Bob, Son of Battle, Alfred Ollivant [graded readers txt] 📗
- Author: Alfred Ollivant
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Maggie had carried wee Anne to tender her congratulations; Long Kirby had come; Tammas, Saunderson, Hoppin, Tupper, Londesley all but Jim Mason; and now, elbowing through the press, came squire and parson.
“Well done, James! well done, indeed! Knew you’d win! told you so eh, eh!” Then facetiously to Owd Bob: “Knew you would, Robert, old man! Ought to Robert the Dev musn’t be a naughty boy eh, eh!”
“The first time ever the Dale Cup’s been won outright!” said the Parson, “and I daresay it never will again. And I think Kenmuir’s the very fittest place for its final home, and a Gray Dog of Kenmuir for its winner.”
“Oh, by the by!” burst in the squire. “I’ve fixed the Manor dinner for to-day fortnight, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? Want all the tenants there.” He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute had fought his way back. “I’d forgotten something!” he shouted. “Tell your Maggie perhaps you’ll have news for her after it eh! eh! ” and he was gone again.
Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face at his elbow.
“I maun congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye’ve beat us you and the gentlemen judges.”
“‘Twas a close thing, M’Adam,” the other answered. “An’ yo’ made a gran’ fight. In ma life I niver saw a finer turn than yours by the two flags yonder. I hope yo’ bear no malice.”
“Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. ‘Do onto ivery man as he does onto you and somethin’ over,’ that’s my motter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which I’ll pay ye yet. Na, na; there’s nae good fechtin’ again fate and the judges. Weel, I wush you well o’ yer victory. Aiblins’ twill be oor turn next.”
Then a rush, headed by Sam’l, roughly hustled the one away and bore the other off on its shoulders in boisterous triumph.
In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettier speech than ever. Yet all the while she was haunted by a white, miserable face; and all the while she was conscious of two black moving dots in the Murk Muir Pass opposite her solitary, desolate, a contrast to the huzzaing crowd around.
That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds’ Trophy, came to wander no more; won outright by the last of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir Owd Bob.
Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told.
PART VI THE BLACK KILLER
THE SUN was hiding behind the Pike. Over the lowlands the feathery breath of night hovered still. And the hillside was shivering in the chillness of dawn.
Down on the silvery sward beside the Stony Bottom there lay the ruffled body of a dead sheep. All about the victim the dewy ground was dark and patchy like dishevelled velvet; bracken trampled down; stones displaced as though by striving feet; and the whole spotted with the all-pervading red.
A score yards up the hill, in a writhing confusion of red and gray, two dogs at death-grips. While yet higher, a pack of wild-eyed hill-sheep watched, fascinated, the bloody drama.
The fight raged. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the crimson froth dripping from their jaws; now rearing high with arching crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, worrying disorder— the two fought out their blood-feud.
Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, ever edging nearer to watch the issue. Just so must the women of Rome have craned round the arenas to see two men striving in death-struggle.
The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the morning peered aghast over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping dale there arose the yodling of a man driving his cattle home.
Day was upon them.
James Moore wa~s waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window. He leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for well he knew ‘twas not for nothing that the old dog was calling.
“Lord o’ mercy! whativer’s come to yo’, Owd Un?” he cried in anguish. And, indeed, his favorite, war-daubed almost past recognition, presented a pitiful spectacle.
In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him.
“Poor old lad, yo’ have caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged tear on the dog’s cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his chest; while head and neck were clotted with the red.
Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed figure appeared in the door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming. in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds, and dressed them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master’s face as if imploring to be gone.
“He mun a had a rare tussle wi’ some one— eh, dad?” said the girl, as she worked.
“Ay; and wi’ whom? ‘Twasn’t for nowt he got fightin’, I war’nt. Nay; he’s a tale to tell, has The Owd Un, and—A h-h-h! I thowt as much. Look ‘ee!” For bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster of tawny red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.
The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. To but one creature in the Daleland could they belong—” Th’ Tailless Tyke.”
“He mun a bin trespassin’!” cried Andrew.
“Ay, and up to some o’ his bloody work, I’ll lay my life,” the Master answered. “But Th’ Owd Un shall show us.”
The old dog’s hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed possible. His good gray coat, forest-thick about his throat, had never served him in such good stead. And at length, the wounds washed and sewn up, he jumped down all in a hurry from the table and made for the door.
“Noo, owd lad, yo’ may show us,” said the Master, and, with Andrew, hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and over Langholm How. And as they neared the Stony Bottom, the sheep, herding in groups, raised frightened heads to stare.
Of a sudden a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, up before them; and there in a dimple of the ground lay a murdered sheep. Deserted by its comrades, the glazed eyes staring helplessly upward, the throat horribly worried, it slept its last sleep.
The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited Kenmuir.
“I guessed as much,” said the Master, standing over the mangled body. “Well, it’s the worst night’s work ever the Killer done. I reck’n Th’ Owd Un come on him while he was at it; and then they fought. And, ma word! ii munn ha’ bin a fight too.” For all around were traces of that terrible struggle:
the earth torn up and tossed, bracken up-Tooted, and throughout little dabs of wool and tufts of tawny hair, mingling with dark-stained iron-gray wisps.
James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as though he were gleaning. And gleaning he was.
A long time he bent so, and at length raised himself.
“The Killer has killed his last,” he muttered; “Red Wull has run his course.” Then, turning to Andrew: “Run yo’ home, lad, and fetch the men to carry yon away,” pointing to the carcass, “And Bob, lad, yo ‘ye done your work for to-day, and right well too; go yo’ home wi’ him. I’m off to see to this!”
He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a rock. At length the proof was in his hand. Once and for all the hill-country should be rid of its scourge.
As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two big grey eyes; half doubting, half penitent, wholly wistful, looked up at him, and a silvery brush signalled a mute request.
“Eh, Owd Un, but yo’ should ha’ gone wi~ Andrew,” the Master said. “Hooiver, as yo~ are here, come along.” And he strode away up the hill, gaunt and menacing, with the gray dog at his heels.
As they approached the house, M’Adam was standing in the door, sucking his eternal twig. James Moore eyed him closely as he came, but the sour face framed in the door betrayed nothing. Sarcasm, surprise, challenge, were all writ there, plain to read; but no guilty consciousness of the other’s errand, no storm of passion to hide a failing heart. If it was acting it was splendidly done.
As man and dog passed through the gap in the hedge, the expression on the little man’s face changed again. He started forward.
“James Moore, as I live!” he cried, and advanced with both hands extended, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. “‘Deed and it’s a weary while sin’ ye’ve honored ma puir hoose.” And, in fact, it was nigh twenty years. “I tak’ it gey kind in ye to look in on a lonely auld man. Come ben and let’s ha’ a crack. James Moore kens weel hoo welcome he aye is in ma bit biggin’.”
The Master ignored the greeting.
“One o’ ma sheep been killed back o’ t’ Dyke,” he announced shortly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“The Killer?”
“The Killer.”
The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man’s face was absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to sorrowful sympathy.
“Dear, dear! it’s come to that, has it—at last?” he said gently, and his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. “Man, I’m sorry—I canna tell ye I’m surprised. Masel’, I kent it all alang. But gin Adam M’Adam had tell’t ye, no ha’ believed him. Weel, weel, he’s lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where he’s sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!” He heaved a sigh, profoundly melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: “Ye’ll ha’ come for the gun?”
James Moore listened to this harangue at first puzzled. Then he caught the other’s meaning, and his eyes flashed. 305
“Ye fool, M’Adarn! did ye hear iver tell o’ a sheepdog worryin’ his master’s sheep?”
The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands softly together.
“Ye’re right, I never did. But your dog is not as ither dogs—‘There’s none like him— none,’ I’ve heard ye say so yersel, mony a time. An’ I’m wi’ ye. There’s none like him—for devilment.” His voice began to quiver and his face to blaze. “It’s his cursed cunning that’s deceived ivery one but me— whelp o’ Satan that he is!” He shouldered up to his tall adversary. “If not him, wha else had done it?” he asked, looking, up into the other’s face as if daring him to speak.
The Master’s shaggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the other like the Muir Pike above its surrounding hills.
“Wha, ye ask?” he replied coldly, “and I answer you. Your Red Wull, M’Adam, your Red Wull. It’s your Wull’s the Black Killer! It’s your Wull’s bin the plague o’ the land these months past! It’s your Wull’s killed ma sheep back o’yon!”
At that all the little man’s affected goodhumor fled.
“Ye lee, mon! ye lee!” he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to his antagonist. “I knoo hoo ‘twad be. I said so. I see what ye’re at. Ye’ve found at last—blind that ye’ve been!—that it’s yer am hell’s tyke that’s the Killer; and noo ye think by yer leein’ impitations to throw the blame on ma Wullie. Ye rob me o’ ma Cup, ye rob me o’ ma son, ye wrang me in ilka thing; there’s but ae
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