Chapter VII. THE WHITE WINTER
M'ADAM--in his sober moments at least--never touched David again;instead, he devoted himself to the more congenial exercise of thewhiplash of his tongue. And he was wise; for David, who was alreadynigh a head the taller of the two, and comely and strong in proportion,could, if he would, have taken his father in the hollow of his hand andcrumpled him like a dry leaf. Moreover, with his tongue, at least, thelittle man enjoyed the noble pleasure of making the boy wince. And sothe war was carried on none the less vindictively.
Meanwhile another summer was passing away, and every day brought freshproofs of the prowess of Owd Bob. Tammas, whose stock of yarns anent Rexson of Rally had after forty years' hard wear begun to pall on theloyal ears of even old Jonas, found no lack of new material now. Inthe Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale and in the Border Ram atGrammoch-town, each succeeding market day brought some fresh tale. Mentold how the gray dog had outdone Gypsy Jack, the sheep-sneak; how hehad cut out a Kenmuir shearling from the very centre of Londesley'spack; and a thousand like stories.
The Gray Dogs of Kenmuir have always been equally heroes and favoritesin the Daleland. And the confidence of the Dalesmen in Owd Bob was nowinvincible. Sometimes on market days he would execute some unaccountablemaneuvre, and... strange shepherd would ask: "What's the gray dog at?"To which the nearest Dalesman would reply: "Nay, I canno tell ye! Buthe's reet enough. Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir."
Whereon the stranger would prick his ears and watch with closeattention.
"Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, is he?" he would say; for already among thefaculty the name was becoming known. And never in such a case did theyoung dog fail to justify the faith of his supporters.
It came, therefore, as a keen disappointment to every Dalesman, fromHerbert Trotter, Secretary of the Trials, to little Billy Thornton, whenthe Master persisted in his decision not to run the dog for the Cup inthe approaching Dale Trials; and that though parson, squire, and evenLady Eleanour essayed to shake his purpose. It was nigh fifty yearssince Rex son o' Rally had won back the Trophy for the land that gaveit birth; it was time, they thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog ofKenmuir--the terms are practically synonymous--to bring it home again.And Tammas, that polished phrase-maker, was only expressing the feelingsof every Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he declaredof Owd Bob that "to ha' run was to ha' won." At which M'Adam sniggeredaudibly and winked at Red Wull. "To ha' run was to ha' one--lickin'; torin next year'll be to--"
"Win next year." Tammas interposed dogmatically. "Onless"--withshivering sarcasm--"you and yer Wullie are thinkin' o' winnin'."
The little man rose from his solitary seat at the back of the room andpattered across. "Wullie and I are thinkin' o' t," he whispered loudlyin the old man's ear. "And mair: what Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull thinko' doin', that, ye may remairk, Mr. Thornton, they do. Next year we rin,and next year--we win. Come, Wullie, we'll leave 'em to chew that"; andhe marched out of the room amid the jeers of the assembled topers.
When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: "One thingcertain, win or no, they'll not be far off."
* * * * *
Meanwhile the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a swelteringautumn the winter came down. In that year the Daleland assumed veryearly its white cloak. The Silver Mere was soon ice-veiled; the Wastrelrolled sullenly down below Kenmuir, its creeks and quiet places tentedwith jagged sheets of ice; while the Scaur and Muir Pike raised hoaryheads against the frosty blue. It was the season still remembered in theNorth as the White Winter--the worst, they say, since the famous 1808.
For days together Jim Mason was stuck with his bags in the Dalesman'sDaughter, and there was no communication between the two Dales. Onthe Mere Marches the snow massed deep and impassable in thick, billowydrifts. In the Devil's Bowl men said it lay piled some score feet deep.And sheep, seeking shelter in the ghylls and protected spots, wereburied and lost in their hundreds.
That is the time to test the hearts of shepherds and sheep-dogs, whenthe wind runs ice-cold across the waste of white, and the low woods onthe upland walks shiver black through a veil of snow, and sheep must befound and folded or lost: a trial of head as well as heart, of resourceas well as resolution.
In that winter more than one man and many a dog lost his life in thequiet performance of his duty, gliding to death over the slipperysnow-shelves, or overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of the warm,suffocating white: "smoored," as they call it. Many a deed was done,many a death died, recorded only in that Book which holds the names ofthose--men or animals, souls or no souls--who tried.
They found old Wrottesley, the squire's head shepherd, lying one morningat Gill's foot, like a statue in its white bed, the snow gently blowingabout the venerable face, calm and beautiful in death. And stretchedupon his bosom, her master's hands blue, and stiff, still clasped abouther neck, his old dog Jess. She had huddled there, as a last hope, tokeep the dear, dead master warm, her great heart riven, hoping wherethere was no hope.
That night she followed him to herd sheep in a better land. Death fromexposure, Dingley, the vet., gave it; but as little M'Adam, his eyesdimmer than their wont, declared huskily; "We ken better, Wullie."
Cyril Gilbraith, a young man not overburdened with emotions, told witha sob in his voice how, at the terrible Rowan Rock, Jim Mason had stood,impotent, dumb, big-eyed, watching Betsy--Betsy, the friend and partnerof the last ten years--slipping over the ice-cold surface, silentlyappealing to the hand that had never failed her before--sliding toEternity.
In the Daleland that winter the endurance of many a shepherd and hisdog was strained past breaking-point. From the frozen Black Water tothe white-peaked Grammoch Pike two men only, each always with his shaggyadjutant, never owned defeat; never turned back; never failed in a thingattempted.
In the following spring, Mr. Tinkerton, the squire's agent, declaredthat James Moore and Adam M'Adam--Owd Bob, rather, and Red Wull--hadlost between them fewer sheep than any single farmer on the whole MarchMere Estate--a proud record.
Of the two, many a tale was told that winter. They were invincible,incomparable; worthy antagonists.
It was Owd Bob who, when he could not drive the band of Black Faces overthe narrow Razorback which led to safety, induced them to _follow_ himacross that ten-inch death-track, one by one, like children behindtheir mistress. It was Red Wull who was seen coming down the precipitousSaddler's How, shouldering up that grand old gentleman, King o' theDale, whose leg was broken.
The gray dog it was who found Cyril Gilbraith by the White Stones, witha cigarette and a sprained ankle, on the night the whole village was outwith lanterns searching for the well-loved young scapegrace. It was theTailless Tyke and his master who one bitter evening came upon littleMrs. Burton, lying in a huddle beneath the lea of the fast-whiteningDruid's Pillar with her latest baby on her breast. It was little M'Adamwho took off his coat and wrapped the child in it; little M'Adam whounwound his plaid, threw it like a breastband across the dog's greatchest, and tied the ends round the weary woman's waist. Red Wull it waswho dragged her back to the Sylvester Arms and life, straining like agiant through the snow, while his master staggered behind with the babein his arms. When they reached the inn it was M'Adam who, with a smileon his face, told the landlord what he thought of him for sending _his_wife across the Marches on such a day and on his errand. To which: "I'da cauld," pleaded honest Jem.
For days together David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir.His enforced confinement to the Grange led, however, to no more frequentcollisions than usual with his father. For M'Adam and Red Wull were out,at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work ofsalvation.
At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a pointwhere a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. Hestayed but a little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home itwas snowing again.
By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over t
he Wastrel, ablizzard was raging. The wind roared past him, smiting him so that hecould barely stand; and the snow leaped at him so that he could not see.But he held on doggedly; slipping, sliding, tripping, down and upagain, with one arm shielding his face. On, on, into the white darkness,blindly on sobbing, stumbling, dazed.
At length, nigh dead, he reached the brink of the Stony Bottom. Helooked up and he looked down, but nowhere in that blinding mist could hesee the fallen thorn-tree. He took a step forward into the white morass,and 'sank up to his thigh. He struggled feebly to free himself, and sankdeeper. The snow wreathed, twisting, round him like a white flame, andhe collapsed, softly crying, on that soft bed.
"I canna--I canna!" he moaned.
* * * * *
Little Mrs. Moore, her face whiter and frailer than ever, stood at thewindow, looking out into the storm.
"I canna rest for thinkin' o' th' lad," she said. Then, turning, she sawher husband, his fur cap down over his ears, buttoning his pilot-coatabout his throat, while Owd Bob stood at his feet, waiting.
"Ye're no goin', James?" she asked, anxiously.
"But I am, lass," he answered; and she knew him too well to say more.
So those two went quietly out to save life or lose it, nor counted thecost.
Down a wind-shattered slope--over a spar of ice--up an eternal hill--aforlorn hope.
In a whirlwind chaos of snow, the tempest storming at them, the whiteearth lashing them, they fought a good fight. In front, Owd Bob, thesnow clogging his shaggy coat, his hair cutting like lashes of steelacross eyes, his head lowered as he followed the finger of God; andclose behind, James Moore, his back stern against the storm, stalwartstill, yet swaying like a tree before the wind.
So they battled through to the brink of the Stony Bottom--only to arrivetoo late.
For, just as the Master peering about him, had caught sight of ashapeless lump lying motionless in front, there loomed across thesnow-choked gulf through the white riot of the storm a gigantic figureforging, doggedly forward, his great head down to meet the hurricane.And close behind, buffeted and bruised, stiff and staggering, a littledauntless figure holding stubbornly on, clutching with one hand at thegale; and a shrill voice, whirled away on the trumpet tones of the wind,crying:
'Noo, Wullie, wi' me! Scots wha' hae wi' Wallace bled! Scots wham Bruce has often led! Welcome to ----!'
"Here he is, Wullie!"
'--or to victorie!"
The brave little voice died away. The quest; was over; the lost sheepfound. And the last James Moore saw of them was the same small, gallantform, half carrying, half dragging the rescued boy out of the Valley ofthe Shadow and away.
David was none the worse for his adventure, for on reaching home M'Adamproduced a familiar bottle.
"Here's something to warm yer inside, and"--making a feint at the strapon the walls--' "here's something to do the same by yer ----. But,Wullie, oot again!"
And out they went--unreckoned heroes.
* * * * *
It was but a week later, in the very heart of the bitter time, thatthere came a day when, from gray dawn to grayer eve, neither James Moorenor Owd Bob stirred out into the wintry white. And the Master's face washard and set as it always was in time of trouble.
Outside, the wind screamed down the Dale; while the snow fellrelentlessly; softly fingering the windows, blocking the doors, andpiling deep against the walls. Inside the house there was a strangequiet; no sound save for hushed voices, and upstairs the shuffling ofmuffled feet.
Below, all day long, Owd Bob patrolled the passage like some silent,gray spectre.
Once there came a low knocking at the door; and David, his face and hairand cap smothered in the all-pervading white, came in with an eddy ofsnow. He patted Owd Bob, and moved on tiptoe into the kitchen. To himcame Maggie softly, shoes in hand, with white, frightened face. The twowhispered anxiously awhile like brother and sister as they were; thenthe boy crept quietly away; only a little pool of water on the floor andwet, treacherous foot-dabs toward the door testifying to the visitor.
Toward evening the wind died down, but the mourning flakes still fell.
With the darkening of night Owd Bob retreated to the porch and lay downon his blanket. The light from the lamp at the head of the stairs shonethrough the crack of open door on his dark head and the eyes that neverslept.
The hours passed, and the gray knight still kept his vigil. Alone in thedarkness--alone, it almost seemed, in the house--he watched. His headlay motionless along his paws, but the steady gray eyes never flinchedor drooped.
Time tramped on on leaden foot, and still he waited; and ever the painof hovering anxiety was stamped deeper in the gray eyes.
At length it grew past bearing; the hollow stillness of the houseovercame him. He rose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered acrossthe passage.
At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, hisgrave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. Thedim light fell on the raised head; and the white escutcheon on hisbreast shone out like the snow on Salmon.
At length, with a sound like a sob, he dropped to the ground, and stoodlistening, his tail dropping and head raised. Then he turned and begansoftly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gateof death.
Up and down, up and down, softly as the falling snow, for a weary, wearywhile.
Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of thestairs; and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draught.
Of a sudden, 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; hours passed; and, at the sunless dawn, a lifepassed.
And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood,still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the firstchill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong mansorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of anew-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to hisears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with alittle whimpering note, crept back to his blanket.
A little later the door above opened, and James Moore tramped down thestairs. He looked taller and gaunter than his wont, but there was notrace of emotion on his face.
At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He camecrouching up, head and tail down, in a manner no man ever saw before orsince. At his master's feet he stopped.
Then, for one short moment, James Moore's whole face quivered.
"Well, lad," he said, quite low, and his voice broke; "she's awa'!"
That was all; for they were an undemonstrative couple.
Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning.
Bob, Son of Battle Page 7
