At the age of fifty or thereabouts Shepherd Toller went mad. After due
process he was handed over to the authorities and graduated as a pauper
lunatic. His madness was the outcome of solicitude, and it was not
surprising that, after a year amid the jovial company of the asylum,
Toller began to improve. At the end of the second year he was declared
to be cured, and discharged, much to his regret.
His first act on liberation was to recover his old dog, which had been
left in charge of a friend. Desiring to start life again where his
former insanity would be unknown, he made his way to Deadborough, the
village of his birth. Arrived there, after a forty miles' walk, he
refreshed himself with a glass of beer and a penn'orth of bread and
cheese, and proceeded at once to Farmer Ferryman in quest of work. The
farmer, who was, as usual, in want of labour, sent him to Snarley Bob to
"put the measure on him." Snarley's report was favourable. "He seemed a
bit queer, no doubt, and kept laughin' at nothin'; but I've knowed lots
o' queer people as had more sense than them as wasn't queer, and there's
no denyin' as he's knowledgeable in sheep." The result was that Toller
was forthwith appointed as an understudy to Snarley Bob.
Bob's estimate of the new-comer rose steadily day by day. "He had a
wonderful eye for points." "As good a sheep-doctor as ever lived."
"Wanted a bit of watchin', it was true, but had a head on his shoulders
for all that." "Knows how to keep his mouth shut." "Was backward in
breedin', but not for want o' sense--hadn't caught him young enough."
"Could ha' taught him anything, if he'd come twenty-five years back." In
due course, therefore, Toller was entrusted with great responsibilities.
He it was who, under Snarley's direction, presided over the generation,
birth, and early upbringing of the thrice-renowned "Thunderbolt."
So it went on for three years. At the end of that time Toller had an
accident. He fell through the aperture of a feeding-loft, and his spinal
column received an ugly shock. Symptoms of his old malady began to
return. He began to get things "terrible mixed up," and to play tricks
which violated both the letter and the spirit of Snarley's notches.
One of the breeding points in Snarley's system was connected with the
length of the lambs' ears. Short ears in the new-born lamb were
prophetic of desirable points which would duly appear when the creature
became a sheep; long ears, on the other hand, indicated that the cross
had failed. A crucial experiment on these lines was being conducted by
aid of a ram which had been specially imported from Spain, and the whole
thing had been left to Toller's supervision. The result was a complete
failure. On the critical day, when Snarley returned from his obstetric
duties, his wife saw gloom and disappointment on his countenance. "Well,
have them lambs come right?" "Lambs, did you say? They're not _lambs_.
They're young _jackasses_. It's summat as Shepherd Toller's been up to.
You'll never make me believe as the Spanish ram got any one on 'em--no,
not if you was to take your dyin' oath. Blessed if I know where he found
a father for 'em. It's not one o' our rams, I'll swear. You mark my
word, missis, Shepherd Toller's goin' out of his mind again. I've seen
it comin' on for months. Only last Tuesday he sez to me, 'Snarley, I'm
gettin' cloudy on the top.'"
Shortly after this Toller disappeared and, though the search was
diligent, he could not be found. "He's not gone far," said Snarley.
"Leastways he's sure to come back. Mad-men allus comes back." And within
a few months an incident happened which enabled Snarley to verify his
theory. It came about in this wise.
A party of great folk from the Hall had gone up into the hills for a
picnic. They had chosen their camp near the head of a long upland
valley, where the ground fell suddenly into a deep gorge pierced by a
torrent. A fire of sticks had been lit close to the edge of the
precipice, and a kettle, made of some shining metal, had been hung over
the flames. The party were standing by, waiting for the water to boil,
when suddenly, crash!--a sprinkle of scalding water in your
face--and--where's the kettle? An invisible force, falling like a bolt
from the blue, had smitten the kettle and hurled it into space. The
ladies screamed; the Captain swore; the Clergyman cried, "Good
Gracious!" the Undergraduate said, "Jerusalem!" the Wit added, "_And_
Madagascar!" But what was said matters not, for the Recording Angel had
dropped his pen. The whole party stood amazed, unable to place the
occurrence in any sort of intelligible context, and with looks that
seemed to say, "The reign of Chaos has returned, and the Inexpressible
become a fact!" Some went to the edge of the gorge and saw below a mass
of buckled tin, irrecoverable, and worthless. Some looked about on the
hillside, but looked on nothing to the point. Some stood by the spot
where the kettle had hung, and argued without premises. Some searched
for the missile, some for the man; but neither was found. The whole
thing was an absolute mystery. The party had lost their tea, and gained
a subject for conversation at dinner. That was all.
That night Snarley, in the tap-room of the Nag's Head, heard the story
from the groom who had lit the fire, hung the kettle, and seen it fly
into space. Snarley said nothing, quickly finished his glass, and went
home. "Missis," he said, "get my breakfast at three o'clock to-morrow
morning. Shepherd Toller's come back. And mind you hold your tongue."
By five o'clock next morning Snarley had reached the scene of the
picnic. He gazed about him in all directions: nothing was stirring but
the peewits. Then he climbed down the gorge with some difficulty, found
the kettle, and examined its riven side. Climbing back, he went some
distance further up the valley, ascended a little knoll, took out his
whistle, and blew a peculiar blast, tremulous and piercing. No response.
Snarley blew again, and again. At the fourth attempt the distant barking
of a dog was heard, and a minute later the signal was answered by the
counterpart to Snarley's blast. Presently the form of a big man,
followed by a yelping dog, appeared on the skyline above. Shepherd
Toller was found.
* * * * *
During the week which followed these events, various members of the
picnic-party had begun to recollect things they had previously
forgotten, and discoveries were made, _ex post facto_, which warranted
the submission of the case to the Society for the Investigation of
Mysterious Phenomena. Lady Lottie Passingham had been of the party, and
she it was who drew up the Report which was so much discussed a few
years ago. In her own evidence Lady Lottie, whose figure was none too
slim, averred that, as she climbed the hill to the place of rendezvous,
she had been distinctly conscious of something pulling her back. She had
attached no importance to this at the time, though she had remarked to
Miss Gledhow that she wished she hadn't come. The time at which the
kettle flew was 4.27 p.m.; at 4.25 Lady Lottie, had a sensation as
though a cold hand were stroking her left cheek, the separate fingers
being clearly distinguishable. Miss Gledhow had experienced a feeling
all afternoon that she was being _watched and criticised_--a feeling
which she could only compare to that of a person who is having his
photograph taken. Captain Sorley's cigarettes kept going out in the most
unaccountable manner; and in this connection he would mention that more
than once, and especially a few minutes after the main occurrence, he
could not help fancying that someone was breathing in his face. The Rev.
E. F. Stark-Potter had heard, several times, a sound like "Woe, woe,"
which he attributed at first to some ploughman calling to his horses;
subsequent inquiry had proved, however, that, on the day in question, no
ploughing was being done in the neighbourhood. All the witnesses
concurred in the statement that they were vividly conscious of
_something wrong_, the most emphatic in this respect being the
Undergraduate, who had made no secret of his feeling at the time by
assuring several members of the party that he felt absolutely "rotten,"
Further, the Report stated, the scene had been identified with the spot
where a young woman committed suicide in 1834 by casting herself down
the precipice. The battered kettle was also recovered and sent in a
registered parcel for examination by the experts of the Society.
After the mature deliberation due to the distinguished names at the end
of the Report, the Society decided that the evidence was non-veridical,
and refused to print the document in their _Proceedings_.
Snarley Bob, who knew what was going on, had his reasons for welcoming
this development. He concocted various legends of his own weird
experiences at the valley-head, and these, as coming from him, had
considerable weight. They were communicated in the first instance to the
groom. By him they were conveyed to the coachman; by him, to the
coachman's wife; whence they were not long in finding their way, by the
usual channels, to headquarters. Here the contributions of Snarley were
combined by various hands into an artistic whole with the original
occurrence, which, in this new context, at once quitted the low ground
of History and began a free development of its own in the realms of the
Ideal. By the time it reached the Press it had become a fiction far more
imposing than any fact, and far more worthy of belief. Things that never
happened filled the foreground, and the thing that did happen had fallen
so far into the background as to be almost invisible. The incident of
the kettle had exfoliated into a whole sequence of imposing mysteries,
becoming in the process a mere germ or point of departure of no more
significance in itself than are the details in Saxo Grammaticus to a
first-class performance of _Hamlet_. Thus transfigured, the story was
indeed a drama rather than a narrative; and those who remember reading
it in that form will hardly believe that it had its origin in the humble
facts which these pages relate. The excitement it caused lasted for some
weeks, and it was almost a public disappointment when the Society for
the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena blew a cold blast upon the
whole thing.
* * * * *
When Snarley Bob met Shepherd Toller at Valley Head, he found him
accoutred in a manner which verified his private theory as to the
levitation of the kettle. Coiled round Toller's left arm were three
slings, made from strips of raw oxhide, with pouches, large and small,
for hurling stones of various size. Slung over his back was a big bag,
also of leather, which contained his ammunition--smooth pebbles gathered
from the torrent bed, the largest being the size of a man's fist.
Strapped round his waist was a flint axe, the head being a beautiful
celt, which Toller had discovered long ago on Clun Downs, and skilfully
fixed in a handle bound with thongs.
In the days of Toller's first madness, it had been his habit to wander
over Clun Downs, equipped in this manner, He had lived in some fastness
of his own devising, and supplied his larder by the occasional slaughter
of a stolen sheep, whose skull he would split with a blow from the flint
axe. The slings were rather for amusement than hunting, though his
markmanship was excellent, and he was said to be able at any time to
bring down a rabbit, or even a bird. All day long he would wander in
unfrequented uplands, slinging stones at every object that tempted his
eye, and roaring and dancing with delight whenever he hit the mark. He
was inoffensive enough and had never been known to deliberately aim at a
human being, though more than one shooting party had been considerably
alarmed by the crash of Toller's stones among the branches, or by his
long-range sniping of the white-clothed luncheon-table. On one occasion
Toller had landed a huge pebble, the size of an eight-pounder shot, into
the very bull's-eye of the feast--to wit, a basket containing six
bottles of Heidsieck's Special Reserve. It was this performance which
led Sir George to report the case to the authorities and insist on
Toller being put under restraint.
* * * * *
By the evening of the day when Toller disappeared from the Perryman
sheepfolds he had completed the long walk to his former haunts, and
recovered his weapons from under the cairn where he had carefully hidden
them six years before. The axe, of course, was uninjured; but the slings
were rotten. As soon as it was dark, therefore, Toller stole down to the
pastures, captured a steer, brained it with the flint axe, stripped off
the skin, made a fire, roasted a piece of the warm flesh, covered his
tracks, and before the sun was up had made twenty miles of the return
journey, with half a dozen fine new slings concealed beneath his coat.
He arrived at Deadborough at nightfall the day but one following, having
taken a circuitous route far from the highroad. He at once made his way
into the hills.
Beyond the furthest outposts of the Perryman farm lie extensive wolds
rising rapidly into desolate regions where sheep can scarcely find
pasture. In this region Toller concealed himself. About two miles beyond
the old quarry, on a slaty hillside, he found a deep pit, which had
probably been used as a water-hole in prehistoric times; and here he
built himself a hut. He made the walls out of the stones of a ruined
sheep-fold; he roofed them with a sheet of corrugated iron, stolen from
the outbuildings of a neighbouring farm, and covered the iron with sods;
he built a fire-place with a flue, but no chimney; he caused water from
a spring to flow into a hollow beside the door. Then he collected slate,
loose stones, and earth; and, by heaping these against the walls of the
hut, he gave the whole structure the appearance of a mound of rubbish.
Human eyes rarely came within sight of the spot; but even a keen
observer of casual objects would not have suspected that the mound
represented any sort of human dwelling. It was a masterpiece of
protective imitation, an exact replica of Toller's previous abode on
Clun Downs. His fire burned only by night.
The furnishing of this simple establishment consisted of a feather bed,
which rested on slabs of slate supported by stones,--whence obtained was
never known, but undoubtedly stolen. The coverlet was three sheepskins
sewn together, the pillow also a sheepskin, coiled round a cylinder of
elastic twigs. The table was a deal box, once the property of Messrs.
Tate, the famous refiners of sugar. The chair was a duplicate of the
table. The implements were all of flint, neatly bound in their handles
with strips of hide. There was the axe for slaughter, a dagger for
cutting meat, a hammer for breaking bones, a saw and scrapers of various
size--the plunder of some barrow on Clun Downs. Under the slates of the
bed lay a collection of slings.
In this place Toller lived undiscovered for several months, issuing
thence as occasion required in quest of food. This he obtained by night
forays upon distant farms, bringing back mutton or beef, lamb or sucking
pig, a turkey, a goose, a couple of chickens, according to the changes
of his appetite or the seasonableness of the dish. Fruit, vegetables,
and potatoes were obtained in the same manner. In addition, all the game
of the hills was at his mercy, and he had fish from the stream. It was
characteristic of Toller's cunning that his plunder was all obtained
from afar, and seldom twice from the same place. He would go ten miles
to the north to steal a lamb; next time, as far to the south to steal a
goose. The plundered area lay along the circumference of great circles,
with radii of ten, fifteen, twenty miles, of which his abode was the
centre. This put pursuers off the track, and caused them to look for him
everywhere but where he was. The police were convinced, for example,
that he was hiding in Clun Downs. The steer he had slaughtered on his
first return had been discovered, as Toller intended it to be; and, in
order to keep up the fiction of his presence in that neighbourhood, he
repeated his exploit a month later, and slaughtered a second steer in
the very pasture where he had killed the first.
Nor was his favourite amusement denied him. He knew the movements of
every shepherd on the uplands, and, by choosing his routes, could wander
for miles, slinging stones as he went, without risk of discovery.
Whether during these months he saw any human beings is unknown;
certainly no human being recognised him. His power of self-concealment
amounted to genius.
Such was the second madness of Shepherd Toller. Things from the abyss of
Time that float upwards into dreams--sleeping things whose breath
sometimes breaks the surface of our waking consciousness, like bubbles
rising from the depths of Lethe--these had become the sober certainties
of Toller's life. The superincumbent waters had parted asunder, and the
children of the deep were all astir. Toller had awakened into a past
which lies beyond the graves of buried races and had joined his fathers
in the morning of the world.
* * * * *
Towards the end of the summer Toller's health began to decline. He was
attacked by fierce paroxysms of internal pain, which left him weak and
helpless. The distant forays had to be abandoned; there was no more
slinging of stones; he had great difficulty in obtaining food. He craved
most for milk, and this he procured at considerable risk of discovery by
descending before dawn into the lowlands and milking, or partially
milking, one of the Perryman cows; for the animals knew his voice and
were accustomed to his touch.
This was the posture of his affairs when one day he became apprised of
the presence in the neighbourhood of the picnic-party aforesaid. He
stalked them with care, saw the preparation of their meal, eyed the
large basket carried by the grooms, and thought with longing of the tea
it was sure to contain, and of the brandy that might be there also. To
be possessed of one or both of these things would at that moment have
satisfied the all-inclusive desire of the sick man's soul, and he
thought of every possible device and contrivance by which he could get
them into his hands. None promised well. At last he half resolved on the
desperate plan of scaring the pleasure-seekers from their camp by
bombarding the ground with stones--a plan which he remembered to have
proved effective with a party of ladies on Clun Downs. But he doubted
his strength for such a sustained effort, and reflected that a party
which contained so many men, even if forced to retreat, would be sure to
take their provender with them. While he was thus reflecting he saw the
kettle hoisted on the tripod, shining and glinting in the sun. Never had
Toller beheld a more tempting mark. The range was easy; his station was
well hidden; and the kettle was the hated symbol of his disappointed
hopes. "One more, and then I've done," I sez to myself--thus he reported
to Snarley Bob--"and I went back for the old sling, feelin' better than
I'd done for weeks. I picks the best stone I could find, and kep' on
whirlin' her round my head all the way back. Then I slaps her in, and
blessed if I didn't take the kettle first shot!"
* * * * *
On the evening of the day when he discovered Toller, Snarley came home
with a countenance of sorrow. "I've found him, missis," he said; "but
he's a dyin' man. Worn to a shadder, and him the biggest man in the
parish. It would ha' scared you to see him. As sane as ever he was in
his life. 'Shepherd,' he sez, 'I'm starvin'. Can you get me a bit of
summat as I can eat?' 'What would you like?' I sez. He sez, 'I want
baccy and buttermilk. For God's sake, get me some buttermilk. It's the
only thing as I feel 'ud keep down; and the pain's that awful it a'most
tears me to shreds. And may be you can find a pinch o' tea and a spot or
two of something short.' I sez, 'You shall have it all this very night.
But how's your head?' 'Terrible heavy at the back,' he sez, 'but clear
on the top. I've a'most done wi' slingin' and stealin'. The police is
after me, and I'm too weak to dodge 'em much longer; they're bound to
catch me soon. But they'll get nowt but a bag o' bones, and they'll have
to be quick if they want 'em alive. Shepherd, I'm a dyin' man, and
there's not a soul to stand by me or bury me.' 'Yes, there is,' I sez;
'you've got me. I'll stand by you, and bury you, too. If the police
catches you, it'll be through no tellin' o' mine. You go back to your
hut, and we'll keep you snug enough, and get you all the baccy and
buttermilk as you wants.' 'Thank God!' he sez; and then the pain took
him, and he fair rolled on the ground."
* * * * *
"Yes, sir," continued the widow of Snarley, "my 'usband had been failin'
for two years afore he died. But it was that affair wi' Shepherd Toller
as broke what bit o' strength he'd got left. I wanted him to tell the
doctor as he'd found him; but you might as well ha' tried to turn the
church round as move my 'usband when once he'd made up his mind.
'Nivver, Polly!' he sez. 'I've given Shepherd Toller my word. Besides,
he's too far gone for doctors to do him any good. He'll not last many
days. And I knows a way o' sendin' him to sleep as beats all the
doctors' bottles. You leave him to me.'
"Well, you see, sir, I knowed very well as he were doing wrong. But then
he didn't look at it that way. And he mostly knowed what he were doin',
my 'usband did.
"He never missed goin' to Shepherd Toller's hut mornin' nor night. He
took him buttermilk a'most every day; and oh, my word, the lies as he
told about what he wanted it for! I've known him walk miles to get it.
And then he'd sometimes sit up wi' him half the night tryin' to get him
to sleep, rubbin' his back and his head. And the things my 'usband used
to tell me about his sufferin's--oh, sir, it were somethin' awful!...
Once my 'usband asked him if he'd let him tell the doctor, and Shepherd
Toller a'most went out o' his mind with fright. 'I've got to see it
through, Polly,' he sez to me; 'but I doubt if it won't be the death o'
me.'
"Shepherd Toller took to his bed the very day as my 'usband met him, and
never left it, leastways he never went outside the hut again. I wanted
to go myself and look after him a bit in the daytime. But my 'usband
wouldn't let me go. 'He's no sight for you to look at, missis,' he sez.
'Except for the pain, his mind's at rest. Besides, there's nobody but me
knows how to talk to him, and there's nobody but me as he wants to see.
You can't make him no comfortabler than he is.'
"But it were a terrible strain on my poor 'usband, and there's not a
doubt that it would ha' killed him there and then if it had lasted much
longer. It were about three weeks before the end come, and nivver shall
I forget that night--no, not if I was to live to be a thousand years
old.
"My master come home about ten o'clock, lookin' just like a man as were
walkin' in his sleep. I couldn't get him to take notice o' nothin', and
when I put his supper on the table he seemed as though he hardly knowed
what it were for. He didn't eat more than two mouthfuls, and then he
turned his chair round to the fire, tremblin' all over.
"After a bit I sees him drop asleep like. So I sez to myself, 'I'll just
go upstairs to warm his bed for him, and then I'll come down and wake
him up,' and I begins to get the warmin'-pan ready. He were mutterin'
all sorts of things; but I didn't take much notice o' that, because
that's what he allus did when he went to sleep in his chair. However, I
did notice that he kep' mutterin' something about a dog.
"Soon he wakes up, kind o' startled, and sez, 'Missis, let that dog in;
he won't let me get a wink o' sleep.' 'You silly man,' I sez, 'you've
been fast asleep for three-quarters of a' hour.' 'Why,' he sez, 'I've
been wide awake all the time, listenin' to the dog whinin' and
scratchin' at the door, and I was too tired to get up and let him in.
Open the door quick; I'm fair sick on it.' I sez, 'What nonsense you're
talkin'! Why, Boxer's been lyin' under the table ever since you come
home at ten o'clock. He's there now.' So he looks under the table, and
there sure enough were Boxer fast asleep. 'Well,' he sez, 'it must be
another dog. Open the door, as I tell you, and see what it is.' So I
opens the door; and, of course, there were no sign of a dog. 'Are you
satisfied now?' I sez. 'I can't make it out,' he sez; 'it's something
funny. I'd take my dyin' oath as there were a dog scratchin'. But maybe
as I'll go to sleep now.' So he shuts his eyes, and were soon off,
mutterin' as before.
"Well, I was just goin' upstairs when all of a sudden he give a scream
as a'most made me drop the warmin' pan. 'What's up?' I sez. 'I've burnt
my hand awful,' he sez. 'Burnt your hand?' I sez. 'How did you manage to
do that? Have you been tumblin' into the fire?' 'I don't know,' he sez;
'but the funny thing is there's no mark of burnin' as I can see.' 'Why,'
I sez, 'it must be the rheumatiz in yer knuckles. I'll get a drop o'
turpentine, and rub 'em,' So I gets the turpentine, and begins rubbin'
his hand, and his arm as well. He sez, 'It's just like a red-hot nail
driven slap through the palm o' my hand.' Well, it got better after a
bit, and I made him go to bed, though he were that hot and excited I
knowed we were going to have a wild night.
"The minute he lay down he went to sleep and slep' quietly for about
half an hour. Then he starts groanin' and tossin'. 'It's beginnin',' I
sez to myself; 'I'd better light the candle so as to be ready.' The
minute I struck the match he jumps out o' bed like a madman, catches
hold of the bedpost, and begins pullin' the bed across the room. 'What
are you doin'?' I sez. 'I'm pullin' the bed out o' the fire,' he sez.
'Don't you see the room's burnin'?' 'Come, master,' I sez, 'you've got
the nightmare. Get back into bed again, and keep quiet.'
"He let go o' the bedpost and began starin' in front of him with the
most awful eyes you ever see. 'Are you blind?' he sez. 'Don't you see
what's 'appenin'?' 'Nothing's 'appenin',' I sez; 'get back into bed.'
'Look! he sez, 'look at the top o' that hill! Can't you see they're
crucifying Shepherd Toller on a red-hot cross? I can hear him screamin'
wi' pain.' 'Get out,' I sez; 'Shepherd Toller's all right. Now just you
lie down, and think no more about it.' But, oh dear, you might as well
ha' talked to thunder and lightnin'. He kep' on as how he could hear
Shepherd Toller screamin' and callin' for him, until I thought I should
ha' gone out o' my mind.
"Just then a' idea come to me. We'd got a bottle o' stuff as the doctor
give him to make him sleep when the rheumatiz come on bad. So I pours
out half a cupful, and I sez, 'Here, you drink that, and it'll stop 'em
crucifying Shepherd Toller.' He drinks it down at a gulp, and then he
sez, 'They've took him down. But I'm afraid he's terrible burnt.' He
soon got quiet and lay down and went to sleep.
"He must ha' slep' till six in the mornin', when he got up. 'My head's
achin' awful,' he sez. 'I've been dreamin' about Shepherd Toller all
night. I believe as summat's gone wrong wi' him. Make me a cup o' strong
tea, and I'll go and see what's up.'
"When my 'usband got to the hut the first thing he sees were Shepherd
Toller lyin' all of a heap on the floor wi' his clothes half burnt off
him and his left arm lyin' right on the top o' where the fire had been.
His hand were like a cinder, and he were burnt all over his body. He
were still livin' and able to speak. 'How's this happened--what have you
been doin'?' sez my 'usband. 'It were the cold,' he sez, 'and I wanted a
drop o' brandy. And the dog were tryin' to get in. You shut him out when
you went away.'
"Well, my 'usband gave him brandy and managed to lift him on to the bed.
'I never thought as I should die like this,' he sez. 'Bury the old dog
wi' me, shepherd, and put the slings alongside o' me and the little axe
in my hand. And see there's plenty o' stones.' That was the last he
said, though he kep' repeatin' it as long as he could speak. It were not
more than an hour after my master found him before he were gone.
"My 'usband dug his grave wi' his own hands, close beside the hut, and
buried him next day. He put the axe and slings just as he told him, wi'
the stones and all the bits of flint things as he found in the hut. What
went most to his heart were shootin' the old dog. He telled me as he
were sure the dog knowed he were goin' to kill him, and stood as quiet
as a lamb beside the grave when he pointed the gun. 'It were worse than
murder,' he said, 'and I shall see him to my dyin' day. But I'd given my
word, and I had to do it.
"No, sir, not a livin' soul, exceptin' me, knew what had happened till
my 'usband told Mrs. Abel and you three days before he died. That were
eighteen months after he'd buried Shepherd Toller. Of course, he'd ha'
got into trouble if they'd knowed what he'd done. But he weren't afraid,
and he used to say to me, 'Don't you bother, missis. They can't do
nothing to you when I'm gone. Let 'em say what they like; you and me
knows as I've done no wrong. There's only one thing as I can't bear to
think on. And that's shootin' the old dog.'"