Eskdale, but that came to nothing. + The Master of the Border Hunt lent a couple of foxhounds, who effected + nothing; and there were a hundred other attempts and as many failures. Jim + Mason set a cunning trap or two and caught his own bob-tailed + tortoise-shell and a terrible wigging from his missus; Ned Hoppin sat up + with a gun two nights over a new slain victim and Londesley of the Home + Farm poisoned a carcase. But the Killer never returned to the kill, and + went about in the midst of the all, carrying on his infamous traffic and + laughing up his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile the Dalesmen raged and swore vengeance; their impotence, + their unsuccess, and their losses heating their wrath to madness. And the + bitterest sting of it all lay in this; that though they could not detect + him, they were nigh to positive as to the culprit. + </p> + <p> + Many a time was the Black Killer named in low-voiced conclave; many a time + did Long Kirby, as he stood in the Border Ram and watched M'Adam and the + Terror walking down the High, nudge Jim Mason and whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Theer's the Killer—oneasy be his grave!” To which practical Jim + always made the same retort: + </p> + <p> + “Ay, theer's the Killer; but wheer's the proof?” + </p> + <p> + And therein lay the crux. There was scarcely a man in the countryside who + doubted the guilt of the Tailless Tyke; but, as Jim said, where was the + proof? They could but point to his well-won nickname; his evil notoriety; + say that, magnificent sheep-dog as he was, he was known even in his work + as a rough handler of stock; and lastly remark significantly that the + grange was one of the few farms that had so far escaped unscathed. For + with the belief that the Black Killer was a sheep-dog they held it as an + article of faith that he would in honour spare his master's flock. + </p> + <p> + There may, indeed, have been prejudice in their judgement. For each has + his private grudge against the Terror; and nigh every man bore on his own + person, or his clothes, or on the body of his dog, the mark of that huge + savage. + </p> + <p> + Proof? + </p> + <p> + “Why, he near killed ma Lassie!” cries Londesley. + </p> + <p> + “And he did kill the Wexer!” + </p> + <p> + “And Wan Tromp!” + </p> + <p> + “And see pore old Wenus!” says John Swan, and pulls out that fair Amazon, + battered almost past recognition, but a warrioress still. + </p> + <p> + “That's Red Wull—bloody be his end!” + </p> + <p> + “And he laid ma Rasper by for nigh three weeks!” continues Tupper, + pointing to the yet-unhealed scars on the neck of the big bobtail. “See + thisey—his work.” + </p> + <p> + “And look here!” cries Saunderson, exposing a ragged wound in Shep's + throat; “thot's the Terror—black be his fa'!” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” says Long Kirby with an oath; “the tykes love him nigh as much as we + do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” says Tammas. “Yo' jest watch!” + </p> + <p> + The old man slips out of the tap-room; and in another moment from the road + without comes a heavy, regular pat-pat-pat, as of some big creature + approaching, and, blending with the sound, little shuffling footsteps. + </p> + <p> + In an instant every dog in the room has risen to his feet and stands + staring at the door with sullen, glowing eyes; lips wrinkling, bristles + rising, throats rumbling. + </p> + <p> + An unsteady hand fumbles at the door; a reedy voice calls, “Wullie, come + here!” and the dogs move away, surly to either side of the fireplace, + tails down, ears back, grumbling still; the picture of cowed passion. Then + the door opens; Tammas enters, grinning; and each, after a moment's + scrutiny, resumes his former position before the fire. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Meanwhile over M'Adam, seemingly all unsuspicious of these suspicions, a + change had come. Whether it was that for the time he heard less of the + best sheep-dog in the North, or for some more occult reason, certain it is + that he became his old self. His tongue wagged as gayly and bitterly as + ever, and hardly a night passed but he infuriated Tammas almost to blows + with his innuendoes and insidious sarcasms. + </p> + <p> + Old Jonas Maddox, one evening at the Sylvester Arms, inquired of him what + his notion was as to the identity of the Killer. + </p> + <p> + “I hae ma suspicions, Mr. Maddox; I hae ma suspicions,” the little man + replied, cunningly wagging his head and giggling. But more than that they + could not elicit from him. A week later, however, to the question: + </p> + <p> + “And what are yo' thinkin' o' this black Killer, Mr. M'adam?” + </p> + <p> + “Why <i>black?</i>” the little man asked earnestly; “why <i>black</i> mair + than white—or <i>gray</i> we'll say?” Luckily for him, however, the + Dalesmen are slow of wit as of speech. + </p> + <p> + David, too, marked the difference in his father, who nagged at him now and + then with all the old spirit. At first he rejoiced in then change, + preferring his outward and open warfare to that aforetime stealthy enmity. + But soon he almost wished the other back; for the older he grew the more + difficult did he find it to endure calmly these everlasting bickerings. + </p> + <p> + For one reason he was truly glad of the altered condition of affairs; he + believed that, for the nonce, at least his father had abandoned any ill + designs he might have cherished against James Moore; those sneaking visits + to Kenmuir were, he hoped, discontinued. + </p> + <p> + Yet Maggie Moore, had she been on speaking terms with him, could have + undeceived him. For, one night, when alone in the kitchen, on suddenly + looking up, she had seen to her horror a dim, moonlike face glued against + the windowpane. In the first mad panic of the moment she almost screamed, + and dropped her work; then—a true Moore—controlled herself and + sat feigning to work, yet watching all the while. + </p> + <p> + It was M'Adam, she recognized that: the face pale in its framework of + black; the hair lying dank and dark on his forehead; and the white eyelids + blinking, slow, regular, horrible. She thought of the stories she had + heard of his sworn vengeance on her father, and her heart stood still, + though she never moved. At length with a gasp of relief she discerned that + the eyes were not directed on her. Stealthily following their gaze, she + saw they rested on the Shepherds' Trophy; and on the Cup they remained + fixed, immovable, while she sat motionless and watched. + </p> + <p> + An hour, it seemed to her, elapsed before they shifted their direction, + and wandered round the room. For a second they dwelt upon her; then the + face withdrew into the night. + </p> + <p> + Maggie told no one what she had seen. Knowing well how terrible her father + was in his anger, she deemed it wiser to keep silence. While as for David + M'Adam, she would never speak to him again! + </p> + <p> + And not for a moment did that young man surmise whence his father came + when, on the night in question, M'Adam returned to the Grange, chuckling + to himself. David was growing of late accustomed to these fits of silent, + unprovoked merriment; and when his father began giggling and muttering to + Red Wull, at first he paid no heed. + </p> + <p> + “He! he! Wullie. Aiblins we'll beat him yet. There's many a slip twixt Cup + and lip—eh, Wullie, he! he!” And he made allusion to the flourishing + of the wicked and their fall; ending always with the same refrain: “He! + he! Wullie. Aiblins we'll beat him yet.” + </p> + <p> + In this strain he continued until David, his patience exhausted, asked + roughly: + </p> + <p> + “What is't yo' mumblin' aboot? Wha is it yo'll beat, you and yer Wullie?” + </p> + <p> + The lad's tone was as contemptuous as his words. Long ago he had cast + aside any semblance of respect for his father. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam only rubbed his knees and giggled. + </p> + <p> + “Hark to the dear lad, Wullie! Listen hoo pleasantly he addresses his auld + dad!” Then turning on his son, and leering at him: “What is it, ye ask? + Wha should it be but the Black Killer? Wha else is there I'd be wushin' to + hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “The Black Killer!” echoed the boy, and looked at his father in amazement. + </p> + <p> + Now David was almost the only man in Wastrel-dale who denied Red Wull's + identity with the Killer. “Nay,” he said once; “he'd kill me, given half a + chance, but a sheep—no.” Yet, though himself of this opinion, he + knew well what the talk was, and was astonished accordingly at his + father's remark. + </p> + <p> + “The Black Killer, is it? What d'you know o' the Killer?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Why <i>black</i>, I wad ken? Why <i>black?</i>” the little man asked, + leaning forward in his chair. + </p> + <p> + Now David, though repudiating in the village Red Wull's complicity with + the crimes, at home was never so happy as when casting cunning innuendoes + to that effect. + </p> + <p> + “What would you have him then?” he asked. “Red, yaller, muck-dirt colour?”—and + he stared significantly at the Tailless Tyke, who was lying at his + master's feet. The little man ceased rubbing his knees and eyed the boy. + David shifted uneasily beneath that dim, persistent stare. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said at length gruffly. + </p> + <p> + The little man giggled, and his two thin hands took up their task again. + </p> + <p> + “Aiblins his puir auld doited fool of a dad kens mair than the dear lad + thinks for, ay, or wushes—eh, Wullie, he! he!” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is it you do know, or think yo' know?” David asked irritably. + </p> + <p> + The little man nodded and chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Naethin' ava, laddie, naethin' worth the mention. Only aiblins the + Killer'll be caught afore sae lang.” + </p> + <p> + David smiled incredulously, wagging his head in offensive scepticism. + </p> + <p> + “Yo'll catch him yo'self, I s'pose, you and yer Wullie? Tak' a chair on to + the Marches, whistle a while, and when the Killer comes, why! pit a pinch + o' salt upon his tail—if he had one.” + </p> + <p> + At the last words, heavily punctuated by the speaker, the little man + stopped his rubbing as though shot. + </p> + <p> + “What wad ye mean by that?” he asked softly. + </p> + <p> + “What wad I?” the boy replied. + </p> + <p> + “I dinna ken for sure,” the little man answered; “and it's aiblins just as + well for you, dear lad”—in fawning accents—“that I dinna.” He + began rubbing and giggling afresh. “It's a gran' thing, Wullie, to ha' a + dutiful son; a shairp lad wha has no silly sens o' shame aboot sharpenin' + his wits at his auld dad's expense. And yet, despite oor facetious lad + there, aiblins we will ha' a hand in the Killer's catchin', you and I, + Wullie—he! he!” And the great dog at his feet wagged his stump tail + in reply. + </p> + <p> + David rose from his chair and walked across the room to where his father + sat. + </p> + <p> + “If yo' know sic a mighty heap,” he shouted, “happen you'll just tell me + what yo' do know!” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam stopped stroking Red Wull's massive head, and looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Tell ye? Ay, wha should I tell if not ma dear David? Tell? Ay, I'll tell + ye this”—with a sudden snarl of bitterness—“That you'd be the + vairy last person I wad tell.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XVII. A MAD DOG + </h2> + <p> + DAVID and Maggie, meanwhile, were drifting further and further apart. He + now thought the girl took too much upon herself; that this assumption of + the woman and the mother was overdone. Once, on a Sunday, he caught her + hearing Andrew his catechism. He watched the performance through a crack + in the door, and listened, giggling, to her simple teaching. At length his + merriment grew so boisterous that she looked up, saw him, and, straightway + rising to her feet, crossed the room and shut the door; tendering her + unspoken rebuke with such a sweet dignity that he slunk away for once + decently ashamed. And the incident served to add point to his hostility. + </p> + <p> + Consequently he was seldom at Kenmuir, and more often at home, quarrelling + with his father. + </p> + <p> + Since that day, two years before, when the boy had been an instrument in + the taking of the Cup from him, father and son had been like two vessels + charged with electricity, contact between which might result at any moment + in a shock and a flash. This was the outcome not of a moment, but of + years. + </p> + <p> + Of late the contest had raged markedly fierce; for M'Adam noticed his + son's more frequent presence at home, and commented on the fact in his + usual spirit of playful raillery. + </p> + <p> + “What's come to ye, David?” he asked one day. “Yer auld dad's head is nigh + turned wi' yer condescension. Is James Moore feared ye'll steal the Cup + fra him, as ye stole it from me, that he'll not ha' ye at Kenmuir? or what + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I could maybe keep an eye on the Killer gin I stayed here,” + David answered, leering at Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'd do better at Kenmuir—eh, Wullie!” the little man replied. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” the other answered, “he'll not go to Kenmuir. There's Th' Owd Un to + see to him there o' nights.” + </p> + <p> + The little man whipped round. + </p> + <p> + “Are ye so sure he is there o' nights, ma lad?” he asked with slow + significance. + </p> + <p> + “He was there when some one—I dinna say who, though I have ma + thoughts—tried to poison him,” sneered the boy, mimicking his + father's manner. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “If he was poisoned, and noo I think aiblins he was, he didna pick it up + at Kenmuir, I tell ye that,” he said, and marched out of the room. + </p> + <p> + In the mean time the Black Killer pursued his bloody trade unchecked. The + public, always greedy of a new sensation, took up the matter. In several + of the great dailies, articles on the “Agrarian Outrages” appeared, + followed by lengthy correspondence. Controversy raged high; each + correspondent had his own theory and his own solution of the problem; and + each waxed indignant as his were discarded for another's. + </p> + <p> + The Terror had reigned already two months when, with the advent of the + lambing-time, matters took a yet more serious aspect. + </p> + <p> + It was bad enough to lose one sheep, often the finest in the pack; but the + hunting of a flock at a critical moment, which was incidental to the + slaughter of the one, the scaring of these woolly mothers-about-to-be + almost out of their fleeces, spelt for the small farmers something akin to + ruin, for the bigger ones a loss hardly bearable. + </p> + <p> + Such a woful season had never been known; loud were the curses, deep the + vows of revenge. Many a shepherd at that time patrolled all night through + with his dogs, only to find in the morning that the Killer had slipped him + and havocked in some secluded portion of his beat. + </p> + <p> + It was heartrending work; and all the more so in that, though his + incrimination seemed as far off as ever, there was still the same + positiveness as to the culprit's identity. + </p> + <p> + Long Kirby, indeed, greatly daring, went so far on one occasion as to say + to the little man: “And d'yo' reck'n the Killer is a sheep-dog, M'Adam?” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” the little man replied with conviction. + </p> + <p> + “And that he'll spare his own sheep?” + </p> + <p> + “Niver a doubt of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said the smith with a nervous cackle, “it must lie between you and + Tupper and Saunderson.” + </p> + <p> + The little man leant forward and tapped the other on the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Or Kenmuir, ma friend,” he said. “Ye've forgot Kenmuir.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have,” laughed the smith, “so I have.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'd not anither time,” the other continued, still tapping. “I'd mind + Kenmuir, d'ye see, Kirby?” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was about the middle of the lambing-time, when the Killer was working + his worst, that the Dalesmen had a lurid glimpse of Adam M'Adam as he + might be were he wounded through his Wullie. + </p> + <p> + Thus it came about: It was market-day in Grammoch-town, and in the Border + Ram old Rob Saunderson was the centre of interest. For on the previous + night Rob, who till then had escaped unscathed, had lost a sheep to the + Killer: and—far worse—his flock of Herdwicks, heavy in lamb, + had been galloped with disastrous consequences. + </p> + <p> + The old man, with tears in his eyes, was telling how on four nights that + week he had been up with Shep to guard against mishap; and on the fifth, + worn out with his double labor, had fallen asleep at his post. But a very + little while he slumbered; yet when, in the dawn, he woke and hurried on + his rounds, he quickly came upon a mangled sheep and the pitiful relic of + his flock. A relic, indeed! For all about were cold wee lambkins and their + mothers, dead and dying of exhaustion and their unripe travail—a + slaughter of the innocents. + </p> + <p> + The Dalesmen were clustered round the old shepherd, listening with + lowering countenances, when a dark gray head peered in at the door and two + wistful eyes dwelt for a moment on the speaker. + </p> + <p> + “Talk o' the devil!” muttered M'Adam, but no man heard him. For Red Wull, + too, had seen that sad face, and, rising from his master's feet, had leapt + with a roar at his enemy, toppling Jim Mason like a ninepin in the fury of + his charge. + </p> + <p> + In a second every dog in the room, from the battered Venus to Tupper's big + Rasper, was on his feet, bristling to have at the tyrant and wipe out past + injuries, if the gray dog would but lead the dance. + </p> + <p> + It was not to be, however. For Long Kirby was standing at the door with a + cup of hot coffee in his hand. Barely had he greeted the gray dog with— + </p> + <p> + “Ullo, Owd Un!” when hoarse yells of “'Ware, lad! The Terror!” mingled + with Red Wull's roar. + </p> + <p> + Half turning, he saw the great dog bounding to the attack. Straightway he + flung the boiling contents of his cup full in that rage-wracked + countenance. The burning liquid swished against the huge bull-head. + Blinding, bubbling, scalding, it did its fell work well; nothing escaped + that merciless torrent. With a cry of agony, half bellow, half howl, Red + Wull checked in his charge. From without the door was banged to; and again + the duel was postponed. While within the tap-room a huddle of men and dogs + were left alone with a mad man and a madder brute. + </p> + <p> + Blind, demented, agonized, the Tailless Tyke thundered about the little + room gnashing, snapping, oversetting; men, tables, chairs swirled off + their legs as though they had been dolls. He spun round like a monstrous + teetotum; he banged his tortured head against the wall; he burrowed into + the unyielding floor. And all the while M'Adam pattered after him, laying + hands upon him only to be flung aside as a terrier flings a rat. Now up, + now down again, now tossed into a corner, now dragged upon the floor, yet + always following on and crying in supplicating tones, “Wullie, Wullie, let + me to ye! let yer man ease ye!” and then, with a scream and a murderous + glance, “By ——, Kirby, I'll deal wi' you later!” + </p> + <p> + The uproar was like hell let loose. You could hear the noise of oaths and + blows, as the men fought for the door, a half-mile away. And above it the + horrid bellowing and the screaming of that shrill voice. + </p> + <p> + Long Kirby was the first man out of that murder-hole; and after him the + others toppled one by one—men and dogs jostling one another in the + frenzy of their fear. Big Bell, Londesley, Tupper, Hoppin, Teddy Bolstock, + white-faced and trembling; and old Saunderson they pulled out by his + heels. Then the door was shut with a clang, and the little man and mad dog + were left alone. + </p> + <p> + In the street was already a big-eyed crowd, attracted by the uproar; while + at the door was James Moore, seeking entrance. “Happen I could lend the + little mon a hand,” said he; but they withheld him forcibly. + </p> + <p> + Inside was pandemonium: bangings like the doors of hell; the bellowing of + that great voice; the patter of little feet; the slithering of a body on + the floor; and always that shrill, beseeching prayer, “Wullie, Wullie, let + me to ye!” and, in a scream, “By ——, Kirby, I'll be wi' ye + soon!” + </p> + <p> + Jim Mason it was who turned, at length, to the smith and whispered, + “Kirby, lad, yo'd best skip it.” + </p> + <p> + The big man obeyed and ran. The stamp-stamp of his feet on the hard road + rang above the turmoil. As the long legs vanished round the corner and the + sound of the fugitive died away, a panic seized the listening crowd. + </p> + <p> + A woman shrieked; a girl fainted; and in two minutes the street was as + naked of men as the steppes of Russia in winter: here a white face at a + window; there a door ajar; and peering round a far corner a frightened + boy. One man only scorned to run. Alone, James Moore stalked down the + centre of the road, slow and calm, Owd Bob trotting at his heels. + </p> + <p> + It was a long half-hour before the door of the inn burst open, and M'Adam + came out with a run, flinging the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + He rushed into the middle of the road; his sleeves were rolled at the + wrist like a surgeon's; and in his right hand was a black-handled + jack-knife. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, by ——!” he cried in a terrible voice, “where is he?” + </p> + <p> + He looked up and down the road, darting his fiery glances everywhere; and + his face was whiter than his hair. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned and hunted madly down the whole length of the High, nosing + like a weasel in every cranny, stabbing at the air as he went, and + screaming, “By ——, Kirby, wait till I get ye!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XVIII. HOW THE KILLER WAS SINGED + </h2> + <p> + No further harm came of the incident; but it served as a healthy + object-lesson for the Dalesmen. + </p> + <p> + A coincidence it may have been, but, as a fact, for the fortnight + succeeding Kirby's exploit there was a lull in the crimes. There followed, + as though to make amends, the seven days still remembered in the Daleland + as the Bloody Week. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday the Squire lost a Cheviot ewe, killed not a hundred yards + from the Manor wall. On the Monday a farm on the Black Water was marked + with the red cross. On Tuesday—a black night—Tupper at + Swinsthwaite came upon the murderer at his work; he fired into the + darkness without effect; and the Killer escaped with a scaring. On the + following night Viscount Birdsaye lost a shearling ram, for which he was + reported to have paid a fabulous sum. Thursday was the one blank night of + the week. On Friday Tupper was again visited and punished heavily, as + though in revenge for that shot. + </p> + <p> + On the Saturday afternoon a big meeting was held at the Manor to discuss + measures. The Squire presided; gentlemen and magistrates were there in + numbers, and every farmer in the country-side. + </p> + <p> + To start the proceedings the Special Commissioner read a futile letter + from the Board of Agriculture. After him Viscount Birdsaye rose and + proposed that a reward more suitable to the seriousness of the case than + the paltry 5 pounds of the Police should be offered, and backed his + proposal with a 25 pound cheque. Several others spoke, and, last of all, + Parson Leggy rose. + </p> + <p> + He briefly summarized the history of the crimes; reiterated his belief + that a sheep-dog was the criminal; declared that nothing had occurred to + shake his conviction; and concluded by offering a remedy for their + consideration. Simple it was, so he said, to laughableness; yet, if their + surmise was correct, it would serve as an effectual preventive if not + cure, and would at least give them time to turn round. He paused. + </p> + <p> + “My suggestion is: That every man-jack of you who owns a sheep-dog ties + him up at night.” + </p> + <p> + The farmers were given half an hour to consider the proposal, and + clustered in knots talking it over. Many an eye was directed on M'Adam; + but that little man appeared all unconscious. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, Mr. Saunderson,” he was saying in, shrill accents, “and shall ye + tie Shep?” + </p> + <p> + “What d'yo' think?” asked Rob, eying the man at whom the measure was + aimed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's this way, I'm thinkin',” the little man replied. “Gin ye haud + Shep's the guilty one I <i>wad</i>, by all manner o' means—or + shootin'd be aiblins better. If not, why”—he shrugged his shoulders + significantly; and having shown his hand and driven the nail well home, + the little man left the meeting. + </p> + <p> + James Moore stayed to see the Parson's resolution negatived, by a large + majority, and then he too quitted the hall. He had foreseen the result, + and, previous to the meeting, had warned the Parson how it would be. + </p> + <p> + “Tie up!” he cried almost indignantly, as Owd Bob came galloping up to his + whistle; “I think I see myself chainin' yo', owd lad, like any murderer. + Why, it's yo' has kept the Killer off Kenmuir so far, I'll lay.” + </p> + <p> + At the lodge-gate was M'Adam, for once without his familiar spirit, + playing with the lodge-keeper's child; for the little man loved all + children but his own, and was beloved of them. As the Master approached he + looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, Moore,” he called, “and are you gaein' to tie yer dog?” + </p> + <p> + “I will if you will yours,” the Master answered grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Na,” the little man replied, “it's Wullie as frichts the Killer aff the + Grange. That's why I've left him there noo.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the same wi' me,” the Master said. “He's not come to Kenmuir yet, + nor he'll not so long as Th' Owd Un's loose, I reck'n.” + </p> + <p> + “Loose or tied, for the matter o' that,” the little man rejoined, + “Kenmuir'll escape.” He made the statement dogmatically, snapping his + lips. + </p> + <p> + The Master frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Why that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ha' ye no heard what they're sayin'?” the little man inquired with raised + eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; what?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that the mere repitation o' th' best sheep-dog in the North' should + keep him aff. An' I guess they're reet,” and he laughed shrilly as he + spoke. + </p> + <p> + The Master passed on, puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Which road are ye gaein' hame?” M'Adam called after him. “Because,” with + a polite smile, “I'll tak' t'ither.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm off by the Windy Brae,” the Master answered, striding on. “Squire + asked me to leave a note wi' his shepherd t'other side o' the Chair.” So + he headed away to the left, making for home by the route along the Silver + Mere. + </p> + <p> + It is a long sweep of almost unbroken moorland, the well-called Windy + Brae; sloping gently down in mile on mile of heather from the Mere Marches + on the top to the fringe of the Silver Mere below. In all that waste of + moor the only break is the quaint-shaped Giant's Chair, puzzle of + geologists, looking as though plumped down by accident in the heathery + wild. The ground rises suddenly from the uniform grade of the Brae; up it + goes, ever growing steeper, until at length it runs abruptly into a sheer + curtain of rock—the Fall—which rises perpendicular some forty + feet, on the top of which rests that tiny grassy bowl—not twenty + yards across—they call the Scoop. + </p> + <p> + The Scoop forms the seat of the Chair and reposes on its collar of rock, + cool and green and out of the world, like wine in a metal cup; in front is + the forty-foot Fall; behind, rising sheer again, the wall of rock which + makes the back of the Chair. Inaccessible from above, the only means of + entrance to that little dell are two narrow sheep-tracks, which crawl + dangerously up between the sheer wall on the one hand and the sheer Fall + on the other, entering it at opposite sides. + </p> + <p> + It stands out clear-cut from the gradual incline, that peculiar eminence; + yet as the Master and Owd Bob debouched on to the Brae it was already + invisible in the darkening night. + </p> + <p> + Through the heather the two swung, the Master thinking now with a smile of + David and Maggie; wondering what M'Adam had meant; musing with a frown on + the Killer; pondering on his identity—for he was half of David's + opinion as to Red Wull's innocence; and thanking his stars that so far + Kenmuir had escaped, a piece of luck he attributed entirely to the + vigilance of Th' Owd Un, who, sleeping in the porch, slipped out at all + hours and went his rounds, warding off danger. And at the thought he + looked down for the dark head which should be travelling at his knee; yet + could not see it, so thick hung the pall of night. + </p> + <p> + So he brushed his way along, and ever the night grew blacker; until, from + the swell of the ground beneath his feet, he knew himself skirting the + Giant's Chair. + </p> + <p> + Now as he sped along the foot of the rise, of a sudden there burst on his + ear the myriad patter of galloping feet. He turned, and at the second a + swirl of sheep almost bore him down. It was velvet-black, and they fled + furiously by, yet he dimly discovered, driving at their trails, a vague + hound-like form. + </p> + <p> + “The Killer, by thunder!” he ejaculated, and, startled though he was, + struck down at that last pursuing shape, to miss and almost fall. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad!” he cried, “follow on!” and swung round; but in the darkness + could not see if the gray dog had obeyed. + </p> + <p> + The chase swept on into the night, and, far above him on the hill-side, he + could now hear the rattle of the flying feet. He started hotly in pursuit, + and then, recognizing the futility of following where he could not see his + hand, desisted. So he stood motionless, listening and peering into the + blackness, hoping Th' Owd Un was on the villain's heels. + </p> + <p> + He prayed for the moon; and, as though in answer, the lantern of the night + shone out and lit the dour face of the Chair above him. He shot a glance + at his feet; and thanked heaven on finding the gray dog was not beside + him. + </p> + <p> + Then he looked up. The sheep had broken, and were scattered over the steep + hill-side, still galloping madly. In the rout one pair of darting figures + caught and held his gaze: the foremost dodging, twisting, speeding upward, + the hinder hard on the leader's heels, swift, remorseless, never changing. + He looked for a third pursuing form; but none could he discern. + </p> + <p> + “He mun ha' missed him in the dark,” the Master muttered, the sweat + standing on his brow, as he strained his eyes upward. + </p> + <p> + Higher and higher sped those two dark specks, far out-topping the + scattered remnant of the flock. Up and up, until of a sudden the sheer + Fall dropped its relentless barrier in the path of the fugitive. Away, + scudding along the foot of the rock-wall struck the familiar track leading + to the Scoop, and up it, bleating pitifully, nigh spent, the Killer hard + on her now. + </p> + <p> + “He'll doon her in the Scoop!” cried the Master hoarsely, following with + fascinated eyes. “Owd Un! Owd Un! wheer iver are yo' gotten to?” he called + in agony; but no Owd Un made reply. + </p> + <p> + As they reached the summit, just as he had prophesied, the two black dots + were one; and down they rolled together into the hollow of the Scoop, out + of the Master's ken. At the same instant the moon, as though loth to watch + the last act of the bloody play, veiled her face. + </p> + <p> + It was his chance. “Noo!”—and up the hillside he sped like a young + man, girding his loins for the struggle. The slope grew steep and steeper; + but on and on he held in the darkness, gasping painfully, yet running + still, until the face of the Fall blocked his way too. + </p> + <p> + There he paused a moment, and whistled a low call. Could he but dispatch + the old dog up the one path to the Scoop, while he took the other, the + murderer's one road to safety would be blocked. + </p> + <p> + He waited, all expectant; but no cold muzzle was shoved into his hand. + Again he whistled. A pebble from above almost dropped on him, as if the + criminal up there had moved to the brink of the Fall to listen; and he + dared no more. + </p> + <p> + He waited till all was still again, then crept, cat-like, along the + rock-foot, and hit, at length, the track up which a while before had fled + Killer and victim. Up that ragged way he crawled on hands and knees. The + perspiration rolled off his face; one elbow brushed the rock perpetually; + one hand plunged ever and anon into that naked emptiness on the other + side. + </p> + <p> + He prayed that the moon might keep in but a little longer; that his feet + might be saved from falling, where a slip might well mean death, certain + destruction to any chance of success. He cursed his luck that Th' Owd Un + had somehow missed him in the dark; for now he must trust to chance, his + own great strength, and his good oak stick. And as he climbed, he laid his + plan: to rush in on the Killer as he still gorged and grapple with him. If + in the darkness he missed—and in that narrow arena the contingency + was improbable—the murderer might still, in the panic of the moment, + forget the one path to safety and leap over the Fall to his destruction. + </p> + <p> + At length he reached the summit and paused to draw breath. The black void + before him was the Scoop, and in its bosom—not ten yards away—must + be lying the Killer and the killed. + </p> + <p> + He crouched against the wet rock-face and listened. In that dark silence, + poised 'twixt heaven and earth, he seemed a million miles apart from + living soul. + </p> + <p> + No sound, and yet the murderer must be there. Ay, there was the tinkle of + a dislodged stone; and again, the tread of stealthy feet. + </p> + <p> + The Killer was moving; alarmed; was off. + </p> + <p> + Quick! + </p> + <p> + He rose to his full height; gathered himself, and leapt. + </p> + <p> + Something collided with him as he sprang; something wrestled madly with + him; something wrenched from beneath him; and in a clap he heard the thud + of a body striking ground far below, and the slithering and splattering of + some creature speeding furiously down the hill-side and away. + </p> + <p> + “Who the blazes?” roared he. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil?” screamed a little voice. + </p> + <p> + The moon shone out. + </p> + <p> + “Moore!” + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam!” + </p> + <p> + And there they were still struggling over the body of a dead sheep. + </p> + <p> + In a second they had disengaged and rushed to the edge of the Fall. In the + quiet they could still hear the scrambling hurry of the fugitive far below + them. Nothing was to be seen, however, save an array of startled sheep on + the hill-side, mute witnesses of the murderer's escape. + </p> + <p> + The two men turned and eyed each other; the one grim, the other sardonic: + both dishevelled and suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “Well?'' + </p> + <p> + “Weel?” + </p> + <p> + A pause and, careful scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “There's blood on your coat.” + </p> + <p> + “And on yours.” + </p> + <p> + Together they walked hack into the little moonlit hollow. There lay the + murdered sheep in a pool of blood. Plain it was to see whence the marks on + their coats came. M'Adam touched the victim's head with his foot. The + movement exposed its throat. With a shudder he replaced it as it was. + </p> + <p> + The two men stood back and eyed one another. + </p> + <p> + “What are yo' doin' here?” + </p> + <p> + “After the Killer. What are you?” + </p> + <p> + “After the Killer?” + </p> + <p> + “Hoo did you come?” + </p> + <p> + “Up this path,” pointing to the one behind him. “Hoo did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Up this.” + </p> + <p> + Silence; then again: + </p> + <p> + “I'd ha' had him but for yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “I did have him, but ye tore me aff,” + </p> + <p> + A pause again. + </p> + <p> + “Where's yer gray dog?” This time the challenge was unmistakable. + </p> + <p> + “I sent him after the Killer. Wheer's your Red Wull?” + </p> + <p> + “At hame, as I tell't ye before.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' mean yo' left him there?” M'Adam's fingers twitched. + </p> + <p> + “He's where I left him.” + </p> + <p> + James Moore shrugged his shoulders. And the other began: + </p> + <p> + “When did yer dog leave ye?” + </p> + <p> + “When the Killer came past.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye wad say ye missed him then?” + </p> + <p> + “I say what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye say he went after the Killer. Noo the Killer was here,” pointing to + the dead sheep. “Was your dog here, too?” + </p> + <p> + “If he had been he'd been here still.” + </p> + <p> + “Onless he went over the Fall!” + </p> + <p> + “That was the Killer, yo' fule.” + </p> + <p> + “Or your dog.” + </p> + <p> + “There was only <i>one</i> beneath me. I felt him.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so,” said M'Adam, and laughed. The other's brow contracted. + </p> + <p> + “An' that was a big un,” he said slowly. The little man stopped his + cackling. + </p> + <p> + “There ye lie,” he said, smoothly. “He was small.” + </p> + <p> + They looked one another full in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That's a matter of opinion,” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + “It's a matter of fact,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + The two stared at one another, silent and stern, each trying to fathom the + other's soul; then they turned again to the brink of the Fall. Beneath + them, plain to see, was the splash and furrow in the shingle marking the + Killer's line of retreat. They looked at one another again, and then each + departed the way he had come to give his version of the story. + </p> + <p> + “'If Th' Owd Un had kept wi' me, I should ha' had him.” + </p> + <p> + And— + </p> + <p> + “I tell ye I did have him, but James Moore pulled me aff. Strange, too, + his dog not bein' wi' him!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XIX. LAD AND LASS + </h2> + <p> + AN immense sensation this affair of the Scoop created in the Daleland. It + spurred the Dalesmen into fresh endeavors. James Moore and M'Adam were + examined and re-examined as to the minutest details of the matter. The + whole country-side was placarded with huge bills, offering 100 pounds + reward for the capture of the criminal dead or alive. While the vigilance + of the watchers was such that in a single week they bagged a donkey, an + old woman, and two amateur detectives. + </p> + <p> + In Wastrel-dale the near escape of the Killer, the collision between James + Moore and Adam, and Owd Bob's unsuccess, who was not wont to fail, aroused + intense excitement, with which was mingled a certain anxiety as to their + favorite. + </p> + <p> + For when the Master had reached home that night, he had found the old dog + already there; and he must have wrenched his foot in the pursuit or run a + thorn into it, for he was very lame. Whereat, when it was reported at the + Sylvester Arms, M'Adam winked at Red Wull and muttered, “Ah, forty foot is + an ugly tumble.” + </p> + <p> + A week later the little man called at Kenmuir. As he entered the yard, + David was standing outside the kitchen window, looking very glum and + miserable. On seeing his father, however, the boy started forward, all + alert. + </p> + <p> + “What d'yo' want here?” he cried roughly. + </p> + <p> + “Same as you, dear lad,” the little man giggled, advancing. “I come on a + visit.” + </p> + <p> + “Your visits to Kenmuir are usually paid by night, so I've heard,” David + sneered. + </p> + <p> + The little man affected not to hear. + </p> + <p> + “So they dinna allow ye indoors wi' the Cup,” he laughed. “They know yer + little ways then, David.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, I'm not wanted in there,” David answered bitterly, but not so loud + that his father could hear. Maggie within the kitchen heard, however, but + paid no heed; for her heart was hard against the boy, who of late, though + he never addressed her, had made himself as unpleasant in a thousand + little ways as only David M'Adam could. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the Master came stalking into the yard, Owd Bob preceding + him; and as the old dog recognized his visitor he bristled involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + At the sight of the Master M'Adam hurried forward. + </p> + <p> + “I did but come to ask after the tyke,” he said, “Is he gettin' over his + lameness?” + </p> + <p> + James Moore looked surprised; then his stern face relaxed into a cordial + smile. Such generous anxiety as to the welfare of Red Wull's rival was a + wholly new characteristic in the little man. + </p> + <p> + “I tak' it kind in yo', M'Adam,” he said, “to come and inquire.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the thorn oot?” asked the little man with eager interest, shooting his + head forward to stare closely at the other. + </p> + <p> + “It came oot last night wi' the poulticin',” the Master answered, + returning the other's gaze, calm and steady. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad o' that,” said the little man, still staring. But his yellow, + grinning face said as plain words, “What a liar ye are, James Moore.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The days passed on. His father's taunts and gibes, always becoming more + bitter, drove David almost to distraction. + </p> + <p> + He longed to make it up with Maggie; he longed for that tender sympathy + which the girl had always extended to him when his troubles with his + father were heavy on him. The quarrel had lasted for months now, and he + was well weary of it, and utterly ashamed. For, at least, he had the good + grace to acknowledge that no one was to blame but himself; and that it had + been fostered solely by his ugly pride. + </p> + <p> + At length he could endure it no longer, and determined to go to the girl + and ask forgiveness. It would be a bitter ordeal to him; always unwilling + to acknowledge a fault, even to himself, how much harder would it be to + confess it to this strip of a girl. For a time he thought it was almost + more than he could do. Yet, like his father, once set upon a course, + nothing could divert him. So, after a week of doubts and determinations, + of cowardice and courage, he pulled himself together and off he set. + </p> + <p> + An hour it took him from the Grange to the bridge over the Wastrel—an + hour which had wont to be a quarter. Now, as he walked on up the slope + from the stream, very slowly, heartening himself for his penance, he was + aware of a strange disturbance in the yard above him: the noisy cackling + of hens, the snorting of pigs disturbed, and above the rest the cry of a + little child ringing out in shrill distress. + </p> + <p> + He set to running, and sped up the slope as fast as his long legs would + carry him. As he took the gate in his stride, he saw the white-clad figure + of Wee Anne fleeing with unsteady, toddling steps, her fair hair streaming + out behind, and one bare arm striking wildly back at a great pursuing sow. + </p> + <p> + David shouted as he cleared the gate, but the brute paid no heed, and was + almost touching the fugitive when Owd Bob came galloping round the corner, + and in a second had flashed between pursuer and pursued. So close were the + two that as he swung round on the startled sow, his tail brushed the baby + to the ground; and there she lay kicking fat legs to heaven and calling on + all her gods. + </p> + <p> + David, leaving the old dog to secure the warrior pig, ran round to her; + but he was anticipated. The whole matter had barely occupied a minute's + time; and Maggie, rushing from the kitchen, now had the child in her arms + and was hurrying back with her to the house. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, ma pet, are yo' hurted, dearie?” David could hear her asking + tearfully, as he crossed the yard and established himself in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, in bantering tones, “yo'm a nice wench to ha' charge o' + oor Annie!” + </p> + <p> + It was a sore subject with the girl, and well he knew it. Wee Anne, that + golden-haired imp of mischief, was forever evading her sister-mother's eye + and attempting to immolate herself. More than once she had only been saved + from serious hurt by the watchful devotion of Owd Bob, who always found + time, despite his many labors, to keep a guardian eye on his well-loved + lassie. In the previous winter she had been lost on a bitter night on the + Muir Pike; once she had climbed into a field with the Highland bull, and + barely escaped with her life, while the gray dog held the brute in check; + but a little while before she had been rescued from drowning by the + Tailless Tyke; there had been numerous other mischances; and now the + present mishap. But the girl paid no heed to her tormentor in her joy at + finding the child all unhurt. + </p> + <p> + “Theer! yo' bain't so much as scratted, ma precious, is yo'?” she cried. + “Rin oot agin, then,” and the baby toddled joyfully away. + </p> + <p> + Maggie rose to her feet and stood with face averted. David's eyes dwelt + lovingly upon her, admiring the pose of the neat head with its thatch of + pretty brown hair; the slim figure, and slender ankles, peeping modestly + from beneath her print frock. + </p> + <p> + “Ma word! if yo' dad should hear tell o' hoo his Anne—” he broke off + into a long-drawn whistle. + </p> + <p> + Maggie kept silence; but her lips quivered, and the flush deepened on her + cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I'm fear'd I'll ha' to tell him,” the boy continued, “'Tis but ma duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' may tell wham yo' like what yo' like,” the girl replied coldly; yet + there was a tremor in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “First yo' throws her in the stream,” David went on remorselessly; “then + yo' chucks her to the pig, and if it had not bin for me—” + </p> + <p> + “Yo', indeed!” she broke in contemptuously. “Yo'! 'twas Owd Bob reskied + her. Yo'd nowt' to do wi' it, 'cept lookin' on—'bout what yo're fit + for.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell yo',” David pursued stubbornly, “an it had not bin for me yo' + wouldn't have no sister by noo. She'd be lyin', she would, pore little + lass, cold as ice, pore mite, wi' no breath in her. An' when yo' dad coom + home there'd be no Wee Anne to rin to him, and climb on his knee, and + yammer to him, and beat his face. An he'd say, 'What's gotten to oor + Annie, as I left wi' yo'?' And then yo'd have to tell him, 'I never took + no manner o' fash after her, dad; d'reckly yo' back was turned, I—'” + </p> + <p> + The girl sat down, buried her face in her apron, and indulged in the rare + luxury of tears. + </p> + <p> + “Yo're the cruellest mon as iver was, David M'Adam,” she sobbed, rocking + to and fro. + </p> + <p> + He was at her side in a moment, tenderly bending over her. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Maggie, but I am sorry, lass—” + </p> + <p> + She wrenched away from beneath his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I hate yo',” she cried passionately. + </p> + <p> + He gently removed her hands from before her tear-stained face. + </p> + <p> + “I was nob'but laffin', Maggie,” he pleaded; “say yo' forgie me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't,” she cried, struggling. “I think yo're the hatefullest lad as + iver lived.” + </p> + <p> + The moment was critical; it was a time for heroic measures. + </p> + <p> + “No, yo' don't, lass,” he remonstrated; and, releasing her wrists, lifted + the little drooping face, wet as it was, like the earth after a spring + shower, and, holding it between his two big hands, kissed it twice. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' coward!” she cried, a flood of warm red crimsoning her cheeks; and + she struggled vainly to be free. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' used to let me,” he reminded her in aggrieved tones. + </p> + <p> + “I niver did!” she cried, more indignant than truthful. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yo' did, when we was little uns; that is, yo' was allus for kissin' + and I was allus agin it. And noo,” with whole-souled bitterness, “I mayn't + so much as keek at yo' over a stone wall.” + </p> + <p> + However that might be, he was keeking at her from closer range now; and in + that position—for he held her firmly still—she could not help + but keek back. He looked so handsome—humble for once; penitent yet + reproachful; his own eyes a little moist; and, withal, his old audacious + self—that, despite herself, her anger grew less hot. + </p> + <p> + “Say yo' forgie me and I'll let yo' go.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't, nor niver shall,” she answered firmly; but there was less + conviction in her heart than voice. + </p> + <p> + “Iss yo' do, lass,” he coaxed, and kissed her again. + </p> + <p> + She struggled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo daur yo'?” she cried through her tears. But he was not to be moved. + </p> + <p> + “Will yo' noo?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She remained dumb, and he kissed her again. + </p> + <p> + “Impidence!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said he, closing her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder at ye, Davie!” she said, surrendering. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + After that Maggie must needs give in; and it was well understood, though + nothing definite had been said, that the boy and girl were courting. And + in the Dale the unanimous opinion was that the young couple would make “a + gradely pair, surely.” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam was the last person to hear the news, long after it had been common + knowledge in the village. It was in the Sylvester Arms he first heard it, + and straightway fell into one of those foaming frenzies characteristic of + him. + </p> + <p> + “The dochter o' Moore o' Kenmuir, d'ye say? sic a dochter o' sic a man! + The dochter o' th' one man in the warld that's harmed me aboon the rest! + I'd no ha' believed it gin ye'd no tell't me. Oh, David, David! I'd no ha' + thocht it even o' you, ill son as ye've aye bin to me. I think he might + ha' waited till his auld dad was gone, and he'd no had to wait lang the + noo.” Then the little man sat down and burst into tears. Gradually, + however, he resigned himself, and the more readily when he realized that + David by his act had exposed a fresh wound into which he might plunge his + barbed shafts. And he availed himself to the full of his new + opportunities. Often and often David was sore pressed to restrain himself. + </p> + <p> + “Is't true what they're sayin' that Maggie Moore's nae better than she + should be?” the little man asked one evening with anxious interest. + </p> + <p> + “They're not sayin' so, and if they were 'twad be a lie,” the boy answered + angrily. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam leant back in his chair and nodded his head. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, they tell't me that gin ony man knew 'twad be David M'Adam.” + </p> + <p> + David strode across the room. + </p> + <p> + “No, no mair o' that,” he shouted. “Y'ought to be 'shamed, an owd mon like + you, to speak so o' a lass.” The little man edged close up to his son, and + looked up into the fair flushed face towering above him. + </p> + <p> + “David,” he said in smooth soft tones, “I'm 'stonished ye dinna strike yen + auld dad.” He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as if daring + the young giant to raise a finger against him. “Ye maist might noo,” he + continued suavely. “Ye maun be sax inches taller, and a good four stane + heavier. Hooiver, aiblins ye're wise to wait. Anither year twa I'll be an + auld man, as ye say, and feebler, and Wullie here'll be gettin' on, while + you'll be in the prime o' yer strength. Then I think ye might hit me wi' + safety to your person, and honor to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + He took a pace back, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther,” said David, huskily, “one day yo'll drive me too far.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XX. THE SNAPPING OF THE STRING + </h2> + <p> + THE spring was passing, marked throughout with the bloody trail of the + Killer. The adventure in the Scoop scared him for a while into + innocuousness; then he resumed his game again with redoubled zest. It + seemed likely he would harry the district till some lucky accident carried + him off, for all chance there was of arresting him. + </p> + <p> + You could still hear nightly in the Sylvester Arms and elsewhere the + assertion, delivered with the same dogmatic certainty as of old, “It's the + Terror, I tell yo'!” and that irritating, inevitable reply: “Ay; but + wheer's the proof?” While often, at the same moment, in a house not far + away, a little lonely man was sitting before a low-burnt fire, rocking to + and fro, biting his nails, and muttering to the great dog whose head lay + between his knees: “If we had but the proof, Wullie! if we had but the + proof! I'd give ma right hand aff my arm gin we had the proof to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Long Kirby, who was always for war when some one else was to do the + fighting, suggested that David should be requested, in the name of the + Dalesmen, to tell M'Adam that he must make an end to Red Wull. But Jim + Mason quashed the proposal, remarking truly enough that there was too much + bad blood as it was between father and son; while Tammas proposed with a + sneer that the smith should be his own agent in the matter. + </p> + <p> + Whether it was this remark of Tammas's which stung the big man into + action, or whether it was that the intensity of his hate gave him unusual + courage, anyhow, a few days later, M'Adam caught him lurking in the + granary of the Grange. + </p> + <p> + The little man may not have guessed his murderous intent; yet the + blacksmith's white-faced terror, as he crouched away in the darkest + corner, could hardly have escaped remark; though—and Kirby may thank + his stars for it—the treacherous gleam of a gun-barrel, + ill-concealed behind him, did. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Kirby!” said M'Adam cordially, “ye'll stay the night wi' me?” And + the next thing the big man heard was a giggle on the far side the door, + lost in the clank of padlock and rattle of chain. Then—through a + crack—“Good-night to ye. Hope ye'll be comfie.” And there he stayed + that night, the following day and next night—thirty-six hours in + all, with swedes for his hunger and the dew off the thatch for his thirst. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the struggle between David and his father seemed coming to a + head. The little man's tongue wagged more bitterly than ever; now it was + never at rest—searching out sores, stinging, piercing. + </p> + <p> + Worst of all, he was continually dropping innuendoes, seemingly innocent + enough, yet with a world of subtile meaning at their back, respecting + Maggie. The leer and wink with which, when David came home from Kenmuir at + nights, he would ask the simple question, “And was she kind, David—eh, + eh?” made the boy's blood boil within him. + </p> + <p> + And the more effective the little man saw his shots to be, the more + persistently he plied them. And David retaliated in kind. It was a war of + reprisals. There was no peace; there were no truces in which to bury the + dead before the opponents set to slaying others. And every day brought the + combatants nearer to that final struggle, the issue of which neither cared + to contemplate. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + There came a Saturday, toward the end of the spring, long to be remembered + by more than David in the Dale. + </p> + <p> + For that young man the day started sensationally. Rising before cock-crow, + and going to the window, the first thing he saw in the misty dawn was the + gaunt, gigantic figure of Red Wull, hounding up the hill from the Stony + Bottom; and in an instant his faith was shaken to its foundation. + </p> + <p> + The dog was travelling up at a long, slouching trot; and as he rapidly + approached the house, David saw that his flanks were all splashed with red + mud, his tongue out, and the foam dripping from his jaws, as though he had + come far and fast. + </p> + <p> + He slunk up to the house, leapt on to the sill of the unused back-kitchen, + some five feet from the ground, pushed with his paw at the cranky old + hatchment, which was its only covering; and, in a second, the boy, + straining out of the window the better to see, heard the rattle of the + boards as the dog dropped within the house. + </p> + <p> + For the moment, excited as he was, David held his peace. Even the Black + Killer took only second place in his thoughts that morning. For this was + to be a momentous day for him. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon James Moore and Andrew would, he knew, be over at + Grammoch-town, and, his work finished for the day, he was resolved to + tackle Maggie and decide his fate. If she would have him—well, he + would go next morning and thank God for it, kneeling beside her in the + tiny village church; if not, he would leave the Grange and all its + unhappiness behind, and straightway plunge out into the world. + </p> + <p> + All through a week of stern work he had looked forward to this hard-won + half-holiday. Therefore, when, as he was breaking off at noon, his father + turned to him and said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “David, ye're to tak' the Cheviot lot o'er to Grammoch-town at once,” he + answered shortly: + </p> + <p> + “Yo' mun tak' 'em yo'sel', if yo' wish 'em to go to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Na,” the little man answered; “Wullie and me, we're busy. Ye're to tak' + 'em, I tell ye.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not,” David replied. “If they wait for me, they wait till Monday,” + and with that he left the room. + </p> + <p> + “I see what 'tis,” his father called after him; “she's give ye a tryst at + Kenmuir. Oh, ye randy David!” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' tend yo' business; I'll tend mine,” the boy answered hotly. + </p> + <p> + Now it happened that on the previous day Maggie had given him a photograph + of herself, or, rather, David had taken it and Maggie had demurred. As he + left the room it dropped from his pocket. He failed to notice his loss, + but directly he was gone M'Adam pounced on it. + </p> + <p> + “He! he! Wullie, what's this?” he giggled, holding the photograph into his + face. “He! he! it's the jade hersel', I war'nt; it's Jezebel!” + </p> + <p> + He peered into the picture. + </p> + <p> + “She kens what's what, I'll tak' oath, Wullie. See her eyes—sae saft + and languishin'; and her lips—such lips, Wullie!” He held the + picture down for the great dog to see: then walked out of the room, still + sniggering, and chucking the face insanely beneath its cardboard chin. + </p> + <p> + Outside the house he collided against David. The boy had missed his + treasure and was hurrying back for it. + </p> + <p> + “What yo' got theer?” he asked suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Only the pictur' o' some randy quean,” his father answered, chucking away + at the inanimate chin. + </p> + <p> + “Gie it me!” David ordered fiercely. “It's mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Na, na,” the little man replied. “It's no for sic douce lads as dear + David to ha' ony touch wi' leddies sic as this.” + </p> + <p> + “Gie it me, I tell ye, or I'll tak' it!” the boy shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Na, na; it's ma duty as yer dad to keep ye from sic limmers.” He turned, + still smiling, to Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “There ye are, Wullie!” He threw the photograph to the dog. “Tear her, + Wullie, the Jezebel!” + </p> + <p> + The Tailless Tyke sprang on the picture, placed one big paw in the very + centre of the face, forcing it into the muck, and tore a corner off; then + he chewed the scrap with unctious, slobbering gluttony, dropped it, and + tore a fresh piece. + </p> + <p> + David dashed forward. + </p> + <p> + “Touch it, if ye daur, ye brute!” he yelled; but his father seized him and + held him back. + </p> + <p> + “'And the dogs o' the street,'” he quoted. David turned furiously on him. + </p> + <p> + “I've half a mind to brak' ivery bone in yer body!” he shouted, “robbin' + me o' what's mine and throwin' it to yon black brute!” + </p> + <p> + “Whist, David, whist!” soothed the little man. “Twas but for yer ain good + yer auld dad did it. 'Twas that he had at heart as he aye has. Rin aff wi' + ye noo to Kenmuir. She'll mak' it up to ye, I war'nt. She's leeberal wi' + her favors, I hear. Ye've but to whistle and she'll come.” + </p> + <p> + David seized his father by the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “An' yo' gie me much more o' your sauce,” he roared. + </p> + <p> + “Sauce, Wullie,” the little man echoed in a gentle voice. + </p> + <p> + “I'll twist yer neck for yo'!” + </p> + <p> + “He'll twist my neck for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll gang reet awa', I warn yo', and leave you and yer Wullie to yer + lone.” + </p> + <p> + The little man began to whimper. + </p> + <p> + “It'll brak' yer auld dad's heart, lad,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; yo've got none. But 'twill ruin yo', please God. For yo' and yer + Wullie'll get ne'er a soul to work for yo'—yo' cheeseparin', + dirty-tongued Jew.” + </p> + <p> + The little man burst into an agony of affected tears, rocking to and fro, + his face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Waesucks, Wullue! d'ye hear him? He is gaein' to leave us—the son + o' my bosom! my Benjamin! my little Davie! he's gaein' awa'!” + </p> + <p> + David turned away down the hill; and M'Adam lifted his stricken face and + waved a hand at him. + </p> + <p> + “'Adieu, dear amiable youth!'” he cried in broken voice; and straightway + set to sobbing again. + </p> + <p> + Half-way down to the Stony Bottom David turned. + </p> + <p> + “I'll gie yo' a word o' warnin',” he shouted back. “I'd advise yo' to keep + a closer eye to yer Wullie's goings on, 'specially o' nights, or happen + yo'll wake to a surprise one mornin'.” + </p> + <p> + In an instant the little man ceased his fooling. + </p> + <p> + “And why that?” he asked, following down the hill. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell yo'. When I wak' this mornin' I walked to the window, and what + d'yo' think I see? Why, your Wullie gollopin' like a good un up from the + Bottom, all foamin', too, and red-splashed, as if he'd coom from the + Screes. What had he bin up to, I'd like to know?” + </p> + <p> + “What should he be doin',” the little man replied, “but havin' an eye to + the stock? and that when the Killer might be oot.” + </p> + <p> + David laughed harshly. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, the Killer was oot, I'll go bail, and yo' may hear o't afore the + evenin', ma man,” and with that he turned away again. + </p> + <p> + As he had foreseen, David found Maggie alone. But in the heat of his + indignation against his father he seemed to have forgotten his original + intent, and instead poured his latest troubles into the girl's sympathetic + ear. + </p> + <p> + “There's but one mon in the world he wishes worse nor me,” he was saying. + It was late in the afternoon, and he was still inveighing against his + father and his fate. Maggie sat in her father's chair by the fire, + knitting; while he lounged on the kitchen table, swinging his long legs. + </p> + <p> + “And who may that be?” the girl asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mr. Moore, to be sure, and Th' Owd Un, too. He'd do either o' them a + mischief if he could.” + </p> + <p> + “But why, David?” she asked anxiously. “I'm sure dad niver hurt him, or + ony ither mon for the matter o' that.” + </p> + <p> + David nodded toward the Dale Cup which rested on the mantelpiece in + silvery majesty. + </p> + <p> + “It's yon done it,” he said. “And if Th' Owd Un wins agin, as win he will, + bless him! why, look out for 'me and ma Wullie'; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Maggie shuddered, and thought of the face at the window. + </p> + <p> + “'Me and ma Wullie,'” David continued; “I've had about as much of them as + I can swaller. It's aye the same—'Me and ma Wullie,' and 'Wullie and + me,' as if I never put ma hand to a stroke! Ugh!”—he made a gesture + of passionate disgust—“the two on 'em fair madden me. I could strike + the one and throttle t'other,” and he rattled his heels angrily together. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, David,” interposed the girl; “yo' munna speak so o' your dad; it's + agin the commandments.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tain't agin human nature,” he snapped in answer. “Why, 'twas nob'but + yester' morn' he says in his nasty way, 'David, ma gran' fellow, hoo ye + work! ye 'stonish me!' And on ma word, Maggie”—there were tears in + the great boy's eyes—“ma back was nigh broke wi' toilin'. And the + Terror, he stands by and shows his teeth, and looks at me as much as to + say, 'Some day, by the grace o' goodness, I'll ha' my teeth in your + throat, young mon.'” + </p> + <p> + Maggie's knitting dropped into her lap and she looked up, her soft eyes + for once flashing. + </p> + <p> + “It's cruel, David; so 'tis!” she cried. “I wonder yo' bide wi' him. If he + treated me so, I'd no stay anither minute. If it meant the House for me + I'd go,” and she looked as if she meant it. + </p> + <p> + David jumped off the table. + </p> + <p> + “Han' yo' niver guessed why I stop, lass, and me so happy at home?” he + asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Maggie's eyes dropped again. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo should I know?” she asked innocently. + </p> + <p> + “Nor care, neither, I s'pose,” he said in reproachful accents. “Yo' want + me me to go and leave yo', and go reet awa'; I see hoo 'tis. Yo' wouldna + mind, not yo', if yo' was niver to see pore David agin. I niver thowt yo' + welly like me, Maggie; and noo I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' silly lad,” the girl murmured, knitting steadfastly. + </p> + <p> + “Then yo' do,” he cried, triumphant, “I knew yo' did.” He approached close + to her chair, his face clouded with eager anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “But d'yo' like me more'n just <i>likin''</i>, Maggie? d'yo',” he bent and + whispered in the little ear. + </p> + <p> + The girl cuddled over her work so that he could not see her face. + </p> + <p> + “If yo' won't tell me yo' can show me,” he coaxed. “There's other things + besides words.” + </p> + <p> + He stood before her, one hand on the chair-back on either side. She sat + thus, caged between his arms, with drooping eyes and heightened color. + </p> + <p> + “Not so close, David, please,” she begged, fidgeting uneasily; but the + request was unheeded. + </p> + <p> + “Do'ee move away a wee,” she implored. + </p> + <p> + “Not till yo've showed me,” he said, relentless. + </p> + <p> + “I canna, Davie,” she cried with laughing, petulance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yo' can, lass.” + </p> + <p> + “Tak' your hands away, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay; not till yo've showed me.” + </p> + <p> + A pause. + </p> + <p> + “Do'ee, Davie,” she supplicated. + </p> + <p> + And— + </p> + <p> + “Do'ee,” he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + She tilted her face provokingly, but her eyes were still down. + </p> + <p> + “It's no manner o' use, Davie.” + </p> + <p> + “Iss, 'tis,” he coaxed. + </p> + <p> + “Niver.” + </p> + <p> + “Please.” + </p> + <p> + A lengthy pause. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—” She looked up, at last, shy, trustful, happy; and the + sweet lips were tilted further to meet his. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +And thus they were situated, lover-like, when a low, rapt voice broke in +on them,— + + 'A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, +A treacherous inclination.' +</pre> + <p> + “Oh, Wullie, I wush you were here!” + </p> + <p> + It was little M'Adam. He was leaning in at the open window, leering at the + young couple, his eyes puckered, an evil expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “The creetical moment! and I interfere! David, ye'll never forgie me.” + </p> + <p> + The boy jumped round with an oath; and Maggie, her face flaming, started + to her feet. The tone, the words, the look of the little man at the window + were alike insufferable. + </p> + <p> + “By thunder! I'll teach yo' to come spyin' on me!” roared David. Above him + on the mantelpiece blazed the Shepherds' Trophy. Searching any missile in + his fury, he reached up a hand for it. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, gie it me back, Ye robbed me o't,” the little man cried, holding out + his arms as if to receive it. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna, David,” pleaded Maggie, with restraining hand on her lover's arm. + </p> + <p> + “By the Lord! I'll give him something!” yelled the boy. Close by there + stood a pail of soapy water. He seized it, swung it, and slashed its + contents at the leering face in the window. + </p> + <p> + The little man started back, but the dirty torrent caught him and soused + him through. The bucket followed, struck him full on the chest, and rolled + him over in the mud. After it with a rush came David. + </p> + <p> + “I'll let yo' know, spyin' on me!” he yelled. “I'll—” + </p> + <p> + Maggie, whose face was as white now as it had been crimson, clung to him, + hampering him. + </p> + <p> + “Dinna, David, dinna!” she implored. “He's yer ain dad.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll dad him! I'll learn him!” roared David half through the window. + </p> + <p> + At the moment Sam'l Todd came floundering furiously round the corner, + closely followed by 'Enry and oor Job. + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” shouted Sam'l seeing the prostrate form. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! ho!” went the other two. + </p> + <p> + They picked up the draggled little man and hustled him out of the yard + like a thief, a man on either side and a man behind. + </p> + <p> + As they forced him through the gate, he struggled round. + </p> + <p> + “By Him that made ye! ye shall pay for this, David M'Adam, you and yer—” + </p> + <p> + But Sam'l's big hand descended on his mouth, and he was borne away before + that last ill word had flitted into being. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXI. HORROR OF DARKNESS + </h2> + <p> + IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home. + </p> + <p> + All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against David had + made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd Bob, and the Dale Cup were + for once forgotten as, in his passion, he cursed his son. + </p> + <p> + The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping madman. For + once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser outbursts could quell, + were dumb before him; only now and then shooting furtive glances in his + direction, as though on the brink of some daring enterprise of which he + was the objective. But M'Adam noticed nothing, suspected nothing. + </p> + <p> + When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there was no + light and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a white riband of + paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark. + </p> + <p> + The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and resumed his + tireless anathema. + </p> + <p> + “I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht to thole + from ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck me, Wullie! struck + his ain father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye werena there. Oh, gin ye + had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him ken Adam M'Adam. + I'll stan' nae mair!” + </p> + <p> + He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled down + the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + “We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!” And he + banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip of + still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not. + </p> + <p> + Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket of his + coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companion of + his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull; then + placed it on the table by his side. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hung + limply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into a + heavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet. + </p> + <p> + It was not till an hour later that David returned home. + </p> + <p> + As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like a body + with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of his with + the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left. + </p> + <p> + Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; then + struck a match and stood in the doorway peering in. + </p> + <p> + “Not home, bain't he?” he muttered, the tiny light above his head. “Wet + inside as well as oot by noo, I'll lay. By gum! but 'twas a lucky thing + for him I didna get ma hand on him this evenin'. I could ha' killed him.” + He held the match above his head. + </p> + <p> + Two yellow eyes, glowing in the darkness like cairngorms, and a small dim + figure bunched up in a chair, told him his surmise was wrong. Many a time + had he seen his father in such case before, and now he muttered + contemptuously: + </p> + <p> + “Drunk; the leetle swab! Sleepin' it off, I reck'n.” + </p> + <p> + Then he saw his mistake. The hand that hung above the floor twitched and + was still again. + </p> + <p> + There was a clammy silence. A mouse, emboldened by the quiet, scuttled + across the hearth. One mighty paw lightly moved; a lightning tap, and the + tiny beast lay dead. + </p> + <p> + Again that hollow stillness: no sound, no movement; only those two + unwinking eyes fixed on him immovable. + </p> + <p> + At length a small voice from the fireside broke the quiet. + </p> + <p> + “Drunk—the—leetle—swab!” + </p> + <p> + Again a clammy silence, and a life-long pause. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt yo' was sleepin',” said David, at length, lamely. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, so ye said. 'Sleepin' it aff'; I heard ye.” Then, still in the same + small voice, now quivering imperceptibly, “Wad ye obleege me, sir, by + leetin' the lamp? Or, d'ye think, Wullie, 'twad be soilin' his dainty + fingers? They're mair used, I'm told, to danderin' with the bonnie brown + hair o' his—” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not ha' ye talk o' ma Maggie so,” interposed the boy passionately. + </p> + <p> + “<i>His</i> Maggie, mark ye, Wullie—<i>his</i>! I thocht 'twad soon + get that far.” + </p> + <p> + “Tak' care, dad! I'll stan' but little more,” the boy warned him in + choking voice; and began to trim the lamp with trembling fingers. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam forthwith addressed himself to Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose no man iver had sic a son as him, Wullie. Ye ken what I've done + for him, an' ye ken hoo he's repaid it. He's set himsel' agin me; he's + misca'd me; he's robbed me o' ma Cup; last of all, he struck me—struck + me afore them a'. We've toiled for him, you and I, Wullie; we've slaved to + keep him in hoose an' hame, an' he's passed his time, the while, in + riotous leevin', carousin' at Kenmuir, amusin' himself' wi' his—” He + broke off short. The lamp was lit, and the strip of paper, pinned on to + the table, naked and glaring, caught his eye. + </p> + <p> + “What's this?” he muttered; and unloosed the nail that clamped it down. + </p> + <p> + This is what he read: + </p> + <p> + “Adam Mackadam yer warned to mak' an end to yer Red Wull will be best for + him and the Sheep. This is the first yo'll have two more the third will be + the last—” + </p> + <p> + It was written in pencil, and the only signature was a dagger, rudely + lined in red. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam read the paper once, twice, thrice. As he slowly assimilated its + meaning, the blood faded from his face. He stared at it and still stared, + with whitening face and pursed lips. Then he stole a glance at David's + broad back. + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye ken o' this, David?” he asked, at length, in a dry thin voice, + reaching forward in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “O' what?” + </p> + <p> + “O' this,” holding up the slip. “And ye'el obleege me by the truth for + once.” + </p> + <p> + David turned, took up the paper, read it, and laughed harshly. + </p> + <p> + “It's coom to this, has it?” he said, still laughing, and yet with + blanching face. + </p> + <p> + “Ye ken what it means. I daresay ye pit it there; aiblins writ it. Ye'll + explain it.” The little man spoke in the same small, even voice, and his + eyes never moved off his son's face. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard naethin'.... I'd like the truth, David, if ye can tell it.” + </p> + <p> + The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to the + paper in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' shall have it, but yo'll not like it. It's this: Tupper lost a sheep + to the Killer last night.” + </p> + <p> + “And what if he did?” The little man rose smoothly to his feet. Each + noticed the others' face—dead-white. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he—lost—it—on—Wheer d'yo' think?” He drawled + the words out, dwelling almost lovingly on each. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “On—the—Red—Screes.” + </p> + <p> + The crash was coming—inevitable now. David knew it, knew that + nothing could avert it, and braced himself to meet it. The smile had fled + from his face, and his breath fluttered in his throat like the wind before + a thunderstorm. + </p> + <p> + “What of it?” The little man's voice was calm as a summer sea. + </p> + <p> + “Why, your Wullie—as I told yo'—was on the Screes last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, David.” + </p> + <p> + “And this,” holding up the paper, “tells you that they ken as I ken noo, + as maist o' them ha' kent this mony a day, that your Wullie, Red Wull—the + Terror—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Is—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The Black Killer.” + </p> + <p> + It was spoken. + </p> + <p> + The frayed string was snapped at last. The little man's hand flashed to + the bottle that stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “Ye—liar!” he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the + boy's head. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond, its + contents trickling down the wall to the floor. + </p> + <p> + For a moment, darkness. Then the spirits met the lamp's smouldering wick + and blazed into flame. + </p> + <p> + By the sudden light David saw his father on the far side the table, + pointing with crooked forefinger. By his side Red Wull was standing alert, + hackles up, yellow fangs bared, eyes lurid; and, at his feet, the wee + brown mouse lay still and lifeless. + </p> + <p> + “Oot o' ma hoose! Back to Kenmuir! Back to yer ——” The + unpardonable word, unmistakable, hovered for a second on his lips like + some foul bubble, and never burst. + </p> + <p> + “No mither this time!” panted David, racing round the table. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie!” + </p> + <p> + The Terror leapt to the attack; but David overturned the table as he ran, + the blunderbuss crashing to the floor; it fell, opposing a momentary + barrier in the dog's path. + </p> + <p> + “Stan' off, ye—!” screeched the little man, seizing a chair in both + hands; “stan' off, or I'll brain ye!” + </p> + <p> + But David was on him. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” + </p> + <p> + Again the Terror came with a roar like the sea. But David, with a mighty + kick catching him full on the jaw, repelled the attack. + </p> + <p> + Then he gripped his father round the waist and lifted him from the ground. + The little man, struggling in those iron arms, screamed, cursed, and + battered at the face above him, kicking and biting in his frenzy. + </p> + <p> + “The Killer! wad ye ken wha's the Killer? Go and ask 'em at Kenmuir! Ask + yer ——” + </p> + <p> + David swayed slightly, crushing the body in his arms till it seemed every + rib must break; then hurled it from him with all the might of passion. The + little man fell with a crash and a groan. + </p> + <p> + The blaze in the corner flared, flickered, and died. There was hell-black + darkness, and silence of the dead. + </p> + <p> + David stood against the wall, panting, every nerve tightstrung as the + hawser of a straining ship. + </p> + <p> + In the corner lay the body of his father, limp and still; and in the room + one other living thing was moving. + </p> + <p> + He clung close to the wall, pressing it with wet hands. The horror of it + all, the darkness, the man in the corner, that moving something, petrified + him. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + There was no reply. A chair creaked at an invisible touch. Something was + creeping, stealing, crawling closer. + </p> + <p> + David was afraid. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther!” he whispered in hoarse agony, “are yo' hurt?” + </p> + <p> + The words were stifled in his throat. A chair overturned with a crash; a + great body struck him on the chest; a hot, pestilent breath volleyed in + his face, and wolfish teeth were reaching for his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Killer!” he screamed. + </p> + <p> + The horror of suspense was past. It had come, and with it he was himself + again. + </p> + <p> + Back, back, back, along the wall he was borne. His hands entwined + themselves around a hairy throat; he forced the great head with its horrid + lightsome eyes from him; he braced himself for the effort, lifted the huge + body at his breast, and heaved it from him. It struck the wall and fell + with a soft thud. + </p> + <p> + As he recoiled a hand clutched his ankle and sought to trip him. David + kicked back and down with all his strength. There was one awful groan, and + he staggered against the door and out. + </p> + <p> + There he paused, leaning against the wall to' breathe. + </p> + <p> + He struck a match and lifted his foot to see where the hand had clutched + him. + </p> + <p> + God! there was blood on his heel. + </p> + <p> + Then a great fear laid hold on him. A cry was suffocated in his breast by + the panting of his heart. + </p> + <p> + He crept back to the kitchen door and listened. + </p> + <p> + Not a sound. + </p> + <p> + Fearfully he opened it a crack. + </p> + <p> + Silence of the tomb. + </p> + <p> + He banged it to. It opened behind him, and the fact lent wings to his + feet. + </p> + <p> + He turned and plunged out into the night, and ran through the blackness + for his life. And a great owl swooped softly by and hooted mockingly: + </p> + <p> + “For your life! for your life! for your life!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXII A MAN AND A MAID + </h2> + <p> + IN the village even the Black Killer and the murder on the Screes were + forgotten in this new sensation. The mystery in which the affair was + wrapped, and the ignorance as to all its details, served to whet the + general interest. There had been a fight; M'Adam and the Terror had been + mauled; and David had disappeared—those were the facts. But what was + the origin of the affray no one could say. + </p> + <p> + One or two of the Dalesmen had, indeed, a shrewd suspicion. Tupper looked + guilty; Jem Burton muttered, “I knoo hoo 'twould be”; while as for Long + Kirby, he vanished entirely, not to reappear till three months had sped. + </p> + <p> + Injured as he had been, M'Adam was yet sufficiently recovered to appear in + the Sylvester Arms on the Saturday following the battle. He entered the + tap-room silently with never a word to a soul; one arm was in a sling and + his head bandaged. He eyed every man present critically; and all, except + Tammas, who was brazen, and Jim Mason, who was innocent, fidgeted beneath + the stare. Maybe it was well for Long Kirby he was not there. + </p> + <p> + “Onythin' the matter?” asked Jem, at length, rather lamely, in view of the + plain evidences of battle. + </p> + <p> + “Na, na; naethin' oot o' the ordinar',” the little man replied, giggling. + “Only David set on me, and me sleepin'. And,” with a shrug, “here I am + noo.” He sat down, wagging his bandaged head and grinning. “Ye see he's + sae playfu', is Davie. He wangs ye o'er the head wi' a chair, kicks ye in + the jaw, stamps on yer wame, and all as merry as May.” And nothing further + could they get from him, except that if David reappeared it was his firm + resolve to hand him over to the police for attempted parricide. + </p> + <p> + “'Brutal assault on an auld man by his son!' 'Twill look well in the + Argus; he! he! They couldna let him aff under two years, I'm thinkin'.” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam's version of the affair was received with quiet incredulity. The + general verdict was that he had brought his punishment entirely on his own + head. Tammas, indeed, who was always rude when he was not witty, and, in + fact, the difference between the two things is only one of degree, told + him straight: “It served yo' well reet. An' I nob'but wish he'd made an + end to yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “He did his best, puir lad,” M'Adam reminded him gently. + </p> + <p> + “We've had enough o' yo',” continued the uncompromising old man. “I'm fair + grieved he didna slice yer throat while he was at it.” + </p> + <p> + At that M'Adam raised his eyebrows, stared, and then broke into a low + whistle. + </p> + <p> + “That's it, is it?” he muttered, as though a new light was dawning on him. + “Ah, noo I see.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The days passed on. There was still no news of the missing one, and + Maggie's face became pitifully white and haggard. + </p> + <p> + Of course she did not believe that David had attempted to murder his + father, desperately tried as she knew he had been. Still, it was a + terrible thought to her that he might at any moment be arrested; and her + girlish imagination was perpetually conjuring up horrid pictures of a + trial, conviction, and the things that followed. + </p> + <p> + Then Sam'l started a wild theory that the little man had murdered his son, + and thrown the mangled body down the dry well at the Grange. The story + was, of course, preposterous, and, coming from such a source, might well + have been discarded with the ridicule it deserved. Yet it served to set + the cap on the girl's fears; and she resolved, at whatever cost, to visit + the Grange, beard M'Adam, and discover whether he could not or would not + allay her gnawing apprehension. + </p> + <p> + Her intent she concealed from her father, knowing well that were she to + reveal it to him, he would gently but firmly forbid the attempt; and on an + afternoon some fortnight after David's disappearance, choosing her + opportunity, she picked up a shawl, threw it over her head, and fled with + palpitating heart out of the farm and down the slope to the Wastrel. + </p> + <p> + The little plank-bridge rattled as she tripped across it; and she fled + faster lest any one should have heard and come to look. And, indeed, at + the moment it rattled again behind her, and she started guiltily round. It + proved, however, to be only Owd Bob, sweeping after, and she was glad. + </p> + <p> + “Comin' wi' me, lad?” she asked as the old dog cantered up, thankful to + have that gray protector with her. + </p> + <p> + Round Langholm now fled the two conspirators; over the summer-clad lower + slopes of the Pike, until, at length, they reached the Stony Bottom. Down + the bramble-covered bank of the ravine the girl slid; picked her way from + stone to stone across the streamlet tinkling in that rocky bed; and + scrambled up the opposite bank. + </p> + <p> + At the top she halted and looked back. The smoke from Kenmuir was winding + slowly up against the sky; to her right the low gray cottages of the + village cuddled in the bosom of the Dale; far away over the Marches + towered the gaunt Scaur; before her rolled the swelling slopes of the Muir + Pike; while behind—she glanced timidly over her shoulder—was + the hill, at the top of which squatted the Grange, lifeless, cold, + scowling. + </p> + <p> + Her heart failed her. In her whole life she had never spoken to M'Adam. + Yet she knew him well enough from all David's accounts—ay, and hated + him for David's sake. She hated him and feared him, too; feared him + mortally—this terrible little man. And, with a shudder, she recalled + the dim face at the window, and thought of his notorious hatred of her + father. But even M'Adam could hardly harm a girl coming, broken-hearted, + to seek her lover. Besides, was not Owd Bob with her? + </p> + <p> + And, turning, she saw the old dog standing a little way up the hill, + looking back at her as though he wondered why she waited. “Am I not + enough?” the faithful gray eyes seemed to say. + </p> + <p> + “Lad, I'm fear'd,” was her answer to the unspoken question. + </p> + <p> + Yet that look determined her. She clenched her little teeth, drew the + shawl about her, and set off running up the hill. + </p> + <p> + Soon the run dwindled to a walk, the walk to a crawl, and the crawl to a + halt. Her breath was coming painfully, and her heart pattered against her + side like the beatings of an imprisoned bird. Again her gray guardian + looked up, encouraging her forward. + </p> + <p> + “Keep close, lad,” she whispered, starting forward afresh. And the old dog + ranged up beside her, shoving into her skirt, as though to let her feel + his presence. + </p> + <p> + So they reached the top of the hill; and the house stood before them, + grim, unfriendly. + </p> + <p> + The girl's face was now quite white, yet set; the resemblance to her + father was plain to see. With lips compressed and breath quick-coming, she + crossed the threshold, treading softly as though in a house of the dead. + There she paused and lifted a warning finger at her companion, bidding him + halt without; then she turned to the door on the left of the entrance and + tapped. + </p> + <p> + She listened, her head buried in the shawl, close to the wood panelling. + There was no answer; she could only hear the drumming of her heart. + </p> + <p> + She knocked again. From within came the scraping of a chair cautiously + shoved back, followed by a deep-mouthed cavernous growl. + </p> + <p> + Her heart stood still, but she turned the handle and entered, leaving a + crack open behind. + </p> + <p> + On the far side the room a little man was sitting. His head was swathed in + dirty bandages, and a bottle was on the table beside him. He was leaning + forward; his face was gray, and there was a stare of naked horror in his + eyes. One hand grasped the great dog who stood at his side, with yellow + teeth glinting, and muzzle hideously wrinkled; with the other he pointed a + palsied finger at her. + </p> + <p> + “Ma God! wha are ye?” he cried hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + The girl stood hard against the door, her fingers still on the handle; + trembling like an aspen at the sight of that uncannie pair. + </p> + <p> + That look in the little man's eyes petrified her: the swollen pupils; + lashless lids, yawning wide; the broken range of teeth in that gaping + mouth, froze her very soul. Rumors of the man's insanity tided back on her + memory. + </p> + <p> + “I'm—I—” the words came in trembling gasps. + </p> + <p> + At the first utterance, however, the little man's hand dropped; he leant + back in his chair and gave a soul-bursting sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + No woman had crossed that threshold since his wife died; and, for a + moment, when first the girl had entered silent-footed, aroused from + dreaming of the long ago, he had thought this shawl-clad figure with the + pale face and peeping hair no earthly visitor; the spirit, rather, of one + he had loved long since and lost, come to reproach him with a broken + troth. + </p> + <p> + “Speak up, I canna hear,” he said, in tones mild compared with those last + wild words. + </p> + <p> + “I—I'm Maggie Moore,” the girl quavered. + </p> + <p> + “Moore! Maggie Moore, d'ye say?” he cried, half rising from his chair, a + flush of color sweeping across his face, “the dochter o' James Moore?” He + paused for an answer, glowering at her; and she shrank, trembling, against + the door. + </p> + <p> + The little man leant back in his chair. Gradually a grim smile crept + across his countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, Maggie Moore,” he said, halfamused, “ony gate ye're a good plucked + un.” And his wizened countenance looked at her almost kindly from beneath + its dirty crown of bandages. + </p> + <p> + At that the girl's courage returned with a rush. After all this little man + was not so very terrible. Perhaps he would be kind. And in the relief of + the moment, the blood swept back into her face. + </p> + <p> + There was not to be peace yet, however. The blush was still hot upon her + cheeks, when she caught the patter of soft steps in the passage without. A + dark muzzle flecked with gray pushed in at the crack of the door; two + anxious gray eyes followed. + </p> + <p> + Before she could wave him back, Red Wull had marked the intruder. With a + roar he tore himself from his master's restraining hand, and dashed across + the room. + </p> + <p> + “Back, Bob!” screamed Maggie, and the dark head withdrew. The door slammed + with a crash as the great dog flung himself against it, and Maggie was + hurled, breathless and white-faced, into a corner. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam was on his feet, pointing with a shrivelled finger, his face + diabolical. + </p> + <p> + “Did you bring him? did you bring <i>that</i> to ma door?” + </p> + <p> + Maggie huddled in the corner in a palsy of trepidation. Her eyes gleamed + big and black in the white face peering from the shawl. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull was now beside her snarling horribly. With nose to the bottom of + the door and busy paws he was trying to get out; while, on the other side, + Owd Bob, snuffling also at the crack, scratched and pleaded to get in. + Only two miserable wooden inches separated the pair. + </p> + <p> + “I brought him to protect me. I—I was afraid.” + </p> + <p> + M'Adam sat down and laughed abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Afraid! I wonder ye were na afraid to bring him here. It's the first time + iver he's set foot on ma land, and 't had best be the last” He turned to + the great dog. “Wullie, Wullie, wad ye?” he called. “Come here. Lay ye + doon—so—under ma chair—good lad. Noo's no the time to + settle wi' him”—nodding toward the door. “We can wait for that, + Wullie; we can wait.” Then, turning to Maggie, “Gin ye want him to mak' a + show at the Trials two months hence, he'd best not come here agin. Gin he + does, he'll no leave ma land alive; Wullie'll see to that. Noo, what is 't + ye want o'me?” + </p> + <p> + The girl in the corner, scared almost out of her senses by this last + occurrence, remained dumb. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam marked her hesitation, and grinned sardonically. + </p> + <p> + “I see hoo 'tis,” said he; “yer dad's sent ye. Aince before he wanted + somethin' o' me, and did he come to fetch it himself like a man? Not he. + He sent the son to rob the father.” Then, leaning forward in his chair and + glaring at the girl, “Ay, and mair than that! The night the lad set on me + he cam'”—with hissing emphasis—“straight from Kenmuir!” He + paused and stared at her intently, and she was still dumb before him. “Gin + I'd ben killed, Wullie'd ha' bin disqualified from competin' for the Cup. + With Adam M'Adam's Red Wull oot o' the way—noo d'ye see? Noo d'ye + onderstan'?” + </p> + <p> + She did not, and he saw it and was satisfied. What he had been saying she + neither knew nor cared. She only remembered the object of her mission; she + only saw before her the father of the man she loved; and a wave of emotion + surged up in her breast. + </p> + <p> + She advanced timidly toward him, holding out her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Mr. M'Adam,” she pleaded, “I come to ask ye after David.” The shawl + had slipped from her head, and lay loose upon her shoulders; and she stood + before him with her sad face, her pretty hair all tossed, and her eyes big + with unshed tears—a touching suppliant. + </p> + <p> + “Will ye no tell me wheer he is? I'd not ask it, I'd not trouble yo', but + I've bin waitin' a waefu' while, it seems, and I'm wearyin' for news o' + him.” + </p> + <p> + The little man looked at her curiously. “Ah, noo I mind me,”—this to + himself. “You' the lass as is thinkin' o' marryin' him?” + </p> + <p> + “We're promised,” the girl answered simply. + </p> + <p> + “Weel,” the other remarked, “as I said afore, ye're a good plucked un.” + Then, in a tone in which, despite the cynicism, a certain indefinable + sadness was blended, “Gin he mak's you as good husband as he mad' son to + me, ye'll ha' made a maist remairkable match, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Maggie fired in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “A good feyther makes a good son,” she answered almost pertly; and then, + with infinite tenderness, “and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a good + husband.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled scoffingly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm feared that'll no help ye much,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on her purpose. + She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of this little man with + the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved to attain her end by + appealing to it. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “Hoo would yo' ha' + felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo' would. + And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved.” She was kneeling at his + feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sad face and + quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words. + </p> + <p> + The little man was visibly touched. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay, lass, that's enough,” he said, trying to avoid those big + beseeching eyes which would not be avoided. + </p> + <p> + “Will ye no tell me?” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken,” he answered querulously. In + truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery. + </p> + <p> + The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card and + failed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource, + and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope. In + the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was the man + who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile. + </p> + <p> + She rose to her feet and stood back. + </p> + <p> + “Nor ken, nor care!” she cried bitterly. + </p> + <p> + At the words all the softness fled from the little man's face. + </p> + <p> + “Ye do me a wrang, lass; ye do indeed,” he said, looking up at her with an + assumed ingenuousness which, had she known him better, would have warned + her to beware. “Gin I kent where the lad was I'd be the vairy first to let + you, and the p'lice, ken it too; eh, Wullie! he! he!” He chuckled at his + wit and rubbed his knees, regardless of the contempt blazing in the girl's + face. + </p> + <p> + “I canna tell ye where he is now, but ye'd aiblins care to hear o' when I + saw him last.” He turned his chair the better to address her. + </p> + <p> + “Twas like so: I was sittin' in this vairy chair it was, asleep, when he + crep' up behind an' lep' on ma back. I knew naethin' o't till I found + masel' on the floor an' him kneelin' on me. I saw by the look on him he + was set on finishin' me, so I said—” + </p> + <p> + The girl waved her hand at him, superbly disdainful. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' ken yo're lyin', ivery word o't,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + The little man hitched his trousers, crossed his legs, and yawned. + </p> + <p> + “An honest lee for an honest purpose is a matter ony man may be proud of, + as you'll ken by the time you're my years, ma lass.” + </p> + <p> + The girl slowly crossed the room. At the door she turned. + </p> + <p> + “Then ye'll no tell me wheer he is?” she asked with a heart-breaking trill + in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “On ma word, lass, I dinna ken,” he cried, half passionately. + </p> + <p> + “On your word, Mr. M'Adam” she said with a quiet scorn in her voice that + might have stung Iscariot. + </p> + <p> + The little man spun round in his chair, an angry red dyeing his cheeks. In + another moment he was suave and smiling again. + </p> + <p> + “I canna tell ye where he is noo,” he said, unctuously; “but aiblins, I + could let ye know where he's gaein' to.” + </p> + <p> + “Can yo'? will yo'?” cried the simple girl all unsuspecting. In a moment + she was across the room and at his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Closer, and I'll whisper.” The little ear, peeping from its nest of + brown, was tremblingly approached to his lips. The little man lent forward + and whispered one short, sharp word, then sat back, grinning, to watch the + effect of his disclosure. + </p> + <p> + He had his revenge, an unworthy revenge on such a victim. And, watching + the girl's face, the cruel disappointment merging in the heat of her + indignation, he had yet enough nobility to regret his triumph. + </p> + <p> + She sprang from him as though he were unclean. + </p> + <p> + “An' yo' his father!” she cried, in burning tones. + </p> + <p> + She crossed the room, and at the door paused. Her face was white again and + she was quite composed. + </p> + <p> + “If David did strike you, you drove him to it,” she said, speaking in + calm, gentle accents. “Yo' know, none so well, whether yo've bin a good + feyther to him, and him no mither, poor laddie! Whether yo've bin to him + what she'd ha' had yo' be. Ask yer conscience, Mr. M'Adam. An' if he was a + wee aggravatin' at times, had he no reason? He'd a heavy cross to bear, + had David, and yo' know best if yo' helped to ease it for him.” + </p> + <p> + The little man pointed to the door; but the girl paid no heed. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' think when yo' were cruel to him, jeerin' and fleerin', he never + felt it, because he was too proud to show ye? He'd a big saft heart, had + David, beneath the varnish. Mony's the time when mither was alive, I've + seen him throw himsel' into her arms, sobbin', and cry, 'Eh, if I had but + mither! 'Twas different when mither was alive; he was kinder to me then. + An' noo I've no one; I'm alone.' An' he'd sob and sob in mither's arms, + and she, weepin' hersel', would comfort him, while he, wee laddie, would + no be comforted, cryin' broken-like, 'There's none to care for me noo; I'm + alone. Mither's left me and eh! I'm prayin' to be wi' her!'” + </p> + <p> + The clear, girlish voice shook. M'Adam, sitting with face averted, waved + to her, mutely ordering her to be gone. But she held on, gentle, + sorrowful, relentless. + </p> + <p> + “An' what'll yo' say to his mither when yo meet her, as yo' must soon noo, + and she asks yo', 'An what o' David? What o' th' lad I left wi' yo', Adam, + to guard and keep for me, faithful and true, till this Day?' And then + yo'll ha' to speak the truth, God's truth; and yo'll ha' to answer, 'Sin' + the day yo' left me I niver said a kind word to the lad. I niver bore wi' + him, and niver tried to. And in the end I drove him by persecution to try + and murder me.' Then maybe she'll look at yo'—yo' best ken hoo—and + she'll say, 'Adam, Adam! is this what I deserved fra yo'?'” + </p> + <p> + The gentle, implacable voice ceased. The girl turned and slipped softly + out of the room; and M'Adam was left alone to his thoughts and his dead + wife's memory. + </p> + <p> + “Mither and father, baith! Mither and father, baith!” rang remorselessly + in his ears. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXIII TH' OWD UN + </h2> + <p> + THE Black Killer still cursed the land. Sometimes there would be a + cessation in the crimes; then a shepherd, going his rounds, would notice + his sheep herding together, packing in unaccustomed squares; a raven, + gorged to the crop, would rise before him and flap wearily away, and he + would come upon the murderer's latest victim. + </p> + <p> + The Dalesmen were in despair, so utterly futile had their efforts been. + There was no proof; no hope, no apparent probability that the end was + near. As for the Tailless Tyke, the only piece of evidence against him had + flown with David, who, as it chanced, had divulged what he had seen to no + man. + </p> + <p> + The 100 pound reward offered had brought no issue. The police had done + nothing. The Special Commissioner had been equally successful. After the + affair in the Scoop the Killer never ran a risk, yet never missed a + chance. + </p> + <p> + Then, as a last resource, Jim Mason made his attempt. He took a holiday + from his duties and disappeared into the wilderness. Three days and three + nights no man saw him. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the fourth he reappeared, haggard, unkempt, a furtive + look haunting his eyes, sullen for once, irritable, who had never been + irritable before—to confess his failure. Cross-examined further, he + answered with unaccustomed fierceness: “I seed nowt, I tell ye. Who's the + liar as said I did?” + </p> + <p> + But that night his missus heard him in his sleep conning over something to + himself in slow, fearful whisper, “Two on 'em; one ahint t'other. The + first big—bull-like; t'ither—” At which point Mrs. Mason smote + him a smashing blow in the ribs, and he woke in a sweat, crying terribly, + “Who said I seed—” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The days were slipping away; the summer was hot upon the land, and with it + the Black Killer was forgotten; David was forgotten; everything sank into + oblivion before the all-absorbing interest of the coming Dale trials. + </p> + <p> + The long-anticipated battle for the Shepherds' Trophy was looming close; + soon everything that hung upon the issue of that struggle would be decided + finally. For ever the justice of Th' Owd Un' claim to his proud title + would be settled. If he won, he won outright—a thing unprecedented + in the annals of the Cup; if he won, the place of Owd Bob o' Kenmuir as + first in his profession was assured for all time. Above all, it was the + last event in the six years' struggle 'twixt Red and Gray It was the last + time those two great rivals would meet in battle. The supremacy of one + would be decided once and for all. For win or lose, it was the last public + appearance of the Gray Dog of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + And as every hour brought the great day nearer, nothing else was talked of + in the country-side. The heat of the Dalesmen's enthusiasm was only + intensified by the fever of their apprehension. Many a man would lose more + than he cared to contemplate were Th' Owd Un beat. But he'd not be! Nay; + owd, indeed, he was—two years older than his great rival; there were + a hundred risks, a hundred chances; still: “What's the odds agin Owd Bob + o' Kenmuir? I'm takin' 'em. Who'll lay agin Th' Owd Un?” + </p> + <p> + And with the air saturated with this perpetual talk of the old dog, these + everlasting references to his certain victory; his ears drumming with the + often boast that the gray dog was the best in the North, M'Adam became the + silent, ill-designing man of six months since—morose, brooding, + suspicious, muttering of conspiracy, plotting revenge. + </p> + <p> + The scenes at the Sylvester Arms were replicas of those of previous years. + Usually the little man sat isolated in a far corner, silent and glowering, + with Red Wull at his feet. Now and then he burst into a paroxysm of insane + giggling, slapping his thigh, and muttering, “Ay, it's likely they'll beat + us, Wullie. Yet aiblins there's a wee somethin'—a somethin' we ken + and they dinna, Wullie,—eh! Wullie, he! he!” And sometimes he would + leap to his feet and address his pot-house audience, appealing to them + passionately, satirically, tearfully, as the mood might be on him; and his + theme was always the same: James Moore, Owd Bob, the Cup, and the plots + agin him and his Wullie; and always he concluded with that hint of the + surprise to come. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, there was no news of David; he had gone as utterly as a ship + foundered in mid-Atlantic. Some said he'd 'listed; some, that he'd gone to + sea. And “So he 'as,” corroborated Sam'l, “floatin', 'eels uppards.” + </p> + <p> + With no gleam of consolation, Maggie's misery was such as to rouse + compassion in all hearts. She went no longer blithely singing about her + work; and all the springiness had fled from her gait. The people of + Kenmuir vied with one another in their attempts to console their young + mistress. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Maggie was not the only one in whose life David's absence had created a + void. Last as he would have been to own it, M'Adam felt acutely the boy's + loss. It may have been he missed the ever-present butt; it may have been a + nobler feeling. Alone with Red Wull, too late he felt his loneliness. + Sometimes, sitting in the kitchen by himself, thinking of the past, he + experienced sharp pangs of remorse; and this was all the more the case + after Maggie's visit. Subsequent to that day the little man, to do him + justice, was never known to hint by word or look an ill thing of his + enemy's daughter. Once, indeed, when Melia Ross was drawing on a dirty + imagination with Maggie for subject, M'Adam shut her up with: “Ye're a + maist amazin' big liar, Melia Ross.” + </p> + <p> + Yet, though for the daughter he had now no evil thought, his hatred for + the father had never been so uncompromising. + </p> + <p> + He grew reckless in his assertions. His life was one long threat against + James Moore's. Now he openly stated his conviction that, on the eventful + night of the fight, James Moore, with object easily discernible, had egged + David on to murder him. + </p> + <p> + “Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?” roared Tammas at + last, enraged to madness. + </p> + <p> + “I will!” said M'Adam. And he did. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-town + that he fulfilled his vow. + </p> + <p> + That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion James + Moore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising of + the sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master went with + his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It was already + noon when the flock started from the yard. + </p> + <p> + On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + “I've a word to say to you, James Moore,” he announced, as the Master + approached. + </p> + <p> + “Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo' + have,” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape this + Killer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, there's me,” acquiesced the little man. “But you—hoo d'yo' + 'count for <i>your</i> luck?” + </p> + <p> + James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, now + patrolling round the flock. + </p> + <p> + “There's my luck!” he said. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam laughed unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “So I thought,” he said, “so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that + yer luck,” nodding at the gray dog, “will win you the Cup for certain a + month hence.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so!” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Strange if he should not after all,” mused the little man. + </p> + <p> + James Moore eyed him suspiciously. “What d'yo' mean?” he asked sternly. + M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. “There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip, + that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him.” + </p> + <p> + The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he had + heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year. + </p> + <p> + “I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him,” he said, + drawing himself up. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face + was all a-tremble. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the + father. Yet some one did—set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed + at me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!” There was a flush on the + sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. “One way or t'ither, + fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go afore Cup Day, eh, + James Moore! eh?” + </p> + <p> + The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, “That'll do, M'Adam,” he + said. “I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry wi' yo'. Noo git + off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis.” + </p> + <p> + He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep + clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock, + waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion + everywhere. + </p> + <p> + “Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?” shouted the Master, seeing + the danger. + </p> + <p> + It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, one man + was bound to grant another. But M'Adam rushed on regardless, dancing and + gesticulating. Save for the lightning vigilance of Owd Bob, the flock must + have broken. + </p> + <p> + “I think yo' might ha' waited!” remonstrated the Master, as the little man + burst his way through. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, I've forgot somethin'!” the other cried, and back he started as he + had gone. + </p> + <p> + It was more than human nature could tolerate. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, keep him off!” + </p> + <p> + A flash of teeth; a blaze of gray eyes; and the old dog had leapt forward + to oppose the little man's advance. + </p> + <p> + “Shift oot o' ma light!” cried he, striving to dash past. + </p> + <p> + “Hold him, lad!” + </p> + <p> + And hold him the old dog did, while his master opened the gate and put the + flock through, the opponents dodging in front of one another like opposing + three-quarter-backs at the Rugby game. + </p> + <p> + “Oot o' ma path, or I'll strike!” shouted the little man in a fury, as the + last sheep passed through the gate. + </p> + <p> + “I'd not,” warned the Master. + </p> + <p> + “But I will!” yelled M'Adam; and, darting forward as the gate swung to, + struck furiously at his opponent. + </p> + <p> + He missed, and the gray dog charged at him like a mail-train. + </p> + <p> + “Hi! James Moore—” but over he went like a toppled wheelbarrow, + while the old dog turned again, raced at the gate, took it magnificently + in his stride, and galloped up the lane after his master. + </p> + <p> + At M'Adam's yell, James Moore had turned. + </p> + <p> + “Served yo' properly!” he called back. “He'll larn ye yet it's not wise to + tamper wi' a gray dog or his sheep. Not the first time he's downed ye, I'm + thinkin'!” + </p> + <p> + The little man raised himself painfully to his elbow and crawled toward + the gate. The Master, up the lane, could hear him cursing as he dragged + himself. Another moment, and a head was poked through the bars of the + gate, and a devilish little face looked after him. + </p> + <p> + “Downed me, by—, he did!” the little man cried passionately. “I owed + ye baith somethin' before this, and noo, by ——, I owe ye + somethin' more. An' mind ye, Adam M'Adam pays his debts!” + </p> + <p> + “I've heard the contrary,” the Master replied drily, and turned away up + the lane toward the Marches. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXIV A SHOT IN THE NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + IT was only three short weeks before Cup Day that one afternoon Jim Mason + brought a letter to Kenmuir. James Moore opened it as the postman still + stood in the door. + </p> + <p> + It was from Long Kirby—still in retirement—begging him for + mercy's sake to keep Owd Bob safe within doors at nights; at all events + till after the great event was over. For Kirby knew, as did every + Dalesman, that the old dog slept in the porch, between the two doors of + the house, of which the outer was only loosely closed by a chain, so that + the ever-watchful guardian might slip in and out and go his rounds at any + moment of the night. + </p> + <p> + This was how the smith concluded his ill-spelt note: “Look out for M'Adam + i tell you i <i>know</i> hel tri at thowd un afore cup day—failin im + you if the ole dog's bete i'm a ruined man i say so for the luv o' God + keep yer eyes wide.” + </p> + <p> + The Master read the letter, and handed it to the postman, who perused it + carefully. + </p> + <p> + “I tell yo' what,” said Jim at length, speaking with an earnestness that + made the other stare, “I wish yo'd do what he asks yo': keep Th' Owd Un in + o' nights, I mean, just for the present.” + </p> + <p> + The Master shook his head and laughed, tearing the letter to pieces. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said he; “M'Adam or no M'Adam, Cup or no Cup, Th' Owd Un has the + run o' ma land same as he's had since a puppy. Why, Jim, the first night I + shut him up that night the Killer comes, I'll lay.” + </p> + <p> + The postman turned wearily away, and the Master stood looking after him, + wondering what had come of late to his former cheery friend. + </p> + <p> + Those two were not the only warnings James Moore received. During the + weeks immediately preceding the Trials, the danger signal was perpetually + flaunted beneath his nose. + </p> + <p> + Twice did Watch, the black cross-bred chained in the straw-yard, hurl a + brazen challenge on the night air. Twice did the Master, with lantern, + Sam'l and Owd Bob, sally forth and search every hole and corner on the + premises—to find nothing. One of the dairy-maids gave notice, + avowing that the farm was haunted; that, on several occasions in the early + morning, she had seen a bogie flitting down the slope to the Wastrel—a + sure portent, Sam'l declared, of an approaching death in the house. While + once a shearer, coming up from the village, reported having seen, in the + twilight of dawn, a little ghostly figure, haggard and startled, stealing + silently from tree to tree in the larch-copse by the lane. The Master, + however, irritated by these constant alarms, dismissed the story + summarily. + </p> + <p> + “One thing I'm sartin o',” said he. “There's not a critter moves on + Kenmuir at nights but Th' Owd Un knows it.” + </p> + <p> + Yet, even as he said it, a little man, draggled, weary-eyed, smeared with + dew and dust, was limping in at the door of a house barely a mile away. + “Nae luck, Wullie, curse it!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair, and + addressing some one who was not there—“nae luck. An' yet I'm sure + o't as I am that there's a God in heaven.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + M'Adam had become an old man of late. But little more than fifty, yet he + looked to have reached man's allotted years. His sparse hair was quite + white; his body shrunk and bowed; and his thin hand shook like an aspen as + it groped to the familiar bottle. + </p> + <p> + In another matter, too, he was altogether changed. Formerly, whatever his + faults, there had been no harder-working man in the country-side. At all + hours, in all weathers, you might have seen him with his gigantic + attendant going his rounds. Now all that was different: he never put his + hand to the plough, and with none to help him the land was left wholly + untended; so that men said that, of a surety, there would be a farm to let + on the March Mere Estate come Michaelmas. + </p> + <p> + Instead of working, the little man sat all day in the kitchen at home, + brooding over his wrongs, and brewing vengeance. Even the Sylvester Arms + knew him no more; for he stayed where he was with his dog and his bottle. + Only, when the shroud of night had come down to cover him, he slipped out + and away on some errand on which not even Red Wull accompanied him. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + So the time glided on, till the Sunday before the Trials came round. + </p> + <p> + All that day M'Adam sat in his kitchen, drinking, muttering, hatching + revenge. + </p> + <p> + “Curse it, Wullie! curse it! The time's slippin'—slippin'—slippin'! + Thursday next—but three days mair! and I haena the proof—I + haena the proof!”—and he rocked to and fro, biting his nails in the + agony of his impotence. + </p> + <p> + All day long he never moved. Long after sunset he sat on; long after dark + had eliminated the features of the room. + </p> + <p> + “They're all agin us, Wullie. It's you and I alane, lad. M'Adam's to be + beat somehow, onyhow; and Moore's to win. So they've settled it, and so + 'twill be—onless, Wullie, onless—but curse it! I've no the + proof!”—and he hammered the table before him and stamped on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + At midnight he arose, a mad, desperate plan looming through his fuddled + brain. + </p> + <p> + “I swore I'd pay him, Wullie, and I will. If I hang for it I'll be even + wi' him. I haena the proof, but I <i>know</i>—I <i>know</i>!” He + groped his way to the mantel piece with blind eyes and swirling brain. + Reaching up with fumbling hands, he took down the old blunderbuss from + above the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie,” he whispered, chuckling hideously, “Wullie, come on! You and I—he! + he!” But the Tailless Tyke was not there. At nightfall he had slouched + silently out of the house on business he best wot of. So his master crept + out of the room alone—on tiptoe, still chuckling. + </p> + <p> + The cool night air refreshed him, and he stepped stealthily along, his + quaint weapon over his shoulder: down the hill; across the Bottom; + skirting the Pike; till he reached the plank-bridge over the Wastrel. + </p> + <p> + He crossed it safely, that Providence whose care is drunkards placing his + footsteps. Then he stole up the slope like a hunter stalking his prey. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the gate, he raised himself cautiously, and peered over into + the moonlit yard. There was no sign or sound of living creature. The + little gray house slept peacefully in the shadow of the Pike, all unaware + of the man with murder in his heart laboriously climbing the yard-gate. + </p> + <p> + The door of the porch was wide, the chain hanging limply down, unused; and + the little man could see within, the moon shining on the iron studs of the + inner door, and the blanket of him who should have slept there, and did + not. + </p> + <p> + “He's no there, Wullie! He's no there!” He jumped down from the gate. + Throwing all caution to the winds, he reeled recklessly across the yard. + The drunken delirium of battle was on him. The fever of anticipated + victory flushed his veins. At length he would take toll for the injuries + of years. + </p> + <p> + Another moment, and he was in front of the good oak door, battering at it + madly with clubbed weapon, yelling, dancing, screaming vengeance. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Where is he? What's he at? Come and tell me that, James Moore! Come +doon, I say, ye coward! Come and meet me like a man! + + Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots wham Bruce has aften led— + Welcome to your gory bed + Or to victorie!'” + </pre> + <p> + The soft moonlight streamed down on the white-haired madman thundering at + the door, screaming his war-song. + </p> + <p> + The quiet farmyard, startled from its sleep, awoke in an uproar. Cattle + shifted in their stalls; horses whinnied; fowls chattered, aroused by the + din and dull thudding of the blows: and above the rest, loud and piercing, + the shrill cry of a terrified child. + </p> + <p> + Maggie, wakened from a vivid dream of David chasing the police, hurried a + shawl around her, and in a minute had the baby in her arms and was + comforting her—vaguely fearing the while that the police were after + David. + </p> + <p> + James Moore flung open a window, and, leaning out, looked down on the + dishevelled figure below him. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam heard the noise, glanced up, and saw his enemy. Straightway he + ceased his attack on the door, and, running beneath the window, shook his + weapon up at his foe. + </p> + <p> + “There ye are, are ye? Curse ye for a coward! curse ye for a liar! Come + doon, I say, James Moore! come doon—I daur ye to it! Aince and for + a' let's settle oor account.” + </p> + <p> + The Master, looking down from above, thought that at length the little + man's brain had gone. + </p> + <p> + “What is't yo' want?” he asked, as calmly as he could, hoping to gain + time. + </p> + <p> + “What is't I want?” screamed the madman. “Hark to him! He crosses me in + ilka thing; he plots agin me; he robs me o' ma Cup; he sets ma son agin me + and pits him on to murder me! And in the end he—” + </p> + <p> + “Coom, then, coom! I'll—” + </p> + <p> + “Gie me back the Cup ye stole, James Moore! Gie me back ma son ye've took + from me! And there's anither thing. What's yer gray dog doin'? Where's yer—” + </p> + <p> + The Master interposed again: + </p> + <p> + “I'll coom doon and talk things over wi' yo'.” he said soothingly. But + before he could withdraw, M'Adam had jerked his weapon to his shoulder and + aimed it full at his enemy's head. + </p> + <p> + The threatened man looked down the gun's great quivering mouth, wholly + unmoved. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' mon hold it steadier, little mon, if yo'd hit!” he said grimly. + “There, I'll coom help yo'!” He withdrew slowly; and all the time was + wondering where the gray dog was. + </p> + <p> + In another moment he was downstairs, undoing the bolts and bars of the + door. On the other side stood M'Adam, his blunderbuss at his shoulder, his + finger trembling on the trigger, waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, Master! Stop, or yo're dead!” roared a voice from the loft on the + other side the yard. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther! feyther! git yo' back!” screamed Maggie, who saw it all from the + window above the door. + </p> + <p> + Their cries were too late! The blunderbuss went off with a roar, belching + out a storm of sparks and smoke. The shot peppered the door like hail, and + the whole yard seemed for a moment wrapped in flame. + </p> + <p> + “Aw! oh! ma gummy! A'm waounded A'm a goner! A'm shot! 'Elp! Murder! Eh! + Oh!” bellowed a lusty voice—and it was not James Moore's. + </p> + <p> + The little man, the cause of the uproar, lay quite still upon the ground, + with another figure standing over him. As he had stood, finger on trigger, + waiting for that last bolt to be drawn, a gray form, shooting whence no + one knew, had suddenly and silently attacked him from behind, and jerked + him backward to the ground. With the shock of the fall the blunderbuss had + gone off. + </p> + <p> + The last bolt was thrown back with a clatter, and the Master emerged. In a + glance he took in the whole scene: the fallen man; the gray dog; the + still-smoking weapon. + </p> + <p> + “Yo', was't Bob lad?” he said. “I was wonderin' wheer yo' were. Yo' came + just at the reet moment, as yo' aye do!” Then, in a loud voice, addressing + the darkness: “Yo're not hurt, Sam'l Todd—I can tell that by yer + noise; it was nob'but the shot off the door warmed yo'. Coom away doon and + gie me a hand.” + </p> + <p> + He walked up to M'Adam, who still lay gasping on the ground. The shock of + the fall and recoil of the weapon had knocked the breath out of the little + man's body; beyond that he was barely hurt. + </p> + <p> + The Master stood over his fallen enemy and looked sternly down at him. + </p> + <p> + “I've put up wi' more from you, M'Adam, than I would from ony other man,” + he said. “But this is too much—comin' here at night wi' loaded arms, + scarin' the wimmen and childer oot o' their lives, and I can but think + meanin' worse. If yo' were half a man I'd gie yo' the finest thrashin' + iver yo' had in yer life. But, as yo' know well, I could no more hit yo' + than I could a woman. Why yo've got this down on me yo' ken best. I niver + did yo' or ony ither mon a harm. As to the Cup, I've got it and I'm goin' + to do ma best to keep it—it's for yo' to win it from me if yo' can + o' Thursday. As for what yo' say o' David, yo' know it's a lie. And as for + what yo're drivin' at wi' yer hints and mysteries, I've no more idee than + a babe unborn. Noo I'm goin' to lock yo' up, yo're not safe abroad. I'm + thinkin' I'll ha' to hand ye o'er to the p'lice.” + </p> + <p> + With the help of Sam'l he half dragged, half supported the stunned little + man across the yard; and shoved him into a tiny semi-subterraneous room, + used for the storage of coal, at the end of the farm-buildings. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' think it over that side, ma lad,” called the Master grimly, as he + turned the key, “and I will this.” And with that he retired to bed. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Early in the morning he went to release his prisoner. But he was a minute + too late. For scuttling down the slope and away was a little + black-begrimed, tottering figure with white hair blowing in the wind. The + little man had broken away a wooden hatchment which covered a manhole in + the wall of his prison-house, squeezed his small body through, and so + escaped. + </p> + <p> + “Happen it's as well,” thought the Master, watching the flying figure. + Then, “Hi, Bob, lad!” he called; for the gray dog, ears back, tail + streaming, was hurling down the slope after the fugitive. + </p> + <p> + On the bridge M'Adam turned, and, seeing his pursuer hot upon him, + screamed, missed his footing, and fell with a loud splash into the stream—almost + in that identical spot into which, years before, he had plunged + voluntarily to save Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + On the bridge Owd Bob halted and looked down at the man struggling in the + water below. He made a half move as though to leap in to the rescue of his + enemy; then, seeing it was unnecessary, turned and trotted back to his + master. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' nob'but served him right, I'm thinkin',” said the Master. “Like as + not he came here wi' the intent to mak' an end to yo.' Well, after + Thursday, I pray God we'll ha' peace. It's gettin' above a joke.” The two + turned back into the yard. + </p> + <p> + But down below them, along the edge of the stream, for the second time in + this story, a little dripping figure was tottering homeward. The little + man was crying—the hot tears mingling on his cheeks with the undried + waters of the Wastrel—crying with rage, mortification, weariness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXV THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY + </h2> + <h3> + Cup Day. + </h3> + <p> + It broke calm and beautiful, no cloud on the horizon, no threat of storm + in the air; a fitting day on which the Shepherds' Trophy must be won + outright. + </p> + <p> + And well it was so. For never since the founding of the Dale Trials had + such a concourse been gathered together on the North bank of the Silver + Lea. From the Highlands they came; from the far Campbell country; from the + Peak; from the county of many acres; from all along the silver fringes of + the Solway; assembling in that quiet corner of the earth to see the famous + Gray Dog of Kenmuir fight his last great battle for the Shepherds' Trophy. + </p> + <p> + By noon the gaunt Scaur looked down on such a gathering as it had never + seen. The paddock at the back of the Dalesman's Daughter was packed with a + clammering, chattering multitude: animated groups of farmers; bevies of + solid rustics; sharp-faced townsmen; loud-voiced bookmakers; giggling + girls; amorous boys,—thrown together like toys in a sawdust bath; + whilst here and there, on the outskirts of the crowd, a lonely man and + wise-faced dog, come from afar to wrest his proud title from the best + sheep-dog in the North. + </p> + <p> + At the back of the enclosure was drawn up a formidable array of carts and + carriages, varying as much in quality and character as did their owners. + There was the squire's landau rubbing axle-boxes with Jem Burton's modest + moke-cart; and there Viscount Birdsaye's flaring barouche side by side + with the red-wheeled wagon of Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + In the latter, Maggie, sad and sweet in her simple summer garb, leant over + to talk to Lady Eleanour; while golden-haired wee Anne, delighted with the + surging crowd around, trotted about the wagon, waving to her friends, and + shouting from very joyousness. + </p> + <p> + Thick as flies clustered that motley assembly on the north bank of the + Silver Lea. While on the other side the stream was a little group of + judges, inspecting the course. + </p> + <p> + The line laid out ran thus: the sheep must first be found in the big + enclosure to the right of the starting flag; then up the slope and away + from the spectators; around a flag and obliquely down the hill again; + through a gap in the wall; along the hillside, parrallel to the Silver + Lea; abruptly to the left through a pair of flags—the trickiest turn + of them all; then down the slope to the pen, which was set up close to the + bridge over the stream. + </p> + <p> + The proceedings began with the Local Stakes, won by Rob Saunderson's + veteran, Shep. There followed the Open Juveniles, carried off by Ned + Hoppin's young dog. It was late in the afternoon when, at length, the + great event of the meeting was reached. + </p> + <p> + In the enclosure behind the Dalesman's Daughter the clamor of the crowd + increased tenfold, and the yells of the bookmakers were redoubled. + </p> + <p> + “Walk up, gen'lemen, walk up! the ole firm! Rasper? Yessir—twenty to + one bar two! Twenty to one bar two! Bob? What price, Bob? Even money, sir—no, + not a penny longer, couldn't do it! Red Wull? 'oo says Red Wull?” + </p> + <p> + On the far side the stream is clustered about the starting flag the finest + array of sheep-dogs ever seen together. + </p> + <p> + “I've never seen such a field, and I've seen fifty,” is Parson Leggy's + verdict. + </p> + <p> + There, beside the tall form of his master, stands Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, the + observed of all. His silvery brush fans the air, and he holds his dark + head high as he scans his challengers, proudly conscious that to-day will + make or mar his fame. Below him, the mean-looking, smooth-coated black dog + is the unbeaten Pip, winner of the renowned Cambrian Stakes at Llangollen—as + many think the best of all the good dogs that have come from sheep-dotted + Wales. Beside him that handsome sable collie, with the tremendous coat and + slash of white on throat and face, is the famous MacCallum More, fresh + from his victory at the Highland meeting. The cobby, brown dog, seeming of + many breeds, is from the land o' the Tykes—Merry, on whom the + Yorkshiremen are laying as though they loved him. And Jess, the wiry + black-and-tan, is the favorite of the men of of the Derwent and Dove. + Tupper's big blue Rasper is there; Londesley's Lassie; and many more—too + many to mention: big and small, grand and mean, smooth and rough—and + not a bad dog there. + </p> + <p> + And alone, his back to the others, stands a little bowed, conspicuous + figure—Adam M'Adam; while the great dog beside him, a hideous + incarnation of scowling defiance, is Red Wull, the Terror o' the Border. + </p> + <p> + The Tailless Tyke had already run up his fighting colors. For MacCallum + More, going up to examine this forlorn great adversary, had conceived for + him a violent antipathy, and, straightway, had spun at him with all the + fury of the Highland cateran, who attacks first and explains afterward. + Red Wull, forthwith, had turned on him with savage, silent gluttony; + bob-tailed Rasper was racing up to join in the attack; and in another + second the three would have been locked inseparably—but just in time + M'Adam intervened. One of the judges came hurrying up. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. M'Adam,” he cried angrily, “if that brute of yours gets fighting + again, hang me if I don't disqualify him! Only last year at the Trials he + killed the young Cossack dog.” + </p> + <p> + A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. “Come here, Wullie!” + he called. “Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to be + disqualified.” + </p> + <p> + He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun—little Pip leading + the dance. + </p> + <p> + On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now. Hucksters left their + wares, and bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eye was + intent on the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep over the + stream. + </p> + <p> + One after one the competitors ran their course and penned their sheep—there + was no single failure. And all received their just meed of applause, save + only Adam M'Adam's Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to uphold his title, there went up + such a shout as made Maggie's wan cheeks to blush with pleasure, and wee + Anne to scream right lustily. + </p> + <p> + His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather than + hurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheep-dog has attained the + summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads his sheep in + pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmen swell with + pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well might Tammas pull + out that hackneyed phrase, “The brains of a mon and the way of a woman”; + well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby puff his cheeks + and rattle the money in his trouser pockets. + </p> + <p> + But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull were + selected to fight out the struggle afresh. + </p> + <p> + The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream it + remained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again; + through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the two + flags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from its + former position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and the + hurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators. + </p> + <p> + The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning done + beneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there was one; + and the time allowed, ten short minutes. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors to obtain a good + position. And well they might; for about to begin was the finest + exhibition of sheep-handling any man there was ever to behold. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Evan Jones and Little Pip led off. + </p> + <p> + Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked together as + they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a yacht in + Southampton Water; round the flag, through the gap, they brought their + sheep. Down between the two flags—accomplishing right well that + awkward turn; and back to the bridge. + </p> + <p> + There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow way. Once, twice, + and again, they broke; and each time the gallant little Pip, his tongue + out and tail quivering, brought them back to the bridge-head. + </p> + <p> + At length one faced it; then another, and—it was too late. Time was + up. The judges signalled; and the Welshman called off his dog and + withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Out of sight of mortal eye, in a dip of the ground, Evan Jones sat down + and took the small dark head between his knees—and you may be sure + the dog's heart was heavy as the man's. “We did our pest, Pip,” he cried + brokenly, “but we're peat—the first time ever we've been!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + No time to dally. + </p> + <p> + James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run. + </p> + <p> + No applause this time; not a voice was raised; anxious faces; twitching + fingers; the whole crowd tense as a stretched wire. A false turn, a wilful + sheep, a cantankerous judge, and the gray dog would be beat. And not a man + there but knew it. + </p> + <p> + Yet over the stream master and dog went about their business never so + quiet, never so collected; for all the world as though they were rounding + up a flock on the Muir Pike. + </p> + <p> + The old dog found his sheep in a twinkling and a wild, scared trio they + proved. Rounding the first flag, one bright-eyed wether made a dash for + the open. He was quick; but the gray dog was quicker: a splendid recover, + and a sound like a sob from the watchers on the hill. + </p> + <p> + Down the slope they came for the gap in the wall. A little below the + opening, James Moore took his stand to stop and turn them; while a + distance behind his sheep loitered Owd Bob, seeming to follow rather than + drive, yet watchful of every movement and anticipating it. On he came, one + eye on his master, the other on his sheep; never hurrying them, never + flurrying them, yet bringing them rapidly along. + </p> + <p> + No word was spoken; barely a gesture made; yet they worked, master and + dog, like one divided. + </p> + <p> + Through the gap, along the hill parallel to the spectators, playing into + one another's hands like men at polo. + </p> + <p> + A wide sweep for the turn at the flags, and the sheep wheeled as though at + the word of command, dropped through them, and travelled rapidly for the + bridge. + </p> + <p> + “Steady!” whispered the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Steady, man!” muttered Parson Leggy. + </p> + <p> + “Hold 'em, for God's sake!” croaked Kirby huskily. “D—n! I knew it! + I saw it coming!” + </p> + <p> + The pace down the hill had grown quicker—too quick. Close on the + bridge the three sheep made an effort to break. A dash—and two were + checked; but the third went away like the wind, and after him Owd Bob, a + gray streak against the green. + </p> + <p> + Tammas was cursing silently; Kirby was white to the lips; and in the + stillness you could plainly hear the Dalesmen's sobbing breath, as it + fluttered in their throats. + </p> + <p> + “Gallop! they say he's old and slow!” muttered the Parson. “Dash! Look at + that!” For the gray dog, racing like the Nor'easter over the sea, had + already retrieved the fugitive. + </p> + <p> + Man and dog were coaxing the three a step at a time toward the bridge. + </p> + <p> + One ventured—the others followed. + </p> + <p> + In the middle the leader stopped and tried to turn—and time was + flying, flying, and the penning alone must take minutes. Many a man's hand + was at his watch, but no one could take his eyes off the group below him + to look. + </p> + <p> + “We're beat! I've won bet, Tammas!” groaned Sam'l. (The two had a + long-standing wager on the matter.) “I allus knoo hoo 'twould be. I allus + told yo' th' owd tyke—” + </p> + <p> + Then breaking into a bellow, his honest face crimson with enthusiasm: + “Coom on, Master! Good for yo', Owd Un! Yon's the style!” + </p> + <p> + For the gray dog had leapt on the back of the hindmost sheep; it had + surged forward against the next, and they were over, and making up the + slope amidst a thunder of applause. + </p> + <p> + At the pen it was a sight to see shepherd and dog working together. The + Master, his face stern and a little whiter than its wont, casting forward + with both hands, herding the sheep in; the gray dog, his eyes big and + bright, dropping to hand; crawling and creeping, closer and closer. + </p> + <p> + “They're in!—Nay—Ay—dang me! Stop 'er! Good, Owd Un! + Ah-h-h, they're in!” And the last sheep reluctantly passed through—on + the stroke of time. + </p> + <p> + A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie's white face turned pink; and the + Dalesmen mopped their wet brows. The mob surged forward, but the stewards + held them back. + </p> + <p> + “Back, please! Don't encroach! M'Adam's to come!” + </p> + <p> + From the far bank the little man watched the scene. His coat and cap were + off, and his hair gleamed white in the sun; his sleeves were rolled up; + and his face was twitching but set as he stood—ready. + </p> + <p> + The hubbub over the stream at length subsided. One of the judges nodded to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, Wullie—noo or niver!—'Scots wha hae'! “—and they + were off. + </p> + <p> + “Back, gentlemen! back! He's off—he's coming! M'Adam's coming!” + </p> + <p> + They might well shout and push; for the great dog was on to his sheep + before they knew it; and they went away with a rush, with him right on + their backs. Up the slope they swept and round the first flag, already + galloping. Down the hill for the gap, and M'Adam was flying ahead to turn + them. But they passed him like a hurricane, and Red Wull was in front with + a rush and turned them alone. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out a clear + voice in the silence. + </p> + <p> + Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wings of + driven grouse. + </p> + <p> + “He's lost 'em! They'll break! They're away!” was the cry. + </p> + <p> + Sam'l was half up the wheel of the Kenmuir wagon; every man was on his + toes; ladies were standing in their carriages; even Jim Mason's face + flushed with momentary excitement. + </p> + <p> + The sheep were tearing along the hillside, all together, like a white + scud. After them, galloping like a Waterloo winner, raced Red Wull. And + last of all, leaping over the ground like a demoniac, making not for the + two flags, but the plank-bridge, the white-haired figure of M'Adam. + </p> + <p> + “He's beat! The Killer's beat!” roared a strident voice. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out the clear + reply. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull was now racing parallel to the fugitives and above them. All four + were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely twenty + yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to it. To + effect the turn a change of direction must be made almost through a right + angle. + </p> + <p> + “He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!” was the roar. + </p> + <p> + From over the stream a yell—“Turn 'em, Wullie!” + </p> + <p> + At the word the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned, + still at the gallop, like a troop of cavalry, and dropped, clean and neat, + between the flags; and down to the stream they rattled, passing M'Adam on + the way as though he was standing. + </p> + <p> + “Weel done, Wullie!” came the scream from the far bank; and from the crowd + went up an involuntary burst of applause. + </p> + <p> + “Ma word! + </p> + <p> + “Did yo' see that?” + </p> + <p> + “By gob!” + </p> + <p> + It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the galloping + horse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they must + have overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss. + </p> + <p> + “He's not been two minutes so far. We're beaten—don't you think so, + Uncle Leggy?” asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up piteously into the + parson's face. + </p> + <p> + “It's not what I think, my dear; it's what the judges think,” the parson + replied; and what he thought their verdict would be was plainly writ on + his face for all to read. + </p> + <p> + Right on to the centre of the bridge the leading sheep galloped and—stopped + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Up above in the crowd there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigid + fingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby's face; and, at the back, a + green-coated bookmaker slipped his note-book in his pocket, and glanced + behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was the calmest + there. + </p> + <p> + Red Wull was not to be denied. Like his forerunner he leapt on the back of + the hindmost sheep. But the red dog was heavy where the gray was light. + The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell. + </p> + <p> + Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyes + flaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the struggling + creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half + shoved it on to the bank. + </p> + <p> + Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore. + </p> + <p> + The little man scrambled, panting, on to the bank and raced after sheep + and dog. His face was white beneath the perspiration; his breath came in + quavering gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he was + trembling in every limb, and yet indomitable. + </p> + <p> + They were up to the pen, and the last wrestle began. The crowd, silent and + motionless, craned forward to watch the uncanny, white-haired little man + and the huge dog, working so close below them. M'Adam's face was white; + his eyes staring, unnaturally bright; his bent body projected forward; and + he tapped with his stick on the ground like a blind man, coaxing the sheep + in. And the Tailless Tyke, his tongue out and flanks heaving, crept and + crawled and worked up to the opening, patient as he had never been before. + </p> + <p> + They were in at last. + </p> + <p> + There was a lukewarm, half-hearted cheer; then silence. + </p> + <p> + Exhausted and trembling, the little man leant against the pen, one hand on + it; while Red Wull, his flanks still heaving, gently licked the other. + Quite close stood James Moore and the gray dog; above was the black wall + of people, utterly still; below, the judges comparing notes. In the + silence you could almost hear the panting of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + Then one of the judges went up to James Moore and shook him by the hand. + </p> + <p> + The gray dog had won. Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophy + outright. + </p> + <p> + A second's palpitating silence; a woman's hysterical laugh—and a + deep-mouthed bellow rent the expectant air: shouts, screams, hat-tossings, + back-clappings blending in a din that made the many-winding waters of the + Silver Lea quiver and quiver again. + </p> + <p> + Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophy outright. + </p> + <p> + Maggie's face flushed a scarlet hue. Wee Anne flung fat arms toward her + triumphant Bob, and screamed with the best. Squire and parson, each + red-cheeked, were boisterously shaking hands. Long Kirby, who had not + prayed for thirty years, ejaculated with heartfelt earnestness, “Thank + God!” Sam'l Todd bellowed in Tammas's ear, and almost slew him with his + mighty buffets. Among the Dalesmen some laughed like drunken men; some + cried like children; all joined in that roaring song of victory. + </p> + <p> + To little M 'Adam, standing with his back to the crowd, that storm of + cheering came as the first announcement of defeat. + </p> + <p> + A wintry smile, like the sun over a March sea, crept across his face. + </p> + <p> + “We might a kent it, Wullie,” he muttered, soft and low. The tension + loosed, the battle lost, the little man almost broke down. There were red + dabs of color in his face; his eyes were big; his lips pitifully + quivering; he was near to sobbing. + </p> + <p> + An old man—utterly alone he had staked his all on a throw—and + lost. + </p> + <p> + Lady Eleanour marked the forlorn little figure, standing solitary on the + fringe of the uproarious mob. She noticed the expression on his face; and + her tender heart went out to the lone man in his defeat. + </p> + <p> + She went up to him and laid a hand upon his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. M'Adam,” she said timidly, “won't you come and sit down in the tent? + You look <i>so</i> tired! I can find you a corner where no one shall + disturb you.” + </p> + <p> + The little man wrenched roughly away. The unexpected kindness, coming at + that moment, was almost too much for him. A few paces off he turned again. + </p> + <p> + “It's reel kind o' yer ladyship,” he said huskily; and tottered away to be + alone with Red Wull. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Meanwhile the victors stood like rocks in the tideway. About them surged a + continually changing throng, shaking the man's hand, patting the dog. + </p> + <p> + Maggie had carried wee Anne to tender her congratulations; Long Kirby had + come; Tammas, Saunderson, Hoppin, Tupper, Londesley—all but Jim + Mason; and now, elbowing through the press, came squire and parson. + </p> + <p> + “Well done, James! well done, indeed! Knew you'd win! told you so eh, eh!” + Then facetiously to Owd Bob: “Knew you would, Robert, old man! Ought to + Robert the Dev—musn't be a naughty boy—eh, eh!” + </p> + <p> + “The first time ever the Dale Cup's been won outright!” said the Parson, + “and I daresay it never will again. And I think Kenmuir's the very fittest + place for its final home, and a Gray Dog of Kenmuir for its winner.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the by!” burst in the squire. “I've fixed the Manor dinner for + to-day fortnight, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? Want all + the tenants there.” He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute had + fought his way back. “I'd forgotten something!” he shouted. “Tell your + Maggie perhaps you'll have news for her after it eh! eh!” and he was gone + again. + </p> + <p> + Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face at + his elbow. + </p> + <p> + “I maun congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye've beat us—you and the + gentlemen—judges.” + </p> + <p> + “'Twas a close thing, M'Adam,” the other answered. “An' yo' made a gran' + fight. In ma life I niver saw a finer turn than yours by the two flags + yonder. I hope yo' bear no malice.” + </p> + <p> + “Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. 'Do onto ivery man as he does onto you—and + somethin' over,' that's my motter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which I'll + pay ye yet. Na, na; there's nae good fechtin' agin fate—and the + judges. Weel, I wush you well o' yer victory. Aiblins' twill be oor turn + next.” + </p> + <p> + Then a rush, headed by Sam'l, roughly hustled the one away and bore the + other off on its shoulders in boisterous triumph. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettier speech than ever. + Yet all the while she was haunted by a white, miserable face; and all the + while she was conscious of two black moving dots in the Murk Muir Pass + opposite her—solitary, desolate, a contrast to the huzzaing crowd + around. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds' + Trophy, came to wander no more; won outright by the last of the Gray Dogs + of Kenmuir—Owd Bob. + </p> + <p> + Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART VI THE BLACK KILLER + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXVI RED-HANDED + </h2> + <p> + THE SUN was hiding behind the Pike. Over the lowlands the feathery breath + of night hovered still. And the hillside was shivering in the chillness of + dawn. + </p> + <p> + Down on the silvery sward beside the Stony Bottom there lay the ruffled + body of a dead sheep. All about the victim the dewy ground was dark and + patchy like dishevelled velvet; bracken trampled down; stones displaced as + though by straggling feet; and the whole spotted with the all-pervading + red. + </p> + <p> + A score yards up the hill, in a writhing confusion of red and gray, two + dogs at death-grips. While yet higher, a pack of wild-eyed hill-sheep + watched, fascinated, the bloody drama. + </p> + <p> + The fight raged. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the + crimson froth dripping from their jaws; now rearing high with arching + crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, worrying + disorder—the two fought out their blood-feud. + </p> + <p> + Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, ever edging nearer to + watch the issue. Just so must the women of Rome have craned round the + arenas to see two men striving in death-struggle. + </p> + <p> + The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the + morning peered aghast over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping + dale there arose the yodling of a man driving his cattle home. + </p> + <p> + Day was upon them. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + James Moore was waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window. He + leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for well he knew 'twas not for + nothing that the old dog was calling. + </p> + <p> + “Lord o' mercy! whativer's come to yo', Owd Un?” he cried in anguish. And, + indeed, his favorite, war-daubed almost past recognition, presented a + pitiful spectacle. + </p> + <p> + In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old lad, yo' have caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged + tear on the dog's cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood + still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his chest; while head and + neck were clotted with the red. + </p> + <p> + Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. + And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed figure appeared in the + door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming. + </p> + <p> + They doctored the old warrior on the table in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly + washed his wounds, and dressed them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he + stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master's + face as if imploring to be gone. + </p> + <p> + “He mun a had a rare tussle wi' some one—eh, dad?” said the girl, as + she worked. + </p> + <p> + “Ay; and wi' whom? 'Twasn't for nowt he got fightin', I war'nt. Nay; he's + a tale to tell, has The Owd Un, and—A h-h-h! I thowt as much. Look + 'ee!” For bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster of tawny red + hair, hiding in the corners of the lips. + </p> + <p> + The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. To but + one creature in the Daleland could they belong—“Th' Tailless Tyke.” + </p> + <p> + “He mun a bin trespassin'!” cried Andrew. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, and up to some o' his bloody work, I'll lay my life,” the Master + answered. “But Th' Owd Un shall show us.” + </p> + <p> + The old dog's hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed possible. + His good gray coat, forest-thick about his throat, had never served him in + such good stead. And at length, the wounds washed and sewn up, he jumped + down all in a hurry from the table and made for the door. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, owd lad, yo' may show us,” said the Master, and, with Andrew, + hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and over Langholm How. + And as they neared the Stony Bottom, the sheep, herding in groups, raised + frightened heads to stare. + </p> + <p> + Of a sudden a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, up before them; and + there in a dimple of the ground lay a murdered sheep. Deserted by its + comrades, the glazed eyes staring helplessly upward, the throat horribly + worried, it slept its last sleep. + </p> + <p> + The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + “I guessed as much,” said the Master, standing over the mangled body. + “Well, it's the worst night's work ever the Killer done. I reck'n Th' Owd + Un come on him while he was at it; and then they fought. And, ma word! it + munn ha' bin a fight too.” For all around were traces of that terrible + struggle: the earth torn up and tossed, bracken uprooted, and throughout + little dabs of wool and tufts of tawny hair, mingling with dark-stained + iron-gray wisps. + </p> + <p> + James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as though he + were gleaning. And gleaning he was. + </p> + <p> + A long time he bent so, and at length raised himself. + </p> + <p> + “The Killer has killed his last,” he muttered; “Red Wull has run his + course.” Then, turning to Andrew: “Run yo' home, lad, and fetch the men to + carry yon away,” pointing to the carcass, “And Bob, lad, yo 'ye done your + work for to-day, and right well too; go yo' home wi' him. I'm off to see + to this!” + </p> + <p> + He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a rock. At + length the proof was in his hand. Once and for all the hill-country should + be rid of its scourge. + </p> + <p> + As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two big grey + eyes; half doubting, half penitent, wholly wistful, looked up at him, and + a silvery brush signalled a mute request. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Owd Un, but yo' should ha' gone wi' Andrew,” the Master said. + “Hooiver, as yo' are here, come along.” And he strode away up the hill, + gaunt and menacing, with the gray dog at his heels. + </p> + <p> + As they approached the house, M'Adam was standing in the door, sucking his + eternal twig. James Moore eyed him closely as he came, but the sour face + framed in the door betrayed nothing. Sarcasm, surprise, challenge, were + all writ there, plain to read; but no guilty consciousness of the other's + errand, no storm of passion to hide a failing heart. If it was acting it + was splendidly done. + </p> + <p> + As man and dog passed through the gap in the hedge, the expression on the + little man's face changed again. He started forward. + </p> + <p> + “James Moore, as I live!” he cried, and advanced with both hands extended, + as though welcoming a long-lost brother. “'Deed and it's a weary while + sin' ye've honored ma puir hoose.” And, in fact, it was nigh twenty years. + “I tak' it gey kind in ye to look in on a lonely auld man. Come ben and + let's ha' a crack. James Moore kens weel hoo welcome he aye is in ma bit + biggin'.” + </p> + <p> + The Master ignored the greeting. + </p> + <p> + “One o' ma sheep been killed back o' t' Dyke,” he announced shortly, + jerking his thumb over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “The Killer?” + </p> + <p> + “The Killer.” + </p> + <p> + The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man's face was + absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to sorrowful + sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear! it's come to that, has it—at last?” he said gently, and + his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. “Man, I'm + sorry—I canna tell ye I'm surprised. Masel', I kent it all alang. + But gin Adam M'Adam had tell't ye, no ha' believed him. Weel, weel, he's + lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where he's sent + a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!” He heaved a sigh, profoundly + melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: “Ye'll + ha' come for the gun?” + </p> + <p> + James Moore listened to this harangue at first puzzled. Then he caught the + other's meaning, and his eyes flashed. + </p> + <p> + “Ye fool, M'Adam! did ye hear iver tell o' a sheep-dog worryin' his + master's sheep?” + </p> + <p> + The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands softly + together. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're right, I never did. But your dog is not as ither dogs—'There's + none like him—none,' I've heard ye say so yersel, mony a time. An' + I'm wi' ye. There's none like him—for devilment.” His voice began to + quiver and his face to blaze. “It's his cursed cunning that's deceived + ivery one but me—whelp o' Satan that he is!” He shouldered up to his + tall adversary. “If not him, wha else had done it?” he asked, looking, up + into the other's face as if daring him to speak. + </p> + <p> + The Master's shaggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the other like the + Muir Pike above its surrounding hills. + </p> + <p> + “Wha, ye ask?” he replied coldly, “and I answer you. Your Red Wull, + M'Adam, your Red Wull. It's your Wull's the Black Killer! It's your Wull's + bin the plague o' the land these months past! It's your Wull's killed ma + sheep back o'yon!” + </p> + <p> + At that all the little man's affected good-humor fled. + </p> + <p> + “Ye lee, mon! ye lee!” he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to his + antagonist. “I knoo hoo 'twad be. I said so. I see what ye're at. Ye've + found at last—blind that ye've been!—that it's yer ain hell's + tyke that's the Killer; and noo ye think by yer leein' impitations to + throw the blame on ma Wullie. Ye rob me o' ma Cup, ye rob me o' ma son, ye + wrang me in ilka thing; there's but ae thing left me—Wullie. And noo + ye're set on takin' him awa'. But ye shall not—I'll kill ye first!” + </p> + <p> + He was all a-shake, bobbing up and down like a stopper in a soda-water + bottle, and almost sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Ha' ye no wranged me enough wi' oo that? Ye lang-leggit liar, wi' yer + skulkin murderin' tyke!” he cried. “Ye say it's Wullie. Where's yer + proof?”—and he snapped his fingers in the other's face. + </p> + <p> + The Master was now as calm as his foe was passionate. “Where?” he replied + sternly; “why, there!” holding out his right hand. “Yon's proof enough to + hang a hunner'd.” For lying in his broad palm was a little bundle of that + damning red hair. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “There!” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see it!” The little man bent to look closer. + </p> + <p> + “There's for yer proof!” he cried, and spat deliberately down into the + other's naked palm. Then he stood back, facing his enemy in a manner to + have done credit to a nobler deed. + </p> + <p> + James Moore strode forward. It looked as if he was about to make an end of + his miserable adversary, so strongly was he moved. His chest heaved, and + the blue eyes blazed. But just as one had thought to see him take his foe + in the hollow of his hand and crush him, who should come stalking round + the corner of the house but the Tailless Tyke? + </p> + <p> + A droll spectacle he made, laughable even at that moment. He limped + sorely, his head and neck were swathed in bandages, and beneath their + ragged fringe the little eyes gleamed out fiery and bloodshot. + </p> + <p> + Round the corner he came, unaware of strangers; then straightway + recognizing his visitors, halted abruptly. His hackles ran up, each + individual hair stood on end till his whole body resembled a new-shorn + wheat-field; and a snarl, like a rusty brake shoved hard down escaped from + between his teeth. Then he trotted heavily forward, his head sinking low + and lower as he came. + </p> + <p> + And Owd Bob, eager to take up the gage of battle, advanced, glad and + gallant, to meet him. Daintily he picked his way across the yard, head and + tail erect, perfectly self-contained. Only the long gray hair about his + neck stood up like the ruff of a lady of the court of Queen Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + But the war-worn warriors were not to be allowed their will. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, wad ye!” cried the little man. + </p> + <p> + “Bob, lad, coom in!” called the other. Then he turned and looked down at + the man beside him, contempt flaunting in every feature. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + M'Adam's hands were opening and shutting; his face was quite white beneath + the tan; but he spoke calmly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell ye the whole story, and it's the truth,” he said slowly. “I was + up there the morn”—pointing to the window above—“and I see + Wullie crouchin' down alangside the Stony Bottom. (Ye ken he has the run + o' ma land o' neets, the same as your dog.) In a minnit I see anither dog + squatterin' alang on your side the Bottom. He creeps up to the sheep on + th' hillside, chases 'em, and doons one. The sun was risen by then, and I + see the dog clear as I see you noo. It was that dog there—I swear + it!” His voice rose as he spoke, and he pointed an accusing finger at Owd + Bob. + </p> + <p> + “Noo, Wullie! thinks I. And afore ye could clap yer hands, Wullie was over + the Bottom and on to him as he gorged—the bloody-minded murderer! + They fought and fought—I could hear the roarin' a't where I stood. I + watched till I could watch nae langer, and, all in a sweat, I rin doon the + stairs and oot. When I got there, there was yer tyke makin' fu' split for + Kenmuir, and Wullie comin' up the hill to me. It's God's truth, I'm + tellin' ye. Tak' him hame, James Moore, and let his dinner be an ounce o' + lead. 'Twill be the best day's work iver ye done.” + </p> + <p> + The little man must be lying—lying palpably. Yet he spoke with an + earnestness, a seeming belief in his own story, that might have convinced + one who knew him less well. But the Master only looked down on him with a + great scorn. + </p> + <p> + “It's Monday to-day,” he said coldly. “I gie yo' till Saturday. If yo've + not done your duty by then—and well you know what 'tis—I shall + come do it for ye. Ony gate, I shall come and see. I'll remind ye agin o' + Thursday—yo'll be at the Manor dinner, I suppose. Noo I've warned + yo', and you know best whether I'm in earnest or no. Bob, lad!” + </p> + <p> + He turned away, but turned again. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry for ye, but I've ma duty to do—so've you. Till Saturday I + shall breathe no word to ony soul o' this business, so that if you see + good to put him oot o' the way wi'oot bother, no one need iver know as hoo + Adam M'Adam's Red Wull was the Black Killer.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away for the second time. But the little man sprang after him, + and clutched him by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Look ye here, James Moore!” he cried in thick, shaky, horrible voice. + “Ye're big, I'm sma'; ye're strang, I'm weak; ye've ivery one to your + back, I've niver a one; you tell your story, and they'll believe ye—for + you gae to church; I'll tell mine, and they'll think I lie—for I + dinna. But a word in your ear! If iver agin I catch ye on ma land, by—!”—he + swore a great oath—“I'll no spare ye. You ken best if I'm in earnest + or no.” And his face was dreadful to see in its hideous determinedness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXVII FOR THE DEFENCE + </h2> + <p> + THAT night a vague story was whispered In the Sylvester Arms. But Tammas, + on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: “Nay, I'm sworn to say + nowt.” Which was the old man's way of putting that he knew nowt. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down arrayed in all their + best. It was the day of the squire's annual dinner to his tenants. + </p> + <p> + The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until they had + undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl liked her mankind + to do honor to Kenmuir on these occasions. So she brushed up Andrew, tied + his scarf, saw his boots and hands were clean, and titivated him generally + till she had converted the ungainly hobbledehoy into a thoroughly “likely + young mon.” + </p> + <p> + And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on such gala + days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her father, marking + the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire's mysterious hint, said + gently: + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, lass. Happen I'll ha' news for you the night!” + </p> + <p> + The girl nodded, and smiled wanly. + </p> + <p> + “Happen so, dad,” she said. But in her heart she doubted. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless it was with a cheerful countenance that, a little later, she + stood in the door with wee Anne and Owd Bob and waved the travellers + Godspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely gripping the old dog's + tail with one hand and her sister with the other, screamed them a wordless + farewell. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The sun had reached its highest when the two wayfarers passed through the + gray portals of the Manor. + </p> + <p> + In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a long + and honorable line, were gathered now the many tenants throughout the wide + March Mere Estate. Weather-beaten, rent-paying sons of the soil; most of + them native-born, many of them like James Moore, whose fathers had for + generations owned and farmed the land they now leased at the hands of the + Sylvesters—there in the old hall they were assembled, a mighty host. + And apart from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown + of one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little M'Adam, + puny always, paltry now, mocking his manhood. + </p> + <p> + The door at the far end of the hall opened, and the squire entered, + beaming on every one. + </p> + <p> + “Here you are—eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day, + James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all! Bringin' a friend with + me eh, eh!” and he stood aside to let by his agent, Parson Leggy, and last + of all, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young giant. + </p> + <p> + “If it bain't David!” was the cry. “Eh, lad, we's fain to see yo'! And + yo'm lookin' stout, surely!” And they thronged about the boy, shaking him + by the hand, and asking him his story. + </p> + <p> + 'Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he had + gone south, drovering. He had written to Maggie, and been surprised and + hurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and too proud to write + again, had remained ignorant of his father's recovery, neither caring nor + daring to return. Then by mere chance, he had met the squire at the York + cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had eased his fears + and obtained from him a promise to return as soon as the term of his + engagement had expired. And there he was. + </p> + <p> + The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and in return + telling him the home news, and chaffing him about Maggie. + </p> + <p> + Of all the people present, only one seemed unmoved, and that was M'Adam. + When first David had entered he had started forward, a flush of color + warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now, back + again beneath his armor, he watched the scene, a sour smile playing about + his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I think the lad might ha' the grace to come and say he's sorry for + 'temptin' to murder me. Hooiver”—with a characteristic shrug—“I + suppose I'm onraisonable.” + </p> + <p> + Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way into the + great dining-hall. At the one end of the long table, heavy with all the + solid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with the Master of + Kenmuir upon his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While down the + sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed, with M'Adam a little lost figure + in the centre. + </p> + <p> + At first they talked but little, awed like children: knives plied, glasses + tinkled, the carvers had all their work, only the tongues were at rest. + But the squire's ringing laugh and the parson's cheery tones soon put them + at their ease; and a babel of voices rose and waxed. + </p> + <p> + Of them all, only M'Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you may be + sure no one talked to him. His hand crept oftener to his glass than plate, + till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to grow unnaturally + bright. + </p> + <p> + Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table, calls for + silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was on his feet to + make his annual speech. + </p> + <p> + He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He made an + allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds' Trophy which was heartily + applauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said he had a remedy to + propose: that Th' Owd Un should be set upon the criminal's track—a + suggestion which was received with enthusiasm, while M'Adam's cackling + laugh could be heard high above the rest. + </p> + <p> + From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, the + depression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government. He said + that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry composed of + “honorable men and gentlemen,” he felt convinced that things would + brighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set class against class, + landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, the + Sylvesters had rarely been—he was sorry to have to confess it—good + men (laughter and dissent); but he never yet heard of the Sylvester—though + he shouldn't say it—who was a bad landlord (loud applause). + </p> + <p> + This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content (a + voice, “'Oo says we bain't?”)—“thank you, thank you!”—well, + there was room for him outside. (Cheers.) He thanked God from the bottom + of his heart that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the + March Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and his + people (cheers), and he didn't think there ever would be. (Loud cheers.) + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you!” And his motto was, “Shun a Radical as you do the + devil!”—and he was very glad to see them all there—very glad; + and he wished to give them a toast, “The Queen! God bless her!” and—wait + a minute!—with her Majesty's name to couple—he was sure that + gracious lady would wish it—that of “Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” Then he + sat down abruptly amid thundering applause. + </p> + <p> + The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as Master of + Kenmuir, rose to answer. + </p> + <p> + He began by saying that he spoke “as representing all the tenants,”—but + he was interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Na,” came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. “Yell except me, + James Moore. I'd as lief be represented by Judas!” + </p> + <p> + There were cries of “Hold ye gab, little mon!” and the squire's voice, + “That'll do, Mr. M'Adam!” + </p> + <p> + The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a + ferret's; and the Master continued his speech. + </p> + <p> + He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the while + M'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he could + control himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forward + with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: “Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo + daur ye stan' there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit + doon, I say, or”—threateningly—“wad ye hae me come to ye?” + </p> + <p> + At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's grim face + relaxed. But the squire's voice rang out sharp and stern. + </p> + <p> + “Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M'Adam! D'you hear me, sir? If I have to + speak to you again it will be to order you to leave the room.” + </p> + <p> + The little man obeyed, sullen and vengeful, like a beaten cat. + </p> + <p> + The Master concluded his speech by calling on all present to give three + cheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies. + </p> + <p> + The call was responded to enthusiastically, every man standing. Just as + the noise was at its zenith, Lady Eleanour herself, with her two fair + daughters, glided into the gallery at the end of the hall; whereat the + cheering became deafening. + </p> + <p> + Slowly the clamor subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At length + there was left standing only one solitary figure—M 'Adam. + </p> + <p> + His face was set, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin, + nervous hands. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Sylvester,” he began in low yet clear voice, “ye said this is a free + country and we're a' free men. And that bein' so, I'll tak' the liberty, + wi' yer permission, to say a word. It's maybe the last time I'll be wi' + ye, so I hope ye'll listen to me.” + </p> + <p> + The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the squire uneasy. Nevertheless he + nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though strung + up to a high resolve. All the passion had fled from it, all the bitterness + was gone; and left behind was a strange, enobling earnestness. Standing + there in the silence of that great hall, with every eye upon him, he + looked like some prisoner at the bar about to plead for his life. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he began, “I've bin amang ye noo a score years, and I can + truly say there's not a man in this room I can ca' 'Friend.'” He looked + along the ranks of upturned faces. “Ay, David, I see ye, and you, Mr. + Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester—ilka one o' you, and not one as'd + back me like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me.” There was no rebuke in + the grave little voice—it merely stated a hard fact. + </p> + <p> + “There's I doot no one amang ye but has some one—friend or blood—wham + he can turn to when things are sair wi' him. I've no one. + </p> + <p> + “'I bear alane my lade o' care'—alane wi' Wullie, who stands to me, + blaw or snaw, rain or shine. And whiles I'm feared he'll be took from me.” + He spoke this last half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expression on his + face, as though lately he had dreamed some ill dream. + </p> + <p> + “Forbye Wuilie, I've no friend on God's earth. And, mind ye, a bad man + aften mak's a good friend—but ye've never given me the chance. It's + a sair thing that, gentlemen, to ha' to fight the battle o' life alane: no + one to pat ye on th' back, no one to say 'Weel done.' It hardly gies a man + a chance. For gin he does try and yet fails, men never mind the tryin', + they only mark the failin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I dinna blame ye. There's somethin' bred in me, it seems, as sets ivery + one agin me. It's the same wi' Wullie and the tykes—they're doon on + him same as men are on me. I suppose we was made so. Sin' I was a lad it's + aye bin the same. From school days I've had ivery one agin me.” + </p> + <p> + “In ma life I've had three fiends. Ma mither—and she went; then ma + wife”—he gave a great swallow—“and she's awa'; and I may say + they're the only two human bein's as ha' lived on God's earth in ma time + that iver tried to bear wi' me;—and Wullie. A man's mither—a + man's wife—a man's dog! it's aften a' he has in this warld; and the + more he prizes them the more like they are to be took from him.” The + little earnest voice shook, and the dim eyes puckered and filled. + </p> + <p> + “Sin' I've bin amang ye—twenty-odd years—can any man here mind + speakin' any word that wasna ill to me?” He paused; there was no reply. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell ye. All the time I've lived here I've had one kindly word spoke + to me, and that a fortnight gone, and not by a man then—by her + ladyship, God bless her!” He glanced up into the gallery. There was no one + visible there; but a curtain at one end shook as though it were sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Weel, I'm thinkin' we'll be gaein' in a wee while noo, Wullie and me, + alane and thegither, as we've aye done. And it's time we went. Ye've had + enough o' us, and it's no for me to blame ye. And when I'm gone what'll ye + say o' me? 'He was a drunkard.' I am. 'He was a sinner.' I am. 'He was + ilka thing he shouldna be.' I am. 'We're glad he's gone.' That's what + ye'll say o' me. And it's but ma deserts.” + </p> + <p> + The gentle, condemning voice ceased, and began again. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I am. Gin things had been differ', aiblins I'd ha' bin + differ'. D'ye ken Robbie Burns? That's a man I've read, and read, and + read. D'ye ken why I love him as some o' you do yer Bibles? Because + there's a humanity about him. A weak man hissel', aye slippin', slippin', + slippin', and tryin' to haud up; sorrowin' ae minute, sinnin' the next; + doin' ill deeds and wishin' 'em undone—just a plain human man, a + sinner. And that's why I'm thinkin he's tender for us as is like him. <i>He + understood.</i> It's what he wrote—after ain o' his tumbles, I'm + thinkin'—that I was goin' to tell ye: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Then gently scan yer brother man, + Still gentler sister woman, + Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, + To step aside is human'— +</pre> + <p> + the doctrine o' Charity. Gie him his chance, says Robbie, though he be a + sinner. Mony a mon'd be differ', mony bad'd be gude, gin they had but + their chance. Gie 'em their chance, says he; and I'm wi' him. As 'tis, ye + see me here—a bad man wi' still a streak o' good in him. Gin I'd had + ma chance, aiblins 'twad be—a good man wi' just a spice o' the devil + in him. A' the differ' betune what is and what might ha' bin.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXVIII THE DEVIL'S BOWL + </h2> + <p> + HE sat down. In the great hall there was silence, save for a tiny sound + from the gallery like a sob suppressed. + </p> + <p> + The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one, + trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained—M'Adam, sitting + solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at the far + end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless. + </p> + <p> + When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lips + tight-set strode across the silent hall. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam,” he said rapidly and almost roughly, “I've listened to what + you've said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hit hard—but + I think you were right. And if I've not done my duty by you as I ought—and + I fear I've not—it's now my duty as God's minister to be the first + to say I'm sorry.” And it was evident from his face what an effort the + words cost him. + </p> + <p> + The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head. + </p> + <p> + It was the old M'Adam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grin was + crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, as he + looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hornbut, I believe ye thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!” He + leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. “Ye swallered it all down + like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!” Then, stretching forward: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye.” + </p> + <p> + The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand + and grabbed the scoffer by his coat; then dropped it again and turned + abruptly away. + </p> + <p> + As he passed through the door a little sneering voice called after him: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England, can + reconcile it to yer conscience to think—though it be but for a + minute—that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? + Sir, ye're a heretic—not to say a heathen!” He sniggered to himself, + and his hand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + An hour later, James Moore, his business with the squire completed, passed + through the hall on his way out. Its only occupant was now M'Adam, and the + Master walked straight up to his enemy. + </p> + <p> + “M'Adam,” he said gruffly, holding out a sinewy hand, “I'd like to say—” + </p> + <p> + The little man knocked aside the token of friendship. + </p> + <p> + “Na, na. No cant, if ye please, James Moore. That'll aiblins go doon wi' + the parsons, but not wi' me. I ken you and you ken me, and all the + whitewash i' th' warld'll no deceive us.” + </p> + <p> + The Master turned away, and his face was hard as the nether millstone. But + the little man pursued him. + </p> + <p> + “I was nigh forgettin',” he said. “I've a surprise for ye, James Moore. + But I hear it's yer birthday on Sunday, and I'll keep it till then—he! + he!” + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll see me before Sunday, M'Adam,” the other answered. “On Saturday, as + I told yo', I'm comin' to see if yo've done yer duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye'll iver go, + once there, I'll mak' mine. I've warned ye twice noo—” and the + little man laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his. + </p> + <p> + At the door of the hall the Master met David. “Noo, lad, yo're comin' + along wi' Andrew and me,” he said; “Maggie'll niver forgie us if we dinna + bring yo' home wi' us.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore,” the boy replied. “I've to see squire first; + and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you.” + </p> + <p> + The Master faltered a moment. + </p> + <p> + “David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in low voice. “Yo' + should, lad.” + </p> + <p> + The boy made a gesture of dissent. + </p> + <p> + “I canna,” he said petulantly. + </p> + <p> + “I would, lad,” the other advised. “An' yo' don't yo' may be sorry after.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed + the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness: + </p> + <p> + “I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal—he! he! So + ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, + for yen father—he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind + when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: 'Your time's + come, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face—he! he! I mind it + as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys will + be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye + don't succeed, why, try, try again—he! he!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the + Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy + parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night. + </p> + <p> + As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, + where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, the + wind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps. + </p> + <p> + “There 's trouble in the wind,” said the Master. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” answered his laconic son. + </p> + <p> + All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue. But + now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the + star-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detaching + themselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward—the + vanguard of the storm. + </p> + <p> + In the distance was a low rumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor of + heaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn. + The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness—no glimmer of light on + any hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pass they reached out blind + hands to feel along the rock-face. + </p> + <p> + A sea-fret, cool and wetting, fell. A few big rain-drops splashed heavily + down. The wind rose with a leap and roared past them up the rocky track. + And the water-gates of heaven were flung wide. + </p> + <p> + Wet and weary, they battled on; thinking sometimes of the cosy parlor + behind; sometimes of the home in front; wondering whether Maggie, in flat + contradiction of her father's orders, would be up to welcome them; or + whether only Owd Bob would come out to meet them. + </p> + <p> + The wind volleyed past them like salvoes of artillery. The rain stormed at + them from above; spat at them from the rock-face; and leapt up at them + from their feet. + </p> + <p> + Once they halted for a moment, finding a miserable shelter in a crevice of + the rock. + </p> + <p> + “It's a Black Killer's night,” panted the Master. “I reck'n he's oot.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” the boy gasped, “reck'n he is.” Up and up they climbed through the + blackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was all + about them; the clamor of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar of + angry waters. + </p> + <p> + Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into the + blackness along the path they had come. + </p> + <p> + “Did ye hear onythin'?” he roared above the muffled soughing of the wind. + </p> + <p> + “Nay!” Andrew shouted back. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt I heard a step!” the Master cried, peering down. But nothing + could he see. + </p> + <p> + Then the wind leaped to life again like a giant from his sleep, drowning + all sound with its hurricane voice; and they turned and bent to their task + again. + </p> + <p> + Nearing the summit, the Master turned once more. + </p> + <p> + “There it was again!” he called; but his words were swept away on the + storm; and they buckled to the struggle afresh. + </p> + <p> + Ever and anon the moon gleamed down through the riot of tossing sky. Then + they could see the wet wall above them, with the water tumbling down its + sheer face; and far below, in the roaring gutter of the Pass a + brown-stained torrent. Hardly, however, had they time to glance around + when a mass of cloud would hurry jealously up, and all again was blackness + and noise. + </p> + <p> + At length, nigh spent, they topped the last and steepest pitch of the + Pass, and emerged into the Devil's Bowl. There, overcome with their + exertions, they flung themselves on to the soaking ground to draw breath. + </p> + <p> + Behind them, the wind rushed with a sullen roar up the funnel of the Pass. + It screamed above them as though ten million devils were a-horse; and + blurted out on to the wild Marches beyond. + </p> + <p> + As they lay there, still panting, the moon gleamed down in momentary + graciousness. In front, through the lashing rain, they could discern the + hillocks that squat, hag-like, round the Devil's Bowl; and lying in its + bosom, its white waters, usually so still, ploughed now into a thousand + furrows, the Lone Tarn. + </p> + <p> + The Master raised his head and craned forward at the ghostly scene. Of a + sudden he reared himself on to his arms, and stayed motionless awhile. + Then he dropped as though dead, forcing down Andrew with an iron hand. + </p> + <p> + “Lad, did'st see?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Nay; what was't?” the boy replied, roused by his father's tone. + </p> + <p> + “There!” + </p> + <p> + But as the Master pointed forward, a blur of cloud intervened and all was + dark. Quickly it passed; and again the lantern of the night shone down. + And Andrew, looking with all his eyes, saw indeed. + </p> + <p> + There, in front, by the fretting waters of the Tarn, packed in a solid + phalanx, with every head turned in the same direction, was a flock of + sheep. They were motionless, all-intent, staring with horror-bulging eyes. + A column of steam rose from their bodies into the rain-pierced air. + Panting and palpitating, yet they stood with their backs to the water, as + though determined to sell their lives dearly. Beyond them, not fifty yards + away, crouched a humpbacked boulder, casting a long, misshapen shadow in + the moonlight. And beneath it were two black objects, one still struggling + feebly. + </p> + <p> + “The Killer!” gasped the boy, and, all ablaze with excitement, began + forging forward. + </p> + <p> + “Steady, lad, steady!” urged his father, dropping a restraining hand on + the boy's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Above them a huddle of clouds flung in furious rout across the night, and + the moon was veiled. + </p> + <p> + “Follow, lad!” ordered the Master, and began to crawl silently forward. As + stealthily Andrew pursued. And over the sodden ground they crept, one + behind the other, like two' night-hawks on some foul errand. + </p> + <p> + On they crawled, lying prone during the blinks of moon, stealing forward + in the dark; till, at length, the swish of the rain on the waters of the + Tarn, and the sobbing of the flock in front, warned them they were near. + </p> + <p> + They skirted the trembling pack, passing so close as to brush against the + flanking sheep; and yet unnoticed, for the sheep were soul-absorbed in the + tragedy in front. Only, when the moon was in, Andrew could hear them + huddling and stamping in the darkness. And again, as it shone out, + fearfully they edged closer to watch the bloody play. + </p> + <p> + Along the Tarn edge the two crept. And still the gracious moon hid their + approach, and the drunken wind drowned with its revelry the sound of their + coming. + </p> + <p> + So they stole on, on hands and knees, with hearts aghast and fluttering + breath; until, of a sudden, in a lull of wind, they could hear, right + before them, the smack and slobber of bloody lips, chewing their bloody + meal. + </p> + <p> + “Say thy prayers, Red Wull. Thy last minute's come!” muttered the Master, + rising to his knees. Then, in Andrew's ear: “When I rush, lad, follow!” + For he thought, when the moon rose, to jump in on the great dog, and, + surprising him as he lay gorged and unsuspicious, to deal him one terrible + swashing blow, and end forever the lawless doings of the Tailless Tyke. + </p> + <p> + The moon flung off its veil of cloud. White and cold, it stared down into + the Devil's Bowl; on murderer and murdered. + </p> + <p> + Within a hand's cast of the avengers of blood humped the black boulder. On + the border of its shadow lay a dead sheep; and standing beside the body, + his coat all ruffled by the hand of the storm—Owd Bob—Owd Bob + o' Kenmuir. + </p> + <p> + Then the light went in, and darkness covered the land. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXIX THE DEVIL'S BOWL + </h2> + <p> + IT was Owd Bob. There could be no mistaking. In the wide world there was + but one Owd Bob o' Kenmuir. The silver moon gleamed down on the dark head + and rough gray coat, and lit the white escutcheon on his chest. + </p> + <p> + And in the darkness James Moore was lying with his face pressed downward + that he might not see. + </p> + <p> + Once he raised himself on his arms; his eyes were shut and face uplifted, + like a blind man praying. He passed a weary hand across his brow; his head + dropped again; and he moaned and moaned like a man in everlasting pain. + </p> + <p> + Then the darkness lifted a moment, and he stole a furtive glance, like a + murderer's at the gallows-tree, at the scene in front. + </p> + <p> + It was no dream; clear and cruel in the moonlight the humpbacked boulder; + the dead sheep; and that gray figure, beautiful, motionless, damned for + all eternity. + </p> + <p> + The Master turned his face and looked at Andrew, a dumb, pitiful entreaty + in his eyes; but in the boy's white, horror-stricken countenance was no + comfort. Then his head lolled down again, and the strong man was + whimpering. + </p> + <p> + “He! he! he! 'Scuse ma laffin', Mr. Moore—he! he! he!” + </p> + <p> + A little man, all wet and shrunk, sat hunching on a mound above them, + rocking his shrivelled form to and fro in the agony of his merriment. + </p> + <p> + “Ye raskil—he! he! Ye rogue—he! he!” and he shook his fist + waggishly at the unconscious gray dog. “I owe ye anither grudge for this—ye've + anteecipated me”—and he leant back and shook this way and that in + convulsive mirth. + </p> + <p> + The man below him rose heavily to his feet, and tumbled toward the mocker, + his great figure swaying from side to side as though in blind delirium, + moaning still as he went. And there was that on his face which no man can + mistake. Boy that he was, Andrew knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther! feyther! do'ee not!” he pleaded, running after his father and + laying impotent hands on him. + </p> + <p> + But the strong man shook him off like a fly, and rolled on, swaying and + groaning, with that awful expression plain to see in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + In front the little man squatted in the rain, bowed double still; and took + no thought to flee. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, James Moore! Come on!” he laughed, malignant joy in his voice; + and something gleamed bright in his right hand, and was hid again. “I've + bin waitin' this a weary while noo. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + Then had there been done something worse than sheep-murder in the dreadful + lonesomeness of the Devil's Bowl upon that night; but of a sudden, there + sounded the splash of a man's foot, falling heavily behind; a hand like a + falling tree smote the Master on the shoulder; and a voice roared above + the noise of the storm: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Moore! Look, man! look!” + </p> + <p> + The Master tried to shake off that detaining grasp; but it pinned him + where he was, immovable. + </p> + <p> + “Look, I tell yo'!” cried that great voice again. + </p> + <p> + A hand pushed past him and pointed; and sullenly he turned, ignoring the + figure at his side, and looked. + </p> + <p> + The wind had dropped suddenly as it had risen; the little man on the mound + had ceased to chuckle; Andrew's sobs were hushed; and in the background + the huddled flock edged closer. The world hung balanced on the pinpoint of + the moment. Every eye was in the one direction. + </p> + <p> + With dull, uncomprehending gaze James Moore stared as bidden. There was + the gray dog naked in the moonlight, heedless still of any witnesses; + there the murdered sheep, lying within and without that distorted shade; + and there the humpbacked boulder. + </p> + <p> + He stared into the shadow, and still stared. + </p> + <p> + Then he started as though struck. The shadow of the boulder had moved! + </p> + <p> + Motionless, with head shot forward and bulging eyes, he gazed. + </p> + <p> + Ay, ay, ay; he was sure of it—a huge dim outline as of a lion <i>couchant</i>, + in the very thickest of the blackness. + </p> + <p> + At that he was seized with such a palsy of trembling that he must have + fallen but for the strong arm about his waist. + </p> + <p> + Clearer every moment grew that crouching figure; till at length they + plainly could discern the line of arching loins, the crest, thick as a + stallion's, the massive, wagging head. No mistake this time. There he lay + in the deepest black, gigantic, revelling in his horrid debauch—the + Black Killer! + </p> + <p> + And they watched him at his feast. Now he burrowed into the spongy flesh; + now turned to lap the dark pool which glittered in the moonlight at his + side like claret in a silver cup. Now lifting his head, he snapped + irritably at the rain-drops, and the moon caught his wicked, rolling eye + and the red shreds of flesh dripping from his jaw. And again, raising his + great muzzle as if about to howl, he let the delicious nectar trickle down + his throat and ravish his palate. + </p> + <p> + So he went on, all unsuspicious, wisely nodding in slow-mouthed gluttony. + And in the stillness, between the claps of wind, they could hear the + smacking of his lips. + </p> + <p> + While all the time the gray dog stood before him, motionless, as though + carved in stone. + </p> + <p> + At last, as the murderer rolled his great head from side to side, he saw + that still figure. At the sight he leaped back, dismayed. Then with a + deep-mouthed roar that shook the waters of the Tarn he was up and across + his victim with fangs bared, his coat standing erect in wet, rigid furrows + from topknot to tail. + </p> + <p> + So the two stood, face to face, with perhaps a yard of rain-pierced air + between them. + </p> + <p> + The wind hushed its sighing to listen. The moon stared down, white and + dumb. Away at the back the sheep edged closer. While save for the + everlasting thunder of the rain, there was utter stillness. + </p> + <p> + An age, it seemed, they waited so. Then a voice, clear yet low and far + away, like a bugle in a distant city, broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Wullie!” it said. + </p> + <p> + There was no anger in the tones, only an incomparable reproach; the sound + of the cracking of a man's heart. + </p> + <p> + At the call the great dog leapt round, snarling in hideous passion. He saw + the small, familiar figure, clear-cut against the tumbling sky; and for + the only time in his life Red Wull was afraid. + </p> + <p> + His blood-foe was forgotten; the dead sheep was forgotten; everything was + sunk in the agony of that moment. He cowered upon the ground, and a cry + like that of a lost soul was wrung from him; it rose on the still night + air and floated, wailing, away; and the white waters of the Tarn thrilled + in cold pity; out of the lonely hollow; over the desolate Marches; into + the night. + </p> + <p> + On the mound above stood his master. The little man's white hair was bared + to the night wind; the rain trickled down his face; and his hands were + folded behind his back. He stood there, looking down into the dell below + him, as a man may stand at the tomb of his lately buried wife. And there + was such an expression on his face as I cannot describe. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried at length; and his voice sounded weak + and far, like a distant memory. + </p> + <p> + At that, the huge brute came crawling toward him on his belly, whimpering + as he came, very pitiful in his distress. He knew his fate as every + sheep-dog knows it. That troubled him not. His pain, insufferable, was + that this, his friend and father, who had trusted him, should have found + him in his sin. + </p> + <p> + So he crept up to his master's feet; and the little man never moved. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie—ma Wullie!” he said very gently. “They've aye bin agin me—and + noo you! A man's mither—a man's wife—a man's dog! they're all + I've iver had; and noo ain o' they three has turned agin me! Indeed I am + alone!” + </p> + <p> + At that the great dog raised himself, and placing his forepaws on his + master's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him who was already hurt past + healing, stood towering above him; while the little man laid his two colds + hands on the dog's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + So they stood, looking at one another, like a man and his love. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + At M'Adam's word, Owd Bob looked up, and for the first time saw his + master. + </p> + <p> + He seemed in nowise startled, but trotted over to him. There was nothing + fearful in his carriage, no haunting blood-guiltiness in the true gray + eyes which never told a lie, which never, dog-like, failed to look you in + the face. Yet his tail was low, and, as he stopped at his master's feet, + he was quivering. For he, too, knew, and was not unmoved. + </p> + <p> + For weeks he had tracked the Killer; for weeks he had followed him as he + crossed Kenmuir, bound on his bloody errands; yet always had lost him on + the Marches. Now, at last, he had run him to ground. Yet his heart went + out to his enemy in his distress. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt t'had been yo', lad,” the Master whispered, his hand on the dark + head at his knee—“I thowt t'had bin yo'!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Rooted to the ground, the three watched the scene between M'Adam and his + Wull. + </p> + <p> + In the end the Master was whimpering; Andrew crying; and David turned his + back. + </p> + <p> + At length, silent, they moved away. + </p> + <p> + “Had I—should I go to him” asked David hoarsely, nodding toward his + father. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, nay, lad,” the Master replied. “Yon's not a matter for a mon's + friends.” + </p> + <p> + So they marched out of the Devil's Bowl, and left those two alone + together. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + A little later, as they trampled along, James Moore heard little + pattering, staggering footsteps behind. + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and the other two went on. + </p> + <p> + “Man,” a voice whispered, and a face, white and pitiful, like a mother's + pleading for her child, looked into his—“Man, ye'll no tell them a' + I'd no like 'em to ken 'twas ma Wullie. Think an 't had bin yer ain dog.” + </p> + <p> + “You may trust me!” the other answered thickly. + </p> + <p> + The little man stretched out a palsied hand. + </p> + <p> + “Gie us yer hand on't. And G-God bless ye, James Moore!” + </p> + <p> + So these two shook hands in the moonlight, with none to witness it but the + God who made them. + </p> + <p> + And that is why the mystery of the Black Killer is yet unsolved in the + Daleland. Many have surmised; besides those three only one other knows—knows + now which of those two he saw upon a summer night was the guilty, which + the innocent. And Postie Jim tells no man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XXX. THE TAILLESS TYKE AT BAY + </h2> + <p> + ON the following morning there was a sheep-auction at the Dalesman's + Daughter. + </p> + <p> + Early as many of the farmers arrived, there was one earlier. Tupper, the + first man to enter the sand-floored parlor, found M'Adam before him. + </p> + <p> + He was sitting a little forward in his chair; his thin hands rested on his + knees; and on his face was a gentle, dreamy expression such as no man had + ever seen there before. All the harsh wrinkles seemed to have fled in the + night; and the sour face, stamped deep with the bitterness of life, was + softened now, as if at length at peace. + </p> + <p> + “When I coom doon this mornin',” said Teddy Bolstock in a whisper, “I + found 'im sittin' just so. And he's nor moved nor spoke since.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's th' Terror, then?” asked Tupper, awed somehow into like hushed + tones. + </p> + <p> + “In t' paddock at back,” Teddy answered, “marchin' hoop and doon, hoop and + doon, for a' the world like a sentry-soger. And so he was when I looked + oot o' window when I wake.” + </p> + <p> + Then Londesley entered, and after him, Ned Hoppin, Rob Saunderson, Jim + Mason, and others, each with his dog. And each man, as he came in and saw + the little lone figure for once without its huge attendant genius, put the + same question; while the dogs sniffed about the little man, as though + suspecting treachery. And all the time M'Adam sat as though he neither + heard nor saw, lost in some sweet, sad dream; so quite, so silent, that + more than one thought he slept. + </p> + <p> + After the first glance, however, the farmers paid him little heed, + clustering round the publican at the farther end of the room to hear the + latest story of Owd Bob. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that a week previously, James Moore with a pack of sheep had + met the new Grammoch-town butcher at the Dalesmen's Daughter. A bargain + concluded, the butcher started with the flock for home. As he had no dog, + the Master offered him Th' Owd Un. “And he'll pick me i' th' town + to-morrow,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Now the butcher was a stranger in the land. Of course he had heard of Owd + Bob o' Kenmuir, yet it never struck him that this handsome gentleman with + the quiet, resolute manner, who handled sheep as he had never seen them + handled, was that hero—“the best sheep-dog in the North.” + </p> + <p> + Certain it is that by the time the flock was penned in the enclosure + behind the shop, he coveted the dog—ay, would even offer ten pounds + for him! + </p> + <p> + Forthwith the butcher locked him up in an outhouse—summit of + indignity; resolving to make his offer on the morrow. + </p> + <p> + When the morrow came he found no dog in the outhouse, and, worse, no sheep + in the enclosure. A sprung board showed the way of escape of the one, and + a displaced hurdle that of the other. And as he was making the discovery, + a gray dog and a flock of sheep, travelling along the road toward the + Dalesman's Daughter, met the Master. + </p> + <p> + From the first, Owd Bob had mistrusted the man. The attempt to confine him + set the seal on his suspicions. His master's sheep were not for such a + rogue; and he worked his own way out and took the sheep along with him. + </p> + <p> + The story was told to a running chorus of—“Ma word! Good, Owd Un!—Ho! + ho! did he thot?” + </p> + <p> + Of them all, only M'Adam sat strangely silent. + </p> + <p> + Rob Saunderson, always glad to draw the little man, remarked it. + </p> + <p> + “And what d'yo' think o' that, Mr. M'Adam, for a wunnerfu' story of a + wunnerfu' tyke?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It's a gude tale, a vera gude tale,” the little man answered dreamily. + “And James Moore didna invent it; he had it from the Christmas number o' + the <i>Flock-keeper</i> in saxty.” (On the following Sunday, old Rob, from + sheer curiosity, reached down from his shelf the specified number of the + paper. To his amazement he found the little man was right. There was the + story almost identically. None the less is it also true of Owd Bob o' + Kenmuir.) + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay,” the little man continued, “and in a day or two James Moore'll + ha' anither tale to tell ye—a better tale, ye'll think it—mair + laffable. And yet—ay—-no—-I'll no believe it! I niver + loved James Moore, but I think, as Mr. Hornbut aince said, he'd rather die + than lie. Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” he continued in a whisper. “Up till the end + I canna shake him aff. Hafflins I think that where I'm gaein' to there'll + be gray dogs sneakin' around me in the twilight. And they're aye behind + and behind, and I canna, canna—” + </p> + <p> + Teddy Bolstock interrupted, lifting his hand for silence. + </p> + <p> + “D'yo' hear thot?—Thunder!” + </p> + <p> + They listened; and from without came a gurgling, jarring roar, horrible to + hear. + </p> + <p> + “It's comin' nearer!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, it's goin' away!” + </p> + <p> + “No thunder thot!” + </p> + <p> + “More like the Lea in flood. And yet—Eh, Mr. M'Adam, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + The little man had moved at last. He was on his feet, staring about him, + wild-eyed. + </p> + <p> + “Where's yer dogs?” he almost screamed. + </p> + <p> + “Here's ma—Nay, by thunder! but he's not!” was the astonished cry. + </p> + <p> + In the interest of the story no man had noticed that his dog had risen + from his side; no one had noticed a file of shaggy figures creeping out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + “I tell ye it's the tykes! I tell ye it's the tykes! They're on ma Wullie—fifty + to one they're on him! My God! My God! And me not there! Wullie, Wullie! “—in + a scream—“I'm wi' ye!” + </p> + <p> + At the same moment Bessie Boistock rushed in, white-faced. + </p> + <p> + “Hi! Feyther! Mr. Saunderson! all o' you! T'tykes fightin' mad! Hark!” + </p> + <p> + There was no time for that. Each man seized his stick and rushed for the + door; and M'Adam led them all. + </p> + <p> + A rare thing it was for M'Adam and Red Wull to be apart. So rare, that + others besides the men in that little tap-room noticed it. + </p> + <p> + Saunderson's old Shep walked quietly to the back door of the house and + looked out. + </p> + <p> + There on the slope below him he saw what he sought, stalking up and down, + gaunt and grim, like a lion at feeding-time. And as the old dog watched, + his tail was gently swaying as though he were well pleased. + </p> + <p> + He walked back into the tap-room just as Teddy began his tale. Twice he + made the round of the room, silent-footed. From dog to dog he went, + stopping at each as though urging him on to some great enterprise. Then he + made for the door again, looking back to see if any followed. + </p> + <p> + One by one the others rose and trailed out after him: big blue Rasper, + Londesley's Lassie, Ned Hoppin's young dog; Grip and Grapple, the + publican's bull-terriers; Jim Mason's Gyp, foolish and flirting even now; + others there were; and last of all, waddling heavily in the rear, that + scarred Amazon, the Venus. + </p> + <p> + Out of the house they pattered, silent and unseen, with murder in their + hearts. At last they had found their enemy alone. And slowly, in a black + cloud, like the shadow of death, they dropped down the slope upon him. + </p> + <p> + And he saw them coming, knew their errand—as who should better than + the Terror of the Border?—and was glad. Death it might be, and such + an one as he would wish to die—at least distraction from that + long-drawn, haunting pain. And he smiled grimly as he looked at the + approaching crowd, and saw there was not one there but he had humbled in + his time. + </p> + <p> + He ceased his restless pacing, and awaited them. His great head was high + as he scanned them contemptuously, daring them to come on. + </p> + <p> + And on they came, marching slow and silent like soldiers at a funeral: + young and old; bob-tailed and bull; terrier and collie; flocking like + vultures to the dead. And the Venus, heavy with years, rolled after them + on her bandy legs panting in her hurry lest she should be late. For had + she not the blood of her blood to avenge? + </p> + <p> + So they came about him, slow, certain, murderous, opening out to cut him + off on every side. There was no need. He never thought to move. Long odds + 'twould be—crushingly heavy; yet he loved them for it, and was + trembling already with the glory of the coming fight. + </p> + <p> + They were up to him now; the sheep-dogs walking round him on their toes, + stiff and short like cats on coals; their hacks a little humped; heads + averted; yet eying him askance. + </p> + <p> + And he remained stock-still nor looked at them. His great chin was cocked, + and his muzzle wrinkled in a dreadful grin. As he stood there, shivering a + little, his eyes rolling back, his breath grating in his throat to set + every bristle on end, he looked a devil indeed. + </p> + <p> + The Venus ranged alongside him. No preliminary stage for her; she never + walked where she could stand, or stood where she could lie. But stand she + must now, breathing hard through her nose, never taking her eyes off that + pad she had marked for her own. Close beside her were crop-eared Grip and + Grapple, looking up at the line above them where hairy neck and shoulder + joined. Behind was big Rasper, and close to him Lassie. Of the others, + each had marked his place, each taken up his post. + </p> + <p> + Last of all, old Shep took his stand full in front of his enemy, their + shoulders almost rubbing, head past head. + </p> + <p> + So the two stood a moment, as though they were whispering; each + diabolical, each rolling back his eyes to watch the other. While from the + little mob there rose a snarling, bubbling snore, like some giant wheezing + in his sleep. + </p> + <p> + Then like lightning each struck. Rearing high, they wrestled with striving + paws and the expression of fiends incarnate. Down they went, Shep + underneath, and the great dog with a dozen of these wolves of hell upon + him. Rasper, devilish, was riding on his back; the Venus—well for + him!—had struck and missed; but Grip and Grapple had their hold; and + the others, like leaping demoniacs, were plunging into the whirlpool + vortex of the fight. + </p> + <p> + And there, where a fortnight before he had fought and lost the battle of + the Cup, Red Wull now battled for his life. + </p> + <p> + Long odds! But what cared he? The long-drawn agony of the night was + drowned in that glorious delirium. The hate of years came bubbling forth. + In that supreme moment he would avenge his wrongs. And he went in to + fight, revelling like a giant in the red lust of killing. + </p> + <p> + Long odds! Never before had he faced such a galaxy of foes. His one chance + lay in quickness: to prevent the swarming crew getting their hold till at + least he had diminished their numbers. + </p> + <p> + Then it was a sight to see the great brute, huge as a bull-calf, strong as + a bull, rolling over and over and up again, quick as a kitten; leaping + here, striking there; shaking himself free; swinging his quarters; + fighting with feet and body and teeth—every inch of him at war. More + than once he broke right through the mob; only to turn again and face it. + No flight for him; nor thought of it. + </p> + <p> + Up and down the slope the dark mass tossed, like some hulk the sport of + the waves. Black and white, sable and gray, worrying at that great + centre-piece. Up and down, roaming wide, leaving everywhere a trail of + red. + </p> + <p> + Gyp he had pinned and hurled over his shoulder. Grip followed; he shook + her till she rattled, then flung her afar; and she fell with a horrid + thud, not to rise. While Grapple, the death to avenge, hung tighter. In a + scarlet, soaking patch of the ground lay Big Bell's lurcher, doubled up in + a dreadful ball. And Hoppin's young dog, who three hours before had been + the children's tender playmate, now fiendish to look on, dragged after the + huddle up the hill. Back the mob rolled on her. When it was passed, she + lay quite still, grinning; a handful of tawny hair and flesh in her dead + mouth. + </p> + <p> + So they fought on. And ever and anon a great figure rose up from the + heaving inferno all around; rearing to his full height, his head ragged + and bleeding, the red foam dripping from his jaws. Thus he would appear + momentarily, like some dark rock amid a raging sea; and down he would go + again. + </p> + <p> + Silent now they fought, dumb and determined. Only you might have heard the + rend and rip of tearing flesh; a hoarse gurgle as some dog went down; the + panting of dry throats; and now and then a sob from that central figure. + For he was fighting for his life. The Terror of the Border was at bay. + </p> + <p> + All who meant it were on him now. The Venus, blinded with blood, had her + hold at last; and never but once in a long life of battles had she let go; + Rasper, his breath coming in rattles, had him horribly by the loins; while + a dozen other devils with red eyes and wrinkled nostrils clung still. + </p> + <p> + Long odds! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of numbers, yet + struggled up again. His great head was torn and dripping; his eyes a gleam + of rolling red and white; the little tail stern and stiff like the gallant + stump of a flagstaff shot away. He was desperate, but indomitable; and he + sobbed as he fought doggedly on. + </p> + <p> + Long odds! It could not last. And down he went at length, silent still—never + a cry should they wring from him in his agony; the Venus glued to that + mangled pad; Rasper beneath him now; three at his throat; two at his ears; + a crowd on flanks and body. + </p> + <p> + The Terror of the Border was down at last! + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Wullie, ma Wullie!” screamed M'Adam, bounding down the slope a crook's + length in front of the rest. “Wullie! Wullie! to me!” + </p> + <p> + At the shrill cry the huddle below was convulsed. It heaved and swelled + and dragged to and fro, like the sea lashed into life by some dying + leviathan. + </p> + <p> + A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. A great + tossing head, bloody past recognition, flung out from the ruck. One quick + glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little flying form in front; + then with a roar like a waterfall plunged toward it, shaking off the + bloody leeches as he went. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie! Wullie! I'm wi' ye!” cried that little voice, now so near. + </p> + <p> + Through—through—through!—an incomparable effort and his + last. They hung to his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were round + and about him. And down he went again with a sob and a little suffocating + cry, shooting up at his master one quick, beseeching glance as the sea of + blood closed over him—worrying, smothering, tearing, like foxhounds + at the kill. + </p> + <p> + They left the dead and pulled away the living. And it was no light task, + for the pack were mad for blood. + </p> + <p> + At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old Shep, + stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was working; + for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen years, and remain + unmoved. + </p> + <p> + The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that her + vengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was gasping out his + life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet spot where they might lay + them down to die. Before the night had fallen another had gone to his + account. While not a dog who fought upon that day but carried the scars of + it with him to his grave. + </p> + <p> + The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yet more + terrible in his dying. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's Red Wull. + </p> + <p> + At the sight the little man neither raved nor swore: it was past that for + him. He sat down, heedless of the soaking ground, and took the mangled + head in his lap very tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “They've done ye at last, Wullie—they've done ye at last,” he said + quietly; unalterably convinced that the attack had been organized while he + was detained in the tap-room. + </p> + <p> + On hearing the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of his + stump-tail. And with that the Tailless Tyke, Adam M'Adam's Red Wull, the + Black Killer, went to his long home. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + One by one the Dalesmen took away their dead, and the little man was left + alone with the body of his last friend. + </p> + <p> + Dry-eyed he sat there, nursing the dead dog's head; hour after hour—alone—crooning + to himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, + An' wi' the weary warl' fought! + An' mony an anxious day I thought + We wad be beat.' +</pre> + <p> + An' noo we are, Wullie—noo we are!” + </p> + <p> + So he went on, repeating the lines over and over again, always with the + same sad termination. + </p> + <p> + “A man's mither—a man's wife—a man's dog! They three are a' + little M'Adam iver had to back him! D'ye mind the auld mither, Wullie? And + her, 'Niver be down-hearted, Adam; ye've aye got yer mither,' And ae day I + had not. And Flora, Wullie (ye remember Flora, Wullie? Na, na; ye'd not) + wi' her laffin' daffin' manner, cryin' to one: 'Adam, ye say ye're alane. + But ye've me—is that no enough for ony man?' And God kens it was—while + it lasted!” He broke down and sobbed a while. “And you Wullie—and + you! the only man friend iver I had!” He sought the dog's bloody paw with + his right hand. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'An' here's a hand, my trusty fier, + An gie's a hand o' thine; + An' we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, + For auld lang syne.'” + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + He sat there, muttering, and stroking the poor head upon his lap, bending + over it, like a mother over a sick child. + </p> + <p> + “They've done ye at last, lad—done ye sair. And noo I'm thinkin' + they'll no rest content till I'm gone. And oh, Wullie!”—he bent down + and whispered—“I dreamed sic an awfu' thing—that ma Wullie—but + there! 'twas but a dream.” + </p> + <p> + So he sat on, crooning to the dead dog; and no man approached him. Only + Bessie of the inn watched the little lone figure from afar. + </p> + <p> + It was long past noon when at length he rose, laying the dog's head + reverently down, and tottered away toward that bridge which once the dead + thing on the slope had held against a thousand. + </p> + <p> + He crossed it and turned; there was a look upon his face, half hopeful, + half fearful, very piteous to see. + </p> + <p> + “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried; only the accents, formerly so fiery, + were now weak as a dying man's. + </p> + <p> + A while he waited in vain. + </p> + <p> + “Are ye no comin', Wullie?” he asked at length in quavering tones. “Ye've + not used to leave me.” + </p> + <p> + He walked away a pace, then turned again and whistled that shrill, sharp + call, only now it sounded like a broken echo of itself. + </p> + <p> + “Come to me, Wullie!” he implored, very pitifully. “'Tis the first time + iver I kent ye not come and me whistlin'. What ails ye, lad?” + </p> + <p> + He recrossed the bridge, walking blindly like a sobbing child; and yet + dry-eyed. + </p> + <p> + Over the dead body he stooped. + </p> + <p> + “What ails ye, Wullie?” he asked again. “Will you, too, leave me?” + </p> + <p> + Then Bessie, watching fearfully, saw him bend, sling the great body on his + back, and stagger away. + </p> + <p> + Limp and hideous, the carcase hung down from the little man's shoulders. + The huge head, with grim, wide eyes and lolling tongue, jolted and swagged + with the motion, seeming to grin a ghastly defiance at the world it had + left. And the last Bessie saw of them was that bloody, rolling head, with + the puny legs staggering beneath their load, as the two passed out of the + world's ken. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In the Devil's Bowl, next day, they found the pair: Adam M'Adam and his + Red Wull, face to face; dead, not divided; each, save for the other, + alone. The dog, his saturnine expression glazed and ghastly in the + fixedness of death, propped up against that humpbacked boulder beneath + which, a while before, the Black Killer had dreed his weird; and, close + by, his master lying on his back, his dim dead eyes staring up at the + heaven, one hand still clasping a crumpled photograph; the weary body at + rest at last, the mocking face—mocking no longer—alight with a + whole-souled, transfiguring happiness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POSTSCRIPT + </h2> + <p> + Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull lie buried together: one just within, the + other just without, the consecrated pale. + </p> + <p> + The only mourners at the funeral were David, James Moore, Maggie, and a + gray dog peering through the lych-gate. + </p> + <p> + During the service a carriage stopped at the churchyard, and a lady with a + stately figure and a gentle face stepped out and came across the grass to + pay a last tribute to the dead. And Lady Eleanour, as she joined the + little group about the grave, seemed to notice a more than usual solemnity + in the parson's voice as he intoned: “Earth to earth—ashes to ashes—dust + to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + When you wander in the gray hill-country of the North, in the loneliest + corner of that lonely land you may chance upon a low farmhouse, lying in + the shadow of the Muir Pike. + </p> + <p> + Entering, a tall old man comes out to greet you—the Master of + Kenmuir. His shoulders are bent now; the hair that was so dark is frosted; + but the blue-gray eyes look you as proudly in the face as of yore. + </p> + <p> + And while the girl with the glory of yellow hair is preparing food for you—they + are hospitable to a fault, these Northerners—you will notice on the + mantelpiece, standing solitary, a massive silver cup, dented. + </p> + <p> + That is the world-known Shepherds' Trophy, won outright, as the old man + will tell you, by Owd Bob, last and best of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir. The + last because he is the best; because once, for a long-drawn unit of time, + James Moore had thought him to be the worst. + </p> + <p> + When at length you take your leave, the old man accompanies you to the top + of the slope to point you your way. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' cross the stream; over Langholm How, yonder; past the Bottom; and oop + th' hill on far side. Yo'll come on th' house o' top. And happen yo'll + meet Th' Owd Un on the road. Good-day to you, sir, good-day.” + </p> + <p> + So you go as he has bidden you; across the stream, skirting the How, over + the gulf and up the hill again. + </p> + <p> + On the way, as the Master has foretold, you come upon an old gray dog, + trotting soberly along. Th' Owd Un, indeed, seems to spend the evening of + his life going thus between Kenmuir and the Grange. The black muzzle is + almost white now; the gait, formerly so smooth and strong, is stiff and + slow; venerable, indeed, is he of whom men still talk as the best + sheep-dog in the North. + </p> + <p> + As he passes, he pauses to scan you. The noble head is high, and one foot + raised; and you look into two big gray eyes such as you have never seen + before—soft, a little dim, and infinitely sad. + </p> + <p> + That is Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, of whom the tales are many as the flowers on + the May. With him dies the last of the immortal line of the Gray Dogs of + Kenmuir. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + You travel on up the bill, something pensive, and knock at the door of the + house on the top. + </p> + <p> + A woman, comely with the inevitable comeliness of motherhood, opens to + you. And nestling in her arms is a little boy with golden hair and happy + face, like one of Correggio's cherubs. + </p> + <p> + You ask the child his name. He kicks and crows, and looks up at his + mother; and in the end lisps roguishly, as if it was the merriest joke in + all this merry world, “Adum Mataddum.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bob, Son of Battle, by Alfred Ollivant + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOB, SON OF BATTLE *** + +***** This file should be named 2795-h.htm or 2795-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/9/2795/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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