Chapter XXIII TH' OWD UN
THE Black Killer still cursed the land. Sometimes there would be acessation in the crimes; then a shepherd, going his rounds, would noticehis sheep herding together, packing in unaccustomed squares; a raven,gorged to the crop, would rise before him and flap wearily away, and hewould come upon the murderer's latest victim.
The Dalesmen were in despair, so utterly futile had their efforts been.There was no proof; no hope, no apparent probability that the end wasnear. As for the Tailless Tyke, the only piece of evidence against himhad flown with David, who, as it chanced, had divulged what he had seento no man.
The 100 pound reward offered had brought no issue. The police had donenothing. The Special Commissioner had been equally successful. Afterthe affair in the Scoop the Killer never ran a risk, yet never missed achance.
Then, as a last resource, Jim Mason made his attempt. He took a holidayfrom his duties and disappeared into the wilderness. Three days andthree nights no man saw him.
On the morning of the fourth he reappeared, haggard, unkempt, a furtivelook haunting his eyes, sullen for once, irritable, who had never beenirritable before--to confess his failure. Cross-examined further, heanswered with unaccustomed fierceness: "I seed nowt, I tell ye. Who'sthe liar as said I did?"
But that night his missus heard him in his sleep conning over somethingto himself in slow, fearful whisper, "Two on 'em; one ahint t'other. Thefirst big--bull-like; t'ither--" At which point Mrs. Mason smote him asmashing blow in the ribs, and he woke in a sweat, crying terribly, "Whosaid I seed--"
* * * * *
The days were slipping away; the summer was hot upon the land, and withit the Black Killer was forgotten; David was forgotten; everythingsank into oblivion before the all-absorbing interest of the coming Daletrials.
The long-anticipated battle for the Shepherds' Trophy was looming close;soon everything that hung upon the issue of that struggle would bedecided finally. For ever the justice of Th' Owd Un' claim to hisproud title would be settled. If he won, he won outright--a thingunprecedented in the annals of the Cup; if he won, the place of Owd Bobo' Kenmuir as first in his profession was assured for all time. Aboveall, it was the last event in the six years' struggle 'twixt Red andGray It was the last time those two great rivals would meet in battle.The supremacy of one would be decided once and for all. For win or lose,it was the last public appearance of the Gray Dog of Kenmuir.
And as every hour brought the great day nearer, nothing else was talkedof in the country-side. The heat of the Dalesmen's enthusiasm was onlyintensified by the fever of their apprehension. Many a man would losemore than he cared to contemplate were Th' Owd Un beat. But he'd not be!Nay; owd, indeed, he was--two years older than his great rival; therewere a hundred risks, a hundred chances; still: "What's the odds aginOwd Bob o' Kenmuir? I'm takin' 'em. Who'll lay agin Th' Owd Un?"
And with the air saturated with this perpetual talk of the old dog,these everlasting references to his certain victory; his ears drummingwith the often boast that the gray dog was the best in the North,M'Adam became the silent, ill-designing man of six months since--morose,brooding, suspicious, muttering of conspiracy, plotting revenge.
The scenes at the Sylvester Arms were replicas of those of previousyears. Usually the little man sat isolated in a far corner, silentand glowering, with Red Wull at his feet. Now and then he burst intoa paroxysm of insane giggling, slapping his thigh, and muttering,"Ay, it's likely they'll beat us, Wullie. Yet aiblins there's a weesomethin'--a somethin' we ken and they dinna, Wullie,--eh! Wullie, he!he!" And sometimes he would leap to his feet and address his pot-houseaudience, appealing to them passionately, satirically, tearfully, as themood might be on him; and his theme was always the same: James Moore,Owd Bob, the Cup, and the plots agin him and his Wullie; and always heconcluded with that hint of the surprise to come.
Meantime, there was no news of David; he had gone as utterly as a shipfoundered in mid-Atlantic. Some said he'd 'listed; some, that he'd goneto sea. And "So he 'as," corroborated Sam'l, "floatin', 'eels uppards."
With no gleam of consolation, Maggie's misery was such as to rousecompassion in all hearts. She went no longer blithely singing abouther work; and all the springiness had fled from her gait. The people ofKenmuir vied with one another in their attempts to console their youngmistress.
* * * * *
Maggie was not the only one in whose life David's absence had createda void. Last as he would have been to own it, M'Adam felt acutely theboy's loss. It may have been he missed the ever-present butt; it mayhave been a nobler feeling. Alone with Red Wull, too late he felt hisloneliness. Sometimes, sitting in the kitchen by himself, thinking ofthe past, he experienced sharp pangs of remorse; and this was all themore the case after Maggie's visit. Subsequent to that day the littleman, to do him justice, was never known to hint by word or look an illthing of his enemy's daughter. Once, indeed, when Melia Ross was drawingon a dirty imagination with Maggie for subject, M'Adam shut her up with:"Ye're a maist amazin' big liar, Melia Ross."
Yet, though for the daughter he had now no evil thought, his hatred forthe father had never been so uncompromising.
He grew reckless in his assertions. His life was one long threat againstJames Moore's. Now he openly stated his conviction that, on the eventfulnight of the fight, James Moore, with object easily discernible, hadegged David on to murder him.
"Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?" roared Tammasat last, enraged to madness.
"I will!" said M'Adam. And he did.
* * * * *
It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-townthat he fulfilled his vow.
That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion JamesMoore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising ofthe sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master wentwith his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It wasalready noon when the flock started from the yard.
On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam.
"I've a word to say to you, James Moore," he announced, as the Masterapproached.
"Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo'have," said the Master.
M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate.
"Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape thisKiller."
"Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam."
"Ay, there's me," acquiesced the little man. "But you--hoo d'yo' 'countfor _your_ luck?"
James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, nowpatrolling round the flock.
"There's my luck!" he said.
M'Adam laughed unpleasantly.
"So I thought," he said, "so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' thatyer luck," nodding at the gray dog, "will win you the Cup for certain amonth hence."
"I hope so!" said the Master.
"Strange if he should not after all," mused the little man.
James Moore eyed him suspiciously. "What d'yo' mean?" he asked sternly.M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. "There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip,that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him."
The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors hehad heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.
"I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him," he said,drawing himself up.
M'Adam leant forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his facewas all a-tremble.
"Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder thefather. Yet some one did--set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed atme, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!" There was a flush onthe sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. "One way ort'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, ain or baith, has got to go aforeCup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?"
The Master put his hand on the latch
of the gate, "That'll do, M'Adam,"he said. "I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry wi' yo'. Noogit off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis."
He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheepclustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock,waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusioneverywhere.
"Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?" shouted the Master, seeingthe danger.
It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, oneman was bound to grant another. But M'Adam rushed on regardless, dancingand gesticulating. Save for the lightning vigilance of Owd Bob, theflock must have broken.
"I think yo' might ha' waited!" remonstrated the Master, as the littleman burst his way through.
"Noo, I've forgot somethin'!" the other cried, and back he started as hehad gone.
It was more than human nature could tolerate.
"Bob, keep him off!"
A flash of teeth; a blaze of gray eyes; and the old dog had leaptforward to oppose the little man's advance.
"Shift oot o' ma light!" cried he, striving to dash past.
"Hold him, lad!"
And hold him the old dog did, while his master opened the gate and putthe flock through, the opponents dodging in front of one another likeopposing three-quarter-backs at the Rugby game.
"Oot o' ma path, or I'll strike!" shouted the little man in a fury, asthe last sheep passed through the gate.
"I'd not," warned the Master.
"But I will!" yelled M'Adam; and, darting forward as the gate swung to,struck furiously at his opponent.
He missed, and the gray dog charged at him like a mail-train.
"Hi! James Moore--" but over he went like a toppled wheelbarrow, whilethe old dog turned again, raced at the gate, took it magnificently inhis stride, and galloped up the lane after his master.
At M'Adam's yell, James Moore had turned.
"Served yo' properly!" he called back. "He'll larn ye yet it's not wiseto tamper wi' a gray dog or his sheep. Not the first time he's downedye, I'm thinkin'!"
The little man raised himself painfully to his elbow and crawled towardthe gate. The Master, up the lane, could hear him cursing as he draggedhimself. Another moment, and a head was poked through the bars of thegate, and a devilish little face looked after him.
"Downed me, by--, he did!" the little man cried passionately. "I owed yebaith somethin' before this, and noo, by ----, I owe ye somethin' more.An' mind ye, Adam M'Adam pays his debts!"
"I've heard the contrary," the Master replied drily, and turned away upthe lane toward the Marches.
Bob, Son of Battle Page 23
