STORM
BY
HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE
AUTHOR OF
“SHAMELESS WAYNE,” “RICROFT OF WITHENS,”
“WRACK OF DOOM,” ETC.
FOURTH EDITION
London
John Long, Ltd.
12, 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket
[_All rights reserved_]
Made and
Printed in
Great Britain
Copyright, 1925, by
John Long, Limited
All Rights Reserved
CONTENTS
I. THE THREE GAUNT MEN
II. CAUSLEEN
III. THE END OF A JOURNEY
IV. THE MORROW
V. HEMLOCK
VI. THE EWE-GATHERING
VII. THE BATTLE OF THE FLEECE
VIII. THE GABBLE-RATCHET
IX. THE NIGHT WATCH
X. THE WEAVER OF BASKETS
XI. VENOM
XII. THE SHEEP-SLAYER
XIII. WILL O’ WISP
XIV. NITA
XV. THE HINDERED VENTURE
XVI. A ROPE-END AND A TREE
XVII. FLAME
XVIII. THE RESTLESS DAWN
XIX. GARSYKES
XX. SPITE’S VICTORY
XXI. THE POOL
XXII. THE END OF STORM
XXIII. THE QUIET WEDDING
XXIV. A GAOL DELIVERY
XXV. THE PLAGUE
XXVI. “LOGIE’S DOUBLY SAFE”
Storm
CHAPTER I
THE THREE GAUNT MEN
I
Hardcastle, Master of Logie, came swinging up the last of the stiff
miles that climbed from Norbrigg market-town to the high uplands.
October’s mists had lain heavy on the lowlands, but here on the tops he
strode into sunlight and clean, nipping air.
Grim and lean, toughened by many sorts of weather, Hardcastle paused to
get breath again, and looked out across the lonely acres that stretched
to the four quarters of a blue and amber sky. Ahead of him, bordering
the roadway, he saw the straggling clumps of houses known as
Weathersett. A brave, storm-battered village, keeping watch above the
mines that once fed its people, it wore a comrade’s look to Hardcastle.
So did the barren pastures, roaming out and over between their grey
stone fences to the gateways that gaped across the hill-tops.
His thoughts were busy with all that lay hidden in these broken
lands—unfenced mines, their waters brimming deep—caves, wandered
through in boyhood, that had set their spell of mystery and dread on all
his after life. It was a haunted land, as all folk knew, and in its old
mine-workings lurked trolls and ancient goblins.
His glance roamed down to another village—not reared high like
Weathersett, but skulking in a lowland hollow on the far side of the
benty waste. He forgot trolls and all their phantom kindred. They were
unsubstantial, but the people who lived there in Garsykes village were
flesh and blood and a standing menace to the country-side.
A strange look stole across Hardcastle’s face. Contempt, antagonism, the
shadow of some restless fear, followed each other as he stood watching
Garsykes; for distrust of its folk had been in his mother’s milk, and in
the tales passed down for generations.
They had many by-names, like all tribes greatly feared. Men of the
Wilderness, some called them; others the Broken People, or the Lost
Company. Names of that sort were no more than wind in the reeds.
The stark truth remained that Garsykes village was the abiding-place of
every rogue about the fells. Sheep stealers had foregathered there since
time out of mind—men who had done murder on the high fells—lesser
rogues who had snatched purses at village fairs, and come breathless
from pursuit. Such pursuit ended always on the verge of Garsykes, for
none but vagabonds dared enter.
Hardcastle remembered his father’s downright struggle against the
tribute these Lost Folk levied on the country-side. They were a small
village then, but had grown big on what they fed on, till nowadays even
strapping farmers paid toll for a safe home-coming.
Hardcastle swung down the road till a turning of the way showed him
suddenly the whole, wide front of the highlands that stepped out to his
own Logie country.
Pengables caught the mellow sunlight, and his rocks were softened till
they showed like some misty castle seen in dreams. The brackens were on
fire, and slender rowans crimsoned up to the wise, stalwart pines that
fringed the moor.
This was a man’s land, wide, free-striding, its shoulders pushing up to
freedom and the sky. It had fathered and mothered his orphaned life. He
knew its every dell and furrow, and from the heart of it a crisp, sweet
breeze ran out in greeting.
He went down the lone track—past Drumly Ghyll, where Riding Nevison had
leaped his horse from cliff to cliff in half-forgotten days—and came to
the bend that showed Langerton below him, a hamlet clustered round its
water-mill. He could almost hear the mill-wheel droning—a goblin that
toiled underground, to his awed boyish fancy—a goblin still, though
manhood had killed many pleasant, eerie fears of that sort.
Hardcastle, not knowing why, halted in his stride, and stood looking out
across the waste. If the hills were brown and steadfast washed by rain
and sun, below him lurked the mines, the bogs that sucked a man down,
dragging at him till limb by limb the chill ooze chained him. And there
were the Wilderness Men, whose enmity was a dread thing to earn.
A stab of fear took him unawares as if one of the Stealthy People had
crept on him from behind. He shook it off, telling himself that the
dread was part of his heritage of Logie. A grown man must learn to shake
off nursery tales.
The swart, russet face of the land, crowned by Pengables, stood friend
to him as he went down the twisting road; and it was in his heart to
clear these lusty acres of the scum that hindered them. It was in his
heart still when he came past Mathison’s pinfold, where in summer they
gathered flocks for sheep washing.
Out of the pinfold came three gaunt men, and straddled across the road,
barring it to him. They were unwashen, shifty folk to look at, and they
asked tribute.
“I owe none,” said Hardcastle, with rough contempt.
“We’re Wilderness Folk,” said Long Murgatroyd, the tallest of the three.
Again fear played about the Master of Logie, from long habit—played for
an instant, and was gone.
“How much would content you?” he asked, as if willing to drive a sober
bargain.
“As much as you’ve got,” snarled Murgatroyd.
Hardcastle was beginning to see red, dancing lights between the gaunt
men and himself, was ceasing to count the odds. “You shall have it.”
The three leered at each other. “What did I tell you?” asked one of
them. “Nobody dare touch the Master of Logie, we said. Oh, we’d best go
wide of the Master, we snivelled. But he’s frog-livered too, like the
rest of his dalesmen.”
Hardcastle backed quietly to the open gateway of the pinfold, and stood
in front of it. He had room to swing his arms, and the three must come
at him one at a time or not at all.
“Come, take all I’ve got of muscle,” he said. “It’s waiting for you.”
The Lost Folk were happier when they fought in numbers against few; but
now the biggest of the three saw, too, the red, dancing lights and made
at Hardcastle. The bleak, well-matched fight went this way and that.
Neither spared nor hoped to be spared. The world was narrowed to the
limit of blows that thudded out into the breeze. Then Hardcastle swept
his left arm round, as it might have been a hammer, and his man went
down, and lay still, and cursed no more.
The Master of Logie had given tribute, enough and to spare. His face was
wealed and broken, his body hammered out of shape. The men left were
wondering how to take him—for the pinfold wall would not let both make
at him together—when Hardcastle settled all doubts for them. Fury was
on him now. He sprang forward before they guessed his purpose, gripped
them with either hand and brought their heads together with a dizzy
crash. He stood a moment looking at them as they lay beside Long
Murgatroyd, and wondered at his strength. Then he went down the road,
with a song at his heart. Whatever stoop to pride the dalesmen made each
market day when they paid tribute, the pride of Logie went secure.
II
Hardcastle halted by and by, for a backward glance at the Wilderness,
and still the glow of victory was with him. Battle was up in earnest now
between Logie and the Broken Folk. There could be no withdrawal,
whichever way it ended.
“A terrible land for thieves, Master,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.
Hardcastle turned sharply, to find his own shepherd, Brant, beside him.
“Why, Stephen, you’re wide of the home pastures—and you’ve a gun for
company, instead of a stick and a grizzled collie.”
Short, thick-set and sturdy, Brant had the eyes of those who journey on
far hill-tops, living alone with sheep and dogs and weather.
“You’ve heard of Storm’s doings lately?”
“News filters through, but I’ve little use for gossip—especially of
friends.”
“Aye, you were always partial to Storm, and I fair loved the dog myself.
Best of his kind, he was—knew how to round ewes up the pastures like a
marvel—till he fell from grace.”
“We all do, Stephen, time and time.”
“You’re partial to him, as I said. But a dog that takes to worrying
sheep, and feeding on ’em, is a cannibal—eats his own flesh-and-blood,
as you might say.”
“You trained him to be jealous, Brant?”
“Shepherds do. A dog that’s any man’s dog means as much as a bunch of
windle-straws.”
“Yet I could always whistle him from your side.”
“Aye,” growled the shepherd— “and see what comes of it. A
sheep-stealer, he, and me with a gun in my hands. That’s what is coming
to Storm, for I’ve news of him this way.”
“Then likely he’s back in the Logie country by this time. Either way,
bad luck to your shooting, Stephen.”
“There seems bad luck to your riding, Master,” said the shepherd dryly,
“or you’d not be footing it from Norbrigg. It’s not natural, like, to
see you without feet in stirrups.”
“The mare went lame, and I had to leave her.”
“Was there no nag to be borrowed, then?”
“There was, but I sit astride my own horse, or none.”
Brant looked over the wastes, then at the Master’s face. Old days and
new were nagging at him with their memories.
“Like yourself, and always a little bit liker as the years pass. What of
Garsykes yonder?” he broke off.
“Well?” asked Hardcastle, blunt and hard.
“It’s no way well. A festering sore I call’m, and our farmers tame as
lice.”
“Tamer. They haven’t a bite at all.”
A silence came to Brant. He had dared to speak of the Lost Folk, here in
the broken lands, and suddenly he remembered boyhood’s days. When he was
spoiling for mischief, he was told he’d be tossed to the Wilderness
Folk, and never come out again. In later years he had heard his elders
speak of paying tribute to the Lost People—_lest worse befell_. And now
the old stealthy menace seemed to creep about him as his glance sought
the broken lands again.
“The devil take us, Master,” grumbled Brant.
“It’s likely he will, all in good time—but why just now?”
Brant scratched his wiry beard and pondered. Hill silences had taught
him to be wary of speech when deep-hidden feelings sought outlet.
“Because we’re content to let this shame go on,” he said at last. “It’s
hard to unravel, this fear of the Lost Folk. I’m small myself, but most
of our men—yeomen, and hinds, and what not—could make a meal of any
two such lean swine as they breed Garsykes way.”
“Yet they don’t, Brant. They just unfasten their pockets and give
tribute.”
“They’ll be asking tribute of you one day soon,” said the shepherd,
after another restless silence. “And what then?”
“_They’ve asked it_, Stephen. Hadn’t you seen my face was a trifle out
of shape?”
“Oh, I’d seen; but it was not my place to ask what private diversion
you’d been finding Norbrigg way.”
Hardcastle laughed outright at Brant’s gravity, that hid a dry humour of
its own. “I gave more than I took, Stephen.”
“Then a bonny mess t’others must be in. Who were they, Master?”
“Long Murgatroyd and two I didn’t know.”
Fire kindled suddenly in the shepherd’s eyes. “It _had_ to come, and I’m
glad its come. Garsykes gets past itself these days!”
“How many will stand for Logie, now the feud’s up?”
“Me for one, and another here and there. I wouldn’t count on many—but
it’s the staunch few that matter—and, Master, fear will reach you by
and by. Never heed it though it will be cold as east wind before the
snows come.”
“Fear?” said Hardcastle, body and heart aglow with memory of blows taken
and given for Logie’s honour.
“Aye, just fear. I’ve heard my fore-elders talk of what happens to a man
that thwarts the Lost Folk. And now I’ll give you good-day. It’s time I
put a dollop of lead into Storm. It would rankle when my time came to
go, if I’d left a sheep-killer rife about the fells.”
III
For a mile or so after leaving Brant the glow of victory stayed with
Hardcastle; and after that he thought that his feet began to tire. Soon
he knew it was his heart that was tiring, and his spirit. Already fear
was weaving unclean spells about him. What had his nurse told of the
Lost Folk when they put their token on a man? What had ancient farmers
told him? He was no longer his own master but thrall to terrors bred in
the womb of generations.
Fancy began to play strange tricks. Hardened to life and weather he
might be; but he was no match for the unseen hordes of fear that came
about him. The sweat broke out on Hardcastle, fighting longer odds than
three men against one. It was only shame of his fear that got some sort
of manhood into him, and a rough courage that was friendless and utterly
alone. He learned then what Brant had meant when he spoke of dread, cold
as east wind with snow behind it.
“Aye,” growled Hardcastle, “but Brant has his dog with him for comfort,
and I’ve none.”
He forgot that Brant’s dog had taken lately to unlawful ways, till at a
corner of the road he came face to face with Storm himself—an outlaw,
every inch and line of him, standing at bay. His hide was matted and
uncouth, for pursuit had given him little time to tend himself. His
teeth were bared, and every man his foe.
They stood there for a moment, not knowing that the whole Dale’s safety
might rest on what came of this chance meeting.
“Storm,” said Hardcastle, “I’ve no fear of your teeth, my lad.”
The culprit only growled, till Hardcastle came to him and patted his
tousled head. Then he yielded a little to old liking for this man who
seemed honest, with no snare in wait for him.
“Best come home with me to Logie. Brant has a gun in his hand out
yonder, and he’s seeking you.”
Storm glanced about him with restless eyes that looked for peril, and
then sought Hardcastle’s face again. If he had not learned the trick of
human speech, he knew its meaning. He was asked to get into shelter of a
decent homestead, after weeks of vagabond roaming. His limbs were full
of aches, caught in the marshes when he lay hidden from foes too many
for him. He was wearied-out, and there were good meals to be had at
Logie, as he had learned in the prosperous times when Brant used to take
him to the Master’s kitchen. But he was afraid of houses these days.
“Come,” said Hardcastle, with sharp command.
The sheep-slayer answered his bidding, and together they went down and
up to the autumn land till they reached Logie Brigg. Its arch stretched
wide and slender over the peat-brown waters of Wharfe River—the bridge
that Clifford of Skipton had crossed long ago on his way to Flodden
Field.
The Master of Logie could never cross the bridge but he halted for
remembrance of what it meant to him—that old dream of Clifford, hale at
sixty, going into unknown hardship across the Border. The Hardcastle of
that day, with his men, had joined the march, and won renown; and to
this last descendant of the race there was staunch, abiding glamour in
the recollection. Hard, embittered, working grimly forward day by day,
two beacon-lights showed through the gloom—love of Wharfe River, and
memory of Clifford jangling over-bridge with singing Dalesmen.
He had no joy of these to-day, strive as he might to capture the song of
Logie Brigg. Courage had taken the horsemen and the footmen over, in the
brave days gone. Now he was here—a Hardcastle last of them all—eating
into mind and heart—fear of the Lost Folk he despised. He had given too
much to the battle at Mathison’s pinfold and the back-rush of it left
him weak and spent. The Lost Folk would strike soon or late—strike from
behind—and it would be a dreary waiting time.
“Storm,” he said, “there’s not a penny to choose between us. We’re both
of us outlawed, and we fear every creak of a tree-branch.”
The sheep-stealer would not have it so. He had the dog’s instinct for
what went homeward over Logie Brigg, unheard by Hardcastle—tramp of the
feet of Flodden Men, returning to the house of Logie now it was in
peril. He turned to see them pass; a great company. Then he drew closer
still to Hardcastle, and licked his hands, and tried to lick his face.
“You’re a dreamer, lad,” said Hardcastle. “How can all be well—with
_that_ behind us? There’s Brant with a gun for you—and for me the
Wilderness.”
Storm only came the closer. On the high fells he had learned the tracks
of innocence and duty. In the lowlands he had garnered stealthy
knowledge of many ways of hide-and-seek. Through clean days and muddy he
had kept one gift safe.
They fell silent on the Brigg, these two. Wharfe River lapped against
the sturdy arches she had tried, time and again, to batter down at
flood-time. They heard rooks calling from peaceful sycamores, the cry of
a plover not gone south as yet, the song of a farm-lad up the fields.
All this might be with him to the end of his days, thought Hardcastle.
But it was likelier that all would go, before the Wilderness had done
with him.
“We’d best be jogging,” he said, turning up hill, Storm close as a
thistle-burr beside him.
Hardcastle was aware of the magic of this steep, winding roadway, faring
up to his own gate between the woods of Logie. Wise, silent beeches
reddened to their fall of leaf. A chestnut flung its crimson challenge
to the death-in-winter soon to come. The sycamores were sending little
clouds of leaves as playthings for the breeze. Over all, and through
all, was the quick reek of autumn and the smell of wood-fires lazing up
from Logie’s hearths.
Hardcastle was aware of it all, as of something that had stirred him
once, in his wooing days, when a lass had painted all the country-side
for him. That was far off, a memory bitten-down and ended. He was here
with Storm, with thoughts of what the Lost Folk could do to him and his.
The battle up-fell had put its marks on him. He was hungry and needing
wine at his elbow.
For all that, when they passed through Logie’s gate and his old
retriever growled at Storm—when the two of them were for each other’s
throats, mad with sudden jealousy—Hardcastle took them by their
collars, and shook them till they whimpered.
“There’s going to be war outside,” he said; “but, by God, I’ll have
peace among my own.”