The Leithen Stories

by John Buchan

  ‘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 hill-side 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 position 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 hill-side. 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 upstream, 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 hill-side.

  ‘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 lee-way 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 st
ream 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 hill-side 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 Wattie’s heart lightened.

  ‘Weel done, John Macnab,’ he cried. ‘Dod, ye’re the great lad. Ye’ve beaten a hundred navvies and Macnicol and a’, and ye’ve gotten the best heid in the country-side … Hae ye a match for my pipe, Sir Erchie? Mine’s been in ower mony bogholes to kindle.’

  It was a clear, rain-washed world on which they looked, and the sky to the south was all an unbroken blue. The air was not sticky and oppressive like yesterday, but pure and balmy and crystalline. When Crask was reached the stag was decanted with expedition, and Archie addressed Janet with a new authority.

  ‘I’m goin’ to take you straight home in the Hispana. You’re drippin’ wet and ought to change at once.’

  ‘Might I change here?’ the girl asked. ‘I told them to send over dry things, for I was sure it would be a fine afternoon. You see, I think we ought to go to Haripol.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To be in at the finish – and also to give Lady Claybody her dog back. Wee Roguie is rather on my conscience.’

  ‘That’s a good notion,’ Archie assented. So Janet was handed over to Mrs Lithgow, who admitted that a suitcase had indeed arrived from Glenraden. Archie repaired to the upper bathroom, which Lamancha had aforetme likened to a drain-pipe, and, having bathed rapidly, habited himself in a suit of a reasonable newness and took special pains with his toilet. And all the while he whistled and sang, and generally comforted himself like a madman. Janet was under his roof – Janet would soon always be there – the most miraculous of fates was his! Somebody must be told, so when he was ready he went out to seek the Bluidy Mackenzie and made that serious-minded beast the receptacle of his confidences.

  He returned to find a neat and smiling young woman conversing with Fish Benjie, whose task had been that of comforter and friend to Roguie. It appeared that the small dog had been having the morning of his life with the Crask rats and rabbits. ‘He’s no a bad wee dog,’ Benjie reported, ‘if they’d let him alane. They break his temper keepin’ him indoors and feedin’ him ower high.’

  ‘Benjie must come too,’ Janet announced. ‘It would be a shame to keep him back. You understand – Benjie found Roguie in the woods – which is true, and handed him over to me – which is also true. I don’t like unnecessary fibbing.’

  ‘Right-o! Let’s have the whole bag of tricks. But, I say, you’ve got to stage-manage this show. Benjie and I put ourselves in your hands, for I’m hanged if I know what to say to Lady Claybody.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. We’re just three nice clean people – well, two clean people – who go to Haripol on an errand of mercy. Get out the Hispana, Archie dear, for I feel that something tremendous may be happening there.’

  As they started – Benjie and Roguie on the back seat – Bluidy Mackenzie came into view, hungrily eyeing an expedition from which he seemed to be barred.

  ‘D’you mind if we take Mackenzie,’ Archie begged. ‘We’ll go very slow, and he can trollop behind. The poor old fellow has been havin’ a lonely time of it, and there’s likely to be such a mix-up at Haripol that an extra hound won’t signify.’

  Janet approved, and they swung down the hill and on to the highway, as respectable an outfit as the heart could wish, except for the waterproof-caped urchin on the back seat. The casual wayfarer would have noted only a very pretty girl and a well-appointed young man driving an expensive car at a most blameless pace. He could not guess what a cargo of dog-thieves and deer-thieves was behind the shining metal and spruce enamel … Benjie talked to Wee Roguie in his own tongue, and what Janet and Archie said in whispers to each other is no concern of this chronicle. The sea at Inverlarrig was molten silver running to the translucent blue of the horizon, the shore woods gleamed with a thousand jewels, the abundant waters splashing in every hollow were channels of living light. The world sang in streams and soft winds, the cries of plover and the pipe of shore-birds, and Archie’s heart sang above them all.

  Close to Haripol gates a tall figure rose from the milestone as the car slowed down.

  ‘Well, John, my aged sportsman, you did your part like a man. We saw it all.’

  ‘How are things going?’

  ‘Famously.’

  ‘The stag?’

  ‘In the Crask larder.’

  ‘And Charles?’

  ‘Lost. Believed to be still lurkin’ in the hills. Look here, John, get in beside Benjie. We are goin’ to Haripol and restore the pup. You’ll be a tower of strength to us, and old Claybody will be tremendously bucked to meet a brother magnate … Really, I mean it.’

  ‘I’m scarcely presentable,’ said Palliser-Yeates, taking off an old cap and looking at it meditatively.

  ‘Rot! You’re as tidy as you’ll ever be. Rather dandified for you. In you get, and don’t tread on the hound … Bloody, you brute, don’t you know a pal when you see him?’

  THIRTEEN

  Haripol – Auxiliary Troops
>
  HALF-WAY DOWN THE avenue, Archie drew up sharply.

  ‘I forgot about Mackenzie. We can’t have him here – he’ll play the fool somehow. Benjie, out you go. You’re one of the few that can manage him. Here’s his lead – you tie him up somewhere and watch for us, and we’ll pick you up outside the gates when we start home … Don’t get into trouble on your own account. I advise you to cut round to the bothies, and try to find out what is happenin’.’

  On the massive doorstep of Haripol stood Lady Claybody, parasol in one hand and the now useless dog-whip in the other. She made a motion as if to retreat, but thought better of it. Her face was flushed, and her air had abated something of its serenity. The sight of Janet – for she looked at Archie without recognition – seemed to awake her to the duties of hospitality, and she advanced with outstretched hand. Then a yelp from the side of Palliser-Yeates wrung from her an answering cry. In a trice Wee Roguie was in her arms.

  ‘Yes,’ Janet explained sweetly, ‘it’s Roguie quite safe and well. There’s a boy who sells fish at Strathlarrig – Benjie they call him – he found him in the woods and brought him to me. I hope you haven’t been worried.’

  But Lady Claybody was not listening. She had set the dog on his feet and was wagging her forefinger at him, a procedure which seemed to rouse all the latent epilepsy of his nature. ‘Oh, you naughty, naughty Roguie! Cruel, cruel doggie! He loved freedom better than his happy home. Master and mistress have been so anxious about Wee Roguie.’

  It was an invocation which lasted for two and a half minutes, till the invoker realised the presence of the men. She graciously shook hands with Sir Archie.

  ‘I drove Miss Janet over,’ said the young man, explaining the obvious. ‘And I took the liberty of bringin’ a friend who is stayin’ with me – Mr Palliser-Yeates. I thought Lord Claybody might like to meet him, for I expect he knows all about him.’