At noon next day Foster sat, smoking, on a bridge near the clachan.
The air was mild and sunshine filled the hollow, while Foster had just
dined upon some very appetizing broth. The broth was thick with
vegetables, but he did not think the meat in it came from a barn-door
fowl. The clachan was a poor and untidy place, but he was tired, and
as the gamekeepers would not suspect a neatly-dressed stranger, had
thought of stopping another night. When he had nearly finished his
pipe. Long Pete came up. Foster, who had only seen him in the
moonlight, now noted that he had a rather frank brown face and a
twinkling smile.
"Ye'll be for Hawick?" he remarked.
Foster said he was going there and Pete resumed in a meaning tone:
"It's a grand day for the road and ye could be in Hawick soon after
it's dark."
"Just so," said Foster, who could take a hint. "But is there any
reason I should start this afternoon?"
"Ye should ken. I was across the muir in the morning and found a
polisman frae Yarrow at Watty Bell's. He'd come ower the hills on his
bicycle and was asking if they'd seen a stranger wi' a glove on his
left han'."
Foster made a little abrupt movement that he thought the other noted,
but said carelessly, "The fellow must have had a rough trip."
"A road gangs roon' up the waterside, though I wouldna' say it's very
good. I'm thinking he made an early start and would wait for dinner
with Watty. Then ye might give him twa 'oors to get here."
Foster looked at his watch and pondered. He was beginning to
understand Scottish tact and saw that Pete meant to give him a friendly
warning. It was obvious that the policeman would not have set off
across the hills in the dark of a winter morning unless he had been
ordered to make inquiries. Moreover, since the gamekeepers had
mistaken Foster for Pete, the orders had nothing to do with the
poaching.
"Perhaps I had better pull out," he said. "But the fellow won't have
much trouble in learning which way I've gone."
"I'm no' sure o' that. There's a road o' a sort rins west to Annandale
and Lockerbie."
"But I'm not going west."
"Weel," said Pete, "ye might start that way, and I would meet ye where
a sheep track rins back up the glen--ye'll ken it by the broken dyke
where ye cross the burn. Then I would set ye on the road to Hawick
ower the hill."
"Thanks," said Foster thoughtfully. "I suppose I ought to let the
folks at the inn know I've gone towards Annandale, so they can tell the
policeman?"
Pete's eyes twinkled. "It might be better if they didna' exactly tell
him, but let him find it oot; but I'll see tae that. Polisman Jock is
noo and then rather shairp."
Ten minutes later, Foster left the inn and set off across the moor.
The heath shone red, and here and there little pools, round which white
stones lay in the dark peat, flashed in the sunshine. The pale-blue of
the sky changed near the horizon to delicate green, and a soft breeze
blew across the waste. Foster enjoyed the walk, although he was
puzzled and somewhat disturbed. If inquiries had been made about
Featherstone, he could have understood it, but the police were asking
for a man with a glove on his left hand, which could only apply to him.
Daly, of course, would be glad to get him out of the way, if he had
learned that he was in Scotland, but the police could not arrest a man
who had done nothing wrong.
Foster now regretted that he had helped the poachers, although he
thought he had made friends who would not betray him and might be
useful. He had met Border Scots in Ontario, and knew something about
their character. They were marked by a stern independence, inherited
from their moss-trooper ancestors, and he thought Pete was a typical
specimen of the virile race. The man met him at the broken dyke, and
leaving the road they turned east up the side of a sparkling burn.
The narrow strip of level ground was wet and covered with moss, in
which their feet sank, but the hillside was too steep to walk along.
It ran up, a slope of gray-white grass, to the ragged summit where the
peat was gashed and torn. Here and there a stunted thorn tree grew in
a hollow, but the glen was savagely desolate, and Foster, glancing at
his companion, thought he understood why the men who wrung a living
from these barren hills prospered when they came out to the rich
wheat-soil of Canada. The Flowers of the Forest, who fell at Flodden,
locking fast the Scottish square against the onslaught of England's
finest cavalry, were bred in these wilds, and had left descendants
marked by their dour stubbornness. Pete's hair was turning gray and
his brown face was deeply lined, but he crossed the quaking moss with a
young man's stride, and Foster thought his mouth could set hard as
granite in spite of his twinkling smile. He was a man who would forget
neither a favor nor an injury, and Foster was glad to feel that he was
on his side.
At the head of the glen they climbed a long grassy slope and came to a
tableland where the peat was torn into great black rifts and piled in
hummocks. This was apparently Nature's work, but Foster could not see
how the storms that burst upon the hills could have worked such havoc.
Crossing the rugged waste to a distant cairn, they sat down upon the
stones, and Pete filled his pipe from Foster's pouch.
"Ye'll haud east until ye find a burn that will lead ye doon to the
road; then as ye cross the breist o' a fell ye'll see the reek o'
Hawick," he said and added after a pause: "Maybe ye'll no' be stopping
in the town?"
"I'll stay the night. After that, I think I'll take the hills again.
I'm going south towards Liddesdale, but I expect that's out of your
beat."
Pete smiled. "There's maist to be done in my regular line this side o'
Hawick. Buccleugh looks after his hares and paltrigs weel, and his
marches rin wide across the country from Teviot to Liddel. But I hae
freends a' the way to the North Tyne, and there's no' many sheep sales
I do not attend. If ye're wanting them, I could give ye a few
directions that might help ye on the road."
Foster thanked him and listened carefully. It looked as if the
poachers, who seemed to work now and then as honest drovers, knew each
other well and combined for mutual protection. It might be useful to
be made an honorary member of the gang.
"Weel," his companion concluded, "if ye stop at the inns I've told ye
o', ye'll find folks who can haud a quiet tongue, and if ye see ony
reason for it, ye can say ye're a freend o' mine."
Foster rather diffidently offered him some money, but was not surprised
when the man refused the gift. Indeed, he felt that it would have
jarred him had Pete taken it. The latter gave him his hand with a
smile and turned back to the glen while Foster pushed on across the
heath. He reflected with some amusement that Pete probably thought him
a fugitive from the law.
After a time he stopped to look about. His view commanded a horizon of
two or three miles, for he seemed to be near the center of the
tableland. Its surface was broken by the hummocks and hollows of the
peat, and tufts of white wild cotton relieved the blackness of the
gashes in the soil. Sheep fed in the distance, and he heard the harsh
cry of a grouse that skimmed the heath. The skyline was clear, and by
and by two sharp but distant figures cut against it.
Foster's first impulse was to drop into the ling, but he did not. If
the men were following him, it would take them half an hour to reach
the spot he occupied and, if necessary, the roughness of the ground
would enable him to reach the edge of the moor without their seeing
which way he went. Besides, since he would be visible as long as he
stood up, he could find out whether they were looking for him or not.
They came nearer and then vanished, and he sat down and speculated
about his line of retreat. Their disappearance was suspicious, and
although he thought he could baffle the rural police, it would be
different if he had gamekeepers to deal with.
By and by the men reappeared, but as they did not seem anxious to cover
their movements he felt relieved. It was possible that they had come
to mend a fence or look for some sheep. For all that, he drew back
among the hummocks, and looked for hollows where he would have a
background for his figure as he resumed his march. He saw no more of
the men and by and by came to a burn, which he followed to lower
ground, where he found the road Pete had told him about.
It led him up and down hill, and now and then the track was faint,
while when he crossed the last ridge the light was fading. Motionless
gray clouds stretched across the sky, which glimmered with pale saffron
in the west. Rounded hills, stained a deep blue, cut against the
light, and a trail of gauzy vapor hung about a distant hollow. Since
there was no mist on the moors, he knew it was the smoke of Hawick
mills.
As he went down, stone dykes began to straggle up the hill. The fields
they enclosed were rushy and dotted with whinns, but they got smoother
and presently he came to stubble and belts of plowing. Then he turned
into a good road and saw rows of lights that got gradually brighter in
the valley ahead. It had been dark some time when he entered Hawick,
and the damp air was filled with a thin, smoky haze. Factory windows
glimmered in the haze and tall chimneys loomed above the houses. The
bustle of the town fell pleasantly but strangely on his ears after the
silence of the moors.
Reaching a hotel that looked comfortable, he went in, ordered dinner,
and provisionally booked a room, though he did not register and
explained that he could not tell yet if he would stay all night. Then,
leaving his knapsack, he went into the street and stopped by a bridge
where three roads met. A guide-post indicated that one led to Selkirk,
and the map had shown Foster that this was the way to Peebles and
Yarrow. Another ran up the waterside to Langholm and the south.
Foster lighted a cigarette and drawing his maimed hand into the sleeve
of his mackintosh, leaned against the side of the bridge and watched
the Selkirk road. It was not cold and the street was well lighted by
the windows of the shops. Briskly moving people streamed across the
bridge, as if the factory hands were going home from work, but nobody
seemed interested in Foster and the policeman who stood by the
guide-post paid him no attention. He thought about going back to the
hotel when a car, traveling rather fast, came down the road and pulled
up close by.
Foster leaned quietly against the bridge and did not turn his head, but
saw Daly sitting beside the driver; the half-dried mud that was thickly
crusted about the car indicated a long journey. An abrupt movement
might be dangerous, although he did not think Daly expected to find him
or Featherstone calmly lounging about the street. The driver beckoned
the policeman and Foster heard him ask if one crossed the bridge for
Langholm.
The man told him to turn to the right, and after speaking to the driver
Daly asked if there was a garage and a good hotel near. The policeman
gave him some directions, and when the car turned round and rolled away
Foster followed. He passed close by the policeman and, taking
advantage of the sociable Scottish custom, nodded and remarked that it
was a fine night. The man answered civilly, with a careless glance at
Foster, who went on, feeling satisfied with his experiment. It was
obvious that no inquiries about him had been telegraphed to Hawick and
he had only Daly to deal with. This was curious, if the police were
really anxious to find him.
The garage was open and Foster asked a man if he could hire a motor
bicycle. The fellow said he thought so, but the manager was out, and
Foster strolled about the room. Daly's driver was refilling the lamps
with carbide, and when he finished asked for petrol.
"Ye're for the road again," the man who brought the tin remarked.
"For Langholm," replied the driver. "I don't expect we'll go farther
to-night, but I must have things ready if the boss wants to go on."
Foster hoped the other would ask where they had come from, but he did
not do so, and next moment Daly walked down some steps at the other end
of the room. Knowing that a quick retreat might betray him, Foster
stood still and examined a lamp he picked up. Daly crossed the floor,
passing within a yard or two.
"You can fix her all right, I suppose?" he said to the driver.
The latter said something about a sparking-plug, and when Daly stooped
over the engine the light of a lamp shone into his face. He was a big,
handsome man, but Foster, studying him closely, noted his hard and
greedy eyes. For a moment, he came near forgetting the need for
caution and giving way to a fit of rage. The fellow had it in his
power to bring disgrace upon upright people and drag an honored name in
the mire. He could humble Alice Featherstone's pride and ruin the
brother she loved.
Lawrence had done wrong, but had paid for it and made good in Canada,
and now the rogue who had learned his secret would drag him down, or,
as the price of silence, bring his relatives to poverty. Foster felt
that Daly was not the man to be merciful when there was an advantage to
be got; one saw a sinister hint of cruelty in his coarsely-handsome
face. It would have been a relief to provoke the fellow and throw him
out of the garage, but Foster knew he must deny himself this
satisfaction, since it would make things worse for those he meant to
shield. He did not remember having felt so full of primitive
savageness before, but he exercised his self-control.
Standing in the shadow, he turned his head, looking down at the lamp he
began to take to pieces, and presently Daly said to the driver, "You
had better get some food; I'll want you soon."
Then he came back and passing close enough to touch Foster, went up the
steps and through a door. Foster put down the lamp and strolled out of
the garage. He found dinner ready at his hotel and when he had
finished went to the smoking-room, which was opposite the office. He
left the door open and by and by heard a man enter the hall and stop at
the counter.
"Have you an American called Franklin here?" he asked and Foster smiled
as he recognized Daly's voice.
He had half-expected the visit, and the inquiry was cleverly framed.
Daly had not asked about a Canadian, because the accent of Western
Canada is that of the United States, and Franklin resembled
Featherstone enough to prompt the girl clerk to mention the latter if
he were a guest. For all that, Daly was ignorant of the Scottish
character, because the Scot seldom offers information that is not
demanded.
"No," she said, "we have no American staying with us."
Foster thought Daly opened the visitors' book, which lay on the
counter, but as he had not yet entered his name, there was nothing to
be learned from it. Still Daly might come into the smoking-room, and
he picked up the _Scotsman_ and leaning back in his chair held up the
newspaper to hide his face. After a few moments, Daly said, "I don't
know anybody here; it looks as if my friends aren't in the town."
Then he went along the hall, and when the door shut Foster put down the
newspaper and began to think. He imagined that Daly hardly expected to
find Featherstone in Hawick, but it was curious that he was going to
Langholm, which was on the best road to Lockerbie in Annandale. It was
the police Foster had tried to put off the track at the clachan by
striking west across the moors, and he did not think Daly had anything
to do with them. He could see no light on the matter, but when he went
back to the garage it was something of a relief to find the car had
gone.