IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home.
All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against David
had made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd Bob, and the Dale
Cup were for once forgotten as, in his passion, he cursed his son.
The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping madman.
For once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser outbursts could
quell, were dumb before him; only now and then shooting furtive glances
in his direction, as though on the brink of some daring enterprise
of which he was the objective. But M'Adam noticed nothing, suspected
nothing.
When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there was no
light and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a white riband
of paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark.
The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and resumed
his tireless anathema.
“I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht to thole
from ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck me, Wullie!
struck his ain father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye werena there.
Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him ken
Adam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!”
He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled down
the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece.
“We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!” And he
banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip of
still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.
Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket of
his coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companion
of his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull;
then placed it on the table by his side.
Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hung
limply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into a
heavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet.
It was not till an hour later that David returned home.
As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like a
body with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of his
with the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left.
Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; then
struck a match and stood in the doorway peering in.
“Not home, bain't he?” he muttered, the tiny light above his head. “Wet
inside as well as oot by noo, I'll lay. By gum! but 'twas a lucky thing
for him I didna get ma hand on him this evenin'. I could ha' killed
him.” He held the match above his head.
Two yellow eyes, glowing in the darkness like cairngorms, and a small
dim figure bunched up in a chair, told him his surmise was wrong. Many
a time had he seen his father in such case before, and now he muttered
contemptuously:
“Drunk; the leetle swab! Sleepin' it off, I reck'n.”
Then he saw his mistake. The hand that hung above the floor twitched and
was still again.
There was a clammy silence. A mouse, emboldened by the quiet, scuttled
across the hearth. One mighty paw lightly moved; a lightning tap, and
the tiny beast lay dead.
Again that hollow stillness: no sound, no movement; only those two
unwinking eyes fixed on him immovable.
At length a small voice from the fireside broke the quiet.
“Drunk--the--leetle--swab!”
Again a clammy silence, and a life-long pause.
“I thowt yo' was sleepin',” said David, at length, lamely.
“Ay, so ye said. 'Sleepin' it aff'; I heard ye.” Then, still in the same
small voice, now quivering imperceptibly, “Wad ye obleege me, sir, by
leetin' the lamp? Or, d'ye think, Wullie, 'twad be soilin' his dainty
fingers? They're mair used, I'm told, to danderin' with the bonnie brown
hair o' his--”
“I'll not ha' ye talk o' ma Maggie so,” interposed the boy passionately.
“_His_ Maggie, mark ye, Wullie--_his_! I thocht 'twad soon get that
far.”
“Tak' care, dad! I'll stan' but little more,” the boy warned him in
choking voice; and began to trim the lamp with trembling fingers.
M'Adam forthwith addressed himself to Red Wull.
“I suppose no man iver had sic a son as him, Wullie. Ye ken what I've
done for him, an' ye ken hoo he's repaid it. He's set himsel' agin
me; he's misca'd me; he's robbed me o' ma Cup; last of all, he struck
me--struck me afore them a'. We've toiled for him, you and I, Wullie;
we've slaved to keep him in hoose an' hame, an' he's passed his time,
the while, in riotous leevin', carousin' at Kenmuir, amusin' himself'
wi' his--” He broke off short. The lamp was lit, and the strip of paper,
pinned on to the table, naked and glaring, caught his eye.
“What's this?” he muttered; and unloosed the nail that clamped it down.
This is what he read:
“Adam Mackadam yer warned to mak' an end to yer Red Wull will be best
for him and the Sheep. This is the first yo'll have two more the third
will be the last--”
It was written in pencil, and the only signature was a dagger, rudely
lined in red.
M'Adam read the paper once, twice, thrice. As he slowly assimilated
its meaning, the blood faded from his face. He stared at it and still
stared, with whitening face and pursed lips. Then he stole a glance at
David's broad back.
“What d'ye ken o' this, David?” he asked, at length, in a dry thin
voice, reaching forward in his chair.
“O' what?”
“O' this,” holding up the slip. “And ye'el obleege me by the truth for
once.”
David turned, took up the paper, read it, and laughed harshly.
“It's coom to this, has it?” he said, still laughing, and yet with
blanching face.
“Ye ken what it means. I daresay ye pit it there; aiblins writ it. Ye'll
explain it.” The little man spoke in the same small, even voice, and his
eyes never moved off his son's face.
“I've heard naethin'.... I'd like the truth, David, if ye can tell it.”
The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to the
paper in his hand.
“Yo' shall have it, but yo'll not like it. It's this: Tupper lost a
sheep to the Killer last night.”
“And what if he did?” The little man rose smoothly to his feet. Each
noticed the others' face--dead-white.
“Why, he--lost--it--on--Wheer d'yo' think?” He drawled the words out,
dwelling almost lovingly on each.
“Where?”
“On--the--Red--Screes.”
The crash was coming--inevitable now. David knew it, knew that nothing
could avert it, and braced himself to meet it. The smile had fled from
his face, and his breath fluttered in his throat like the wind before a
thunderstorm.
“What of it?” The little man's voice was calm as a summer sea.
“Why, your Wullie--as I told yo'--was on the Screes last night.”
“Go on, David.”
“And this,” holding up the paper, “tells you that they ken as I ken
noo, as maist o' them ha' kent this mony a day, that your Wullie, Red
Wull--the Terror--”
“Go on.”
“Is--”
“Yes.”
“The Black Killer.”
It was spoken.
The frayed string was snapped at last. The little man's hand flashed to
the bottle that stood before him.
“Ye--liar!” he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the boy's
head. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his shoulder.
Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond,
its contents trickling down the wall to the floor.
For a moment, darkness. Then the spirits met the lamp's smouldering wick
and blazed into flame.
By the sudden light David saw his father on the far side the table,
pointing with crooked forefinger. By his side Red Wull was standing
alert, hackles up, yellow fangs bared, eyes lurid; and, at his feet, the
wee brown mouse lay still and lifeless.
“Oot o' ma hoose! Back to Kenmuir! Back to yer ----” The unpardonable
word, unmistakable, hovered for a second on his lips like some foul
bubble, and never burst.
“No mither this time!” panted David, racing round the table.
“Wullie!”
The Terror leapt to the attack; but David overturned the table as
he ran, the blunderbuss crashing to the floor; it fell, opposing a
momentary barrier in the dog's path.
“Stan' off, ye--!” screeched the little man, seizing a chair in both
hands; “stan' off, or I'll brain ye!”
But David was on him.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!”
Again the Terror came with a roar like the sea. But David, with a mighty
kick catching him full on the jaw, repelled the attack.
Then he gripped his father round the waist and lifted him from the
ground. The little man, struggling in those iron arms, screamed, cursed,
and battered at the face above him, kicking and biting in his frenzy.
“The Killer! wad ye ken wha's the Killer? Go and ask 'em at Kenmuir! Ask
yer ----”
David swayed slightly, crushing the body in his arms till it seemed
every rib must break; then hurled it from him with all the might of
passion. The little man fell with a crash and a groan.
The blaze in the corner flared, flickered, and died. There was
hell-black darkness, and silence of the dead.
David stood against the wall, panting, every nerve tightstrung as the
hawser of a straining ship.
In the corner lay the body of his father, limp and still; and in the
room one other living thing was moving.
He clung close to the wall, pressing it with wet hands. The horror of
it all, the darkness, the man in the corner, that moving something,
petrified him.
“Feyther!” he whispered.
There was no reply. A chair creaked at an invisible touch. Something was
creeping, stealing, crawling closer.
David was afraid.
“Feyther!” he whispered in hoarse agony, “are yo' hurt?”
The words were stifled in his throat. A chair overturned with a crash; a
great body struck him on the chest; a hot, pestilent breath volleyed in
his face, and wolfish teeth were reaching for his throat.
“Come on, Killer!” he screamed.
The horror of suspense was past. It had come, and with it he was himself
again.
Back, back, back, along the wall he was borne. His hands entwined
themselves around a hairy throat; he forced the great head with its
horrid lightsome eyes from him; he braced himself for the effort, lifted
the huge body at his breast, and heaved it from him. It struck the wall
and fell with a soft thud.
As he recoiled a hand clutched his ankle and sought to trip him. David
kicked back and down with all his strength. There was one awful groan,
and he staggered against the door and out.
There he paused, leaning against the wall to' breathe.
He struck a match and lifted his foot to see where the hand had clutched
him.
God! there was blood on his heel.
Then a great fear laid hold on him. A cry was suffocated in his breast
by the panting of his heart.
He crept back to the kitchen door and listened.
Not a sound.
Fearfully he opened it a crack.
Silence of the tomb.
He banged it to. It opened behind him, and the fact lent wings to his
feet.
He turned and plunged out into the night, and ran through the blackness
for his life. And a great owl swooped softly by and hooted mockingly:
“For your life! for your life! for your life!”
PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR
Chapter XXII A MAN AND A MAID
IN the village even the Black Killer and the murder on the Screes were
forgotten in this new sensation. The mystery in which the affair was
wrapped, and the ignorance as to all its details, served to whet the
general interest. There had been a fight; M'Adam and the Terror had been
mauled; and David had disappeared--those were the facts. But what was
the origin of the affray no one could say.
One or two of the Dalesmen had, indeed, a shrewd suspicion. Tupper
looked guilty; Jem Burton muttered, “I knoo hoo 'twould be”; while as
for Long Kirby, he vanished entirely, not to reappear till three months
had sped.
Injured as he had been, M'Adam was yet sufficiently recovered to appear
in the Sylvester Arms on the Saturday following the battle. He entered
the tap-room silently with never a word to a soul; one arm was in a
sling and his head bandaged. He eyed every man present critically; and
all, except Tammas, who was brazen, and Jim Mason, who was innocent,
fidgeted beneath the stare. Maybe it was well for Long Kirby he was not
there.
“Onythin' the matter?” asked Jem, at length, rather lamely, in view of
the plain evidences of battle.
“Na, na; naethin' oot o' the ordinar',” the little man replied,
giggling. “Only David set on me, and me sleepin'. And,” with a shrug,
“here I am noo.” He sat down, wagging his bandaged head and grinning.
“Ye see he's sae playfu', is Davie. He wangs ye o'er the head wi' a
chair, kicks ye in the jaw, stamps on yer wame, and all as merry as
May.” And nothing further could they get from him, except that if David
reappeared it was his firm resolve to hand him over to the police for
attempted parricide.
“'Brutal assault on an auld man by his son!' 'Twill look well in the
Argus; he! he! They couldna let him aff under two years, I'm thinkin'.”
M'Adam's version of the affair was received with quiet incredulity. The
general verdict was that he had brought his punishment entirely on his
own head. Tammas, indeed, who was always rude when he was not witty,
and, in fact, the difference between the two things is only one of
degree, told him straight: “It served yo' well reet. An' I nob'but wish
he'd made an end to yo'.”
“He did his best, puir lad,” M'Adam reminded him gently.
“We've had enough o' yo',” continued the uncompromising old man. “I'm
fair grieved he didna slice yer throat while he was at it.”
At that M'Adam raised his eyebrows, stared, and then broke into a low
whistle.
“That's it, is it?” he muttered, as though a new light was dawning on
him. “Ah, noo I see.”
* * * * *
The days passed on. There was still no news of the missing one, and
Maggie's face became pitifully white and haggard.
Of course she did not believe that David had attempted to murder his
father, desperately tried as she knew he had been. Still, it was a
terrible thought to her that he might at any moment be arrested; and her
girlish imagination was perpetually conjuring up horrid pictures of a
trial, conviction, and the things that followed.
Then Sam'l started a wild theory that the little man had murdered his
son, and thrown the mangled body down the dry well at the Grange. The
story was, of course, preposterous, and, coming from such a source,
might well have been discarded with the ridicule it deserved. Yet it
served to set the cap on the girl's fears; and she resolved, at whatever
cost, to visit the Grange, beard M'Adam, and discover whether he could
not or would not allay her gnawing apprehension.
Her intent she concealed from her father, knowing well that were she to
reveal it to him, he would gently but firmly forbid the attempt; and on
an afternoon some fortnight after David's disappearance, choosing her
opportunity, she picked up a shawl, threw it over her head, and fled
with palpitating heart out of the farm and down the slope to the
Wastrel.
The little plank-bridge rattled as she tripped across it; and she fled
faster lest any one should have heard and come to look. And, indeed, at
the moment it rattled again behind her, and she started guiltily round.
It proved, however, to be only Owd Bob, sweeping after, and she was
glad.
“Comin' wi' me, lad?” she asked as the old dog cantered up, thankful to
have that gray protector with her.
Round Langholm now fled the two conspirators; over the summer-clad lower
slopes of the Pike, until, at length, they reached the Stony Bottom.
Down the bramble-covered bank of the ravine the girl slid; picked her
way from stone to stone across the streamlet tinkling in that rocky bed;
and scrambled up the opposite bank.
At the top she halted and looked back. The smoke from Kenmuir was
winding slowly up against the sky; to her right the low gray cottages of
the village cuddled in the bosom of the Dale; far away over the Marches
towered the gaunt Scaur; before her rolled the swelling slopes of the
Muir Pike; while behind--she glanced timidly over her shoulder--was the
hill, at the top of which squatted the Grange, lifeless, cold, scowling.
Her heart failed her. In her whole life she had never spoken to M'Adam.
Yet she knew him well enough from all David's accounts--ay, and hated
him for David's sake. She hated him and feared him, too; feared him
mortally--this terrible little man. And, with a shudder, she recalled
the dim face at the window, and thought of his notorious hatred of her
father. But even M'Adam could hardly harm a girl coming, broken-hearted,
to seek her lover. Besides, was not Owd Bob with her?
And, turning, she saw the old dog standing a little way up the hill,
looking back at her as though he wondered why she waited. “Am I not
enough?” the faithful gray eyes seemed to say.
“Lad, I'm fear'd,” was her answer to the unspoken question.
Yet that look determined her. She clenched her little teeth, drew the
shawl about her, and set off running up the hill.
Soon the run dwindled to a walk, the walk to a crawl, and the crawl to
a halt. Her breath was coming painfully, and her heart pattered against
her side like the beatings of an imprisoned bird. Again her gray
guardian looked up, encouraging her forward.
“Keep close, lad,” she whispered, starting forward afresh. And the old
dog ranged up beside her, shoving into her skirt, as though to let her
feel his presence.
So they reached the top of the hill; and the house stood before them,
grim, unfriendly.
The girl's face was now quite white, yet set; the resemblance to her
father was plain to see. With lips compressed and breath quick-coming,
she crossed the threshold, treading softly as though in a house of the
dead. There she paused and lifted a warning finger at her companion,
bidding him halt without; then she turned to the door on the left of the
entrance and tapped.
She listened, her head buried in the shawl, close to the wood panelling.
There was no answer; she could only hear the drumming of her heart.
She knocked again. From within came the scraping of a chair cautiously
shoved back, followed by a deep-mouthed cavernous growl.
Her heart stood still, but she turned the handle and entered, leaving a
crack open behind.
On the far side the room a little man was sitting. His head was swathed
in dirty bandages, and a bottle was on the table beside him. He was
leaning forward; his face was gray, and there was a stare of naked
horror in his eyes. One hand grasped the great dog who stood at his
side, with yellow teeth glinting, and muzzle hideously wrinkled; with
the other he pointed a palsied finger at her.
“Ma God! wha are ye?” he cried hoarsely.
The girl stood hard against the door, her fingers still on the handle;
trembling like an aspen at the sight of that uncannie pair.
That look in the little man's eyes petrified her: the swollen pupils;
lashless lids, yawning wide; the broken range of teeth in that gaping
mouth, froze her very soul. Rumors of the man's insanity tided back on
her memory.
“I'm--I--” the words came in trembling gasps.
At the first utterance, however, the little man's hand dropped; he leant
back in his chair and gave a soul-bursting sigh of relief.
No woman had crossed that threshold since his wife died; and, for a
moment, when first the girl had entered silent-footed, aroused from
dreaming of the long ago, he had thought this shawl-clad figure with the
pale face and peeping hair no earthly visitor; the spirit, rather, of
one he had loved long since and lost, come to reproach him with a broken
troth.
“Speak up, I canna hear,” he said, in tones mild compared with those
last wild words.
“I--I'm Maggie Moore,” the girl quavered.
“Moore! Maggie Moore, d'ye say?” he cried, half rising from his chair,
a flush of color sweeping across his face, “the dochter o' James Moore?”
He paused for an answer, glowering at her; and she shrank, trembling,
against the door.
The little man leant back in his chair. Gradually a grim smile crept
across his countenance.
“Weel, Maggie Moore,” he said, halfamused, “ony gate ye're a good
plucked un.” And his wizened countenance looked at her almost kindly
from beneath its dirty crown of bandages.
At that the girl's courage returned with a rush. After all this little
man was not so very terrible. Perhaps he would be kind. And in the
relief of the moment, the blood swept back into her face.
There was not to be peace yet, however. The blush was still hot upon her
cheeks, when she caught the patter of soft steps in the passage without.
A dark muzzle flecked with gray pushed in at the crack of the door; two
anxious gray eyes followed.
Before she could wave him back, Red Wull had marked the intruder. With
a roar he tore himself from his master's restraining hand, and dashed
across the room.
“Back, Bob!” screamed Maggie, and the dark head withdrew. The door
slammed with a crash as the great dog flung himself against it, and
Maggie was hurled, breathless and white-faced, into a corner.
M'Adam was on his feet, pointing with a shrivelled finger, his face
diabolical.
“Did you bring him? did you bring _that_ to ma door?”
Maggie huddled in the corner in a palsy of trepidation. Her eyes gleamed
big and black in the white face peering from the shawl.
Red Wull was now beside her snarling horribly. With nose to the bottom
of the door and busy paws he was trying to get out; while, on the other
side, Owd Bob, snuffling also at the crack, scratched and pleaded to get
in. Only two miserable wooden inches separated the pair.
“I brought him to protect me. I--I was afraid.”
M'Adam sat down and laughed abruptly.
“Afraid! I wonder ye were na afraid to bring him here. It's the first
time iver he's set foot on ma land, and 't had best be the last” He
turned to the great dog. “Wullie, Wullie, wad ye?” he called. “Come
here. Lay ye doon--so--under ma chair--good lad. Noo's no the time to
settle wi' him”--nodding toward the door. “We can wait for that, Wullie;
we can wait.” Then, turning to Maggie, “Gin ye want him to mak' a show
at the Trials two months hence, he'd best not come here agin. Gin he
does, he'll no leave ma land alive; Wullie'll see to that. Noo, what is
't ye want o'me?”
The girl in the corner, scared almost out of her senses by this last
occurrence, remained dumb.
M'Adam marked her hesitation, and grinned sardonically.
“I see hoo 'tis,” said he; “yer dad's sent ye. Aince before he wanted
somethin' o' me, and did he come to fetch it himself like a man? Not he.
He sent the son to rob the father.” Then, leaning forward in his chair
and glaring at the girl, “Ay, and mair than that! The night the lad
set on me he cam'”--with hissing emphasis--“straight from Kenmuir!” He
paused and stared at her intently, and she was still dumb before him.
“Gin I'd ben killed, Wullie'd ha' bin disqualified from competin' for
the Cup. With Adam M'Adam's Red Wull oot o' the way--noo d'ye see? Noo
d'ye onderstan'?”
She did not, and he saw it and was satisfied. What he had been saying
she neither knew nor cared. She only remembered the object of her
mission; she only saw before her the father of the man she loved; and a
wave of emotion surged up in her breast.
She advanced timidly toward him, holding out her hands.
“Eh, Mr. M'Adam,” she pleaded, “I come to ask ye after David.” The shawl
had slipped from her head, and lay loose upon her shoulders; and she
stood before him with her sad face, her pretty hair all tossed, and her
eyes big with unshed tears--a touching suppliant.
“Will ye no tell me wheer he is? I'd not ask it, I'd not trouble yo',
but I've bin waitin' a waefu' while, it seems, and I'm wearyin' for news
o' him.”
The little man looked at her curiously. “Ah, noo I mind me,”--this to
himself. “You' the lass as is thinkin' o' marryin' him?”
“We're promised,” the girl answered simply.
“Weel,” the other remarked, “as I said afore, ye're a good plucked un.”
Then, in a tone in which, despite the cynicism, a certain indefinable
sadness was blended, “Gin he mak's you as good husband as he mad' son to
me, ye'll ha' made a maist remairkable match, my dear.”
Maggie fired in a moment.
“A good feyther makes a good son,” she answered almost pertly; and then,
with infinite tenderness, “and I'm prayin' a good wife'll make a good
husband.”
He smiled scoffingly.
“I'm feared that'll no help ye much,” he said.
But the girl never heeded this last sneer, so set was she on her
purpose. She had heard of the one tender place in the heart of this
little man with the tired face and mocking tongue, and she resolved to
attain her end by appealing to it.
“Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “Hoo would yo'
ha' felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo'
would. And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved.” She was kneeling
at his feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sad
face and quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words.
The little man was visibly touched.
“Ay, ay, lass, that's enough,” he said, trying to avoid those big
beseeching eyes which would not be avoided.
“Will ye no tell me?” she pleaded.
“I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken,” he answered querulously.
In truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery.
The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card and
failed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource,
and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope.
In the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was the
man who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile.
She rose to her feet and stood back.
“Nor ken, nor care!” she cried bitterly.
At the words all the softness fled from the little man's face.
“Ye do me a wrang, lass; ye do indeed,” he said, looking up at her with
an assumed ingenuousness which, had she known him better, would have
warned her to beware. “Gin I kent where the lad was I'd be the vairy
first to let you, and the p'lice, ken it too; eh, Wullie! he! he!” He
chuckled at his wit and rubbed his knees, regardless of the contempt
blazing in the girl's face.
“I canna tell ye where he is now, but ye'd aiblins care to hear o' when
I saw him last.” He turned his chair the better to address her.
“Twas like so: I was sittin' in this vairy chair it was, asleep, when
he crep' up behind an' lep' on ma back. I knew naethin' o't till I found
masel' on the floor an' him kneelin' on me. I saw by the look on him he
was set on finishin' me, so I said--”
The girl waved her hand at him, superbly disdainful.
“Yo' ken yo're lyin', ivery word o't,” she cried.
The little man hitched his trousers, crossed his legs, and yawned.
“An honest lee for an honest purpose is a matter ony man may be proud
of, as you'll ken by the time you're my years, ma lass.”
The girl slowly crossed the room. At the door she turned.
“Then ye'll no tell me wheer he is?” she asked with a heart-breaking
trill in her voice.
“On ma word, lass, I dinna ken,” he cried, half passionately.
“On your word, Mr. M'Adam” she said with a quiet scorn in her voice that
might have stung Iscariot.
The little man spun round in his chair, an angry red dyeing his cheeks.
In another moment he was suave and smiling again.
“I canna tell ye where he is noo,” he said, unctuously; “but aiblins, I
could let ye know where he's gaein' to.”
“Can yo'? will yo'?” cried the simple girl all unsuspecting. In a moment
she was across the room and at his knees.
“Closer, and I'll whisper.” The little ear, peeping from its nest of
brown, was tremblingly approached to his lips. The little man lent
forward and whispered one short, sharp word, then sat back, grinning, to
watch the effect of his disclosure.
He had his revenge, an unworthy revenge on such a victim. And, watching
the girl's face, the cruel disappointment merging in the heat of her
indignation, he had yet enough nobility to regret his triumph.
She sprang from him as though he were unclean.
“An' yo' his father!” she cried, in burning tones.
She crossed the room, and at the door paused. Her face was white again
and she was quite composed.
“If David did strike you, you drove him to it,” she said, speaking in
calm, gentle accents. “Yo' know, none so well, whether yo've bin a good
feyther to him, and him no mither, poor laddie! Whether yo've bin to him
what she'd ha' had yo' be. Ask yer conscience, Mr. M'Adam. An' if he
was a wee aggravatin' at times, had he no reason? He'd a heavy cross to
bear, had David, and yo' know best if yo' helped to ease it for him.”
The little man pointed to the door; but the girl paid no heed.
“D'yo' think when yo' were cruel to him, jeerin' and fleerin', he never
felt it, because he was too proud to show ye? He'd a big saft heart, had
David, beneath the varnish. Mony's the time when mither was alive, I've
seen him throw himsel' into her arms, sobbin', and cry, 'Eh, if I had
but mither! 'Twas different when mither was alive; he was kinder to me
then. An' noo I've no one; I'm alone.' An' he'd sob and sob in mither's
arms, and she, weepin' hersel', would comfort him, while he, wee laddie,
would no be comforted, cryin' broken-like, 'There's none to care for me
noo; I'm alone. Mither's left me and eh! I'm prayin' to be wi' her!'”
The clear, girlish voice shook. M'Adam, sitting with face averted,
waved to her, mutely ordering her to be gone. But she held on, gentle,
sorrowful, relentless.
“An' what'll yo' say to his mither when yo meet her, as yo' must soon
noo, and she asks yo', 'An what o' David? What o' th' lad I left wi'
yo', Adam, to guard and keep for me, faithful and true, till this Day?'
And then yo'll ha' to speak the truth, God's truth; and yo'll ha' to
answer, 'Sin' the day yo' left me I niver said a kind word to the lad.
I niver bore wi' him, and niver tried to. And in the end I drove him by
persecution to try and murder me.' Then maybe she'll look at yo'--yo'
best ken hoo--and she'll say, 'Adam, Adam! is this what I deserved fra
yo'?'”
The gentle, implacable voice ceased. The girl turned and slipped softly
out of the room; and M'Adam was left alone to his thoughts and his dead
wife's memory.
“Mither and father, baith! Mither and father, baith!” rang remorselessly
in his ears.
Chapter XXIII TH' OWD UN
THE Black Killer still cursed the land. Sometimes there would be a
cessation in the crimes; then a shepherd, going his rounds, would notice
his sheep herding together, packing in unaccustomed squares; a raven,
gorged to the crop, would rise before him and flap wearily away, and he
would come upon the murderer's latest victim.
The Dalesmen were in despair, so utterly futile had their efforts been.
There was no proof; no hope, no apparent probability that the end was
near. As for the Tailless Tyke, the only piece of evidence against him
had flown with David, who, as it chanced, had divulged what he had seen
to no man.
The 100 pound reward offered had brought no issue. The police had done
nothing. The Special Commissioner had been equally successful. After
the affair in the Scoop the Killer never ran a risk, yet never missed a
chance.
Then, as a last resource, Jim Mason made his attempt. He took a holiday
from his duties and disappeared into the wilderness. Three days and
three nights no man saw him.
On the morning of the fourth he reappeared, haggard, unkempt, a furtive
look haunting his eyes, sullen for once, irritable, who had never been
irritable before--to confess his failure. Cross-examined further, he
answered with unaccustomed fierceness: “I seed nowt, I tell ye. Who's
the liar as said I did?”
But that night his missus heard him in his sleep conning over something
to himself in slow, fearful whisper, “Two on 'em; one ahint t'other. The
first big--bull-like; t'ither--” At which point Mrs. Mason smote him a
smashing blow in the ribs, and he woke in a sweat, crying terribly, “Who
said I seed--”
* * * * *
The days were slipping away; the summer was hot upon the land, and with
it the Black Killer was forgotten; David was forgotten; everything
sank into oblivion before the all-absorbing interest of the coming Dale
trials.
The long-anticipated battle for the Shepherds' Trophy was looming close;
soon everything that hung upon the issue of that struggle would be
decided finally. For ever the justice of Th' Owd Un' claim to his
proud title would be settled. If he won, he won outright--a thing
unprecedented in the annals of the Cup; if he won, the place of Owd Bob
o' Kenmuir as first in his profession was assured for all time. Above
all, it was the last event in the six years' struggle 'twixt Red and
Gray It was the last time those two great rivals would meet in battle.
The supremacy of one would be decided once and for all. For win or lose,
it was the last public appearance of the Gray Dog of Kenmuir.
And as every hour brought the great day nearer, nothing else was talked
of in the country-side. The heat of the Dalesmen's enthusiasm was only
intensified by the fever of their apprehension. Many a man would lose
more than he cared to contemplate were Th' Owd Un beat. But he'd not be!
Nay; owd, indeed, he was--two years older than his great rival; there
were a hundred risks, a hundred chances; still: “What's the odds agin
Owd Bob o' Kenmuir? I'm takin' 'em. Who'll lay agin Th' Owd Un?”
And with the air saturated with this perpetual talk of the old dog,
these everlasting references to his certain victory; his ears drumming
with the often boast that the gray dog was the best in the North,
M'Adam became the silent, ill-designing man of six months since--morose,
brooding, suspicious, muttering of conspiracy, plotting revenge.
The scenes at the Sylvester Arms were replicas of those of previous
years. Usually the little man sat isolated in a far corner, silent
and glowering, with Red Wull at his feet. Now and then he burst into
a paroxysm of insane giggling, slapping his thigh, and muttering,
“Ay, it's likely they'll beat us, Wullie. Yet aiblins there's a wee
somethin'--a somethin' we ken and they dinna, Wullie,--eh! Wullie, he!
he!” And sometimes he would leap to his feet and address his pot-house
audience, appealing to them passionately, satirically, tearfully, as the
mood might be on him; and his theme was always the same: James Moore,
Owd Bob, the Cup, and the plots agin him and his Wullie; and always he
concluded with that hint of the surprise to come.
Meantime, there was no news of David; he had gone as utterly as a ship
foundered in mid-Atlantic. Some said he'd 'listed; some, that he'd gone
to sea. And “So he 'as,” corroborated Sam'l, “floatin', 'eels uppards.”
With no gleam of consolation, Maggie's misery was such as to rouse
compassion in all hearts. She went no longer blithely singing about
her work; and all the springiness had fled from her gait. The people of
Kenmuir vied with one another in their attempts to console their young
mistress.
* * * * *
Maggie was not the only one in whose life David's absence had created
a void. Last as he would have been to own it, M'Adam felt acutely the
boy's loss. It may have been he missed the ever-present butt; it may
have been a nobler feeling. Alone with Red Wull, too late he felt his
loneliness. Sometimes, sitting in the kitchen by himself, thinking of
the past, he experienced sharp pangs of remorse; and this was all the
more the case after Maggie's visit. Subsequent to that day the little
man, to do him justice, was never known to hint by word or look an ill
thing of his enemy's daughter. Once, indeed, when Melia Ross was drawing
on a dirty imagination with Maggie for subject, M'Adam shut her up with:
“Ye're a maist amazin' big liar, Melia Ross.”
Yet, though for the daughter he had now no evil thought, his hatred for
the father had never been so uncompromising.
He grew reckless in his assertions. His life was one long threat against
James Moore's. Now he openly stated his conviction that, on the eventful
night of the fight, James Moore, with object easily discernible, had
egged David on to murder him.
“Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?” roared Tammas
at last, enraged to madness.
“I will!” said M'Adam. And he did.
* * * * *
It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-town
that he fulfilled his vow.
That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion James
Moore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising of
the sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master went
with his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It was
already noon when the flock started from the yard.
On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam.
“I've a word to say to you, James Moore,” he announced, as the Master
approached.
“Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo'
have,” said the Master.
M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate.
“Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape this
Killer.”
“Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam.”
“Ay, there's me,” acquiesced the little man. “But you--hoo d'yo' 'count
for _your_ luck?”
James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, now
patrolling round the flock.
“There's my luck!” he said.
M'Adam laughed unpleasantly.
“So I thought,” he said, “so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that
yer luck,” nodding at the gray dog, “will win you the Cup for certain a
month hence.”
“I hope so!” said the Master.
“Strange if he should not after all,” mused the little man.
James Moore eyed him suspiciously. “What d'yo' mean?” he asked sternly.
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. “There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip,
that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him.”
The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he
had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.
“I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him,” he said,
drawing himself up.
M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face
was all a-tremble.
“Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the
father. Yet some one did--set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed at
me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!” There was a flush on
the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. “One way or
t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go afore
Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?”
The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, “That'll do, M'Adam,”
he said. “I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry wi' yo'. Noo
git off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis.”
He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep
clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock,
waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion
everywhere.
“Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?” shouted the Master, seeing
the danger.
It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, one
man was bound to grant another. But M'Adam rushed on regardless, dancing
and gesticulating. Save for the lightning vigilance of Owd Bob, the
flock must have broken.
“I think yo' might ha' waited!” remonstrated the Master, as the little
man burst his way through.
“Noo, I've forgot somethin'!” the other cried, and back he started as he
had gone.
It was more than human nature could tolerate.
“Bob, keep him off!”
A flash of teeth; a blaze of gray eyes; and the old dog had leapt
forward to oppose the little man's advance.
“Shift oot o' ma light!” cried he, striving to dash past.
“Hold him, lad!”
And hold him the old dog did, while his master opened the gate and put
the flock through, the opponents dodging in front of one another like
opposing three-quarter-backs at the Rugby game.
“Oot o' ma path, or I'll strike!” shouted the little man in a fury, as
the last sheep passed through the gate.
“I'd not,” warned the Master.
“But I will!” yelled M'Adam; and, darting forward as the gate swung to,
struck furiously at his opponent.
He missed, and the gray dog charged at him like a mail-train.
“Hi! James Moore--” but over he went like a toppled wheelbarrow, while
the old dog turned again, raced at the gate, took it magnificently in
his stride, and galloped up the lane after his master.
At M'Adam's yell, James Moore had turned.
“Served yo' properly!” he called back. “He'll larn ye yet it's not wise
to tamper wi' a gray dog or his sheep. Not the first time he's downed
ye, I'm thinkin'!”
The little man raised himself painfully to his elbow and crawled toward
the gate. The Master, up the lane, could hear him cursing as he dragged
himself. Another moment, and a head was poked through the bars of the
gate, and a devilish little face looked after him.
“Downed me, by--, he did!” the little man cried passionately. “I owed ye
baith somethin' before this, and noo, by ----, I owe ye somethin' more.
An' mind ye, Adam M'Adam pays his debts!”
“I've heard the contrary,” the Master replied drily, and turned away up
the lane toward the Marches.
Chapter XXIV A SHOT IN THE NIGHT
IT was only three short weeks before Cup Day that one afternoon Jim
Mason brought a letter to Kenmuir. James Moore opened it as the postman
still stood in the door.
It was from Long Kirby--still in retirement--begging him for mercy's
sake to keep Owd Bob safe within doors at nights; at all events till
after the great event was over. For Kirby knew, as did every Dalesman,
that the old dog slept in the porch, between the two doors of the house,
of which the outer was only loosely closed by a chain, so that the
ever-watchful guardian might slip in and out and go his rounds at any
moment of the night.
This was how the smith concluded his ill-spelt note: “Look out for
M'Adam i tell you i _know_ hel tri at thowd un afore cup day--failin im
you if the ole dog's bete i'm a ruined man i say so for the luv o' God
keep yer eyes wide.”
The Master read the letter, and handed it to the postman, who perused it
carefully.
“I tell yo' what,” said Jim at length, speaking with an earnestness that
made the other stare, “I wish yo'd do what he asks yo': keep Th' Owd Un
in o' nights, I mean, just for the present.”
The Master shook his head and laughed, tearing the letter to pieces.
“Nay,” said he; “M'Adam or no M'Adam, Cup or no Cup, Th' Owd Un has the
run o' ma land same as he's had since a puppy. Why, Jim, the first night
I shut him up that night the Killer comes, I'll lay.”
The postman turned wearily away, and the Master stood looking after him,
wondering what had come of late to his former cheery friend.
Those two were not the only warnings James Moore received. During
the weeks immediately preceding the Trials, the danger signal was
perpetually flaunted beneath his nose.
Twice did Watch, the black cross-bred chained in the straw-yard, hurl a
brazen challenge on the night air. Twice did the Master, with lantern,
Sam'l and Owd Bob, sally forth and search every hole and corner on the
premises--to find nothing. One of the dairy-maids gave notice, avowing
that the farm was haunted; that, on several occasions in the early
morning, she had seen a bogie flitting down the slope to the Wastrel--a
sure portent, Sam'l declared, of an approaching death in the house.
While once a shearer, coming up from the village, reported having seen,
in the twilight of dawn, a little ghostly figure, haggard and startled,
stealing silently from tree to tree in the larch-copse by the lane. The
Master, however, irritated by these constant alarms, dismissed the story
summarily.
“One thing I'm sartin o',” said he. “There's not a critter moves on
Kenmuir at nights but Th' Owd Un knows it.”
Yet, even as he said it, a little man, draggled, weary-eyed, smeared
with dew and dust, was limping in at the door of a house barely a mile
away. “Nae luck, Wullie, curse it!” he cried, throwing himself into a
chair, and addressing some one who was not there--“nae luck. An' yet I'm
sure o't as I am that there's a God in heaven.”
* * * * *
M'Adam had become an old man of late. But little more than fifty, yet he
looked to have reached man's allotted years. His sparse hair was quite
white; his body shrunk and bowed; and his thin hand shook like an aspen
as it groped to the familiar bottle.
In another matter, too, he was altogether changed. Formerly, whatever
his faults, there had been no harder-working man in the country-side.
At all hours, in all weathers, you might have seen him with his gigantic
attendant going his rounds. Now all that was different: he never put his
hand to the plough, and with none to help him the land was left wholly
untended; so that men said that, of a surety, there would be a farm to
let on the March Mere Estate come Michaelmas.
Instead of working, the little man sat all day in the kitchen at home,
brooding over his wrongs, and brewing vengeance. Even the Sylvester
Arms knew him no more; for he stayed where he was with his dog and his
bottle. Only, when the shroud of night had come down to cover him,
he slipped out and away on some errand on which not even Red Wull
accompanied him.
* * * * *
So the time glided on, till the Sunday before the Trials came round.
All that day M'Adam sat in his kitchen, drinking, muttering, hatching
revenge.
“Curse it, Wullie! curse it! The time's slippin'--slippin'--slippin'!
Thursday next--but three days mair! and I haena the proof--I haena the
proof!”--and he rocked to and fro, biting his nails in the agony of his
impotence.
All day long he never moved. Long after sunset he sat on; long after
dark had eliminated the features of the room.
“They're all agin us, Wullie. It's you and I alane, lad. M'Adam's to be
beat somehow, onyhow; and Moore's to win. So they've settled it, and
so 'twill be--onless, Wullie, onless--but curse it! I've no the
proof!”--and he hammered the table before him and stamped on the floor.
At midnight he arose, a mad, desperate plan looming through his fuddled
brain.
“I swore I'd pay him, Wullie, and I will. If I hang for it I'll be even
wi' him. I haena the proof, but I _know_--I _know_!” He groped his way
to the mantel piece with blind eyes and swirling brain. Reaching up
with fumbling hands, he took down the old blunderbuss from above the
fireplace.
“Wullie,” he whispered, chuckling hideously, “Wullie, come on! You and
I--he! he!” But the Tailless Tyke was not there. At nightfall he had
slouched silently out of the house on business he best wot of. So his
master crept out of the room alone--on tiptoe, still chuckling.
The cool night air refreshed him, and he stepped stealthily along,
his quaint weapon over his shoulder: down the hill; across the Bottom;
skirting the Pike; till he reached the plank-bridge over the Wastrel.
He crossed it safely, that Providence whose care is drunkards placing
his footsteps. Then he stole up the slope like a hunter stalking his
prey.
Arrived at the gate, he raised himself cautiously, and peered over into
the moonlit yard. There was no sign or sound of living creature. The
little gray house slept peacefully in the shadow of the Pike, all
unaware of the man with murder in his heart laboriously climbing the
yard-gate.
The door of the porch was wide, the chain hanging limply down, unused;
and the little man could see within, the moon shining on the iron studs
of the inner door, and the blanket of him who should have slept there,
and did not.
“He's no there, Wullie! He's no there!” He jumped down from the gate.
Throwing all caution to the winds, he reeled recklessly across the yard.
The drunken delirium of battle was on him. The fever of anticipated
victory flushed his veins. At length he would take toll for the injuries
of years.
Another moment, and he was in front of the good oak door, battering at
it madly with clubbed weapon, yelling, dancing, screaming vengeance.
“Where is he? What's he at? Come and tell me that, James Moore! Come
doon, I say, ye coward! Come and meet me like a man!
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots wham Bruce has aften led--
Welcome to your gory bed
Or to victorie!'”
The soft moonlight streamed down on the white-haired madman thundering
at the door, screaming his war-song.
The quiet farmyard, startled from its sleep, awoke in an uproar. Cattle
shifted in their stalls; horses whinnied; fowls chattered, aroused by
the din and dull thudding of the blows: and above the rest, loud and
piercing, the shrill cry of a terrified child.
Maggie, wakened from a vivid dream of David chasing the police, hurried
a shawl around her, and in a minute had the baby in her arms and was
comforting her--vaguely fearing the while that the police were after
David.
James Moore flung open a window, and, leaning out, looked down on the
dishevelled figure below him.
M'Adam heard the noise, glanced up, and saw his enemy. Straightway he
ceased his attack on the door, and, running beneath the window, shook
his weapon up at his foe.
“There ye are, are ye? Curse ye for a coward! curse ye for a liar! Come
doon, I say, James Moore! come doon--I daur ye to it! Aince and for a'
let's settle oor account.”
The Master, looking down from above, thought that at length the little
man's brain had gone.
“What is't yo' want?” he asked, as calmly as he could, hoping to gain
time.
“What is't I want?” screamed the madman. “Hark to him! He crosses me in
ilka thing; he plots agin me; he robs me o' ma Cup; he sets ma son agin
me and pits him on to murder me! And in the end he--”
“Coom, then, coom! I'll--”
“Gie me back the Cup ye stole, James Moore! Gie me back ma son ye've
took from me! And there's anither thing. What's yer gray dog doin'?
Where's yer--”
The Master interposed again:
“I'll coom doon and talk things over wi' yo'.” he said soothingly. But
before he could withdraw, M'Adam had jerked his weapon to his shoulder
and aimed it full at his enemy's head.
The threatened man looked down the gun's great quivering mouth, wholly
unmoved.
“Yo' mon hold it steadier, little mon, if yo'd hit!” he said grimly.
“There, I'll coom help yo'!” He withdrew slowly; and all the time was
wondering where the gray dog was.
In another moment he was downstairs, undoing the bolts and bars of the
door. On the other side stood M'Adam, his blunderbuss at his shoulder,
his finger trembling on the trigger, waiting.
“Hi, Master! Stop, or yo're dead!” roared a voice from the loft on the
other side the yard.
“Feyther! feyther! git yo' back!” screamed Maggie, who saw it all from
the window above the door.
Their cries were too late! The blunderbuss went off with a roar,
belching out a storm of sparks and smoke. The shot peppered the door
like hail, and the whole yard seemed for a moment wrapped in flame.
“Aw! oh! ma gummy! A'm waounded A'm a goner! A'm shot! 'Elp! Murder! Eh!
Oh!” bellowed a lusty voice--and it was not James Moore's.
The little man, the cause of the uproar, lay quite still upon the
ground, with another figure standing over him. As he had stood, finger
on trigger, waiting for that last bolt to be drawn, a gray form,
shooting whence no one knew, had suddenly and silently attacked him from
behind, and jerked him backward to the ground. With the shock of the
fall the blunderbuss had gone off.
The last bolt was thrown back with a clatter, and the Master emerged. In
a glance he took in the whole scene: the fallen man; the gray dog; the
still-smoking weapon.
“Yo', was't Bob lad?” he said. “I was wonderin' wheer yo' were. Yo'
came just at the reet moment, as yo' aye do!” Then, in a loud voice,
addressing the darkness: “Yo're not hurt, Sam'l Todd--I can tell that
by yer noise; it was nob'but the shot off the door warmed yo'. Coom away
doon and gie me a hand.”
He walked up to M'Adam, who still lay gasping on the ground. The shock
of the fall and recoil of the weapon had knocked the breath out of the
little man's body; beyond that he was barely hurt.
The Master stood over his fallen enemy and looked sternly down at him.
“I've put up wi' more from you, M'Adam, than I would from ony other
man,” he said. “But this is too much--comin' here at night wi' loaded
arms, scarin' the wimmen and childer oot o' their lives, and I can
but think meanin' worse. If yo' were half a man I'd gie yo' the finest
thrashin' iver yo' had in yer life. But, as yo' know well, I could no
more hit yo' than I could a woman. Why yo've got this down on me yo' ken
best. I niver did yo' or ony ither mon a harm. As to the Cup, I've got
it and I'm goin' to do ma best to keep it--it's for yo' to win it from
me if yo' can o' Thursday. As for what yo' say o' David, yo' know it's a
lie. And as for what yo're drivin' at wi' yer hints and mysteries, I've
no more idee than a babe unborn. Noo I'm goin' to lock yo' up, yo're not
safe abroad. I'm thinkin' I'll ha' to hand ye o'er to the p'lice.”
With the help of Sam'l he half dragged, half supported the
stunned little man across the yard; and shoved him into a tiny
semi-subterraneous room, used for the storage of coal, at the end of the
farm-buildings.
“Yo' think it over that side, ma lad,” called the Master grimly, as he
turned the key, “and I will this.” And with that he retired to bed.
* * * * *
Early in the morning he went to release his prisoner. But he was a
minute too late. For scuttling down the slope and away was a little
black-begrimed, tottering figure with white hair blowing in the wind.
The little man had broken away a wooden hatchment which covered a
manhole in the wall of his prison-house, squeezed his small body
through, and so escaped.
“Happen it's as well,” thought the Master, watching the flying figure.
Then, “Hi, Bob, lad!” he called; for the gray dog, ears back, tail
streaming, was hurling down the slope after the fugitive.
On the bridge M'Adam turned, and, seeing his pursuer hot upon him,
screamed, missed his footing, and fell with a loud splash into the
stream--almost in that identical spot into which, years before, he had
plunged voluntarily to save Red Wull.
On the bridge Owd Bob halted and looked down at the man struggling in
the water below. He made a half move as though to leap in to the rescue
of his enemy; then, seeing it was unnecessary, turned and trotted back
to his master.
“Yo' nob'but served him right, I'm thinkin',” said the Master. “Like
as not he came here wi' the intent to mak' an end to yo.' Well, after
Thursday, I pray God we'll ha' peace. It's gettin' above a joke.” The
two turned back into the yard.
But down below them, along the edge of the stream, for the second time
in this story, a little dripping figure was tottering homeward. The
little man was crying--the hot tears mingling on his cheeks with
the undried waters of the Wastrel--crying with rage, mortification,
weariness.
Chapter XXV THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY
Cup Day.
It broke calm and beautiful, no cloud on the horizon, no threat of storm
in the air; a fitting day on which the Shepherds' Trophy must be won
outright.
And well it was so. For never since the founding of the Dale Trials had
such a concourse been gathered together on the North bank of the Silver
Lea. From the Highlands they came; from the far Campbell country; from
the Peak; from the county of many acres; from all along the silver
fringes of the Solway; assembling in that quiet corner of the earth to
see the famous Gray Dog of Kenmuir fight his last great battle for the
Shepherds' Trophy.
By noon the gaunt Scaur looked down on such a gathering as it had never
seen. The paddock at the back of the Dalesman's Daughter was packed with
a clammering, chattering multitude: animated groups of farmers; bevies
of solid rustics; sharp-faced townsmen; loud-voiced bookmakers; giggling
girls; amorous boys,--thrown together like toys in a sawdust bath;
whilst here and there, on the outskirts of the crowd, a lonely man and
wise-faced dog, come from afar to wrest his proud title from the best
sheep-dog in the North.
At the back of the enclosure was drawn up a formidable array of carts
and carriages, varying as much in quality and character as did their
owners. There was the squire's landau rubbing axle-boxes with Jem
Burton's modest moke-cart; and there Viscount Birdsaye's flaring
barouche side by side with the red-wheeled wagon of Kenmuir.
In the latter, Maggie, sad and sweet in her simple summer garb, leant
over to talk to Lady Eleanour; while golden-haired wee Anne, delighted
with the surging crowd around, trotted about the wagon, waving to her
friends, and shouting from very joyousness.
Thick as flies clustered that motley assembly on the north bank of the
Silver Lea. While on the other side the stream was a little group of
judges, inspecting the course.
The line laid out ran thus: the sheep must first be found in the big
enclosure to the right of the starting flag; then up the slope and away
from the spectators; around a flag and obliquely down the hill again;
through a gap in the wall; along the hillside, parrallel to the Silver
Lea; abruptly to the left through a pair of flags--the trickiest turn of
them all; then down the slope to the pen, which was set up close to the
bridge over the stream.
The proceedings began with the Local Stakes, won by Rob Saunderson's
veteran, Shep. There followed the Open Juveniles, carried off by Ned
Hoppin's young dog. It was late in the afternoon when, at length, the
great event of the meeting was reached.
In the enclosure behind the Dalesman's Daughter the clamor of the crowd
increased tenfold, and the yells of the bookmakers were redoubled.
“Walk up, gen'lemen, walk up! the ole firm! Rasper? Yessir--twenty to
one bar two! Twenty to one bar two! Bob? What price, Bob? Even money,
sir--no, not a penny longer, couldn't do it! Red Wull? 'oo says Red
Wull?”
On the far side the stream is clustered about the starting flag the
finest array of sheep-dogs ever seen together.
“I've never seen such a field, and I've seen fifty,” is Parson Leggy's
verdict.
There, beside the tall form of his master, stands Owd Bob o' Kenmuir,
the observed of all. His silvery brush fans the air, and he holds his
dark head high as he scans his challengers, proudly conscious that
to-day will make or mar his fame. Below him, the mean-looking,
smooth-coated black dog is the unbeaten Pip, winner of the renowned
Cambrian Stakes at Llangollen--as many think the best of all the good
dogs that have come from sheep-dotted Wales. Beside him that handsome
sable collie, with the tremendous coat and slash of white on throat
and face, is the famous MacCallum More, fresh from his victory at the
Highland meeting. The cobby, brown dog, seeming of many breeds, is from
the land o' the Tykes--Merry, on whom the Yorkshiremen are laying as
though they loved him. And Jess, the wiry black-and-tan, is the favorite
of the men of of the Derwent and Dove. Tupper's big blue Rasper is
there; Londesley's Lassie; and many more--too many to mention: big and
small, grand and mean, smooth and rough--and not a bad dog there.
And alone, his back to the others, stands a little bowed, conspicuous
figure--Adam M'Adam; while the great dog beside him, a hideous
incarnation of scowling defiance, is Red Wull, the Terror o' the Border.
The Tailless Tyke had already run up his fighting colors. For MacCallum
More, going up to examine this forlorn great adversary, had conceived
for him a violent antipathy, and, straightway, had spun at him with
all the fury of the Highland cateran, who attacks first and explains
afterward. Red Wull, forthwith, had turned on him with savage, silent
gluttony; bob-tailed Rasper was racing up to join in the attack; and in
another second the three would have been locked inseparably--but just in
time M'Adam intervened. One of the judges came hurrying up.
“Mr. M'Adam,” he cried angrily, “if that brute of yours gets fighting
again, hang me if I don't disqualify him! Only last year at the Trials
he killed the young Cossack dog.”
A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. “Come here,
Wullie!” he called. “Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to be
disqualified.”
He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun--little Pip leading
the dance.
On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now. Hucksters left their
wares, and bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eye
was intent on the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep over the
stream.
One after one the competitors ran their course and penned their
sheep--there was no single failure. And all received their just meed of
applause, save only Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to uphold his title, there went up
such a shout as made Maggie's wan cheeks to blush with pleasure, and wee
Anne to scream right lustily.
His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather than
hurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheep-dog has attained
the summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads his
sheep in pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmen
swell with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well might
Tammas pull out that hackneyed phrase, “The brains of a mon and the way
of a woman”; well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby
puff his cheeks and rattle the money in his trouser pockets.
But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull
were selected to fight out the struggle afresh.
The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream it
remained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again;
through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the two
flags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from its
former position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and the
hurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators.
The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning done
beneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there was
one; and the time allowed, ten short minutes.
* * * * *
The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors to obtain a
good position. And well they might; for about to begin was the finest
exhibition of sheep-handling any man there was ever to behold.
* * * * *
Evan Jones and Little Pip led off.
Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked together
as they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a yacht in
Southampton Water; round the flag, through the gap, they brought their
sheep. Down between the two flags--accomplishing right well that awkward
turn; and back to the bridge.
There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow way. Once,
twice, and again, they broke; and each time the gallant little Pip, his
tongue out and tail quivering, brought them back to the bridge-head.
At length one faced it; then another, and--it was too late. Time was up.
The judges signalled; and the Welshman called off his dog and withdrew.
Out of sight of mortal eye, in a dip of the ground, Evan Jones sat down
and took the small dark head between his knees--and you may be sure the
dog's heart was heavy as the man's. “We did our pest, Pip,” he cried
brokenly, “but we're peat--the first time ever we've been!”
* * * * *
No time to dally.
James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run.
No applause this time; not a voice was raised; anxious faces; twitching
fingers; the whole crowd tense as a stretched wire. A false turn, a
wilful sheep, a cantankerous judge, and the gray dog would be beat. And
not a man there but knew it.
Yet over the stream master and dog went about their business never
so quiet, never so collected; for all the world as though they were
rounding up a flock on the Muir Pike.
The old dog found his sheep in a twinkling and a wild, scared trio they
proved. Rounding the first flag, one bright-eyed wether made a dash
for the open. He was quick; but the gray dog was quicker: a splendid
recover, and a sound like a sob from the watchers on the hill.
Down the slope they came for the gap in the wall. A little below the
opening, James Moore took his stand to stop and turn them; while a
distance behind his sheep loitered Owd Bob, seeming to follow rather
than drive, yet watchful of every movement and anticipating it. On he
came, one eye on his master, the other on his sheep; never hurrying
them, never flurrying them, yet bringing them rapidly along.
No word was spoken; barely a gesture made; yet they worked, master and
dog, like one divided.
Through the gap, along the hill parallel to the spectators, playing into
one another's hands like men at polo.
A wide sweep for the turn at the flags, and the sheep wheeled as though
at the word of command, dropped through them, and travelled rapidly for
the bridge.
“Steady!” whispered the crowd.
“Steady, man!” muttered Parson Leggy.
“Hold 'em, for God's sake!” croaked Kirby huskily. “D--n! I knew it! I
saw it coming!”
The pace down the hill had grown quicker--too quick. Close on the bridge
the three sheep made an effort to break. A dash--and two were checked;
but the third went away like the wind, and after him Owd Bob, a gray
streak against the green.
Tammas was cursing silently; Kirby was white to the lips; and in the
stillness you could plainly hear the Dalesmen's sobbing breath, as it
fluttered in their throats.
“Gallop! they say he's old and slow!” muttered the Parson. “Dash! Look
at that!” For the gray dog, racing like the Nor'easter over the sea, had
already retrieved the fugitive.
Man and dog were coaxing the three a step at a time toward the bridge.
One ventured--the others followed.
In the middle the leader stopped and tried to turn--and time was flying,
flying, and the penning alone must take minutes. Many a man's hand was
at his watch, but no one could take his eyes off the group below him to
look.
“We're beat! I've won bet, Tammas!” groaned Sam'l. (The two had a
long-standing wager on the matter.) “I allus knoo hoo 'twould be. I
allus told yo' th' owd tyke--”
Then breaking into a bellow, his honest face crimson with enthusiasm:
“Coom on, Master! Good for yo', Owd Un! Yon's the style!”
For the gray dog had leapt on the back of the hindmost sheep; it had
surged forward against the next, and they were over, and making up the
slope amidst a thunder of applause.
At the pen it was a sight to see shepherd and dog working together.
The Master, his face stern and a little whiter than its wont, casting
forward with both hands, herding the sheep in; the gray dog, his eyes
big and bright, dropping to hand; crawling and creeping, closer and
closer.
“They're in!--Nay--Ay--dang me! Stop 'er! Good, Owd Un! Ah-h-h, they're
in!” And the last sheep reluctantly passed through--on the stroke of
time.
A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie's white face turned pink; and
the Dalesmen mopped their wet brows. The mob surged forward, but the
stewards held them back.
“Back, please! Don't encroach! M'Adam's to come!”
From the far bank the little man watched the scene. His coat and cap
were off, and his hair gleamed white in the sun; his sleeves were rolled
up; and his face was twitching but set as he stood--ready.
The hubbub over the stream at length subsided. One of the judges nodded
to him.
“Noo, Wullie--noo or niver!--'Scots wha hae'! “--and they were off.
“Back, gentlemen! back! He's off--he's coming! M'Adam's coming!”
They might well shout and push; for the great dog was on to his sheep
before they knew it; and they went away with a rush, with him right on
their backs. Up the slope they swept and round the first flag, already
galloping. Down the hill for the gap, and M'Adam was flying ahead to
turn them. But they passed him like a hurricane, and Red Wull was in
front with a rush and turned them alone.
“M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out a clear
voice in the silence.
Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wings
of driven grouse.
“He's lost 'em! They'll break! They're away!” was the cry.
Sam'l was half up the wheel of the Kenmuir wagon; every man was on his
toes; ladies were standing in their carriages; even Jim Mason's face
flushed with momentary excitement.
The sheep were tearing along the hillside, all together, like a white
scud. After them, galloping like a Waterloo winner, raced Red Wull. And
last of all, leaping over the ground like a demoniac, making not for the
two flags, but the plank-bridge, the white-haired figure of M'Adam.
“He's beat! The Killer's beat!” roared a strident voice.
“M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out the
clear reply.
Red Wull was now racing parallel to the fugitives and above them. All
four were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely
twenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to
it. To effect the turn a change of direction must be made almost through
a right angle.
“He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!” was the
roar.
From over the stream a yell--“Turn 'em, Wullie!”
At the word the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned,
still at the gallop, like a troop of cavalry, and dropped, clean and
neat, between the flags; and down to the stream they rattled, passing
M'Adam on the way as though he was standing.
“Weel done, Wullie!” came the scream from the far bank; and from the
crowd went up an involuntary burst of applause.
“Ma word!
“Did yo' see that?”
“By gob!”
It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the galloping
horse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they must
have overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss.
“He's not been two minutes so far. We're beaten--don't you think so,
Uncle Leggy?” asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up piteously into the
parson's face.
“It's not what I think, my dear; it's what the judges think,” the parson
replied; and what he thought their verdict would be was plainly writ on
his face for all to read.
Right on to the centre of the bridge the leading sheep galloped
and--stopped abruptly.
Up above in the crowd there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigid
fingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby's face; and, at the
back, a green-coated bookmaker slipped his note-book in his pocket, and
glanced behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was the
calmest there.
Red Wull was not to be denied. Like his forerunner he leapt on the back
of the hindmost sheep. But the red dog was heavy where the gray was
light. The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell.
Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyes
flaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the struggling
creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half
shoved it on to the bank.
Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore.
The little man scrambled, panting, on to the bank and raced after sheep
and dog. His face was white beneath the perspiration; his breath came in
quavering gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he was
trembling in every limb, and yet indomitable.
They were up to the pen, and the last wrestle began. The crowd, silent
and motionless, craned forward to watch the uncanny, white-haired little
man and the huge dog, working so close below them. M'Adam's face was
white; his eyes staring, unnaturally bright; his bent body projected
forward; and he tapped with his stick on the ground like a blind man,
coaxing the sheep in. And the Tailless Tyke, his tongue out and flanks
heaving, crept and crawled and worked up to the opening, patient as he
had never been before.
They were in at last.
There was a lukewarm, half-hearted cheer; then silence.
Exhausted and trembling, the little man leant against the pen, one
hand on it; while Red Wull, his flanks still heaving, gently licked the
other. Quite close stood James Moore and the gray dog; above was the
black wall of people, utterly still; below, the judges comparing notes.
In the silence you could almost hear the panting of the crowd.
Then one of the judges went up to James Moore and shook him by the hand.
The gray dog had won. Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophy
outright.
A second's palpitating silence; a woman's hysterical laugh--and
a deep-mouthed bellow rent the expectant air: shouts, screams,
hat-tossings, back-clappings blending in a din that made the
many-winding waters of the Silver Lea quiver and quiver again.
Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophy outright.
Maggie's face flushed a scarlet hue. Wee Anne flung fat arms toward
her triumphant Bob, and screamed with the best. Squire and parson, each
red-cheeked, were boisterously shaking hands. Long Kirby, who had not
prayed for thirty years, ejaculated with heartfelt earnestness, “Thank
God!” Sam'l Todd bellowed in Tammas's ear, and almost slew him with his
mighty buffets. Among the Dalesmen some laughed like drunken men; some
cried like children; all joined in that roaring song of victory.
To little M 'Adam, standing with his back to the crowd, that storm of
cheering came as the first announcement of defeat.