Monsaldale is one of the best-known valleys in Derbyshire. The Pig
and Whistle is its single but celebrated inn, and Jo Greatorex, the
landlord, is a shrewd and sturdy Yorkshireman. Nature meant him for a
frontiersman, but circumstances made him an innkeeper and his inborn
tastes made him a--well, never mind; there was a great deal of poaching
done in that country.
Wully's new home was on the upland east of the valley above Jo's inn,
and that fact was not without weight in bringing me to Monsaldale. His
master, Dorley, farmed in a small way on the lowland, and on the moors
had a large number of sheep. These Wully guarded with his old-time
sagacity, watching them while they fed and bringing them to the fold at
night. He was reserved and preoccupied for a dog, and rather too
ready to show his teeth to strangers, but he was so unremitting in
his attention to his flock that Dorley did not lose a lamb that year,
although the neighboring farmers paid the usual tribute to eagles and to
foxes.
The dales are poor fox-hunting country at best. The rocky ridges, high
stone walls, and precipices are too numerous to please the riders, and
the final retreats in the rocks are so plentiful that it was a marvel
the foxes did not overrun Monsaldale. But they didn't. There had been
but little reason for complaint until the year 1881, when a sly old fox
quartered himself on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a cheese, and
laughed equally at the hounds of the huntsmen and the lurchers of the
farmers. He was several times run by the Peak hounds, and escaped by
making for the Devil's Hole. Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the
rocks extend unknown distances, he was safe. The country folk began to
see something more than chance in the fact that he always escaped at the
Devil's Hole, and when one of the hounds who nearly caught this Devil's
Fox soon after went mad, it removed all doubt as to the spiritual
paternity of said fox.
He continued his career of rapine, making audacious raids and
hair-breadth escapes, and finally began, as do many old foxes, to kill
from a mania for slaughter. Thus it was that Digby lost ten lambs in one
night. Carroll lost seven the next night. Later, the vicarage duck-pond
was wholly devastated, and scarcely a night passed but someone in the
region had to report a carnage of poultry, lambs or sheep, and, finally
even calves.
Of course all the slaughter was attributed to this one fox of the
Devil's Hole. It was known only that he was a very large fox, at least
one that made a very large track. He never was clearly seen, even by the
huntsmen. And it was noticed that Thunder and Bell, the stanchest hounds
in the pack, had refused to tongue or even to follow the trail when he
was hunted.
His reputation for madness sufficed to make the master of the Peak
hounds avoid the neighborhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by Jo,
agreed among themselves that if it would only come on a snow, they would
assemble and beat the whole country, and in defiance of all rules of the
hunt, get rid of the 'daft' fox in any way they could. But the snow did
not come, and the red-haired gentleman lived his life. Notwithstanding
his madness, he did not lack method. He never came two successive nights
to the same farm. He never ate where he killed, and he never left a
track that betrayed his re-treat. He usually finished up his night's
trail on the turf, or on a public highway.
Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsaldale from Bakewell late one night
during a heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of Stead's sheep-fold
there was a vivid flash of lightning. By its light, there was fixed on
my retina a picture that made me start. Sitting on his haunches by the
roadside, twenty yards away, was a very large fox gazing at me with
malignant eyes, and licking his muzzle in a suggestive manner. All
this I saw, but no more, and might have forgotten it, or thought myself
mistaken, but the next morning, in that very fold, were found the bodies
of twenty-three lambs and sheep, and the unmistakable signs that brought
home the crime to the well-known marauder.
There was only one man who escaped, and that was Dorley. This was the
more remarkable because he lived in the centre of the region raided, and
within one mile of the Devil's Hole. Faithful Wully proved himself worth
all the dogs in the neighborhood. Night after night he brought in the
sheep, and never one was missing. The Mad Fox might prowl about the
Dorley homestead if he wished, but Wully, shrewd, brave, active Wully
was more than a match for him, and not only saved his master's flock,
but himself escaped with a whole skin. Everyone entertained a profound
respect for him, and he might have been a popular pet but for his temper
which, never genial, became more and more crabbed. He seemed to like
Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley's eldest daughter, a shrewd, handsome, young
woman, who, in the capacity of general manager of the house, was Wully's
special guardian. The other members of Dorley's family Wully learned to
tolerate, but the rest of the world, men and dogs, he seemed to hate.
His uncanny disposition was well shown in the last meeting I had with
him. I was walking on a pathway across the moor behind Dorley's house.
Wully was lying on the doorstep. As I drew near he arose, and without
appearing to see me trotted toward my pathway and placed himself across
it about ten yards ahead of me. There he stood silently and intently
regarding the distant moor, his slightly bristling mane the only sign
that he had not been suddenly turned to stone. He did not stir as I
came up, and not wishing to quarrel, I stepped around past his nose and
walked on. Wully at once left his position and in the same eerie silence
trotted on some twenty feet and again stood across the pathway. Once
more I came up and, stepping into the grass, brushed past his nose.
Instantly, but without a sound, he seized my left heel. I kicked out
with the other foot, but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a large
stone at him. He leaped forward and the stone struck him in the ham,
bowling him over into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl as he fell,
but scrambled out of the ditch and limped away in silence.
Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the world, he was always gentle
with Dorley's sheep. Many were the tales of rescues told of him. Many
a poor lamb that had fallen into a pond or hole would have perished but
for his timely and sagacious aid, many a far-weltered ewe did he turn
right side up; while his keen eye discerned and his fierce courage
baffled every eagle that had appeared on the moor in his time.