TRAILING THE MOTORCYCLE
For a few minutes Whitney's machine turned in and out of narrow
streets between rows of tall, old houses, and then went cautiously
down the dip to the Nith. There was some traffic on the bridge, and
when they had crossed, carts encumbered the road on the Galloway side.
Whitney fumed at the delay; but he opened out his engine as they
entered a stretch of open road, and the wind began to fan Andrew's
face.
For a mile in front of them the river-plain ran level, the stubble
shining yellow among squares of pasture and the dark green of
turnip-fields; then a ridge of hills rose steeply across their way.
The sun that flooded the valley with mellow light was getting low, and
while the trees upon the summit of the ridge stood out sharply
distinct, the wooded slopes were steeped in soft blue shadow.
"Looks like a climb," Whitney remarked. "I suppose we go right up
there?"
"Maxwellton braes," said Andrew. "I expect you have heard of then.
It's an easy gradient up a long glen."
"Then sit tight, and we'll rush her up on the top gear."
The dust whirled behind them, and the cropped hedgerows spun past;
they swung giddily round a curve at a bridge, and the throb of the
engine grew louder as they breasted the hill. Dark firs streamed down
to meet them; here and there a leafless birch and an oak that gleamed
like burnished copper swept by. There was a tinkle of running water in
the wood; and, now that they were out of the sunshine, the air felt
keen. Ahead, the ascending road unrolled like a white riband through
faint, shifting lights and lilac shadow.
Soon the glen ran out into a wide hollow that led westward across a
tableland. Low, green hills with gently rounded tops shut off the
rugged moors beyond; the shallow vale was cultivated and tame, but the
road was good, and Andrew felt the thrill of speed. Long fields and
stone dykes swept behind into the trail of dust. The sun sank toward a
bank of slate-colored cloud; its rays raked the valley, throwing the
black shadows of the scattered ash-trees far across the fields.
Andrew kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the road. This ran, for the
most part, straight and level; but, though they were traveling very
fast, there was no speeding streak of dust ahead.
After a time a long white village rose from the rolling pasture; and
when they ran in among the low houses Whitney pulled up. There was a
smith's shop by the roadside, and a man stood outside, holding a
cartwheel, while another moved a glowing iron hoop amid the flame of a
circular fire.
"You have been watching that tire heat for a while, I guess," said
Whitney.
"Lang enough," the other answered. "She's no' stretching weel."
"Then have you seen a small, black motorcycle pass?"
"No; there was a big gray yin, an' anither with a side-car."
"How long have you been outside?"
"Maybe twenty minutes; maybe a few mair."
"Thanks," said Whitney; and started the motorcycle.
"It's curious. He's traveling light, but I don't think a
single-cylinder engine could beat the machine I'm driving by a quarter
of an hour. Anyhow, I'll try to speed her up."
The sunlight faded off the grass as they raced away; the slaty clouds
rolled higher up the sky; and the wind that whipped their faces bit
keen. Andrew was swung to and fro in the rocking car, and sometimes
felt uneasy when his comrade dashed furiously round the bends; but for
most of the way the road ran straight, and they could see nothing on
the long, white streak ahead. After a time they came to a narrow loch,
ruffled by the wind, that lay in a lonely, grassy waste, and as they
ran past the thin wood on its edge Andrew asked Whitney to stop.
"A motor scout," he said, indicating a man in uniform who rode
leisurely toward them on a bicycle.
The scout dismounted when they called to him, and said he had left
Castle Douglas an hour before and had kept to the main road, but had
not seen a single-cylinder motorcycle. They let him go and Whitney
lighted a cigarette.
"Now," he said, "we have to think. Our man pulled out for Castle
Douglas, but hasn't gone there; my notion is that he didn't mean to.
Where's he likely to have headed?"
"It's hard to tell. A road runs northwest to New Galloway, but I can't
see what would take him there. It's a small place on the edge of the
moors."
"And right away from the Eskdale road!" Whitney ejaculated, looking
hard at him.
"Well," said Andrew quietly, "I'll admit I thought of that."
"As a matter of fact, you've been thinking of something like it for
quite a time."
Andrew was silent for a moment or two.
"There was a chance of my being mistaken," he said slowly. "However, I
now feel that it's my duty to get upon the fellow's track, if I can."
"Would you rather I dropped out?"
Andrew knew that the suggestion was prompted by delicacy, but he made
a negative sign.
"After all, you know something, and may as well know the rest--if
there is anything more to learn. Besides, you're quicker than I am in
several ways, and I might want you."
"When you do, you'll find me ready," Whitney answered. "But we'll get
back to business. Which way do you suppose he's gone?"
"On the whole, I think south toward Dalbeattie; it's nearer the
Solway. As it might be better to follow the road he'd take, we'll have
to run back nearly to Dumfries."
"That's all right," said Whitney. "Get in. She seems to be feeling
particularly good to-day, and I'm going to let her hum."
They raced back eastward while the distant hills turned gray in front
of them. Then they turned sharply to the south, and soon the road
skirted a railway line. Whitney got down when they reached a station.
"Have you seen a small, black motorcycle?" he asked a lounging porter.
"Yes; I mind her because I thought she was running verra hard for a
wee machine. If yon man's a friend o' yours, ye'll no' catch him
easy."
"When did he pass?"
"It would be about five minutes after the Stranraer goods cam'
through, and that's an hour ago."
Whitney ran back to his machine and jumped into the saddle.
"We're on his trail, but he must have come straight and fast from
Dumfries. Well, we'll get after him."
The car leaped forward as the clutch took hold; dykes and trees swept
down the road; and Criffell's bold ridge rose higher against the
eastern sky. Here and there a loch gleamed palely in the desolate
tableland, and in the distance a river caught the fading light, but
the cloud-bank was spreading fast and the west getting dim. At last
they saw from the top of a rise a gray haze stretched across a hollow,
and Andrew told his comrade that it was the smoke of Dalbeattie. Then
a man with a spade and barrow came into view on the slope of another
hill, and Andrew asked Whitney to stop. The man was cutting back the
grass edges on the roadside; he had not seen a bicycle of the kind
they described.
"How long have you been here?" Andrew asked.
"Since seven o'clock this morning."
Whitney started the car slowly, and pulled up when the roadmender was
hidden behind the hill.
"We want to talk this over," he said. "Williamson left the road
between the station and where we met the man. We know he hasn't gone
west or farther south. What about the east?"
Andrew glanced at Criffell, which rose between them and the sea. Its
summit cut sharply against the sky, but its slopes were blurred and
gray and the stone dykes that ran toward its foot had lost their
continuity of outline. Two or three miles away, to the southeast, the
mountain ran down in a long ridge.
"It's obvious that he hasn't gone over the top. He could cross the
shoulder yonder, but he'd have some trouble."
"He'd have to leave the motorcycle."
"That's so," said Andrew thoughtfully. "There's an old road between
here and the station and he might reach the moors by what we call a
loaning--a green track that sometimes leads to a farm or cothouse and
sometimes ends in a bog. Of course, if he found one and crossed the
hill on foot, he'd cut the main road from Dumfries round the coast
before he reached the Solway beach."
"You're taking it for granted that he'd try to make the beach--which
means the wreck."
"Yes," said Andrew quietly; "I believe it's what he'd do."
"Well, there are two things to note. He could have gone straight from
Dumfries by a good road on the other side of the mountain, but he
preferred this way and a rough climb across. Then he started for
Castle Douglas, when he might as well have told the garage people he
was going to Dalbeattie. This implies that he'd a pretty good reason
for covering his trail." Whitney paused and looked hard at Andrew.
"Before we go any farther, you have to decide whether you really want
to find out that reason. You can quit the business now, but you may
not be able to do so afterward."
"I'd rather stop, but I must go on," said Andrew grimly.
"Very well; we'll try to follow him."
They drove back, passing the roadmender, who leaned upon his spade
looking after them; and a little while later Whitney pulled up at a
broken gate that hung open. A rough track, grown with grass, led away
from it between loose stone walls.
"Not intended for automobiles!" Whitney remarked, as he cautiously
steered between the ruts. "Williamson must have found it easier than
we do."
Andrew nodded. His comrade's eyes were keen, for only a crushed tuft
of grass here and there suggested the track of a bicycle tire. Farther
along they stopped at a gate where the loaning forked. One branch ran
on; the other turned off, and in the distance a lonely white house
showed amidst a clump of bare, wind-bent trees.
"He would not have gone to the farm," said Whitney. "Jump down and
open the gate."
They went on again carefully, but after a time the loaning got very
rough and rushes grew across it where the ground was soft. After
narrowly escaping an upset into the ditch on one side, Whitney
stopped.
"I guess this is as far as she'll take us, and I see a peat-stack
where we could leave her."
Lifting down a small fir that closed a gap in the wall, they pushed
the motorcycle across a strip of heath and against a pile of turf;
and then they stopped to look about.
The light was rapidly going and the wind was falling. In front lay a
stretch of moor, seamed by black peat-hags, in some of which water
glistened; beyond the moor rough heather-covered slopes ran up to the
black hillcrest. A curlew whistled overhead, and the sharp cry of a
grouse rose from the darkening heath. Except for this, it was very
still and the landscape looked strangely desolate. Not far ahead a
patch of roof showed faintly among some stunted ash-trees.
"A cothouse," said Andrew in surprise.
"We'll look at it," Whitney answered, and started for the building.
One end had fallen down, but half the thatch remained upon the bending
rafters. The rest had gone, and it was plain that the cot had been
abandoned for a long time. Crossing a ditch by a rotten plank, they
stood knee-deep among withered nettles at the door, and the ruined
walls struck a mournful note in the gathering dark.
"There's a track here," said Whitney. "I guess the sheep go in."
He struck a match as they entered, and, avoiding stones and fallen
beams, they made for the door of an inner room. When they reached it,
Whitney struck another match, and smiled as he held it up, for the
light fell upon a single-cylinder motorcycle with a gun-case strapped
to the carrier.
"Well," he said, "I expected this. If we cross the end of the hill
going southeast, we would strike the sands somewhere abreast of the
wreck?"
"Yes."
"How's the tide?"
"High-water's about one o'clock. That means it's a big tide and, of
course, runs out a long way on the ebb."
"Then the sands will be dry and there'll be no gutters to cross. Well,
I guess it's a long walk, but we've got to make it. Take your overalls
off."
Three or four minutes later they left the cothouse and struck across
the heath. There was no track, but Andrew headed for a knoll on the
mountain's sloping shoulder. After they left the level, the heather
grew tall and strong, brushing about their knees and entangling their
feet. Then there were awkward rabbit-holes and granite boulders
scattered about, and they bruised their shins as they laboriously
plodded upward. The light had almost gone, and there was nothing
visible but the stretch of shadowy hillside in front.
Whitney heard Andrew breathing hard, and imagined that his injured leg
was giving him trouble.
"Are we rushing it too much?" he asked.
"I can hold out until we get to the top, and I'll be all right then.
It's gripping the brae with the side of my foot that bothers me."
He went on without slackening speed, and the slope grew easier and the
light breeze keener. Then the stretch of heather which had shut off
their view suddenly fell away, and they looked down through the soft
darkness on to a vast, black plain. There was nothing to distinguish
land from sea; but a faint cluster of lights that pricked the gloom
like pin-points marked the English-shore, and farther off the
flickering glare of blast-furnaces was reflected in the sky. In the
middle distance, a twinkle showed where the Solway lightship guarded
the fairway through the shoals; but there was no light near them, nor
any sound except the distant murmur of the sea. They stood remote from
the homes of men in the mountain solitude.
Andrew, stooping behind a mass of granite, struck a match and took out
his watch.
"We haven't much time to spare. I wish I knew if the lightship yonder
was still riding to the ebb," he said. "There's a burn somewhere below
us and running water is generally a good guide down."
They went on, floundering through tangled heather and falling into
rabbit-burrows, until the tinkle of water reached them softly. After
that they wound downhill beside the growing burn, past brakes of thorn
and hazel and over banks of stones, until a long wood led them to the
road. Following the wood for a time they went down again through
smooth pasture and turnip-fields and came to a wall that ran along the
beach. The empty space beyond it looked black and lonely, and the
mournful crying of wildfowl came out of the gloom, but at some
distance a beam from a lighthouse cast its reflection upon the sloppy
sand.
"Can you hit the wreck from here?" Whitney asked.
"I'll try," said Andrew. "It's a long way, and the tide must be on the
turn."
They took off their boots, and as they launched out across the dark
level the sand felt sharply cold. Here and there they splashed through
pools, but for the most part the bank was ribbed with hard ridges. The
shore soon vanished; Criffell's black bulk grew blurred and shapeless
against the sky; and they had only the misty beam from the lighthouse
for guide. Whitney, however, imagined that Andrew was going straight,
which was comforting, when they came to a wide depression where water
glimmered. He thought this was the channel that had stopped them
before, and he felt somewhat uneasy as he waded in. There was now no
boat they could retreat to on the other side of the wreck.
The water, however, hardly covered their ankles; and some time
afterward Andrew touched Whitney's arm as a dim, formless mass rose
from the sand. It got plainer as they cautiously approached it, their
bare feet falling noiselessly, and in a minute or two they stopped and
listened beside the wreck. There was no sound but the drip of water,
and Andrew, grasping a broken beam, swung himself up. Whitney
followed, his nerves tense, his muscles braced; and he held his breath
when he dropped into the forecastle. The next moment a pale light
sprang up, and he saw Andrew holding out a match. The feeble glow
spread along the wet planks and filled the forecastle before the match
went out, and Whitney was more relieved than disappointed to see that
nobody else was there.
"We have missed him," he said. "Take my box; they're wax and burn
better than the wooden kind."
Andrew struck another light, and it burned clearer. The candle they
had used and replaced on the last visit had gone, but two or three
matches floated in a pool. He picked them up and Whitney examined them
closely.
"These are quite fresh," he said. "Looks as if they'd just been
struck, though we can't be sure of that. Extra thick wax, same make as
mine; I got the best I could, because I wanted them to light the
bicycle lamp."
Then the match burned low, and Andrew threw it down.
"It proves nothing except that the man who used them wanted a good
article. The make is well known, but in this part of the country you
couldn't find it except at a tobacconist's."
"That's a point. Anything is good enough for a fisherman or a sailor
to get a light with. The fellow who came here must have meant to have
the best."
"After all, the matches don't tell us who he is," Andrew said slowly.
"They don't, but they may help us later. And now we'll hustle for the
beach. It would be awkward if we found the tide running up the
gutter."
They set off across the sands and waded through the channel without
trouble. Reaching land, they put on their boots and laboriously
struggled up the dark hill. Both were tired when they floundered down
through the heather on the other side, but they found the boggy heath,
and came at last to the cothouse. As they expected, the motorcycle was
no longer there. They trudged on to the peat-stack, and shortly
afterward Whitney started his machine, and with some difficulty kept
out of the ruts and ditches until he turned into the highroad.