Then Londesley entered, and after him, Ned Hoppin, Rob Saunderson, Jim Mason, and others, each with his dog. And each man, as he came in and saw the little lone figure for once without his huge companion, put the same question; while the dogs sniffed about the little man, as though suspecting some trick. And all the time, McAdam sat as though he neither heard nor saw, lost in some sweet, sad dream; so quiet, so silent, that more than one of them thought he was asleep.
After the first glance, however, the farmers paid him little attention, gathering around the tavern-keeper at the far end of the room to hear the latest story about Owd Bob.
It seemed that one week before, James Moore with a pack of sheep had met the new Grammoch-town butcher at the Dalesmen’s Daughter. They had made a bargain, and the butcher had started home with the flock. Since he had no dog, the Master offered him the Owd One. “And he’ll find me in the town tomorrow,” he said.
Now the butcher was a stranger in the land. Of course he had heard of Owd Bob of Kenmuir, yet it had never struck him that this handsome gentlemanly dog with the quiet, confident manner, who handled sheep as he had never before seen them handled, was that hero—“the best sheepdog in the North.”
It is certain that by the time the flock was penned in the enclosure behind the shop, he longed to own that dog—ay, would even offer ten pounds for him!
Immediately the butcher locked him up in a shed—most undignified; determined to make his offer the next day.
When the next day came, he found no dog in the shed, and, worse, no sheep in the enclosure. A missing board showed him how the dog had escaped, and a missing bar of the fence showed him how the sheep had got out. And as he was making the discovery, a gray dog and a flock of sheep, traveling along the road toward the Dalesman’s Daughter, met the Master.
From the first, Owd Bob had mistrusted the man. The attempt to lock him up had confirmed his suspicions. His master’s sheep were not meant for such a rascal; and he worked his own way out and took the sheep along with him.
The men responded to the story as it went along with constant exclamations—“Ma word! Good, Owd Un!—Ho, ho! Did he do that?”
Of them all, only McAdam sat strangely silent.
Rob Saunderson, always glad to tease the little man, noticed it.
“And what do you think of that, Mr. McAdam, for a wonderful story of a wonderful tyke?” he asked.
“It’s a good tale, a very good tale,” the little man answered dreamily. “And James Moore didn’t invent it; he read it in the Christmas issue of the Flock-keeper, yonder in Saxty.” (On the following Sunday, old Rob, out of pure curiosity, took down from his shelf that issue of the paper. To his amazement he found the little man was right. There was the story almost exactly the same. Still, it was also true of Owd Bob of Kenmuir.)
“Ay, ay,” the little man went on, “and in a day or two James Moore will have another tale to tell ye—a better tale, ye’ll think—more laughable. And yet—ay—no—I won’t believe it! I never loved James Moore, but I think, as Mr. Hornbut once said, that he’d rather die than tell a lie. Owd Bob of Kenmuir!” he went on in a whisper. “Up to the end, I can’t shake him off. I half think that where I’m going, there’ll be gray dogs sneaking around me in the twilight. And they’re always behind and behind, and I can’t, can’t—”
Teddy Bolstock interrupted, lifting his hand for silence.
“Do you hear that?—Thunder!”
They listened; and from outside came a gurgling, jarring roar, horrible to hear.
“It’s coming nearer!”
“Nay, it’s going away!”
“That’s not thunder!”
“More like the Lea in flood. And yet— Eh, Mr. McAdam, what is it?”
The little man had moved at last. He was on his feet, staring around him, wild-eyed.
“Where’s yer dogs?” he almost screamed.
“Here’s my— Nay, by God! he’s not here!” was the astonished cry.
So interested had they been in the story of Owd Bob and the butcher, no man had noticed that his dog has risen from his side; no one had noticed a line of shaggy figures creeping out of the room.
“I tell ye it’s the tykes! I tell ye it’s the dogs! They’re on my Wullie—fifty to one they’re on him! My God! My God! And me not there! Wullie, Wullie!”—in a scream—“I’m coming, I’m with ye!”
At the same moment, Bessie Bolstock rushed in, white-faced.
“Oh, Father! Mr. Saunderson! All of you! The tykes are fighting mad! Listen!”
There was no time for listening. Each man seized his stick and rushed for the door; and McAdam led them all.
◆ ◆ ◆
It was a rare thing for McAdam and Red Wull to be apart. So rare, that others besides the men in the little tap-room had noticed it.
Saunderson’s old Shep walked quietly to the back door of the house and looked out.
There on the slope below him, he saw what he was looking for, pacing up and down, bony and grim, like a lion at feeling-time. And as the old dog watched, his tail was gently swaying, as though he were well pleased.
He walked back into the bar just as Teddy began his tale. Twice he walked around the room on silent feet. From dog to dog he went, stopping at each one as though urging him on to some great endeavor. Then he headed for the door again, looking back to see if any of them were following.
One by one, the others stood up and trailed out after him: big blue Rasper, Londesley’s Lassie, Ned Hoppin’s young dog; Grip and Grapple, the tavern-keeper’s bull-terriers; Jim Mason’s Gyp, foolish and flirting even now; there were others; and last of all, waddling heavily in the rear, that scarred warrior, the Venus.
Out of the house they pattered, silent and unseen, with murder in their hearts. At last they had found their enemy alone. And slowly, in a black cloud, like the shadow of death, they dropped down the slope upon him.
And he saw them coming, knew what they were after—and who would know better than the Terror of the Border?—and was glad. It might be death, and the kind of death he would wish to die—at the very least, it took his mind away from that endless, haunting pain. And he smiled grimly as he looked at the approaching crowd and saw that he had defeated every single one of them in his time.
He stopped his restless pacing, and waited for them. His great head was high as he gazed at them scornfully, daring them to come on.
And on they came, marching slow and silent like soldiers at a funeral: young and old; bob-tailed and bull; terrier and collie; flocking like vultures to the dead. And the Venus, heavy with her years, rolled after them on her bowed legs, panting in her hurry for fear that she should be late. For didn’t she have to avenge the blood of her own kin?
So they came around him, slow, certain, murderous, spreading out to cut off his escape on every side. There was no need for that. He never thought of escape. The odds were heavily against him—crushingly heavy; yet he loved them for it, and was trembling already with the glory of the coming fight.
They were up to him now; the sheepdogs walking around him on their toes, stiff and short like cats on hot coals; their backs a little humped; heads turned aside; yet watching him to see what he would do.
And he remained stock-still and did not look at them. His great chin was cocked, and his muzzle wrinkled in a dreadful grin. As he stood there, shivering a little, his eyes rolling back, his breath grating in his throat to set every bristle on end, he certainly looked like a devil.
The Venus came up alongside him. There was no hesitating, for her; she never walked if she could stand, or stood if she could lie down. But now she had to stand, breathing hard through her nose, never taking her eyes off that pad of flesh she had marked for her own. Close beside her were crop-eared Grip and Grapple, looking up at the line above them where hairy neck and shoulder came together. Behind was big Rasper, and close to him Lassie. Each of the others had marked his place, each had taken up his position.
Last of all, old Shep took his stand
full in front of his enemy, their shoulders almost rubbing, head by head.
So the two stood for a moment, as though they were whispering together; each devilish, each rolling back his eyes to watch the other. While from the little mob there rose a snarling, bubbling snore, like some giant breathing noisily in his sleep.
Then, like lightning, each one struck. Rearing high, they wrestled with reaching paws and the expression of fiends. Down they went, Shep underneath and the great dog with a dozen of these wolves of hell upon him. Rasper, devilish, was riding on his back; the Venus—luck for him!—had struck and missed; but Grip and Grapple had hold of him; and the others, like leaping demons, were plunging into the spinning whirlpool of the fight.
And there, where just two weeks before he had fought and lost the battle of the Cup, Red Wull was now battling for his life.
He didn’t have much chance of winning. But what did he care? The endless agony of the night was forgotten in that glorious, feverish excitement. Years of hatred came bubbling forth. In that supreme moment, he would pay them back for the wrongs they had done him. And he went in to fight, rejoicing like a giant in the red lust for killing.
Not much of a chance! Never before had he faced such a crowd of enemies. His one chance lay in quickness: to stop the swarming mob from getting hold of him till he had at least got rid of a few of them.
Then it was a sight to see the great brute, huge as a bull calf, strong as a bull, rolling over and over and up again, quick as a kitten; leaping here, striking there; shaking himself free; swinging his back end; fighting with feet and body and teeth—every inch of him at war. More than once, he broke right through the mob; only to turn again and face it. He wasn’t about to run away; he didn’t even think of it.
Up and down the slope the dark mass surged, like some huge, heavy ship tossed by the waves. Black and white, sable and gray, they snapped and gnashed at the great hulk in the center. Up and down, roaming wide, leaving everywhere a trail of red.
He had pinned Gyp and hurled him over his shoulder. Grip followed; he shook her till she rattled, then flung her far away; and she fell with an awful thud, not to rise again; while Grapple, to avenge that death, hung on all the tighter. In a scarlet, soaking patch of the ground lay Big Bell’s mongrel, curled in a dreadful ball. And Hoppin’s young dog, who just three hours before had been the children’s affectionate playmate, now evil to look at, dragged after the huddle up the hill. Back the mob rolled, right over her. When it had passed, she lay quite still, grinning; a handful of tawny hair and flesh in her dead mouth.
So they fought on. And every now and again, a great figure rose up from the heaving, hellish storm all around him; rearing to his full height, his head ragged and bleeding, the red foam dripping from his jaws. This was how he would appear for a moment, like some dark rock in the midst of a raging sea; and then down he would go again.
Silent, now, they fought, mute and determined. Only you might have heard the rip of tearing flesh; a hoarse gurgle as some dog went down; the panting of dry throats; and now and then a sob from that figure in the center. For he was fighting for his life. The Terror of the Border was at bay.
All those who really meant it were on him now. The Venus, blinded with blood, had got hold of him at last; and only once in her long life of battles had she ever let go; Rasper, his breath coming in rattles, had seized him horribly by the thigh; while a dozen other devils with red eyes and wrinkled nostrils still clung to him.
Not much of a chance! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of numbers, yet struggled up again. His great head was torn and dripping; his eyes a gleam of rolling red and white; the little tail straight and stiff like the gallant stump of a flagpole that has been shot away. He was desperate, but wouldn’t be beat; and he sobbed as he fought stubbornly on.
Not much of a chance! It could not last. And down he went finally, still silent—they would never force a cry from him in his agony, the Venus holding tight to that mangled pad of flesh; Rasper beneath him now; three at his throat; two at his ears; a crowd on his legs and body.
The Terror of the Border was down at last!
◆ ◆ ◆
“Wullie, my Wullie!” screamed McAdam, leaping down the slope a couple of yards in front of the rest of them. “Wullie! Wullie! To me!”
At the shrill cry, the huddle below shook violently. It heaved and swelled and dragged back and forth, like the sea lashed into life by some dying monster of the deep.
A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. A great tossing head, so bloody it was unrecognizable, flung itself out from the mob. One quick glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little flying figure in front; then with a roar like a waterfall plunged toward it, shaking off the bloody leeches as he went.
“Wullie! Wullie! I’m with ye!” cried that little voice, now so near.
Through—through—through!—a huge effort, and his last. They hung onto his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were all around him. And down he went again with a sob and a little suffocating cry, looking up at his master with one quick, begging glance as the sea of blood closed over him—grasping, shaking, smothering, tearing, like fox-hounds at the kill.
The men left the dead dogs where they lay and pulled away the living. And it was no easy job, for the pack of dogs were mad for blood.
At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old Shep, stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was twisting with emotion; for no man can lose in a moment the friend he has had for a dozen years, and not be moved.
The Venus lay there, her teeth still clenched in death; smiling that she had paid him back at last. Big Rasper, no longer blue, was gasping out his life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet spot where they could lie down and die. Before the night had fallen, another had gone. And there was not a single dog who had fought on that day that did not bear the scars of it with him to his grave.
The Terror of the Border, terrible in his life, like Samson in the Bible, was even more terrible in his dying.
◆ ◆ ◆
Down at the bottom lay what had once been Adam McAdam’s Red Wull.
At the sight of him, the little man did not scream or swear: it was past that, for him. He sat down on the soaking ground, and took the torn and bloodied head in his lap very tenderly.
“They’ve done you in at last, Wullie—they’ve done you in at last,” he said quietly; he was convinced, and nothing could change his mind, that the attack had been organized while he was kept shut away in the tap-room.
On hearing the sound of the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of his stump-tail. And with that, the Tailless Tyke, Adam McAdam’s Red Wull, the Black Killer, was gone for good.
◆ ◆ ◆
One by one, the Dalesmen took away their dead, and the little man was left alone with the body of his last friend.
Dry-eyed he sat there, nursing the dead dog’s head; hour after hour—alone—singing to himself:
“‘Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat.’
(Many a hard day’s work we two have done,
And with the vexed world fought!
And many an anxious day I thought
We would be beat.)
“And now we are beat, Wullie—now we are!”
So he went on, saying the lines over and over again, always with the same sad ending.
“A man’s mother—a man’s wife—a man’s dog! They three are all little McAdam ever had to stand by his side! Do ye remember the old mother, Wullie? And what she said? ‘Never be down-hearted, Adam; ye’ve always got yer mother.’ And one day I had not. And Flora, Wullie (ye remember Flora, Wullie? Na, na; ye wouldn’t) with her laughing, playful manner, crying to me: ‘Adam, ye say ye’re alone. But ye’ve got me—isn’t that enough for any man?’ And God knows it was enough—while it
lasted!” He broke down and sobbed a while. “And you, Wullie—and you!—the only man friend I ever had!” He felt for the dog’s bloody paw with his right hand.
“‘An’ here’s a hand, my trusty fier,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
An’ we’ll tak’ a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.’”
(And here’s a hand, my trusty friend
And give us a hand of thine;
And we’ll take a right good draft of ale,
For the days long past.)
◆ ◆ ◆
He sat there, muttering and stroking the poor head upon his lap, bending over it, like a mother over a sick child.
“They’ve done ye in at last, lad—done ye sore. And now I’m thinkin’ they won’t be content till I’m gone too. And oh, Wullie!”—he bent down and whispered—“I dreamed such an awful thing—that my Wullie—but there! ’Twas only a dream.”
So he went on sitting, murmuring to the dead dog; and no man came near him. Only Bessie of the inn watched the little lone figure from afar.
It was long past noon when at last he stood up, laying the dog’s head carefully down, and stumbled away toward that bridge which once the dead thing on the slope had defended against a crowd of a thousand people.
He crossed it and turned; there was a look upon his face, half hopeful, half fearful, very piteous to see.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried; only the tones, formerly so fiery, were now weak as a dying man’s.
For a while he waited, uselessly.
“Aren’t ye comin’, Wullie?” he asked at last in trembling tones. “It’s not like ye to leave me.”
He walked away a step, then turned again and whistled that shrill, sharp call, only now it sounded like a broken echo of itself.
“Come to me, Wullie!” he begged, very pitifully. “It’s the first time ever I’ve known ye not to come when I whistle. What’s wrong with ye, lad?”
He crossed back over the bridge, walking blindly like a sobbing child; and yet dry-eyed.
Over the dead body he stooped.
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 24