Chapter XVI. THE BLACK KILLER
THAT, as James Moore had predicted, was the first only of a longsuccession of such solitary crimes.
Those who have not lived in a desolate country like that about theMuir Pike, where sheep are paramount and every other man engaged in theprofession pastoral, can barely imagine the sensation aroused. In marketplace, tavern, or cottage, the subject of conversation was always thelatest sheep-murder and the yet-undetected criminal.
Sometimes there would be a lull, and the shepherds would begin tobreathe more freely. Then there would come a stormy night, when theheavens were veiled in the cloak of crime, and the wind moaned fitfullyover meres and marches, and another victim would be added to thelengthening list.
It was always such black nights, nights of wind and weather, when no manwould be abroad, that the murderer chose for his bloody work; and thatwas how he became known from the Red Screes to the Muir Pike as theBlack Killer. In the Daleland they still call a wild, wet night "A BlackKiller's night:" for they say: "His ghaist'll be oot the night."
There was hardly a farm in the countryside but was marked with the sealof blood. Kenmuir escaped, and the Grange; Rob Saunderson at the Holt,and Tupper at Swinsthwaite; and they were about the only lucky ones.
As for Kenmuir, Tammas declared with a certain grim pride: "He knowsbetter'n to coom wheer Th' Owd Un be." Whereat M'Adam was taken with afit of internal spasms, rubbing his knees and cackling insanely for ahalf-hour afterward. And as for the luck of the Grange--well, there wasa reason for that too, so the Dalesmen said.
Though the area of crime stretched from the Black Water toGrammoch-town, twenty-odd miles, there was never a sign of theperpetrator. The Killer did his bloody work with a thoroughness and adevilish cunning that defied detection.
It was plain that each murder might be set down to the same agency. Eachwas stamped with the same unmistakable sign-manual: one sheep killed,its throat torn into red ribands, and the others untouched.
It was at the instigation of Parson Leggy that the squire imported abloodhound to track the Killer to his doom. Set on at a fresh killedcarcase at the One Tree Knowe, he carried the line a distance in thedirection of the Muir Pike; then was thrown out by a little bustlingbeck, and never acknowledged the scent again. Afterward he becameunmanageable, and could be no further utilized. Then there was talk ofinducing Tommy Dobson and his pack to come over from Eskdale, butthat came to nothing. The Master of the Border Hunt lent a couple offoxhounds, who effected nothing; and there were a hundred other attemptsand as many failures. Jim Mason set a cunning trap or two and caught hisown bob-tailed tortoise-shell and a terrible wigging from his missus;Ned Hoppin sat up with a gun two nights over a new slain victim andLondesley of the Home Farm poisoned a carcase. But the Killer neverreturned to the kill, and went about in the midst of the all, carryingon his infamous traffic and laughing up his sleeve.
In the meanwhile the Dalesmen raged and swore vengeance; theirimpotence, their unsuccess, and their losses heating their wrath tomadness. And the bitterest sting of it all lay in this; that though theycould not detect him, they were nigh to positive as to the culprit.
Many a time was the Black Killer named in low-voiced conclave; many atime did Long Kirby, as he stood in the Border Ram and watched M'Adamand the Terror walking down the High, nudge Jim Mason and whisper:
"Theer's the Killer--oneasy be his grave!" To which practical Jim alwaysmade the same retort:
"Ay, theer's the Killer; but wheer's the proof?"
And therein lay the crux. There was scarcely a man in the countrysidewho doubted the guilt of the Tailless Tyke; but, as Jim said, wherewas the proof? They could but point to his well-won nickname; his evilnotoriety; say that, magnificent sheep-dog as he was, he was known evenin his work as a rough handler of stock; and lastly remark significantlythat the grange was one of the few farms that had so far escapedunscathed. For with the belief that the Black Killer was a sheep-dogthey held it as an article of faith that he would in honour spare hismaster's flock.
There may, indeed, have been prejudice in their judgement. For each hashis private grudge against the Terror; and nigh every man bore on hisown person, or his clothes, or on the body of his dog, the mark of thathuge savage.
Proof?
"Why, he near killed ma Lassie!" cries Londesley.
"And he did kill the Wexer!"
"And Wan Tromp!"
"And see pore old Wenus!" says John Swan, and pulls out that fairAmazon, battered almost past recognition, but a warrioress still.
"That's Red Wull--bloody be his end!"
"And he laid ma Rasper by for nigh three weeks!" continues Tupper,pointing to the yet-unhealed scars on the neck of the big bobtail. "Seethisey--his work."
"And look here!" cries Saunderson, exposing a ragged wound in Shep'sthroat; "thot's the Terror--black be his fa'!"
"Ay," says Long Kirby with an oath; "the tykes love him nigh as much aswe do."
"Yes," says Tammas. "Yo' jest watch!"
The old man slips out of the tap-room; and in another moment from theroad without comes a heavy, regular pat-pat-pat, as of some big creatureapproaching, and, blending with the sound, little shuffling footsteps.
In an instant every dog in the room has risen to his feet and standsstaring at the door with sullen, glowing eyes; lips wrinkling, bristlesrising, throats rumbling.
An unsteady hand fumbles at the door; a reedy voice calls, "Wullie, comehere!" and the dogs move away, surly to either side of the fireplace,tails down, ears back, grumbling still; the picture of cowed passion.Then the door opens; Tammas enters, grinning; and each, after a moment'sscrutiny, resumes his former position before the fire.
* * * * *
Meanwhile over M'Adam, seemingly all unsuspicious of these suspicions,a change had come. Whether it was that for the time he heard less of thebest sheep-dog in the North, or for some more occult reason, certain itis that he became his old self. His tongue wagged as gayly and bitterlyas ever, and hardly a night passed but he infuriated Tammas almost toblows with his innuendoes and insidious sarcasms.
Old Jonas Maddox, one evening at the Sylvester Arms, inquired of himwhat his notion was as to the identity of the Killer.
"I hae ma suspicions, Mr. Maddox; I hae ma suspicions," the little manreplied, cunningly wagging his head and giggling. But more than thatthey could not elicit from him. A week later, however, to the question:
"And what are yo' thinkin' o' this black Killer, Mr. M'adam?"
"Why _black?_" the little man asked earnestly; "why _black_ mair thanwhite--or _gray_ we'll say?" Luckily for him, however, the Dalesmen areslow of wit as of speech.
David, too, marked the difference in his father, who nagged at him nowand then with all the old spirit. At first he rejoiced in then change,preferring his outward and open warfare to that aforetime stealthyenmity. But soon he almost wished the other back; for the older he grewthe more difficult did he find it to endure calmly these everlastingbickerings.
For one reason he was truly glad of the altered condition of affairs; hebelieved that, for the nonce, at least his father had abandoned anyill designs he might have cherished against James Moore; those sneakingvisits to Kenmuir were, he hoped, discontinued.
Yet Maggie Moore, had she been on speaking terms with him, could haveundeceived him. For, one night, when alone in the kitchen, on suddenlylooking up, she had seen to her horror a dim, moonlike face gluedagainst the windowpane. In the first mad panic of the moment she almostscreamed, and dropped her work; then--a true Moore--controlled herselfand sat feigning to work, yet watching all the while.
It was M'Adam, she recognized that: the face pale in its frameworkof black; the hair lying dank and dark on his forehead; and the whiteeyelids blinking, slow, regular, horrible. She thought of the storiesshe had heard of his sworn vengeance on her father, and her heart stoodstill, though she never moved. At length with a gasp of relief shediscerned that the eyes were not directed on her. Stea
lthily followingtheir gaze, she saw they rested on the Shepherds' Trophy; and on the Cupthey remained fixed, immovable, while she sat motionless and watched.
An hour, it seemed to her, elapsed before they shifted their direction,and wandered round the room. For a second they dwelt upon her; then theface withdrew into the night.
Maggie told no one what she had seen. Knowing well how terrible herfather was in his anger, she deemed it wiser to keep silence. While asfor David M'Adam, she would never speak to him again!
And not for a moment did that young man surmise whence his father camewhen, on the night in question, M'Adam returned to the Grange, chucklingto himself. David was growing of late accustomed to these fits ofsilent, unprovoked merriment; and when his father began giggling andmuttering to Red Wull, at first he paid no heed.
"He! he! Wullie. Aiblins we'll beat him yet. There's many a sliptwixt Cup and lip--eh, Wullie, he! he!" And he made allusion to theflourishing of the wicked and their fall; ending always with the samerefrain: "He! he! Wullie. Aiblins we'll beat him yet."
In this strain he continued until David, his patience exhausted, askedroughly:
"What is't yo' mumblin' aboot? Wha is it yo'll beat, you and yerWullie?"
The lad's tone was as contemptuous as his words. Long ago he had castaside any semblance of respect for his father.
M'Adam only rubbed his knees and giggled.
"Hark to the dear lad, Wullie! Listen hoo pleasantly he addresses hisauld dad!" Then turning on his son, and leering at him: "What is it,ye ask? Wha should it be but the Black Killer? Wha else is there I'd bewushin' to hurt?"
"The Black Killer!" echoed the boy, and looked at his father inamazement.
Now David was almost the only man in Wastrel-dale who denied Red Wull'sidentity with the Killer. "Nay," he said once; "he'd kill me, given halfa chance, but a sheep--no." Yet, though himself of this opinion, he knewwell what the talk was, and was astonished accordingly at his father'sremark.
"The Black Killer, is it? What d'you know o' the Killer?" he inquired.
"Why _black_, I wad ken? Why _black?_" the little man asked, leaningforward in his chair.
Now David, though repudiating in the village Red Wull's complicitywith the crimes, at home was never so happy as when casting cunninginnuendoes to that effect.
"What would you have him then?" he asked. "Red, yaller, muck-dirtcolour?"--and he stared significantly at the Tailless Tyke, who waslying at his master's feet. The little man ceased rubbing his knees andeyed the boy. David shifted uneasily beneath that dim, persistent stare.
"Well?" he said at length gruffly.
The little man giggled, and his two thin hands took up their task again.
"Aiblins his puir auld doited fool of a dad kens mair than the dear ladthinks for, ay, or wushes--eh, Wullie, he! he!"
"Then what is it you do know, or think yo' know?" David asked irritably.
The little man nodded and chuckled.
"Naethin' ava, laddie, naethin' worth the mention. Only aiblins theKiller'll be caught afore sae lang."
David smiled incredulously, wagging his head in offensive scepticism.
"Yo'll catch him yo'self, I s'pose, you and yer Wullie? Tak' a chair onto the Marches, whistle a while, and when the Killer comes, why! pit apinch o' salt upon his tail--if he had one."
At the last words, heavily punctuated by the speaker, the little manstopped his rubbing as though shot.
"What wad ye mean by that?" he asked softly.
"What wad I?" the boy replied.
"I dinna ken for sure," the little man answered; "and it's aiblins justas well for you, dear lad"--in fawning accents--"that I dinna." Hebegan rubbing and giggling afresh. "It's a gran' thing, Wullie, to ha'a dutiful son; a shairp lad wha has no silly sens o' shame abootsharpenin' his wits at his auld dad's expense. And yet, despiteoor facetious lad there, aiblins we will ha' a hand in the Killer'scatchin', you and I, Wullie--he! he!" And the great dog at his feetwagged his stump tail in reply.
David rose from his chair and walked across the room to where his fathersat.
"If yo' know sic a mighty heap," he shouted, "happen you'll just tell mewhat yo' do know!"
M'Adam stopped stroking Red Wull's massive head, and looked up.
"Tell ye? Ay, wha should I tell if not ma dear David? Tell? Ay, I'lltell ye this"--with a sudden snarl of bitterness--"That you'd be thevairy last person I wad tell."
Bob, Son of Battle Page 16
