"Ye ken that they've a name for being queer. The man never comes here
forbye once or twice a-year, and he has few dealings wi' other herds.
He's got an ill name, too, for losing sheep. I dinna like the country
ava. Up by yon Muneraw--no that I've ever been there, but I've seen it
afar off--is enough to put a man daft for the rest o' his days. What's
taking ye thereaways? It's no the time for the fishing?"
I told him that I was a botanist going to explore certain hill-crevices
for rare ferns. He shook his head, and then after some delay found me an
ostler who would accompany me to the cottage.
The man was a shock-headed, long-limbed fellow, with fierce red hair and
a humorous eye. He talked sociably about his life, answered my hasty
questions with deftness, and beguiled me for the moment out of myself. I
passed the melancholy lochs, and came in sight of the great stony hills
without the trepidation I had expected. Here at my side was one who
found some humour even in those uplands. But one thing I noted which
brought back the old uneasiness. He took the road which led us farthest
from Carrickfey, and when to try him I proposed the other, he vetoed it
with emphasis.
After this his good spirit departed, and he grew distrustful.
"What mak's ye a freend o' the herd at Farawa?" he demanded a dozen
times.
Finally, I asked him if he knew the man, and had seen him lately.
"I dinna ken him, and I hadna seen him for years till a fortnicht syne,
when a' Allermuir saw him. He cam doun one afternoon to the
public-hoose, and begood to drink. He had aye been kenned for a
terrible godly kind o' a man, so ye may believe folk wondered at this.
But when he had stuck to the drink for twae days, and filled himsel'
blind-fou half-a-dozen o' times, he took a fit o' repentance, and raved
and blethered about siccan a life as he led in the muirs. There was some
said he was speakin' serious, but maist thocht it was juist daftness."
"And what did he speak about?" I asked sharply.
"I canna verra weel tell ye. It was about some kind o' bogle that lived
in the Muneraw--that's the shouthers o't ye see yonder--and it seems
that the bogle killed his sheep and frichted himsel'. He was aye
bletherin', too, about something or somebody ca'd Grave; but oh! the man
wasna wise." And my companion shook a contemptuous head.
And then below us in the valley we saw the shieling, with a thin shaft
of smoke rising into the rainy grey weather. The man left me, sturdily
refusing any fee. "I wantit my legs stretched as weel as you. A walk in
the hills is neither here nor there to a stoot man. When will ye be
back, sir?"
The question was well-timed. "To-morrow fortnight," I said, "and I want
somebody from Allermuir to come out here in the morning and carry some
baggage. Will you see to that?"
He said "Ay," and went off, while I scrambled down the hill to the
cottage. Nervousness possessed me, and though it was broad daylight and
the whole place lay plain before me, I ran pell-mell, and did not stop
till I reached the door.
The place was utterly empty. Unmade beds, unwashed dishes, a hearth
strewn with the ashes of peat, and dust thick on everything, proclaimed
the absence of inmates. I began to be horribly frightened. Had the
shepherd and his sister, also, disappeared? Was I left alone in this
bleak place, with a dozen lonely miles between me and human dwellings? I
could not return alone; better this horrible place than the unknown
perils of the out-of-doors. Hastily I barricaded the door, and to the
best of my power shuttered the windows; and then with dreary forebodings
I sat down to wait on fortune.
In a little I heard a long swinging step outside and the sound of dogs.
Joyfully I opened the latch, and there was the shepherd's grim face
waiting stolidly on what might appear.
At the sight of me he stepped back. "What in the Lord's name are ye
daein' here?" he asked. "Didna ye get enough afor?"
"Come in," I said, sharply. "I want to talk."
In he came with those blessed dogs,--what a comfort it was to look on
their great honest faces! He sat down on the untidy bed and waited.
"I came because I could not stay away. I saw too much to give me any
peace elsewhere. I must go back, even though I risk my life for it. The
cause of scholarship demands it as well as the cause of humanity."
"Is that a' the news ye hae?" he said. "Weel, I've mair to tell ye.
Three weeks syne my sister Margit was lost, and I've never seen her
mair."
My jaw fell, and I could only stare at him.
"I cam hame from the hill at nightfa' and she was gone. I lookit for her
up hill and doun, but I couldna find her. Syne I think I went daft. I
went to the Scarts and huntit them up and doun, but no sign could I see.
The Folk can bide quiet enough when they want. Syne I went to Allermuir
and drank mysel' blind,--me, that's a God-fearing man and a saved soul;
but the Lord help me, I didna ken what I was at. That's my news, and day
and night I wander thae hills, seekin' for what I canna find."
"But, man, are you mad?" I cried. "Surely there are neighbours to help
you. There is a law in the land, and you had only to find the nearest
police-office and compel them to assist you."
"What guid can man dae?" he asked. "An army o' sodgers couldna find that
hidy-hole. Forby, when I went into Allermuir wi' my story the folk
thocht me daft. It was that set me drinking, for--the Lord forgive
me!--I wasna my ain maister. I threepit till I was hairse, but the
bodies just lauch'd." And he lay back on the bed like a man mortally
tired.
Grim though the tidings were, I can only say that my chief feeling was
of comfort. Pity for the new tragedy had swallowed up my fear. I had now
a purpose, and a purpose, too, not of curiosity but of mercy.
"I go to-morrow morning to the Muneraw. But first I want to give you
something to do." And I drew roughly a chart of the place on the back of
a letter. "Go into Allermuir to-morrow, and give this paper to the
landlord at the inn. The letter will tell him what to do. He is to raise
at once all the men he can get, and come to the place on the chart
marked with a cross. Tell him life depends on his hurry."
The shepherd nodded. "D'ye ken the Folk are watching for you? They let
me pass without trouble, for they've nae use for me, but I see fine
they're seeking you. Ye'll no gang half a mile the morn afore they grip
ye."
"So much the better," I said. "That will take me quicker to the place I
want to be at."
"And I'm to gang to Allermuir the morn," he repeated, with the air of a
child conning a lesson. "But what if they'll no believe me?"
"They'll believe the letter."
"Maybe," he said, and relapsed into a doze.
I set myself to put that house in order, to rouse the fire, and prepare
some food. It was dismal work; and meantime outside the night darkened,
and a great wind rose, which howled round the walls and lashed the rain
on the windows.