by John Buchan
‘We’re givin’ too much weight away, Miss Janet,’ he croaked. ‘All we’ve got on our side is this putrid weather. That’s a bit of luck, I admit. Also we’ve two of the most compromisin’ objects on earth, Fish Benjie and that little brute Roguie . . . Claybody has a hundred navvies, and a pack of gillies, and every beast will be in the Sanctuary, which is as good as inside a barb-wire fence ... The thing’s too ridiculous. We’ve got to sit in this car and watch an eminent British statesman bein’ hoofed off the hill, while old John tries to play the decoy-duck, and Ned Leithen, miles off, is hoppin’ like a he-goat on the mountains . . . It’s pretty well bound to end in disaster. One of them will be nobbled – probably all three – and when young Claybody asks, “Wherefore this outrage?” I don’t see what the cowerin’ culprit is goin’ to answer and say unto him.’
But when the car stopped in the drip of the birches, and Archie had leisure to look at the girl by his side, he began to think less of impending perils. The place was loud with wind and water, and yet curiously silent. The mist had drawn so close that the two seemed to be shut into a fantastic, secret world of their own. Janet was wearing breeches and a long riding-coat covered by a grey oilskin, the buttoned collar of which framed her small face. Her bright hair, dabbled with raindrops, was battened down under an ancient felt hat. She looked, thought Sir Archie, like an adorable boy. Also for the last half-hour she had been silent.
‘You have never spoken to me about your speech,’ she said at last, looking away from him.
‘Yours, you mean,’ he said. ‘I only repeated what you said that afternoon on Carnmore. But you didn’t hear it. I looked for you everywhere in the hall, and I saw your father and your sister and Bandicott, but I couldn’t see you.’
‘I was there. Did you think I could have missed it? But I was too nervous to sit with the others, so I found a corner at the back below the gallery. I was quite near Wattie Lithgow.’
Archie’s heart fluttered. ‘That was uncommon kind. I don’t see why you should have worried about that – I mean I’m jolly grateful. I was just going to play the ass of all creation when I remembered what you had said – and – well, I made a speech instead of repeating the rigmarole I had written. I owe everything to you, for, you see, you started me out – I can never feel just that kind of funk again . . . Charles thinks I might be some use in politics ... But I can tell you when I sat down and hunted through the hall and couldn’t see you it took all the gilt off the gingerbread.’
‘I was gibbering with fright,’ said the girl, ‘when I thought you were going to stick. If Wattie hadn’t shouted out, I think I would have done it myself
After that silence fell. The rain poured from the trees on to the cover of the Ford, and from the cover sheets of water cascaded to the drenched heather. Wet blasts scourged the occupants and whipped a high colour into their faces. Janet arose and got out.
‘We may as well be properly wet,’ she said. ‘If they get the stag as far as the Doran, they must find some way across. There’s none at present. Hadn’t we better build a bridge?’
The stream, in ordinary weather a wide channel of stones where a slender current falls in amber pools, was now a torrent four yards wide. But it was a deceptive torrent with more noise than strength, and save in the pools was only a foot or two deep. There were many places where a stag could have been easily lugged through by an able-bodied man. But the bridge-building proposal was welcomed, since it provided relief for both from an atmosphere which had suddenly become heavily charged. At a point where the channel narrowed between two blaeberry-thatched rocks it was possible to make an inclined bridge from one bank to the other. The materials were there in the shape of sundry larch-poles brought from the lower woods for the repair of a bridge on the Crask road. Archie dragged half a dozen to the edge and pushed them across. Then Janet marched through the water, which ran close to the top of her riding-boots, and prepared the abutment on the farther shore, weighting the poles down with sods broken from an adjacent bank.
‘I’m coming over,’ she cried. ‘If it will bear a stag, it will bear me.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Archie commanded. ‘I’ll come to you.’
‘The last time I saw you cross a stream you fell in,’ she reminded him.
Archie tested the contrivance, but it showed an ugly inclination to behave like a see-saw, being insufficiently weighted on Janet’s side.
‘Wait a moment. We need more turf,’ and she disappeared from sight beyond a knoll. When she returned she was excessively muddy as to hands and garments.
‘I slipped in that beastly peat-moss,’ she explained. ‘I never saw such hags, and there’s no turf to be got except with a spade ... No, you don’t! Keep off that bridge, please. It isn’t nearly safe yet. I’m going to roll down stones.’
Roll down stones she did till she had erected something very much like a cairn at her end, which would have opposed a considerable barrier to the passage of any stag. Then she announced that she must get clean, and went a few yards down-stream to one of the open shallows, where she proceeded to make a toilet. She stood with the current flowing almost to her knees, suffering it to wash the peat from her boots and the skirts of her oilskin and at the same time scrubbing her grimy hands. In the process her hat became loose, dropped into the stream, and was clutched with one hand, while with the other she restrained the efforts of the wind to uncoil her shining curls.
It was while watching the moving waters at their priest-like task that crisis came upon Sir Archie. In a blinding second he realised with the uttermost certainty that he had found his mate. He had known it before, but now came the flash of supreme conviction ... For swelling bosoms and pouting lips and soft curves and languishing eyes Archie had only the most distant regard. He saluted them respectfully and passed by the other side of the road – they did not belong to his world. But that slender figure splashing in the tawny eddies made a different appeal. Most women in such a posture would have looked tousled and flimsy, creatures ill at ease, with their careful allure beaten out of them by weather. But this girl was an authentic creature of the hills and winds – her young slimness bent tensely against the current, her exquisite head and figure made more fine and delicate by the conflict. It is a sad commentary on the young man’s education, but, while his soul was bubbling with poetry, the epithet which kept recurring to his mind was ‘clean-run’. . . . More, far more. He saw in that moment of revelation a comrade who would never fail him, with whom he could keep on all the roads of life. It was that which all his days he had been confusedly seeking.
‘Janet,’ he shouted against the wind, ‘will you marry me?’
She made a trumpet of one hand.
‘What do you say?’ she cried.
‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes,’ she turned a laughing face, ‘of course I will.’
‘I’m coming across,’ he shouted.
‘No. Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.’
She climbed the other bank and made for the bridge of larchpoles, and before he could prevent her she had embarked on that crazy structure. Then that happened which might have been foreseen, since the poles on Archie’s side of the stream had no fixed foundation. They splayed out, and he was just in time to catch her in his arms as she sprang.
‘You darling girl,’ he said, and she turned up to him a face smiling no more, but very grave.
Archie, his arms full of dripping maiden, stood in a happy trance.
‘Please put me down,’ she said. ‘See, the mist is clearing. We must get into cover.’
Sure enough the haze was lifting from the hillside before them and long tongues of black moorland were revealed stretching up to the crags. They found a place among the birches which gave them a safe prospect and fetched luncheon from the car. Hot coffee from a thermos was the staple of the meal, which they consumed like two preoccupied children. Archie looked at his watch and found it after two o’clock. ‘Something must begin to happen soon,’ he said, and they took up posi
tion side by side on a sloping rock, Janet with her Zeiss glasses and Archie with his telescope.
His head was a delicious merry-go-round of hopes and dreams. It was full of noble thoughts – about Janet, and himself, and life. And the thoughts were mirthful too – a great, mellow, philosophic mirthfulness. John Macnab was no longer an embarrassing hazard, but a glorious adventure. It did not matter what happened – nothing could happen wrong in this spacious and rosy world. If Lamancha succeeded, it was a tremendous joke, if he failed a more tremendous, and, as for Leithen and Palliser-Yeates, comedy had marked them for its own . . . He wondered what he had done to be blessed with such happiness.
Already the mist had gone from the foreground, and the hills were clear to half-way up the rocks of Sgurr Mor and Sgurr Dearg. He had his glass on the Beallach, on the throat of which a stray sun-gleam made a sudden patch of amethyst.
‘I see someone,’ Janet cried. ‘On the edge of the pass. Have you got it? – on the left-hand side of that spout of stones,’
Archie found the place. ‘Got him . . . By Jove, it’s Wattie . . . And – and – yes, by all the gods, I believe he’s pullin’ a stag down . . . Wait a second . . . Yes, he’s haulin’ it into the burn . . . Well done, our side! But where on earth is Charles?’
The two lay with their eyes glued on the patch of hill, now lit everywhere by the emerging sun. They saw the little figure dip into a hollow, appear again and then go out of sight in the upper part of a long narrow scaur which held the headwaters of a stream – they could see the foam of the little falls farther down. Before it disappeared Archie had made out a stag’s head against a background of green moss.
‘That’s that,’ he cried. ‘Charles must be somewhere behind protectin’ the rear. I suppose Wattie knows what he’s doin’ and is certain he can’t be seen by the navvies. Anyhow, he’s well hidden at present in the burn, but he’ll come into view lower down when the ravine opens out. He’s a tough old bird to move a beast at that pace ... The question now is, where is old John? It’s time he was gettin’ busy.’
Janet, whose glass made up in width of range what it lacked in power, suddenly cried out: ‘I see him. Look! up at the edge of the rocks – three hundred yards west of the Beallach. He’s moving down-hill. I think it’s Palliser-Yeates – he’s the part of John Macnab I know best.’
Archie found the spot. ‘It’s old John right enough, and he’s doin’ his best to make himself conspicuous. Those yellow breeks of his are like a flag. We’ve got a seat in the stalls and the curtain is goin’ up. Now for the fun.’
Then followed for the better part of an hour a drama of almost indecent sensation. Wattie and his stag were forgotten in watching the efforts of an eminent banker to play hare to the hounds of four gentlemen accustomed to labour rather with their hands than with their feet. It was the navvy whose post was almost directly opposite Janet and Archie who first caught sight of the figure on the hillside. He blew a whistle and began to move uphill, evidently with the intention of cutting off the intruder’s retreat to the east and driving him towards Haripol. But the quarry showed no wish to go east, for it was towards Haripol that he seemed to be making, by a long slant down the slopes.
‘I’ve got Number Two,’ Janet whispered. ‘There – above the patch of scrub – close to the three boulders ... Oh, and there’s Number Three. Mr Palliser-Yeates is walking straight towards him. Do you think he sees him?’
‘Trust old John. He’s the wiliest of God’s creatures, and he hasn’t lost much pace since he played outside three-quarters for England. Wait till he starts to run.’
But Mr Palliser-Yeates continued at a brisk walk apparently oblivious of his foes, who were whistling like curlews, till he was very near the embraces of Number Three. Then he went through a very creditable piece of acting. Suddenly he seemed to be stricken with terror, looked wildly around to all the points of the compass, noted his pursuer, and, as if in a panic, ran blindly for the gap between Numbers Two and Three. Number Four had appeared by this time, and Number Four was a strategist. He did not join in the pursuit, but moved rapidly down the glen towards Haripol to cut off the fugitive, should he outstrip the hunters.
Palliser-Yeates managed to get through the gap, and now appeared running strongly for the Doran, which at that point of its course – about half a mile down-stream from Janet and Archie – flowed in a deep-cut but not precipitous channel, much choked with birch and rowan. Numbers Two and Three followed, and also Number One, who had by now seen that there was no need of a rearguard. For a little all four disappeared from sight, and Janet and Archie looked anxiously at each other. Cries, excited cries, were coming up-stream, but there was no sign of human beings.
‘John can’t have been such a fool as to get caught,’ Archie grumbled. ‘He has easily the pace of those heavy-footed chaps. Wish he’d show himself
Presently first one, then a second, then a third navvy appeared on the high bank of the Doran, moving aimlessly, like hounds at fault.
‘They’ve lost him,’ Archie cried. ‘Where d’you suppose the leery old bird has got to? He can’t have gone to earth.’
That was not revealed for about twenty minutes. Then a cry from one of the navvies called the attention of the others to something moving high up on the hillside.
‘It’s John,’ Archie muttered. ‘He must have crawled up one of the side-burns. Lord, that’s pretty work.’
The navvies began heavily to follow, though they had a thousand feet of leeway to make up. But it was no part of Palliser-Yeates’s plan to discourage them, since he had to draw them clean away from the danger zone. Already this was almost achieved, for Wattie and his stag, even if he had left the ravine, were completely hidden from their view by a shoulder of hill. He pretended to be labouring hard, stumbling often, and now and then throwing himself on the heather in an attitude of utter fatigue, which was visible to the pursuit below.
‘It’s a dashed shame,’ murmured Archie. ‘Those poor fellows haven’t a chance with John. I only hope Claybody is payin’ them well for this job.’
The hare let the hounds get within a hundred yards of him. Then he appeared to realise their presence and to struggle to increase his pace, but, instead of ascending, he moved horizontally along the slope, slipping and sprawling in what looked like a desperate final effort. Hope revived in the navvies’ hearts. Their voices could be heard – ‘You bet they’re usin’ shockin’ language,’ said Archie – and Number One, who seemed the freshest, put on a creditable spurt. Palliser-Yeates waited till the man was almost upon him, and then suddenly turned downhill. He ran straight for Number Two, dodged him with that famous swerve which long ago on the football field had set forty thousand people shouting, and went down the hill like a rolling stone. Once past the navvy line, he seemed to slide a dozen yards and roll over, and when he got up he limped.
‘Oh, he has hurt himself Janet cried.
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Archie. ‘It’s the old fox’s cunning. He’s simply playin’ with the poor fellows. Oh, it’s wicked!’
The navvies followed with difficulty, for they had no gift of speed on a steep hill-face. Palliser-Yeates waited again till they were very near him, and then, like a hen partridge dragging its wing, trotted down the more level ground by the stream side. The pursuit was badly cooked, but it lumbered gallantly along, Number Four now making the running. A quarter of a mile ahead was the beginning of the big Haripol woods which clothed the western skirts of Stob Ban, and stretched to the demesne itself.
Suddenly Palliser-Yeates increased his pace, with no sign of a limp, and, when he passed out of sight of the two on the rock, was going strongly.
Archie shut up his glass. ‘That’s a workmanlike show, if you like. He’ll tangle them up in the woods, and slip out at his leisure and come home. I knew old John was abso-lute-ly safe. If he doesn’t run slap into Macnicol –’
He broke off and stared in front of him. A figure like some ancient earth-dweller had appeared on the opposite bank.
Hair, face, and beard were grimed with peat, sweat made furrows in the grime, and two fierce eyes glowered under shaggy eyebrows. Bumping against its knees were the antlers of a noble stag.
‘Wattie,’ the two exclaimed with one voice.
‘You old sportsman,’ cried Archie. ‘Did you pull that great brute all the way yourself? Where is Lord Lamancha?’
The stalker strode into the water dragging the stag behind him, and did not halt till he had it high on the bank and close to the car. Then he turned his eyes on the two, and wrung the moisture from his beard.
‘You needn’t worry,’ Archie told him. ‘Mr Palliser-Yeates has all the navvies in the Haripol woods.’
‘So I was thinkin’. I got a glisk of him up the burn. Yon’s the soople one. But we’ve no time to loss. Help me to sling the beast into the cawr. This is a fine hidy-hole.’
‘Gad, what a stag!’
‘It’s the auld beast we’ve seen for the last five years. Ye mind me tellin’ ye that he was at our stacks last winter. Come on quick, for I’ll no be easy till he’s in the Crask larder.’
‘But Lord Lamancha?’
‘Never heed him. He’s somewhere up the hill. It maitters little if he waits till the darkenin’ afore he comes hame. The thing is we’ve got the stag. Are ye ready?’
Archie started the car, which had already been turned in the right direction. Coats and wraps and heather were piled on the freight, and Wattie seated himself on it like an ancient raven.
‘Now, tak a spy afore ye start. Is the place clear?’
Archie, from the rock, reported that the hillside was empty.
‘What about the Beallach?’
Archie spied long and carefully. ‘I see nothing there, but of course I only see the south end. There’s a rock which hides the top.’
‘No sign o’ his lordship?’
‘Not a sign.’
‘Never heed. He can look after himsel’ braw and weel. Push on wi’ the cawr, sir, for it’s time we were ower the hill.’
Archie obeyed, and presently they were climbing the long zigzag to the Crask pass. Wattie on the back seat kept an anxious look-out, issuing frequent bulletins, and Janet swept the glen with her glasses. But no sign of life appeared in the wide sunlit place except a buzzard high in the heavens and a weasel slipping into a cairn. Once the watershed had been crossed Wattle’s heart lightened.