Foster left Peebles soon after his arrival and following the Tweed down
stream to Traquair turned south across the hills. A road brought him
to Yarrow, where he sat down to smoke in the shelter of a stone dyke by
the waterside. He had no reason to believe that he was followed, and
there were two good hotels beside St. Mary's loch, which was not far
off. But Foster did not mean to stay at good hotels and knew that Daly
would not have much trouble in reaching St. Mary's in a car if he
arrived at Peebles by a later train. It would then be difficult to
keep out of his way, and if he found Foster alone, he would, no doubt,
go back to look for Lawrence at the Garth. Taking this for granted,
Foster thought it better to put Ettrick Forest between himself and
possible pursuit.
It looked a lonely region on the map, and when he glanced south the
hills loomed, dark and forbidding, through thin gray mist. Pools of
water dotted the marish fields, and beyond these lay a wet, brown moss
where wild cotton grew among the peat-hags. Plover were crying about
the waste and a curlew's shrill tremolo rang out as it flitted across
the leaden sky. The outlook was not encouraging, but Foster picked his
way across the bog and struck up the side of a fell. There was a road,
but it would take him some distance round.
Wiry grass twined about his feet, he sank in velvety green patches
where the moss grew rank, and walking was harder when he crossed belts
of withered heath. Here and there a gnarled thorn bush rattled its dry
twigs in the wind; there were bits of dykes and rusty wire fences, but
he saw no path except the winding tracks the sheep had made. Still
Ettrick water was not far off, and he would strike it if he held south.
Heavy rain met him on the summit, and after struggling on for a time he
took shelter behind a broken dyke. The rain got worse and the moor was
lost in mist a quarter of a mile away, but he heard a faint, hoarse
sound in the haze below. He thought this was the roar of Ettrick or a
fall on a moorland burn that would lead him down.
When he began to feel cold he set off again, and the rain, which
thinned as he went down hill, stopped altogether when he reached the
bottom. A road ran beside the angry water, but the valley was deeply
sunk in the dark fells and their summits were hidden by drifting mist.
There was no hint of life in the dreary landscape except a moving patch
that looked like a flock of sheep, and a glance at the map showed that
his path led on across the waste to the south. It would be a long
march to Hawick, which was the town he meant to reach, particularly if
he went up the valley, until he found a road, but his director had
indicated a clachan as his stopping-place. He understood that a
clachan meant a hamlet, and the old fellow had said he would find rough
but sufficient accommodation in what he called a change-house. It
would be awkward if he lost the way, but this must be risked, and
crossing the river he struck into the hills.
He found a rough track, and presently the sky began to clear.
Pale-blue patches opened in the thinning clouds, and gleams of
sunshine, chased by shadow, touched the moor. Where they fell the
brown heath turned red and withered fern glowed fiery yellow. The
green road, cropped smooth by sheep and crossed by rills of water,
swung sharply up and down, but at length it began a steady descent, and
about four o'clock in the afternoon Foster stopped in the bottom of a
deep glen.
A few rushy fields occupied the hollow and a house stood in the shelter
of a thin fir wood. It had mullioned windows and a porch with pillars,
but looked old, and the walls were speckled with lichens. A garden
stretched about it, and looking in through the iron rails, Foster saw
gnarled fruit trees fringed with moss. Their branches cut against a
patch of saffron sky, and a faint warm glow touched the front of the
building. There was a low window at its nearer end and Foster saw a
woman sewing by the fire.
The house had a strangely homelike look after the barren moors, and
Foster, feeling tired and cold, longed to ask for shelter. Had it been
a farm, he might have done so, but he thought it belonged to some
country laird and resumed his march. He never saw the house again, but
remembered it now and then, as he had seen it with the fading light
that shone through the old apple trees touching its lichened wall.
The road led upwards and he stopped for breath at the summit. The glen
was now shut in and the light going, but here and there in the distance
a loch reflected a pale gleam. A half-moon shone above the hills and
the silver light got brighter as he went on. The wind had fallen and
the silence was emphasized by the faint splash of water. After a time,
he came down to lower ground where broken dykes divided straggling
fields, but there was no sign of life until as he turned a corner an
indistinct figure vanished among the dry fern in the shadow of a wall.
Foster thought this curious, particularly when he passed the spot and
saw nobody there, but there was an opening in the dyke for the sheep to
go through.
A little farther on, the road ran across a field, and when he was near
the middle he saw something move behind a gorse bush. Although it
looked like a man's head, he did not stop. Going on, as if he had seen
nothing, until he was close to the gorse, he left the track and walked
swiftly but softly across the grass. When he reached the bush a man
who had been crouching behind it sprang to his feet. He was tall and
roughly dressed, and looked like a shepherd or farm-hand.
"Weel," he said with a truculent air, "what is it ye want with me?"
The question somewhat relieved Foster, who now noted the end of a long,
thin net in the grass.
"I was curious to see what you were doing. Then I meant to ask the way
to Langsyke."
"What are ye wanting there?"
"To stay the night. I was directed to a change-house where they'd take
me in."
"They might. Ye're a stranger, and ye'll tak' the road again the morn?"
Foster said he meant to do so and the other pondered.
"Weel, there's a soft flow where ye might get mired if ye left the
road, which is no' that plain, and I could set ye on the way, but
there's a bit job I'll hae to finish first." He paused and added with
a grin as he indicated the net: "Maybe ye hae a notion what it is."
"I imagine it's connected with somebody else's grouse or partridges,
but that's not my business. You'll be a shilling or two richer if you
show me the way."
"Then the sooner I'm finished here, the sooner we'll be off, though I
doot we hae fleyt the paltrig. Bide ye by the whinns, and when ye see
me at the dyke come forrad with the net. If I lift my airm, ye'll
stop."
He went off with the end of the net, and Foster waited, half amused.
The fellow probably wanted to ensure his saying nothing about the
poaching by making him an accomplice, but this did not matter much. It
was an adventure and he was anxious to find a guide. By the way the
net unwound and slipped across the grass he thought there was another
man at work, but he carried his part forward as he had been told and
then dropped it and sat down among some rushes. Two indistinct figures
were moving towards each other and he got up presently when one
signaled. When he joined them a number of small dark objects showed
through the net.
"Hae!" said a man who opened the meshes, and added when Foster picked
up two limp birds: "We've no' done so bad."
Then Foster remembered the man he had seen as he came along the road.
"How many of you are in the gang?" he asked.
"There's twa o' us her. I'm thinking that's a' ye need ken."
"It's what I meant," said Foster apologetically. "Still I passed
another fellow hiding, a short distance back."
The men, saying nothing, took out the birds and began to roll up the
net. Foster had now four partridges, which they seemed to expect him
to carry, and was putting their legs together so as to hold them
conveniently when he heard a rattle of stones. Then a dark figure
leaped down from the wall and somebody shouted: "Stand where ye are or
I'll put a chairge o' number four in ye!"
A leveled gun twinkled in the moonlight, and for a moment Foster
hesitated. He hardly thought the man would shoot, and it would be
awkward if he was arrested with the partridges in his hand. Springing
suddenly forward, he struck, from below upwards, with his stick. There
was a flash and a report, but he felt himself unharmed and brought the
stick down upon the gamekeeper's head. He heard the gun drop, and then
turned and, keeping in the shadow of the wall, ran across the field.
When he was near the opposite end, he saw another man waiting to cut
him off, and seizing the top of the dyke swung himself over. He came
down among withered fern and ran back behind the wall towards the spot
where he had left his first antagonist, until he struck a small,
winding hollow through which water flowed. This seemed to offer a good
hiding-place, but Foster knew better, although he followed it for a
short distance. One can often hide best in the open and it was prudent
to avoid the obvious line of search. Creeping out of the hollow, he
made for a clump of rushes and felt satisfied when he lay down behind
it. His waterproof and cap were gray, and his pursuers would have to
search all the field before they found him, unless they were lucky.
After a few minutes, he saw them, but while one plunged into the
hollow, the other sat on top of the wall. This seemed to be the fellow
he had struck, and Foster was relieved to see he was not badly hurt.
The man, however, occupied a commanding position, because Foster's
chance of remaining unseen depended largely on the searcher's height
above the ground. He knew from experience gained in hunting that a
very small object will hide a man so long as the line of sight he must
avoid is nearly horizontal, but the fellow on the wall could see over
the rushes. In consequence, immobility was his only resource, and he
very cautiously turned his head enough to enable him to see.
The gamekeeper who had entered the hollow presently came back into the
field and began to walk methodically up and down, and Foster regretted
his rashness in helping with the net. The poachers had vanished, but
the others seemed to know there was somebody about, and since they were
gamekeepers would be hard to deceive. His cover was not good, and
although he might have changed his place when the fellow in the field
was farthest away, he feared that a movement would betray him to the
other on the wall.
In the meantime, the chill of the wet soil crept through his mackintosh
and his hands got numbed. He thrust them into the mossy grass for fear
they should show in the moonlight, and buried his face in the rushes,
which prickled his skin. He could, with some trouble, see through the
clump and anxiously watched the fellow who came steadily nearer. Now
and then he turned aside to examine a whinn bush, and Foster saw that
he had acted wisely when he dropped behind the rushes. Had he chosen a
prominent object for cover, he would have been caught.
At length, the searcher crossed the field on a line that would bring
him close to where Foster lay, and the latter let his face sink lower
and tried to check his breathing. He durst not look about, but heard
the man's heavy boots splash in the boggy grass, until the fellow
suddenly stopped. Foster thought he had seen him, but did not move.
In the Northwest, he had now and then caught a jack-rabbit by carefully
marking its hiding-place, but had not seen it afterwards until he
nearly trod upon the crouching animal. It was comforting to remember
that his pursuers had not watched him drop behind the rushes.
"Hae ye seen aught, Jock?" the keeper near him called, and Foster was
conscious of keen relief.
"Naething ava," answered the other. "If he went doon the burn, he's
no' come oot."
"He's no' there; ye would ha' seen him if he'd headed back."
There was silence for a moment or two and Foster heard the water bubble
in the moss as the man moved his foot. The fellow would tread upon him
if he took a few steps in the right direction, but his mackintosh was
much the color of the withered grass and his face and hands were hidden.
Then the man on the wall remarked in a thoughtful tone: "I'm no' quite
sure he went ower the dyke. Ye see, I was kin' o' staggered by the
clout on the head, and he might ha' slippit oot by the gate."
"It will be Lang Pate, of course."
"Just him," agreed the other. "He was near enough to reach me with his
stick and the light no' that bad. Besides, wha' else would it be?"
Foster, seeing that he had escaped notice, felt amused. Long Pete was
suspected and therefore judged guilty; the keeper's last argument
banished doubt.
"My heid's sair," the man resumed. "We'll look if they've gone doon
the glen, and then tak' the road if ye'll row up the net."
The other crossed the field and Foster lay still until he heard him
climb the wall and afterwards made for a hole that led into the road.
Somewhat to his surprise, he found that he had brought the partridges.
He followed the road quietly, keeping in the shadow of a dyke, although
he thought the gamekeepers had gone the other way, and on turning a
corner came upon the poachers lurking behind a thorn bush.
"We thought they had caught ye," one remarked.
"I suppose you were anxious about it, because you were afraid I might
put them on your track."
"I canna say ye're altogether wrang, but whaur are they the noo?"
"Looking for you in the glen, I believe. But which of you is Long
Pete?"
The man he had met first said it was his name, and Foster resumed:
"Then I imagine the fellow with the gun means to declare that you
struck him."
"He would!" Pete remarked, grinning. "Weel, it's lucky I hae twa three
friends wha'll show that I couldna' ha' been near the spot just then.
But we'll need to hurry."
"I think I understand," said Foster, who went on with them. "Still you
can't save much time, even if you walk very fast."
"Verra true," Pete replied. "But it's no' difficult to pit back the
clock."
Leaving the road presently, they struck across a bog that got softer as
they advanced until Foster felt the rotten turf tremble beneath his
feet. All round were clumps of rushes, patches of smooth but
treacherous moss, and holes where water glimmered in the moonlight. He
imagined it was a dangerous place for a stranger to cross, but his
companions knew the way, and although he sank to the top of his boots
they reached firmer ground. Soon afterwards, Pete showed him a rough
track that crossed the side of a hill.
"Yon's your road and ye'll see the clachan in aboot a mile. If they're
no' verra willing to tak' ye in, ye can tell them ye're a freend o'
mine."
Foster thanked him and followed the track, which led him to a hollow
where lights shone among a clump of bare ash trees. A few low, white
houses straggled along the roadside, and he thought one that was
somewhat larger and had dormer windows was the change-house. When he
knocked he was shown into an untidy kitchen where two men sat drinking
by a peat fire. At first, the landlord seemed doubtful about being
able to find room for him, but his manner changed when Foster
carelessly mentioned that he understood from Pete that he would be
welcome, and one of the others gave him a keen glance.
"Where met ye Pate?" he asked.
"On the hill," said Foster, who felt sure of his ground. "I helped him
with the net."
"Had he any luck?"
"Not much," said Foster. "Two gamekeepers turned up and although we
got a few partridges Pete lost his net."
There was silence for a moment, and then another remarked: "I wouldna'
say but we ken enough. We hae helpit Pate oot before, and a change is
lightsome. He can gang till the moss-side folk noo."
They let the matter drop, but Foster was given a better supper than he
expected and afterwards a bed in a cupboard fixed to the kitchen wall.