ON the top of this there followed an attempt to poison Th' Owd Un. At
least there was no other accounting for the affair.
In the dead of a long-remembered night James Moore was waked by a low
moaning beneath his room. He leapt out of bed and ran to the window to
see his favorite dragging about the moonlit yard, the dark head
down, the proud tail for once lowered, the lithe limbs wooden, heavy,
unnatural--altogether pitiful.
In a moment he was downstairs and out to his friend's assistance.
“Whativer is't, Owd Un?” he cried in anguish.
At the sound of that dear voice the old dog tried to struggle to him,
could not, and fell, whimpering.
In a second the Master was with him, examining him tenderly, and crying
for Sam'l, who slept above the stables.
There was every symptom of foul play: the tongue was swollen and almost
black; the breathing labored; the body twitched horribly; and the soft
gray eyes all bloodshot and straining in agony.
With the aid of Sam'l and Maggie, drenching first and stimulants after,
the Master pulled him around for the moment. And soon Jim Mason and
Parson Leggy, hurriedly summoned, came running hot-foot to the rescue.
Prompt and stringent measures saved the victim--but only just. For a
time the best sheep-dog in the North was pawing at the Gate of Death. In
the end, as the gray dawn broke, the danger passed.
The attempt to get at him, if attempt it was, aroused passionate
indignation in the countryside. It seemed the culminating-point of the
excitement long bubbling.
There were no traces of the culprit; not a vestige to lead to
incrimination, so cunningly had the criminal accomplished his foul task.
But as to the perpetrator, if there where no proofs there were yet fewer
doubts.
At the Sylvester Arms, Long Kirby asked M'Adam point-blank for his
explanation of the matter.
“Hoo do I 'count for it?” the little man cried. “I dinna 'count for it
ava.”
“Then hoo did it happen?” asked Tammas with asperity.
“I dinna believe it did happen,” the little man replied. “It's a lee
o' James Moore's--a characteristic lee.” Whereon they chucked him out
incontinently; for the Terror for once was elsewhere.
Now that afternoon is to be remembered for threefold causes. Firstly,
because, as has been said, M'Adam was alone. Secondly, because, a few
minutes after his ejectment, the window of the tap-room was thrown open
from without, and the little man looked in. He spoke no word, but those
dim, smouldering eyes of his wandered from face to face, resting for
a second on each, as if to burn them on his memory. “I'll remember ye,
gentlemen,” he said at length quietly, shut the window, and was gone.
Thirdly, for a reason now to be told.
Though ten days had elapsed since the attempt on him, the gray dog had
never been his old self since. He had attacks of shivering; his vitality
seemed sapped; he tired easily, and, great heart, would never own it.
At length on this day, James Moore, leaving the old dog behind him, had
gone over to Grammoch-town to consult Dingley, the vet. On his way home
he met Jim Mason with Gyp, the faithful Betsy's unworthy successor, at
the Dalesman's Daughter. Together they started for the long tramp home
over the Marches. And that journey is marked with a red stone in this
story.
All day long the hills had been bathed in impenetrable fog. Throughout
there had been an accompanying drizzle; and in the distance the wind
had moaned a storm-menace. To the darkness of the day was added the
sombreness of falling night as the three began the ascent of the
Murk Muir Pass. By the time they emerged into the Devil's Bowl it was
altogether black and blind. But the threat of wind had passed, leaving
utter stillness; and they could hear the splash of an otter on the far
side of the Lone Tarn as they skirted that gloomy water's edge. When at
length the last steep rise on to the Marches had been topped, a breath
of soft air smote them lightly, and the curtain of fog began drifting
away.
The two men swung steadily through the heather with that reaching stride
the birthright of moor-men and highlanders. They talked but little,
for such was their nature: a word or two on sheep and the approaching
lambing-time; thence on to the coming Trials; the Shepherds' Trophy;
Owd Bob and the attempt on him; and from that to M'Adam and the Tailless
Tyke.
“D'yo' reck'n M'Adam had a hand in't?” the postman was asking.
“Nay; there's no proof.”
“Ceptin' he's mad to get shut o' Th' Owd Un afore Cup Day.”
“Im or me--it mak's no differ. For a dog is disqualified from competing
for the Trophy who has changed hands during the six months prior to the
meeting. And this holds good though the change be only from father to
son on the decease of the former.”
Jim looked up inquiringly at his companion.
“D'yo' think it'll coom to that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why--murder.”
“Not if I can help it,” the other answered grimly.
The fog had cleared away by now, and the moon was up. To their right,
on the crest of a rise some two hundred yards away, a low wood stood out
black against the sky. As they passed it, a blackbird rose up screaming,
and a brace of wood-pigeons winged noisily away.
“Hullo! hark to the yammerin'!” muttered Jim, stopping; “and at this
time o' night too!”
Some rabbits, playing in the moonlight on the outskirts of the wood, sat
up, listened, and hopped back into security. At the same moment a big
hill-fox slunk out of the covert. He stole a pace forward and halted,
listening with one ear back and one pad raised; then cantered silently
away in the gloom, passing close to the two men and yet not observing
them.
“What's up, I wonder?” mused the postman.
“The fox set 'em clackerin', I reck'n,” said the Master.
“Not he; he was scared 'maist oot o' his skin,” the other answered. Then
in tones of suppressed excitement, with his hands on James Moore's arm:
“And, look'ee, theer's ma Gyp a-beckonin' on us!”
There, indeed, on the crest of the rise beside the wood, was the
little lurcher, now looking back at his master, now creeping stealthily
forward.
“Ma word! theer's summat wrong yonder!” cried Jim, and jerked the
post-bags off his shoulder. “Coom on, Master! “--and he set off running
toward the dog; while James Moore, himself excited now, followed with an
agility that belied his years.
Some score yards from the lower edge of the spinney, upon the farther
side of the ridge, a tiny beck babbled through its bed of peat. The
two men, as they topped the rise, noticed a flock of black-faced
mountain-sheep clustered in the dip 'twixt wood and stream. They stood
martialled in close array, facing half toward the wood, half toward
the newcomers, heads up, eyes glaring, handsome as sheep only look when
scared.
On the crest of the ridge the two men halted beside Gyp. The postman
stood with his head a little forward, listening intently. Then he
dropped in the heather like a dead man, pulling the other with him.
“Doon, mon!” he whispered, clutching at Gyp with his spare hand.
“What is't, Jim?” asked the Master, now thoroughly roused.
“Summat movin' i' th' wood,” the other whispered, listening
weasel-eared.
So they lay motionless for a while; but there came no sound from the
copse.
“'Appen 'twas nowt,” the postman at length allowed, peering cautiously
about. “And yet I thowt--I dunno reetly what I thowt.”
Then, starting to his knees with a hoarse cry of terror: “Save us!
what's yon theer?”
Then for the first time the Master raised his head and noticed, lying in
the gloom between them and the array of sheep, a still, white heap.
James Moore was a man of deeds, not words.
“It's past waitin'!” he said, and sprang forward, his heart in his
mouth.
The sheep stamped and shuffled as he came, and yet did not break.
“Ah, thanks be!” he cried, dropping beside the motionless body; “it's
nob'but a sheep.” As he spoke his hands wandered deftly over the
carcase. “But what's this?” he called. “Stout* she was as me. Look at
her fleece--crisp, close, strong; feel the flesh--firm as a rock. And
ne'er a bone broke, ne're a scrat on her body a pin could mak'. As
healthy as a mon--and yet dead as mutton!”
*N.B. Stout--Hearty.
Jim, still trembling from the horror of his fear, came up, and knelt
beside his friend. “Ah, but there's bin devilry in this!” he said; “I
reck'ned they sheep had bin badly skeared, and not so long agone.”
“Sheep-murder, sure enough!” the other answered. “No fox's doin'--a
girt-grown two-shear as could 'maist knock a h'ox.”
Jim's hands travelled from the body to the dead creature's throat. He
screamed.
“By gob, Master! look 'ee theer!” He held his hand up in the moonlight,
and it dripped red. “And warm yet! warm!”
“Tear some bracken, Jim!” ordered the other, “and set alight. We mun see
to this.”
The postman did as bid. For a moment the fern smouldered and smoked,
then the flame ran crackling along and shot up in the darkness,
weirdly lighting the scene: to the right the low wood, a block of solid
blackness against the sky; in front the wall of sheep, staring out of
the gloom with bright eyes; and as centre-piece that still, white body,
with the kneeling men and lurcher sniffing tentatively round.
The victim was subjected to a critical examination. The throat, and that
only, had been hideously mauled; from the raw wounds the flesh hung in
horrid shreds; on the ground all about were little pitiful dabs of
wool, wrenched off apparently in a struggle; and, crawling among the
fern-roots, a snake-like track of red led down to the stream.
“A dog's doin', and no mistakin' thot,” said Jim at length, after a
minute inspection.
“Ay,” declared the Master with slow emphasis, “and a sheep-dog's too,
and an old un's, or I'm no shepherd.”
The postman looked up.
“Why thot?” he asked, puzzled.
“Becos,” the Master answered, “'im as did this killed for blood--and for
blood only. If had bin ony other dog--greyhound, bull, tarrier, or even
a young sheep-dog--d'yo' think he'd ha' stopped wi' the one? Not he;
he'd ha' gone through 'em, and be runnin' 'em as like as not yet,
nippin' 'em, pullin' 'em down, till he'd maybe killed the half. But 'im
as did this killed for blood, I say. He got it--killed just the one, and
nary touched the others, d'yo 'see, Jim?”
The postman whistled, long and low.
“It's just what owd Wrottesley'd tell on,” he said. “I never nob'but
half believed him then--I do now though. D'yo' mind what th' owd lad'd
tell, Master?”
James Moore nodded.
“Thot's it. I've never seen the like afore myself, but I've heard ma
grandad speak o't mony's the time. An owd dog'll git the cravin' for
sheep's blood on him, just the same as a mon does for the drink; he
creeps oot o' nights, gallops afar, hunts his sheep, downs 'er, and
satisfies the cravin'. And he nary kills but the one, they say, for he
knows the value o' sheep same as you and me. He has his gallop, quenches
the thirst, and then he's for home, maybe a score mile away, and no one
the wiser i' th' mornin'. And so on, till he cooms to a bloody death,
the murderin' traitor.”
“If he does!” said Jim.
“And he does, they say, nigh always. For he gets bolder and bolder wi'
not bein' caught, until one fine night a bullet lets light into him. And
some mon gets knocked nigh endways when they bring his best tyke home i'
th' mornin', dead, wi' the sheep's wool yet stickin' in his mouth.”
The postman whistled again.
“It's what owd Wrottesley'd tell on to a tick. And he'd say, if ye
mind, Master, as hoo the dog'd niver kill his master's sheep--kind o'
conscience-like.”
“Ay, I've heard that,” said the Master. “Queer too, and 'im bein' such a
bad un!”
Jim Mason rose slowly from his knees.
“Ma word,” he said, “I wish Th' Owd Un was here. He'd 'appen show us
summat!”
“I nob'but wish he was, pore owd lad!” said the Master.
As he spoke there was a crash in the wood above them; a sound as of some
big body bursting furiously through brushwood.
The two men rushed to the top of the rise. In the darkness they could
see nothing; only, standing still and holding their breaths, they could
hear the faint sound, ever growing fainter, of some creature splashing
in a hasty gallop over the wet moors.
“Yon's him! Yon's no fox, I'll tak' oath. And a main big un, too, hark
to him!” cried Jim. Then to Gyp, who had rushed off in hot pursuit:
“Coom back, chunk-'ead. What's use o' you agin a gallopin' potamus?”
Gradually the sounds died away and away, and were no more.
“Thot's 'im, the devil!” said the Master at length.
“Nay; the devil has a tail, they do say,” replied Jim thoughtfully. For
already the light of suspicion was focusing its red glare.
“Noo I reck'n we're in for bloody times amang the sheep for a while,”
said the Master, as Jim picked up his bags.
“Better a sheep nor a mon,” answered the postman, still harping on the
old theme.