The fight raged. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the crimson froth dripping from their jaws; now rearing high with arching crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, worrying disorder—the two fought out their blood-feud.
Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, ever edging nearer to watch the issue. Just so must the women of Rome have craned round the arenas to see two men striving in death-struggle.
The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the morning peered aghast over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping dale there arose the yodling of a man driving his cattle home.
Day was upon them.
James Moore was waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window. He leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for well he knew ’twas not for nothing that the old dog was calling.
“Lord o’ mercy! whativer’s come to yo’, Owd Un?” he cried in anguish. And, indeed, his favourite, wardaubed almost past recognition, presented a pitiful spectacle.
In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him.
“Poor old lad, yo’ have caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged tear on the dog’s cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his chest; while head and neck were clotted with the red.
Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed figure appeared in the door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming.
They doctored the old warrior on the table in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds and dressed them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master’s face as if imploring to be gone.
“He mun a had a rare tussle wi’ some one—eh, dad?” said the girl, as she worked.
“Ay; and wi’ whom? ’Twasn’t for nowt he got fightin’, I war’nt. Nay; he’s a tale to tell, has Th’ Owd Un, and—Ah-h-h! I thowt as much. Look ’ee!” For bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster of tawny red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.
The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. To but one creature in the Daleland could they belong—“The Tailless Tyke.”
“He mun a bin trespassin’!” cried Andrew.
“Ay, and up to some o’ his bloody work, I’ll lay my life,” the Master answered. “But Th’ Owd Un shall show us.”
The old dog’s hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed possible. His good gray coat, forest-thick about his throat, had never served him in such good stead. And at length, the wounds washed and sewn up, he jumped down all in a hurry from the table and made for the door.
“Noo, owd lad, yo’ may show us,” said the Master, and, with Andrew, hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and over Langholm How. And as they neared the Stony Bottom, the sheep, herding in groups, raised frightened heads to stare.
Of a sudden a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, up before them; and there in a dimple of the ground lay a murdered sheep. Deserted by its comrades, the glazed eyes staring helplessly upward, the throat horribly worried, it slept its last sleep.
The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited Kenmuir.
“I guessed as much,” said the Master, standing over the mangled body. “Well, it’s the worst night’s work ever the Killer done. I reck’n Th’Owd Un come on him while he was at it; and then they fought. And, ma word it mun ha’ ben a fight too.” For all around were traces of that terrible struggle: the earth torn up and tossed, bracken uprooted, and throughout little dabs of wool and tufts of tawny hair, mingling with dark-stained iron-gray wisps.
James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as though he were gleaning. And gleaning he was.
A long time he bent so, and at length raised himself.
“The Killer has killed his last,” he muttered; “Red Wull has run his course.” Then, turning to Andrew: “Run yo’ home, lad, and fetch the men to carry yon away,” pointing to the carcass. “And Bob, lad, yo’ve done your work for to-day, and right well too; go yo’ home wi’ him. I’m off to see to this!”
He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a rock. At length the proof was in his hand. Once and for all the hill-country should be rid of its scourge.
As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two big gray eyes, half doubting, half penitent, wholly wistful, looked up at him, and a silvery brush signalled a mute request.
“Eh, Owd Un, but yo’ should ha’ gone wi’ Andrew,” the Master said. “Hooiver, as yo’ are here, come along.” And he strode away up the hill, gaunt and menacing, with the gray dog at his heels.
As they approached the house, M’Adam was standing in the door, sucking his eternal twig. James Moore eyed him closely as he came, but the sour face framed in the door betrayed nothing. Sarcasm, surprise, challenge, were all writ there, plain to read; but no guilty consciousness of the other’s errand, no storm of passion to hide a failing heart. If it was acting it was splendidly done.
As man and dog passed through the gap in the hedge, the expression of the little man’s face changed again. He started forward.
“James Moore, as I live!” he cried, and advanced with both hands extended, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. “Deed and it’s a weary while sin’ ye’ve honoured ma puir hoose.” And, in fact, it was nigh twenty years. “I tak’it gey kind in ye to look in on a lonely auld man. Come ben and let’s ha’a crack. James Moore kens weel hoo welcome he aye is in ma bit biggin’.”
The Master ignored the greeting.
“One o’ ma sheep been killed back o’ t’ Dyke,” he announced shortly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“The Killer?”
“The Killer.”
The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man’s face was absorbed in a wondering interest: and that again gave place to sorrowful sympathy.
“Dear, dear! it’s come to that, has it—at last?” he said gently, and his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. “Man, I’m sorry
—I canna tell ye I’m surprised. Masel’, I kent it all alang. But gin Adam M’Adam had tell’t, ye’d no ha’ believed him. Weel, weel, he’s lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where he’s sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!” He heaved a sigh, profoundly melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: “Ye’ll ha’ come for the gun?”
James Moore listened to his harangue at first puzzled. Then he caught the other’s meaning, and his eyes flashed.
“Ye fool, M’Adam! Did ye hear iver tell o’ a sheep-dog worryin’ his master’s sheep?”
The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands softly together.
“Ye’re right, I never did. But your dog is not as ither dogs—‘There’s none like him—none,’ I’ve heard ye say so yersel, mony a time. An’ I’m wi’ ye. There’s none like him—for devilment.” His voice began to quiver and his face to blaze. “It’s his cursed cunning that’s deceived ivery one but me—whelp o’ Satan that he is!” He shouldered up to his tall adversary. “If not him, wha else had done it?” he asked, looking up into the other’s face as if daring him to speak.
The Master’s shaggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the other like the Muir Pike above its surrounding hills.
“Wha, ye ask?” he replied coldly, “and I answer you. Your Red Wull, M’Adam, your Red Wull. It’s your Wull’s the Black Killer! It’s your Wull’s bin the plague o’ the land these months past! It’s your Wull’s killed ma sheep back o’ yon!”
At that all the little man’s affected good-humour fled.
“Ye lee, mon! ye lee!” he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to his ant
agonist. “I knoo hoo ’twad be. I said so. I see what ye’re at. Ye’ve found at last—blind that ye’ve been!—that it’s yer ain hell’s tyke that’s the Killer; and noo ye think by yer leein’ impitations to throw the blame on ma Wullie. Ye rob me o’ ma Cup, ye rob me o’ ma son, ye wrang me in ilka thing; there’s but ae thing left me—Wullie. And noo ye’re set on takin’ him awa’. But ye shall not—I’ll kill ye first!”
He was all a-shake, bobbing up and down like a stopper in a soda-water bottle, and almost sobbing.
“Ha’ ye no wranged me enough wi’ oot that? Ye lang-leggit liar, wi’ yer skulkin murderin’ tyke!” he cried. “Ye say it’s Wullie. Where’s yer proof?”—and he snapped his fingers in the other’s face.
The Master was now as calm as his foe was passionate. “Where?” he replied sternly; “why, there!” holding out his right hand. “Yon’s proof enough to hang a hunner’d.” For lying in his broad palm was a little bundle of that damning red hair.
“Where?”
“There!”
“Let’s see it!” The little man bent to look closer.
“There’s for yer proof!” he cried, and spat deliberately down into the other’s naked palm. Then he stood back, facing his enemy in a manner to have done credit to a nobler deed.
James Moore strode forward. It looked as if he was about to make an end of his miserable adversary, so strongly was he moved. His chest heaved, and the blue eyes blazed. But just as one had thought to see him take his foe in the hollow of his hand and crush him, who should come stalking round the corner of the house but the Tailless Tyke.
A droll spectacle he made, laughable even at that moment. He limped sorely, his head and neck
were swathed in bandages, and beneath their ragged fringe the little eyes gleamed out fiery and bloodshot.
Round the corner he came, unaware of strangers; then straightway recognizing his visitors, halted abruptly. His hackles ran up, each individual hair stood on end till his whole body resembled a new-shorn wheat-field; and a snarl, like a rusty brake shoved hard down, escaped from between his teeth. Then he trotted heavily forward, his head sinking low and lower as he came.
And Owd Bob, eager to take up the gage of battle, advanced, glad and gallant, to meet him. Daintily he picked his way across the yard, head and tail erect, perfectly self-contained. Only the long gray hair about his neck stood up like the ruff of a lady of the court of Queen Elizabeth.
But the war-worn warriors were not to be allowed their will.
“Wullie, Wullie, wad ye!” cried the little man.
“Bob, lad, coom in!” called the other. Then he turned and looked down at the man beside him, contempt flaunting in every feature.
“Well?” he said shortly.
M’Adam’s hands were opening and shutting; his face was quite white beneath the tan; but he spoke calmly.
“I’ll tell ye the whole story, and it’s the truth,” he said slowly. “I was up there the morn”—pointing to the window above—“and I see Wullie crouchin’ down alangside the Stony Bottom. (Ye ken he has the run o ma land o’ neets, the same as your dog.) In a minnit I see anither dog squatterin’ alang on your side the Bottom. He creeps up to the sheep on th’ hillside, chases ’em, and doons one. The sun was risen by then, and I see the dog clear as I see you noo. It was that dog there—I swear it!” His voice rose as he spoke, and he pointed an accusing finger at Owd Bob.
“Noo, Wullie! thinks I. And afore ye could clap yer hands, Wullie was over the Bottom and on to him as he gorged—the bloody-minded murderer! They fought and fought—I could hear the roarin’ a’t where I stood. I watched till I could watch nae langer, and, all in a sweat, I rin doon the stairs and oot. When I got there, there was yer tyke makin’ fu’ split for Kenmuir, and Wullie comin’ up the hill to me. It’s God’s truth, I’m tellin’ ye. Tak’ him hame, James Moore, and let his dinner be an ounce o’ lead. ’Twill be the best day’s work iver ye done.”
The little man must be lying—lying palpably. Yet he spoke with an earnestness, a seeming belief in his own story, that might have convinced one who knew him less well. But the Master only looked down on him with a great scorn.
“It’s Monday to-day,” he said coldly. “I gie yo’ till Saturday. If yo’ve not done your duty by then—and well you know what ’tis—I shall come do it for ye. Ony gate, I shall come and see. I’ll remind ye agin o’ Thursday—yo’ll be at the Manor dinner, I suppose. Noo I’ve warned yo,’ and you know best whether I’m in earnest or no. Boy, lad!”
He turned away, but turned again.
“I’m sorry for ye, but I’ve ma duty to do—so’ve you. Till Saturday I shall breathe no word to ony soul o’ this business, so that if you see good to put him oot o’ the way wi’oot bother, no one need iver know as hoo Adam M’Adam’s Red Wull was the Black Killer.”
He turned away for the second time. But the little man sprang after him, and clutched him by the arm.
“Look ye here, James Moore!” he cried in thick, shaky horrible voice. “Ye’re big, I’m sma’; ye’re strang, I’m weak; ye’ve ivery one to your back, I’ve niver a one; you tell your story, and they’ll believe ye—for you gae to church; I’ll tell mine, and they’ll think I lie—for I dinna. But a word in your ear! If iver agin I catch ye on ma land, by—!”—he swore a great oath—“I’ll no spare ye. You ken best if I’m in earnest or no.” And his face was dreadful to see in its hideous determinedness.
II
That night a vague story was whispered in the Sylvester Arms. But Tammas, on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: “Nay, I’m sworn to say nowt.” Which was the old man’s way of putting that he knew nowt.
On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down arrayed in all their best. It was the day of the squire’s annual dinner to his tenants.
The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until they had undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl liked her mankind to do honour to Kenmuir on these occasions. So she brushed up Andrew, tied his scarf, saw his boots and hands were clean, and titivated him generally till she had converted the ungainly hobbledehoy into a thoroughly “likely young mon.”
And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on such gala days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her father, marking the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire’s mysterious hint, said gently:
“Cheer up, lass. Happen I’ll ha’ news for you the night!”
The girl nodded, and smiled wanly.
“Happen so, dad,” she said. But in her heart she doubted.
Nevertheless it was with a cheerful countenance that, a little later, she stood in the door with wee Anne and Owd Bob and waved the travellers Godspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely gripping the old dog’s tail with one hand and her sister with the other, screamed them a wordless farewell.
The sun had reached its highest when the two wayfarers passed through the gray portals of the Manor.
In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a long and honourable line, were gathered now the many tenants throughout the wide March Mere Estate. Weather-beaten, rent-paying sons of the soil; most of them native-born, many of them like James Moore, whose fathers had for generations owned and farmed the land they now leased at the hands of the Sylvesters—there in the old hall they were assembled, a mighty host. And apart from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown of one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little M’Adam, puny always, paltry-now, mocking his manhood.
The door at the far end of the hall opened, and the squire entered, beaming on everyone.
“Here you are—eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day, James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all! Bringin’ a friend with me—eh, eh!” and he stood aside to let by his agent, Parson Leggy, and last of all, shy and blushing,
a fair-haired young giant.
“If it bain’t David!” was the cry. “Eh, lad, we’s fain to see yo’! And yo’m lookin’ stout, surely!” And they thronged about the boy, shaking him by the hand, and asking him his story.
’Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he had gone south, drovering. He had written to Maggie, and been surprised and hurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and too proud to write again, had remained ignorant of his father’s recovery, neither caring nor daring to return. Then by mere chance, he had met the squire at the York cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had eased his fears and obtained from him a promise to return as soon as the term of his engagement had expired. And there he was.
The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and in return telling him the home news, and chaffing him about Maggie.
Of all the people present, only one seemed unmoved, and that was M’Adam. When first David had entered he had started forward, a flush of colour warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now, back again beneath his armour, he watched the scene, a sour smile playing about his lips.
“I think the lad might ha’ the grace to come and say he’s sorry for ’temptin’ to murder me. Hooiver”—with a characteristic shrug—“I suppose I’m onraisonable.”
Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way into the great dining-hall. At the one end of the long table, heavy with all the solid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with the master of Kenmuir upon his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While down the sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed, with M’Adam a little lost figure in the centre.
At first they talked but little, awed like children: knives plied, glasses tinkled, the carvers had all their work, only the tongues were at rest. But the squire’s ringing laugh and the parson’s cheery tones soon put them at their ease; and a babel of voices rose and waxed.
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