THE HUNTERS OF MEN
In the village of Breckonside on that December morning was to be seen a
sight the like of which I never looked upon. Doors were open all up
and down the street. Every window was a yellow square of light.
Frighted, white-faced women looked round curtains. Children in their
scanty nightgowns clung on to stair rails, and tried to look out of the
open front door without taking their feet off the first-floor landing.
The men of the village mustered about the police office--not because of
any help poor old Constable Codling could be to them, but because the
very place gave a kind of legality to their proposed doings.
For this time there was no doubt in the minds of any at Breckonside.
Harry Foster was a comparatively poor man, even taking into
consideration the banknotes which he carried in the mail bags. But my
father, Joseph Yarrow, was the richest and most powerful man in all the
district--ay, as far down as East Dene itself.
More than that, he had ridden to Longtown to take payment of a long
outstanding debt. Bob Kingsman had heard him say so--so, for the
matter of that, had I myself. It would certainly be a large sum for
him to mention it twice, reticent as he was on all such matters.
The road to Longtown, or back from Longtown--for it was doubtless there
that he would be trapped--led over Brom Common, by the edge of Sparhawk
Wood, and so on through the Slack into Scotland. On all the long road,
there was only one suspected house--Deep Moat Grange. Only one man
whose wealth could not be accounted for penny by penny--Mr. Stennis,
the Golden Farmer. Only one nest of mysterious and dangerous folk--Mad
Jeremy and his sisters. All the rest were shepherds and their little
white shielings.
The conclusion was clear--at least to the minds of the
Breckonsiders--in, at, or about Deep Moat Grange, Joseph Yarrow,
senior, was to be found--and, what was even more to the point, Joseph
Yarrow's money.
The conclusion was, they would go in a body to Deep Moat Grange. Our
registrar, Waldron, who was great on the instinct of animals, tried to
get Dapple to retrace her steps. She was led out into the yard, and
instantly retraced them into the stable.
At the Bridge End there was a halt. The heads of our Breckonsiders
were no ways strong. Besides they were dazed with the sudden alarm.
The memory of poor Harry, the strange tales they had heard for the last
ten years of vanished drovers, travellers seen on the moss and then
vanishing in some hollow, like the shadow of a cloud, to be seen no
more, weighed heavy upon them.
Then some fool cried out that Hobby Stennis had been often seen of late
with his son Robin's daughter--meaning Elsie--and who knew?
Now, no one can ever tell what will seem reasonable to a crowd of such
rustics as those about us. And, indeed, if it had not been for my
mother--who strode out, and, even in her grief, raged upon
them--asserting that Elsie was a good girl and should not be meddled
with, I do believe that Nance Edgar's house would have been routed out
from garret to hallan, to seek for the captors or assassins of my
father.
The sound of many feet, the hoarse murmur of voices in angry
discussion, and perhaps, also, the reflected light of many lanterns
awoke both Nance Edgar and Elsie. But it was Elsie who was first down.
"What is it?" she asked, standing in the doorway with a plaid about her
shoulders, and her feet thrust into Nance Edgar's big, wooden-soled,
winter clogs. "What has brought you out?"
I told her that my father had not returned from Longtown, but that some
one had brought Dapple home, unlocked the door of the yard, and let in
the mare--then relocked it and gone his way. I had quite
forgotten--shame be to me--that of all this my mother had yet been told
nothing. She stumbled where she stood a little before them all. A
kind of hoarse cry escaped her lips, and it was into Elsie's arms that
she fell. Perhaps it was as well. For in the rough and tumble of that
dark, wintry campaign there was no place for women.
In a while Nance Edgar came out also, and she and Elsie soon got my
poor mother into a comfortable bed. I had a word or two with Elsie.
She would fain have come, making no doubt but that it was in the
neighbourhood of that accursed house of the Moat Grange that my father,
if, indeed, he were dead, had come by his end.
But I reminded her, first, that she was Hobby Stennis's own
granddaughter. Also, she was a teacher in the local school, and,
accordingly, leaving all else to one side, that she and I must not run
the hills and woods as we had been in the habit of doing ever since she
had come from Mrs. Comline's as a little toddling maid. Last of all,
my mother would stay behind more contentedly if so be Elsie were with
her.
Now it was a black frost, clean and durable. There had, of course,
been considerable traffic over the moor road during the days of the
Tryst at Longtown. So the feeble light of our lanterns in the winter
morning could reveal nothing as to the means by which Dapple had
reached home, nor yet who had brought her. Indeed, we were all more
than a little dazed. It seemed such a terrible, unthinkable event, the
loss of my father, that no one after him could feel secure. He had
been the strongest among us, and if he had fallen to the knife of the
secret criminal the only question in Breckonside was, Who was to be the
next to go?
Mingled with all this, there was a curious deference toward me, wholly
new in my experience. The villagers called me "Mister Joseph," instead
of "Joe," as had been their wont. They consulted me as to the steps to
be taken--without, however, any very great idea of acting upon what I
had to advise. Indeed, that morning, there did not seem to be but the
one thing to do--that was, to go as quickly as possible to Deep Moat
Grange, and lay hands upon the whole uncanny crew Mr. Stennis had
gathered about him there.
It was the earliest grey of the December morning--which is to say,
little better than night--when we descended the slopes of Brom Common,
crossed the road, and entered into the woods which surrounded Deep Moat
Grange. Not without considerable difficulty could I induce the
searchers to extinguish their lanterns. And there were more than one
of these hunters of men who would have been glad of any excuse to turn
back now---men, too, who had been the bravest of the brave when the
familiar sights and sounds of the village street compassed them about.
Several of the searchers kept looking over their shoulders and
examining the branches of the trees curiously, as if afraid that Mad
Jeremy might suddenly descend upon their shoulders from these tossing
arms netted so blackly between them and the sky.
The dead leaves scuffed and crisped under foot. Sometimes a roosting
bird, disturbed in its slumbers, or an early-questing, wild creature
scurried away into the underbrush. It was an eerie journey, and it was
with a breath of relief that I found myself stopped at the Moat, with
the water sleeping beneath, black and icebound for want of a current.
The drawbridge was up, and at first it seemed that we had come to the
end of our tether. But a little testing and scrambling showed me that
the Moat was covered with ice strong enough to support us all, going
over carefully and one by one.
Presently we stood on the edge of the wide, green lawn, now hard and
dark beneath our feet, the blades of grass stiff with frost and
breaking under our tread like tiny icicles. Between us and the dusky
shadow of the house, set against the waking gloom of the eastern sky,
there were only the black mounds of Miss Orrin's garden, where the Lent
lilies had waved so bravely in those spring days when first Elsie and I
had looked upon Deep Moat Grange.
There were about twenty of us, variously armed. I had a pistol and a
Scottish dirk. There were two or three rifles, about a dozen shotguns,
many old swords, and even a pitchfork or two in lieu of better. If the
courage of the men had been as good as their armament, we might have
assaulted a fortress by way of a forlorn hope. But concerning this
courage I had my doubts. For Breckonside was like most other villages.
The men were good enough, but valued their own skins a great deal more
than anybody else's--even that of their natural chief, my father.
Still I did not doubt but that they would do their best. For one thing
they dared not turn back. They had to stick to the pack, and, after
all, two was the extent of the number of foes they would have to
face--one of whom was old. But then the other was that terrifying
legend of the village and all the country round, Mad Jeremy himself.
Still numbers give, if not strength, at least confidence. Indeed, the
men moved so closely together, that I was in constant fear of some
weapon of war going off and giving warning to our foes within the dark
house.
What we needed was a leader. And after I had guided them across the
ice of the Moat, somehow I slipped into that position myself. I was at
least the person most concerned. I never before knew that I loved my
father--not particularly, that is. And, perhaps, after all it was only
blood-kinship that did it. At any rate, I felt a new sensation steal
upon me--a steady, cold determination to be revenged on any one who had
harmed him--to find out all about it and bring the miscreant to
justice--even to kill him if I could. Yes, there is no use denying it.
I knew the verse, "Vengeance is Mine--I will repay!" Which is very
true, but is an impossible thing to say at a time like that. No doubt
in the long run He will, and does, but it seems too long to wait.
There was not a light to be seen anywhere about the house of the Moat.
The crisp wind of earliest dawn made a dry sough among the evergreens
of the shrubbery. The tall chimney clusters were black against the
sky, and beneath them and about the overgrown porch the ivy leaves
clattered bonely like fairy castanets.
We stood still--close together, but very still.
Then strangely, familiarly, out of the darkness there came to our ears
the sound of the sweet singing of a hymn--a hymn, too, that every one
knows. I am not going to set down here which one it was. I never
could rightly bear to hear it again--much less can I join in singing
it. It was spoiled for me, and I would not for the world spoil it for
those who may read this history of true, though strange, happenings.
Then, quick as a flash, I thought of the barn where we had seen and
heard such wonderful things, Elsie and I. But it was no time for
reminiscence. I stepped quietly across the yard and lifted the thick,
felted fold of matting. I pushed open the half of the inner door,
which perhaps the chill of the night, perhaps the needs of the service,
had caused those within to close. Behind me I could hear the people of
the village breathe restrainedly, and I smelled the odour of burned
horses' hoofs which clothed the blacksmith like a garment. Ebie
McClintock was the one man there with a stiff upper lip, and it was a
mightily comforting thing to feel him at my back, even though he
carried no other weapon than an iron hammer snatched up from the smithy
floor as he came away.
The barn was dark, lighted by a couple of tall candles on the altar,
and one caught on to the side of a kind of reading desk. I could at
first see no more than a huddle of figures clad in black with white
kerchiefs bound about their foreheads. The draught from without,
caused by the opening of the door and the lifting of the curtain, made
the candles flicker, and, indeed, blew out the one at the little desk
farthest from us.
It seemed to me, however, that I saw a figure, or, rather, a dim
shadow, flit across the heavy hangings, and disappear in the darkness
behind. I could not have sworn it, though such was my impression; for
at that moment the villagers, bearing on my shoulder, crowding on
tiptoe to look, broke like water over an overfull dam. The other half
of the door fell back with a clang, and they entered confusedly,
tearing down the curtain in their haste. A shot went off
accidentally--the very thing I had been expecting all the time from
men, who, though warned, would persist in carrying their guns at full
cock. No harm, however, was done, save that a bevy of bats, disturbed
in their winter's repose, dashed wildly for the door, striking their
faces before swooping out into the night.
Then the kneeling women rose--the three mad sisters, and one who
stepped in front of them, their elder and protector, Aphra Orrin.
It may seem strange, yet in a moment there came upon me a sense of
shame. All was so decent and in order, as for some private Divine
service in an oratory. A Bible was open at the lesson for the day, a
"marker," with a gold cross hanging between the leaves. The altar
nicely laid with a white cloth, and against the black pall, which hid
the end of the barn, hung a great gilt crucifix.
"What seek ye here?" said Miss Orrin, standing up very tall, and
speaking with a certain chill and surprising dignity which overawed
many of my followers.
"I seek my father!" I answered, since nobody else could. "He has been
lost, and it is here that we have come to look for him."
And though the villagers murmured, "Ay--ay, rightly said, Master
Joseph!" I could not but feel at that moment that my reasoning was but
weak. If I had had to speak with a man it would have been different.
"This," said Miss Orrin, "is the house of Mr. Stennis, and to him you
shall answer. Meantime, I am in charge, and shall defend to the
last----"
But a score of voices interrupted her. "Where is your brother? Where
is Mad Jeremy? Where is Mr. Stennis?"
"I know not where my brother may be," she answered. "In his bed, most
likely. You are at liberty to go and look. But as for my master, to
whom you shall answer, he is in the City of Edinburgh in connection
with some law business. If you seek him there I warrant he will be
easy enough found."
But I remembered the flitting shadow I had seen, and crying out,
"Search the house, boys! I will take the blame!" I launched myself
behind the black hangings which fell behind me like the curtain in a
theatre. A door opened to my hand, and I fell down a flight of steps,
the shrill shrieks of the mad women behind me resounding keen and
batlike to my ears.