Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  “About eighty yards”, he breathed. “I’m going up to look; when I beckon, come up on my right.”

  Sliding his rifle out of its cover, David wormed his way slowly forward and in a short time was peeping round a rock. His hand beckoned and Eustace followed suit till he lay beside his host. Slowly, cautiously, he raised his head. Not sixty yards from him stood a magnificent stag, its head bristling—to Eustace’s eyes—with countless points. It was feeding quietly, oblivious of danger. The light stag was the furthest of the little group; its tail was towards Eustace, presenting no sort of a target.

  “Wait till he turns broadside. Take your time,” whispered David, quietly sliding the rifle up into Eustace’s hands.

  Breathless with excitement, his heart pounding, the blood roaring in his ears, Eustace waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. A good thing really; he was getting calmer; his hand would be quite steady. A half turn; Eustace’s pulse jumped up again; slowly he raised the rifle and . . . the stag sank on to its knees and lay down.

  “Curse the brute”, breathed David.

  Again Eustace’s pulses quietened, his muscles relaxed. The stag lay, obliquely to the rifle, solemnly chewing the cud, twitching its ears, gazing out over the glen. Another stag lay down and another; only the ten-pointer remained on his legs and he was feeding towards them; it looked as if he might walk right on to them. Eustace felt an overpowering temptation to change his target, to take this magnificent beast, so near to him, such a certain shot. He glanced at David, but there was no response in that still, hard face. Minutes passed; the ten-pointer was not a chain away; it would soon be too late. One more glance at David; he was frowning; would he change his mind?

  “He’s up!”

  Barely a whisper, but enough to switch Eustace’s eyes back to the yellow stag. It was standing up; stretching its graceful legs, body broadside on. Up went Eustace’s rifle, thud! thud! went his heart; the foresight swung round in narrowing circles; it was on the body now, behind the shoulder, no, in the middle of the ribs; curse it, why wouldn’t it keep still?

  “Quick! He’s seen you.”

  The ten-pointer had thrown up his head, was staring direct at the rifle. Eustace’s eyes wavered, back to the yellow stag. He must shoot, or it would be off. The foresight was still wavering, it was on . . . bang!

  As the crash echoed across the glen, Eustace saw the stag’s back hump up, its hind legs drop. It staggered, walked a step or two.

  “Quick! Another.”

  Wild with excitement and anxiety Eustace fired again, without even waiting to drop his foresight into the V. The stag turned away, took a few steps, broke into a slow trot.

  Bang! Bang!

  His head completely lost, the unfortunate Eustace pumped lead after the disappearing stag, saw dust fly from under its feet.

  “Stop, damn you! Give it me!”

  David seized the rifle, but it was too late.

  Bang!

  The magazine was empty and before it could be reloaded the stag, with its fellows, had disappeared round a spur. Only waiting to cram another five rounds into the magazine, David leaped to his feet and followed. Running with bent head he slowed as he reached the spur, peered over it, ran on. Panting behind him, Eustace caught up his cousin as he again slowed at the next small ridge.

  “I’m awfully sorry, David”, he gasped. “Is he wounded? Where . . . ?”

  David turned a set, angry face over his shoulder.

  “Keep behind me!” he snapped. “And keep quiet!”

  Almost crying with humiliation Eustace dropped back. Indeed he found it almost impossible to keep running. He glanced down the hill. Five stags were galloping diagonally down it toward the head of the glen; the yellow one was not with them. Further on, the whole side of the hill seemed to be alive with galloping deer, hinds rushing in panic of the unknown; but no sign of the wounded stag. The cry of a curlew came from behind them; David checked and looked back. McShail was on the skyline signalling vigorously with his arm.

  “He’s gone over the top. Good for you, Jim”, muttered David.

  He ran up the slope, Eustace plodding behind. Again the piercing wind struck them, but Eustace was too miserable to heed it now. Standing behind a large rock McShail was pointing forward down the southern slope. Eustace stared down, saw a moving form.

  “There he is!” he cried, starting forward.

  “Stop, you fool!”

  David seized his arm, almost pulling him to the ground.

  “If he sees us now we shall lose him.”

  At that moment the stag stopped, turned its head from side to side, turned it far back to look up the hill direct at the hidden watchers, as if it were searching for pursuers. Seeing nothing, it stretched its neck still further, trying to get its tongue to the dark patch which showed far back upon its belly. Then it moved on again, heading straight into the wind. Presently it disappeared into a little gully; instantly David started forward, running with astonishing speed and sure-footedness down the rocky hillside; doggedly Eustace followed, determined not to fall out of the hunt, remembering only that he must stop when David stopped. The stag reappeared, nearer now; the two men dropped. Slower now, faltering a little, but moving over ground too open to allow of close pursuit, the stag made down the hill. At the bottom it stopped, looked back, licked its side, staggered on a step or two; its knees dropped and it lay down, head to wind, but turning from time to time to look back the way it had come.

  Slowly, cautiously David crept nearer, followed closely now by Eustace. A hundred yards away they checked in a little hollow.

  “Let me have the rifle”, whispered Eustace. “I won’t miss again.”

  “No”, said David curtly. “He’s nearly on the march. Stay here.”

  Sullenly Eustace obeyed, watching his cousin creep forward up the little slope, drop to his knees, then to his belly, draw his body forward a foot or two, quietly raise his rifle.

  Bang!

  For a moment or two David lay, still covering the stag with his rifle, then rose to his feet and walked forward. When Eustace joined him he had already taken off his coat and was unhitching a long knife from his belt. With a flutter of excitement Eustace watched him. David looked at him.

  “You might get back up the hill and show Ian where we are”, he said coldly. “Then you can take the other pony and get home.”

  Eustace hesitated. God, how he hated the fellow! Sneering, superior brute; he could kill him now with pleasure. But that damned stalker and his glass. . . .

  “Won’t McShail fetch him?” he asked, clinging to a faint hope.

  “He’ll be signalling him up now, but I want him here.”

  Signalling him up? What did that mean? Would he be out of sight? and for how long?

  “Go on, will you? It’ll take the hell of a time to get him out from here. It’s damn rough going for the pony—if it ever gets here.”

  David leant down and with a quick movement thrust his knife into the stag’s throat. Dark blood gushed out. Eustace watched fascinated, hesitating. If only they had been alone—alone for the day. David put his foot on the stag’s shoulder, pressed on it, trying to squeeze more blood out of the neck wound; but little came.

  “Damn; bleeding inside; that’ll spoil the flesh. Look sharp, for God’s sake.”

  Angrily Eustace turned away. He wanted to help; why could not McShail bring the boy and the pony down? He wanted to see just what was done, but the fellow’s boorishness made it impossible. Reluctantly he turned away, began to walk up the hill.

  “Here, take the rifle, will you; we may have to drag if the pony gets stuck.”

  Eustace picked up the rifle, thrilling at the sense of power—of deadly power—which the weapon gave him. How easy now! He walked away, stopped and looked back. David was bent over the stag, skilfully running his long blade up the skin of the belly. How easy it would be from here! Impossible to miss. But impossible to explain away under such circumstances. No, he must wait; he knew just what was
needed now; the chance might come yet. He was not going to throw his own life away.

  Climbing slowly up the hill he found McShail at the top, watching the slow approach of the pony. The stalker had a clutch of sticks, Eustace’s glass and coat, the rifle cover. He handed Eustace his possessions without comment. Was there contempt in that cold grey eye, or was it philosophical detachment?

  “Captain Hendel wants you down there to help him”, said Eustace. “I’m to show Ian where you are.”

  “Ian could no’ get the poany down without me”, said McShail. “The rocks are bad on that slope; the Captain knows it well.”

  Eustace flushed angrily. Damn the fellow! So he had sent him away just to get rid of him! Didn’t want his help or his company! All right!

  McShail took the rifle from him.

  “I’ll take that”, said Eustace sharply.

  The stalker threw open the breech, ejected the four cartridges and picking them up put them calmly in his own pocket.

  “Maybe it’ll be better unloaded”, he said, handing it back.

  Sick with anger and mortification, Eustace watched the man turn to join the pony and ghilly, leading the way down the slope towards the dead stag. Eustace turned on his heel and strode down the other side.

  Chapter Ten

  A Stalker’s Peril

  EUSTACE’S depression and resentment lasted all the rest of the day. He had got home early in the afternoon and found that the women were still at sea, so that he had plenty of time in which to chew the cud of his mortification. The sea-fishers returned in time for a late tea, full of eager enquiry; Eustace’s tale was not an easy one for a man with an inferiority complex to tell. Blanche was sympathetic and consolatory, but Joan, secure in the assurance of her own prowess, was patronising; she was, felt Eustace, of the very kidney of David—the Etonian type that he most loathed. David himself, with the stag, got back only just in time to have a bath before dinner. He said very little about the day’s stalking, made no unkind criticism of Eustace, was perfectly civil to him, but the unfortunate tyro felt that he could more easily have borne any amount of chaff, or even abuse; it was the air of superiority that he could not endure.

  On the following day Eustace found that he was so stiff and tired that he could hardly move. He was glad to stay behind and laze while David took the two women out on the hill. They returned at six, without having had a shot, but all three seemed very happy and pleased with themselves, a fact which did not make Eustace feel any more at home with them. On the following day David asked Eustace if he would care to go out with McShail; he himself must attend to letters and business that was accumulating. Joan Hope-Fording at once announced that she too had a lot of letters to write, and Blanche, realizing that Eustace would feel he was being ‘left out’, asked him if he would mind her coming too. Eustace eagerly accepted and thoroughly enjoyed his day, though he had no shot, refusing to take one at two hundred yards, which was the closest that McShail said they could get in to the stag they were after. McShail’s quiet: “It’s as Misterr Hendel pleases” might have made Eustace again suspicious if Blanche had not at once said: “I think you’re perfectly right, Eustace”, putting him on terms with himself and the world at large.

  On the way home Eustace tried to find out from Blanche whether she too thought that Joan Hope-Fording was after David. Blanche was discreet, but Eustace had little doubt that his guess was right. It gave him a savage sense of satisfaction that what he was going to do—if he got the chance—would have the secondary effect of putting a spoke in that wheel. The trouble was that time was passing; here it was Thursday and he was due to leave on Monday; he could hardly hope to have more than one more day on the hill with David, and how was he to be alone with him for long enough . . . ?

  There were other possibilities, of course, now that he was in close touch with him, but none of them looked so good. On the previous day, when he had been alone in the house, he had taken the opportunity to examine David’s room and had found no patent medicines or special foods that might be doctored, and how else could he ensure that David and only David took the stuff? Or there were other forms of accident; for instance, if they found themselves high up on Sgurr na Gaillich, above that precipitous face, it might be possible to stage something in a comparatively short unwatched spell. He would have to trust to something turning up.

  Friday threw everybody’s calculations out of gear; mist came down early and lay on the hills all day, putting all thought of stalking out of the question. That left only Saturday for Eustace, and he felt sure that David would want to get the Hope-Fording woman another stalk that week; she hadn’t had a shot since Monday. It was not till bedtime on Friday night that Eustace realized that the weather had played right into his hands in a way that was little short of miraculous. As he lit the candies David announced his plans; Joan and Blanche should go up the glen with McShail to-morrow, Eustace and he would go round by boat and try the northern slopes of Beinn Rhoinn and Sgurr na Gaillich; so long as there was no north in the wind that would give both parties a chance of a stalk. The girls would have McShail and Ian and the two ponies; if Eustace and he got a stag they would easily be able to pull it down to the launch.

  Eustace got very little sleep that night. First excitement and then nerves kept him awake. The opportunity was to his hand; he could have chosen no more ideal conditions for his plan; would he have the nerve to carry it out? It would require nerve. For quite a long time the situation would be most uncomfortable—at the very best. So Eustace tossed and turned and woke in the morning exhausted and depressed.

  The wind was right, just east of south. McShail would have the whole of the glen, all Beinn Meall-Dubh, all the Sgurr except its northern slopes; he was sure to find deer. David and Eustace would first spy Coire Bheach from the launch, and if there was nothing there, move on to Coire Esdaile, at the top of which or on Beinn Rhoinn there would almost certainly be stags. The two men saw the pony party off with many expressions of ‘good hunting’ and then boarded the launch. They had thick coats for the return journey; after a sweaty day on the hill, two or three evening hours in an open boat strike chill. Donald was in charge of the launch and the voyage was a silent one; David was by nature not a talker, and Eustace, who never felt at home with him, now added nervousness to shyness.

  The voyage to Coire Bheach took fifty minutes; nothing was spied from the launch but there was a slight swell, so David landed and climbed a foothill so as to get a good look at the north-western slopes of Beinn Rhoinn. There were stags almost on the summit, but they were on the move, feeding over the crest. David eyed the clouds and, returning to the launch, consulted Donald; the boatman, whose judgment of wind was seldom wrong, opined that it would swing round into the west within a couple of hours.

  “Then we’ll go on to Coire Esdaile and work back”, decided David, and on they went. The far corry, stretching right up into the grim darkness of Sgurr na Gaillich, was reached by eleven o’clock, and the two men landed. In addition to their usual impedimenta each carried a coil of thick cord for pulling; David had the rifle in its cover slung over one shoulder. Donald was to take the launch to Mallaig to do some shopping; he would not be back for five hours at the earliest, and was to keep a look out for smoke signals anywhere along the northern slopes.

  The climb up Coire Esdaile seemed to Eustace terribly severe and almost interminable. Actually it was less than half an hour before they reached a point from which a good view of both Beinn Rhoinn and Sgurr na Gaillich could be obtained. In silence the two men sat, backs propped against rocks, slowly swinging their glasses over the massive heights. To his delight, Eustace actually picked up a lot of stags on the Sgurr and eagerly pointed them out to David, whose only answer was a grunt. Finally the stalker condescended to explain his plan of action; the lot of deer which Eustace had found contained some shootable beasts, but they were on a very rocky bit of ground; to pull down from there would be no easy matter; another lot on Beinn Rhoinn were just as accessible
and there was a reasonably good grass slope all the way down to the sea; they should be the objective.

  There were several parcels of hinds about on the slopes they had to cover. One lot was circumvented, and passed by crawling up the bed of a tiny burn—a wet and painful process; one lot deliberately ‘put off’ by giving them their wind; Eustace was too inexperienced to realize the skill of his host’s leading. He felt much less excited to-day, partly because it was not his first stalk, but principally because he had grimmer business in hand; he felt strung up, but cold and almost uncannily calm.

  Once past the hinds the stalk was simple; very soon they found themselves lying within a quarter of a mile of the stags, calmly picking their beast. David realized the importance of choosing a stag which could easily be identified by his inexperienced guest; it is all too easy—and regrettable—a matter to shoot the wrong one. As there was no shootable beast either much lighter or darker than the rest, he chose the nearest, an eight-pointer which should scale well over fifteen stone. Then the ‘crawl in’ began; it was not possible to get so close as on the previous occasion, but presently they were on a little ridge which offered a good position.

  “Can you manage from here?” whispered David. “About a hundred and forty. Plenty of time.”

  Eustace nodded. He felt quite calm and steady. After waiting a minute or two to get his wind after the crawl he raised his rifle; the foresight came straight to the spot behind the shoulder of his stag, rested there. . . .

  Bang!

  The animal lurched, plunged forward a few strides, and then stood swaying unsteadily on wide-spread legs.

  “Neck, I think”, said David; “better give him another, behind the shoulder if you can.”

  As he spoke the stag’s forelegs buckled and it crashed forward on one shoulder and lay still. Eustace heaved a sigh of relief.