About eleven o'clock next morning Foster stopped at the top of a hill
and sitting down on a broken wall lighted his pipe. In front, the
undulating military road ran straight across the high tableland to the
west. To the south, a deep hollow, the bottom of which he could not
see, marked the course of the Tyne. Plumes of smoke rose out of the
valley and trailed languidly across the sky, for the river flowed past
well-cultivated fields, old-fashioned villages, and rows of sooty
cottages that clustered round pithead towers. Human activity had set
its stamp upon the sheltered dale, alike in scenes of quiet pastoral
beauty and industrial ugliness.
It was different to the north, where the shaggy moors rolled back in
bleak, dark ridges. There were no white farmsteads here; one looked
across a lonely waste that had sheltered the wolf and the lurking Pict
when the Romans manned the Wall, and long afterwards offered a refuge
to outlaws and cattle thieves. Foster's way led through this
desolation, but his map indicated a road of a kind that ran north to
the head of Liddel. He must decide whether he should take it or plunge
into the wilds.
Since Graham was in front of him, he had probably gone to Liddesdale,
with the object of finding if Foster was at the Garth. If he did not
come back by the road he had taken, he would watch the railway that
roughly followed it across the moors from Hexham, which seemed to close
the latter to Foster and make it dangerous for him to go near the Garth
at all. Nevertheless he meant to see Alice before he looked for Daly,
and he turned to Pete.
"On the whole, I'd sooner keep off the road. Is there a way across the
heath to the upper Liddel?"
"I wouldna' say there's a way," Pete answered with a dry smile. "But I
can take ye ower the Spadeadam waste, if ye do not mind the soft flows
and some verra rough traiveling. Then I'll no' promise that we'll win
farther than Bewcastle to-night, an' if there's much water in the
burns, we'll maybe no' get there."
They struck across a rushy field, crept through a ragged hedge, and
came out upon rough pasture that gradually merged into the heath. A
green bank and a straggling line of stones, some fallen in large masses
and some standing two or three feet high, presently stretched across
their path, and Foster stopped for a few moments. The bank and
moat-like hollow he looked down upon marked the _vallum_; the squared
stones, to which the lime still clung, apparently undetachable, the
_murus_. He was looking at the great rampart a Roman emperor had
built. He understood that it was higher and less damaged farther west
and would have liked to follow it, but he had something else to think
about than antiquities.
The heath got rougher when they left the wall. Spongy moss grew among
the ling that caught their feet, and the ground began to rise. Looking
at the sun, Foster saw they were not taking as northerly a line as he
had expected, but the back of a bold ridge rose between them and the
west and he supposed Pete meant to follow its other side. They stopped
to eat the food they had brought where a stream had worn away a hollow
in a bank. The sun, striking the wall of peaty soil behind them, was
pleasantly warm. It was a calm day, with slowly-drifting clouds, and
gray shadows streaked the wide, brown waste.
There was no house in sight and only in one place a few scattered dots
that looked like sheep. Getting out his map, Foster noted that they
were crossing the high neck where the Pennine range slopes down to meet
the southern spurs of the Cheviots. He had seen nothing in Canada
wilder or more desolate than this bleak tableland.
In the afternoon they toiled up the rise he had noticed in the
distance, winding in and out among soft places and hummocks of the
peat, but when they came to the top there was not the dip to a valley
he had expected. The ground was rougher than before, and the moor
rolled on, rising and falling in heathy undulations. By degrees,
however, it became obvious that they had crossed the water-shed and
were descending, for streams that increased in size crossed their path.
So far, none were deep, but the ravines they ran through began to seam
the gradual slope and Foster understood Pete's remark that something
depended on there not being much water in the burns.
Looking back after a time, he saw the crest of the moor run up behind
them against the sky, and the next ravine they came to was awkward to
climb down, while he was wet to the knees when he crossed the burn. A
mile farther on, he reached another that was worse and they had to work
back along the crumbling sides of its channel to find a place to cross.
After this their progress was marked by erratic curves, and Foster was
soon splashed with black peat-mud and green slime. By and by they came
to a broad level, shut in by a ridge on its other side, and picked
their way carefully between clumps of rushes and curious round holes
filled with dark-colored water. The ground was very soft and walking
became a toil, but Pete held steadily to his winding course and Foster,
although getting tired, did not lag behind.
They were some time crossing the bog and when they reached the foot of
the rise, which ran in a long line between them and the west, the light
got dimmer suddenly. A yellow glow that seemed to come from low down
flushed the sky, but the rough slope was dark and the hummocks and
gullies on its side were losing their distinctness. Foster felt
somewhat daunted by the prospect of pushing across the waste after
darkness fell, and doggedly kept level with Pete as they went up the
hill obliquely, struggling through tangled grass and wiry heath. When
they reached the summit, he saw they were on the western edge of the
tableland but some distance below its highest point Though it was
broken by rolling elevations, the ground ran gradually down to an
extensive plain where white mist lay in the hollows. A belt of saffron
light lingered on the horizon, with a half-moon in a streak of green
above, and one or two twinkling points showed, faint and far off, in
the valley.
"Yon," said Pete, "is Bewcastle dale, and I ken where we'll find a
welcome when we cross the water o' Line. But I'm thinking we'll keep
the big flow in our left han'."
Instead of descending towards the distant farmsteads, he followed the
summit of the rise, and Foster, who understood that a flow is a soft
bog, plodded after him without objecting. The heather was tangled and
rough, and hid the stones he now and then stumbled against, but it was
better to hurry than be left with a long distance to cover in the dark.
Indeed, as he caught his feet in the wiry stems and fell into holes, he
frankly admitted the absurdity of his adventure, a sense of which
amused him now and then. He was in a highly civilized country, there
were railways and telegraph lines not far off, and he was lurking like
an ancient outlaw among the bogs! It looked as if there must be better
ways of meeting his difficulties, but he could not see one. Anyhow, he
had determined to save his partner, and now, if his plans were hazy and
not very wise, it was too late to make a sweeping change.
After a time Pete stopped abruptly, and then dropping into a clump of
heather, pointed backwards down the long slope on their right hand.
Foster's sight was good, but he admitted that the poacher's was better,
because it was a minute or two before he saw any ground for alarm.
Although there was some light in the sky, the rough descent was dark
and it was only by degrees he distinguished something that moved across
the heath, below and some distance away. Then he realized that it was
a man, and another became faintly visible. They might be shepherds or
sportsmen, but it was significant that there were two and they seemed
to be ascending obliquely, as if to cut his line of march. He
remembered that as he and Pete had kept the crest of the ridge their
figures must have shown, small but sharp, against the fading light.
"It's suspicious, but I wouldn't like to say they're on our trail," he
remarked.
"Ye'll soon ken. Watch the bit scaur."
Foster saw a faint dark line down the hill, and supposed it was a
gully, torn out of the peat. It ran nearly straight up, crossing the
strangers' indirect course to the summit, and would make a very rough
means of ascent, but if they entered it the men would be out of sight.
He blamed himself for not looking back before but had felt safe in the
wilds, and even now it was hard to believe that the men were following
him. Straining his eyes, he watched them move towards the gully, and
set his lips when they disappeared. It was plain that they meant to
get as close as possible before they were seen.
He did not move for the next few moments, but his brain was busy.
Graham might have come back down the north road in his car and
afterwards taken to the moors, but it was difficult to understand how
he had found Foster's track. Chance, however, sometimes favored one in
a curious way; the fellow might have found out that he had left the
road and expected him to stop the night in Bewcastle dale. Since
Foster had Pete with him, he was not, in one sense, afraid of Graham.
Although the fellow was, no doubt, dangerous, he was not likely to
force an equal fight. The risk would come if Graham found him alone
and at a disadvantage, when Foster thought it would go hard with him.
This was why he could not have the men on his track, watching for the
right moment to strike. It was, however, possible that the strangers
were police, and he lay in the heath with knitted brows until Pete
touched him.
"They wouldna' find us easy if we keepit still, but I'm no' for
spending the night among the bents," he said. "I'm thinking we'll try
the big flow and lose them in the mire."
He rose and crossing the summit started down the incline, while Foster
followed as fast as he could. It would be some time before the others
reached the spot they had left, but the light of the sinking moon
touched the face of the hill and as long as they were moving their
figures could be seen. When they reached the bottom Pete headed west,
and presently stopped at the edge of a wide level space. Tufts of wild
cotton gleamed lividly in the moonlight, and here and there a sparkle
marked a pool, but, farther on, a trail of mist stretched across the
bog. It did not look inviting, and when Pete stopped for a few moments
Foster heard the water bubble through the wet moss in which his feet
sank.
"The black burn rins on the ither side, and there's just one place
where ye can cross," Pete said thoughtfully. "An old shieling stands
on a bit dry knowe near the middle o' the flow, and I wouldna' say but
we might spend the night there, if it was needful."
Foster left it to him, although he was not much attracted by the
thought of spending the night in the bog, and Pete moved forward
cautiously. He seemed to be following a track, because he went
straight ahead, tramping through clumps of rushes, and splashing into
pools. Foster noted that the latter were shallow, though he had fallen
into bog-holes that were deep. They tried to move silently, but they
made some noise, and he felt relieved when they plunged into a belt of
mist that would hide them from their pursuers. By the look of the
ground to left and right, he imagined that a stranger who lost the
track would have serious trouble in regaining firm soil,
When they came out of the mist, however, he began to find the silence
daunting. On the hills one could hear the grouse and plover crying and
the murmur of running water, but an oppressive quietness brooded over
the flow. Nor could he see much except rushes, treacherous moss, and
dully-glimmering pools. By and by, however, a dark mass loomed through
the haze and Pete stopped and looked back.
For a moment or two Foster heard nothing, and then there was a splash
and a noise, as if somebody was floundering through the rushes. The
sounds were nearer than he had thought possible, and he glanced at his
companion.
"They're no' traiveling badly and they've keepit the track so far,"
Pete remarked. "Maybe ye wouldn'a care to try their speed for the next
two or three miles?"
"Certainly not," said Foster; "that is, if there's another way."
"Weel," said Pete, "they're surely nearer than I thought, and might see
where we crossed the burn. There's nought for't but the shieling on
the knowe."
He went on, and the dark mass ahead grew into a rocky mound covered
with small trees. They were birches, because Foster saw their
drooping, lacelike twigs above the low mist; and the indistinct object
among their stems was the shieling. It was obvious that the hut would
catch the eyes of the men behind if they came close enough, and he
stopped where the ground rose.
"We'll no' gang in yet," said Pete.
They skirted the mound, which was larger than Foster thought and broken
by out-cropping rock, and when a thick screen of the birches rose
between them and the building, crept into a nook among the stones.
Foster imagined that the others might search for half the night without
finding them unless they were lucky. Then Pete remarked in a meaning
tone: "There's just the twa, and I hae a good stick."
Foster smiled. He was tired, wet, and savage, and would have liked to
confront Graham and settle their differences by force; but the matter
could not be treated in this primitive way. He could not shoot the
men, and would be no better off if he overpowered and threw them in the
bog. They would know where he was and would follow him as close as was
safe, while he wanted to shake them off and make them uncertain whether
they were on his track or not. Besides, his antagonists might avoid a
conflict.
"The thing's too complicated to be straightened out by knocking
somebody down," he said. "But I'm glad I'm not here alone."
In the meantime, the others were getting nearer, for Foster heard them
splash through the wet moss and stumble among the rushy grass. They
were walking fast, which indicated that they thought themselves some
distance behind the fugitives; but stopped when they saw the birches,
and then came on again cautiously. Foster could not see them until
their blurred figures appeared among the trees. So long as he kept
still there was little chance of his being found.
The moonlight filtered through the low mist that rose half-way up the
thin birch trunks on the top of the mound, but the shieling stood on a
lower level, and when they went towards it the men's forms got very
indistinct. They vanished, but he knew they had gone in when a pale
stream of light flickered among the trees.
"A polisman's trick," Pete said in a low voice. "A poacher would not
ha' let ye see the light."
Foster felt that he must find out who the men were. The thing was
risky, but it was worth trying, and he crawled out from behind the
stones. The rock was rough and wet; his hand plunged into some water
and he scraped his knee, but he made a few yards and then stopped and
lay flat as the light went out. It looked as if the others had heard
him, and he lowered his head until his face was buried in withered
fern. There was silence for a few moments, and then his nerves tingled
as he heard steps; the men, he thought, were coming out to look for
him. He did not move, however, and the footsteps got farther off. By
and by there was a sharp rustle and he cautiously looked up. Two hazy
figures showed among the trees, but it was plain that they were going
away.
It was impossible to follow them without being heard, and he waited
until Pete joined him. So far as he could judge by the noise they
made, the men were hurrying across the bog.
"They're awa', but I wouldna' say they'll no' come back," Pete
remarked. "If they dinna' strike the right place, they'll no' find it
easy to cross the burn. She rins in a deep cut an' the bottom's saft."
"What's likely to happen if they get off the track?"
"Weel," said Pete, with a chuckle, "it's verra possible they'll stop in
the flow till morning, maybe up to the knees in mire. I dinna' think
there's much reason they should get in deeper, but they might."
"But suppose they find the way and cross the burn?"
"Then, if they ken the dale, I would expect them to haud a bit south
for Shopford, where they would find an inn, or maybe west by the
Clattering ford to Canonbie. If they dinna' ken, it's likely they'll
hae to sleep behind a dyke. Noo, however, we'll turn back and gang up
the dale."
They recrossed the bog and skirted the moor for some time, after which
they went down a long slope and reached a level space of grass and
heath. They followed it north until a light shone ahead and the
barking of dogs indicated that they were approaching a farm. Pete went
in first, and Foster did not know what explanation he gave, but the
farmer told him to sit down when he entered the big, flagged kitchen.
He was not surprised when a woman who came in looked at him curiously,
because he was wet and splashed, and bits of fern and heather stuck to
his clothes, but his hosts asked no questions and presently gave him
supper.
Soon afterwards he was shown a comfortable room and went to bed,
leaving Pete with the others in the kitchen. Foster was glad to feel
he could be trusted not to tell them too much, although he would, no
doubt, have to satisfy their curiosity to some extent. A hint went a
long way with the reserved Borderers.