The Gray Dogs of Kenmuir have always been both heroes and favorites in the Daleland. And the Dalesmen now had absolute confidence in Owd Bob. Sometimes on market days he would perform some move that was impossible to explain, and a shepherd who had come into the area from somewhere else would ask: “What’s that gray dog up to?” To which the nearest Dalesman would answer: “Well, I can’t tell! But he knows what he’s doing. It’s Owd Bob of Kenmuir.”
Whereupon the stranger would prick up his ears and watch with close attention.
“So that’s Owd Bob of Kenmuir, is it?” he would say; for already the name was becoming known among the shepherds in the region. And never in such a case did the young dog fail to justify the faith of his supporters.
It therefore came as a keen disappointment to every Dalesman, from Herbert Trotter, Secretary of the Trials, to little Billy Thornton, when the Master stood firm in his decision not to enter the dog for the Cup in the approaching Dale Trials; and he stood firm even though the parson, the Squire, and Lady Eleanour herself tried to shake his resolve. Nearly fifty years had passed by now since Rex, son of Rally, had won back the Trophy for the land where it had first come into being; it was time, they thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog of Kenmuir—which was almost the same thing—to bring it home again. And Tammas, who had such a way with words, was only expressing the feelings of every Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he said, about Owd Bob, that “to have run was to have won.” At which McAdam snickered audibly and winked at Red Wull. “To have run was to have one—a beating, I mean; to run next year will be to—”
“To win next year,” Tammas interrupted stubbornly. “Unless”—with shivering sarcasm—“you and your Wullie are thinking of winning.”
The little man rose from his solitary seat at the back of the room and came pattering across the floor.
“Wullie and I are thinking of it,” he whispered loudly in the old man’s ear. “And one more thing. Take note of this, Mr. Thornton: what Adam McAdam and his Red Wull think of doing, they will do. Next year we will run, and next year—we will win. Come, Wullie, we’ll leave them to chew on that”; and he marched out of the room amid the jeers of the crowd of men. When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: “One thing is certain—win or not, they’ll not be far off.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Meanwhile, the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a sweltering autumn, the winter came down. That year, the Daleland covered itself very early in its cloak of white. The waters of the Silver Mere were soon veiled in ice; the course of the Wastrel rolled sullenly down below Kenmuir, its pools and quiet places tented with jagged sheets of ice; while the towering Scaur and Muir Pike raised their white heads against the frosty blue. It was the season still remembered in the North as the White Winter—the worst, they say, since the famous winter of 1808.
For days on end, the postman Jim Mason was stuck with his bags of mail in the Dalesman’s Daughter, and there was no communication between the two valleys. On the Mere Marches, the snow piled up deep, too deep to cross, in thick, billowy drifts. In the Devil’s Bowl, men said it lay twenty feet deep or more. And sheep, looking for shelter in the ravines and protected spots, were buried and lost by the hundreds.
This is the time of year that tests the hearts of shepherds and sheepdogs, when the wind runs ice-cold across the empty stretches of white, and the low woods on the upland walks shiver black through a veil of snow, and sheep must be found and brought back into the safety of the fold, or they will be lost: it is a test of the mind as well as the heart, of a shepherd’s resourcefulness as well as his resolve.
During that winter, more than one man, and many a dog, lost his life in the quiet performance of his duty, gliding to his death over the slippery snow-shelves, or buried beneath an avalanche of warm, suffocating white: “smoored,” as they call it. Many a deed was done, many a death died, that was recorded only in the Book which contains the names of those—men or animals, souls or no souls—who Tried.
They found old Wrottesley, the Squire’s head shepherd, lying one morning at the foot of Gill’s Peak, like a statue in its white bed, the snow gently blowing about the dignified old face, calm and beautiful in death. And lying stretched out on his chest, with her master’s hand, blue and stiff, still clasped around her neck, was his old dog Jess. She had huddled there, as a last hope, to keep her dear, dead master warm, her great heart broken, hoping where there was no hope.
That night she followed him to herd sheep in a better land. Death from exposure, said Dingley, the vet; but as little McAdam, his eyes dimmer than usual, declared in a husky voice, “We know better, Wullie.”
Cyril Gilbraith, not usually a very emotional young man, told with a sob in his voice how, at the terrible Rowan Rock, Jim Mason the postman had stood helpless, silent, wide-eyed, as he watched Betsy—Betsy, his friend and partner of the last ten years—slip over the ice-cold surface, silently appealing to the hand that had never failed her before, sliding away to Eternity.
In the Daleland that winter, the endurance of many a shepherd and his dog was strained past the breaking point. From the frozen Black Water to the white-peaked Grammoch Pike, only two men, each with his shaggy helper always by his side, never admitted defeat; never turned back, never failed in anything they tried.
In the following spring, Mr. Tinkerton, the Squire’s agent, declared that James Moore and Adam McAdam—or rather Owd Bob and Red Wull—had, between them, lost fewer sheep than any single farmer on the whole March Mere Estate—a proud record.
Many a tale was told that winter about those two. They could not be beaten, they were unlike any other; they were worthy rivals.
It was Owd Bob who, when he could not drive the herd of black-face sheep over the narrow Razorback which led to safety, persuaded them to follow him across that ten-inch-wide death-trail, one by one, like children behind their schoolteacher. It was Red Wull who was seen coming down the steep Saddler’s How, supporting that grand old gentleman, King o’ the Dale, whose leg was broken.
It was the gray dog who found Cyril Gilbraith by the White Stones, with a cigarette and a sprained ankle, on the night the whole village was out with lanterns searching for the well-loved young rascal. It was the Tailless Tyke and his master who, one bitter evening, came upon little Mrs. Burton lying in a huddle beneath the meadow of Druid’s Pillar, whitening quickly with the falling snow, her newest baby lying on her chest. It was little McAdam who took off his coat and wrapped the child in it; little McAdam who unwound his scarf, threw it like a sash across the dog’s great chest, and tied the ends around the weary woman’s waist. It was Red Wull who dragged her back to the Sylvester Arms and to life, straining like a giant through the snow, while his master staggered behind with the baby in his arms. When they reached the inn it was McAdam who, with a smile on his face, told the landlord what he thought of him for sending his wife across the Marches on such a day and on an errand for him. To which the honest Jem pleaded: “I had a cold.”
For days at a time, David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir. His forced imprisonment in the Grange resulted, however, in no more frequent quarrels than usual with his father. For McAdam and Red Wull were out at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work of salvation.
At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a point where a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. He stayed only a little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home it was snowing again.
By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over the Wastrel, a blizzard was raging. The wind roared past him, striking him so hard he could barely stand; and the snow leaped at him so that he could not see. But he held on doggedly; slipping, sliding, tripping, down and up again, with one arm shielding his face. On, on, into the white darkness, blindly on, sobbing, stumbling, dazed.
At last, nearly dead, he reached the edge of the Stony Bottom. He looked up and he looked down, but nowhere in that b
linding mist could he see the fallen thorn-tree. He took a step forward into the deep drift of wet white snow, and sank up to his thigh. He struggled feebly to free himself, and sank deeper. The snow twisted and coiled around him like a white flame, and he collapsed, softly crying, on that soft bed.
“I can’t—I can’t!” he moaned.
◆ ◆ ◆
Little Mrs. Moore, her face whiter and more delicate than ever, stood at the window, looking out into the storm.
“I can’t rest for thinking of the lad,” she said. Then, turning, she saw her husband, his fur cap down over his ears, buttoning his heavy wool pilot-coat around his throat, while Owd Bob stood at his feet, waiting.
“You’re not going out, James?” she asked, anxiously.
“Yes I am, lass,” he answered; and she knew him too well to say more.
So the two, man and dog, went quietly out, either to save a life, or to lose their own, without counting the cost.
Down a wind-shattered slope—over a spar of ice—up an eternal hill—a forlorn hope.
In a whirlwind chaos of snow, the tempest storming at them, the white earth lashing them, they fought a good fight. In front, Owd Bob, the snow clogging his shaggy coat, his hair cutting like lashes of steel across his eyes, his head lowered as though he followed the finger of God; and close behind, James Moore, his back stiff and straight against the storm, firm and resolute still, yet swaying like a tree before the wind.
So they battled through to the edge of the Stony Bottom—only to arrive too late.
For, just as the Master, peering about him, had caught sight of a shapeless lump lying motionless in front, there loomed across the snow-choked gulf, through the white riot of the storm, a gigantic figure pushing his way steadily forward, his great head down to meet the hurricane. And close behind, battered and bruised, stiff and staggering, a little fearless figure holding stubbornly on, clutching with one hand at the gale; and a shrill voice, whirled away on the trumpet tones of the wind, crying:
“Now, Wullie, with me!
‘Scots wha’ hae wi’ Wallace bled!
Scots wham Bruce has often led!
Welcome to—!’
(Scots who have with Wallace bled!
Scots whom Bruce has often led!
Welcome to—!)
“Here he is, Wullie!
‘—or to victorie!’”
The brave little voice died away. The search was over; the lost sheep found. And the last James Moore saw of them was the same small, gallant form, half carrying, half dragging the rescued boy out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death and away.
David was none the worse for his adventure, for on reaching home McAdam produced a familiar bottle.
“Here’s something to warm yer insides, and”—making a show of reaching for the strap on the wall—“here’s something to do the same by your— But, Wullie, out again!”
And out they went—unreckoned heroes.
◆ ◆ ◆
It was only a week later, in the very heart of the bitter season, that there came a day when, from the gray dawn to the grayer evening, neither James Moore nor Owd Bob stirred out into the wintry white. And the Master’s face was hard and motionless, as it always was in a time of trouble.
Outside, the wind screamed down the Dale, while the snow fell without stopping, softly fingering the windows, blocking the doors, and piling deep against the walls. Inside the house, there was a strange quiet; no sound except for hushed voices, and upstairs the shuffling of muffled feet.
Downstairs, Owd Bob paced back and forth in the hall all day long, like a silent gray ghost.
Once, there came a low knocking at the door; and David, his face and hair and cap smothered in the whiteness that was everywhere in the air outside, came in with a whirling gust of cold snow. He patted Owd Bob and moved on tiptoe into the kitchen. Maggie came to him softly, her shoes in her hand, with a white, frightened face. The two whispered anxiously awhile like brother and sister, as they seemed to be; then the boy crept quietly away; only a little pool of water on the floor and wet, slippery footprints leading to the door gave evidence of the visitor.
Toward evening the wind died down, but the sad flakes still fell.
With the darkening of night Owd Bob retreated to the entryway and lay down on his blanket. The light from the lamp at the head of the stairs shone through the crack of the open door on his dark head and the eyes that never slept.
The hours passed, and the gray knight still kept watch. Alone in the darkness—alone, it almost seemed, in the house—he lay awake. His head rested motionless along his paws, but the steady gray eyes never flinched or drooped.
Time tramped on, on leaden foot, and still he waited; and the pain of hovering anxiety was stamped ever deeper in the gray eyes.
At last it grew past enduring; the hollow stillness of the house was too much for him. He arose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered across the hall.
At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, his grave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. The dim light fell on the raised head; and the white blaze on his chest shone out like the “snow on Zalmon,” as it is sung in the Bible.
At last, with a sound like a sob, he stepped back from the stairs and stood listening, his tail drooping and head raised. Then he turned and began softly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gate of death.
Up and down, up and down, as softly as the falling snow, for a weary, weary while.
Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of the stairs; and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draft.
Suddenly, the deathly stillness of the house was broken. Upstairs, feet were running hurriedly. There was a cry, and again silence.
A life was coming in; a life was going out.
The minutes passed; the hours passed; and, when the sunless dawn came, that life was gone.
And all through that night of age-long agony, the gray figure stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. At last, with the first chilly breath of the morning, a dry sob, quickly stifled, was heard, the sob of a strong man sorrowing for his wife of twenty years, and after it the tiny cry of a newborn child, wailing because its mother was not there. Only then, when these cries came down to his ears, did the Gray Watchman drop his head on his chest, and, with a little whimper, creep back to his blanket.
A little later the door above opened, and James Moore came down the stairs with a slow, heavy step. He looked taller and thinner than usual, but there was no sign of emotion on his face.
At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He came crouching up, head and tail down, in a way no man had ever seen before or ever saw again. At his master’s feet, he stopped and whined pitifully.
Then, for one short moment, James Moore’s whole face quivered.
“Well, lad,” he said, quite softly, and his voice broke; “She’s gone!”
That was all; for they were a pair who did not make a great display of their feelings.
Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning.
CHAPTER 8
McAdam and His Coat
TO DAVID McAdam, the loss of gentle Elizabeth Moore was as real a grief as to her children. Yet he bravely quieted his own aching heart and devoted himself to comforting the mourners at Kenmuir.
In the days following Mrs. Moore’s death, the boy recklessly avoided his duties at the Grange. But little McAdam did not scold him. At times, indeed, he tried, without ever going out of his way, to be kind. David, however, was too deeply sunk in his great sorrow to notice the change.
The day of the funeral came. The earth was throwing off its chains of ice; and the Dale was lost in a melancholy mist.
In the afternoon, McAdam was standing at the window of the kitchen, studying the endless desolation of the scene, when the door of the house opened and shut noiselessly. Red Wull raised himself up to the windowsill and growled, and
David hurried past the window heading for Kenmuir. McAdam watched the passing figure indifferently; then with an angry curse sprang to the window.
“Bring me back that coat, ye thief!” he cried, tapping fiercely on the windowpane. “Take it off at once, ye great fool, or I’ll come and tear it off ye. Did ye see him, Wullie? The great idiot has my coat—my black coat, new last Michaelmas, and it raining enough to melt it.”
He threw the window up with a bang and leaned out.
“Bring it back, I tell ye, ye undutiful lad, or I’ll serve ye with a summons of the law. Though ye’ve no respect for me, you might have for my clothes. You’re too big for yer own boots, let alone my coat. Did ye think I had it made for an elephant? It’s bursting on you, I tell ye. Take it off! Fetch it here, or I’ll send Wullie to bring it!”
David paid no attention except to begin running heavily down the hill. The coat was stretched in wrinkled agony across his back; his big, red wrists stuck out like shank-bones from the sleeves; and the little coattails flapped wearily in vain attempts to reach the wearer’s legs.
McAdam, bubbling over with indignation, scrambled halfway through the open window. Then, tickled by the amazing impudence of the thing, he paused, smiled, dropped to the ground again, and watched the awkward retreating figure with chuckling amusement.
“Did ye ever see anything like it, Wullie?” he muttered. “My poor coat—poor little coatie! It makes me cry to see her in such pain. A man’s coat, Wullie, is often remarkably small for his son’s back; and David there is straining and stretching her near to breaking, for all the world as he does my patience. And what does he care about the one or the other?—not a jot.”
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 6