Chapter XXV THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY
Cup Day.
It broke calm and beautiful, no cloud on the horizon, no threat of stormin the air; a fitting day on which the Shepherds' Trophy must be wonoutright.
And well it was so. For never since the founding of the Dale Trials hadsuch a concourse been gathered together on the North bank of the SilverLea. From the Highlands they came; from the far Campbell country; fromthe Peak; from the county of many acres; from all along the silverfringes of the Solway; assembling in that quiet corner of the earth tosee the famous Gray Dog of Kenmuir fight his last great battle for theShepherds' Trophy.
By noon the gaunt Scaur looked down on such a gathering as it had neverseen. The paddock at the back of the Dalesman's Daughter was packed witha clammering, chattering multitude: animated groups of farmers; beviesof solid rustics; sharp-faced townsmen; loud-voiced bookmakers; gigglinggirls; amorous boys,--thrown together like toys in a sawdust bath;whilst here and there, on the outskirts of the crowd, a lonely man andwise-faced dog, come from afar to wrest his proud title from the bestsheep-dog in the North.
At the back of the enclosure was drawn up a formidable array of cartsand carriages, varying as much in quality and character as did theirowners. There was the squire's landau rubbing axle-boxes with JemBurton's modest moke-cart; and there Viscount Birdsaye's flaringbarouche side by side with the red-wheeled wagon of Kenmuir.
In the latter, Maggie, sad and sweet in her simple summer garb, leantover to talk to Lady Eleanour; while golden-haired wee Anne, delightedwith the surging crowd around, trotted about the wagon, waving to herfriends, and shouting from very joyousness.
Thick as flies clustered that motley assembly on the north bank of theSilver Lea. While on the other side the stream was a little group ofjudges, inspecting the course.
The line laid out ran thus: the sheep must first be found in the bigenclosure to the right of the starting flag; then up the slope and awayfrom the spectators; around a flag and obliquely down the hill again;through a gap in the wall; along the hillside, parrallel to the SilverLea; abruptly to the left through a pair of flags--the trickiest turn ofthem all; then down the slope to the pen, which was set up close to thebridge over the stream.
The proceedings began with the Local Stakes, won by Rob Saunderson'sveteran, Shep. There followed the Open Juveniles, carried off by NedHoppin's young dog. It was late in the afternoon when, at length, thegreat event of the meeting was reached.
In the enclosure behind the Dalesman's Daughter the clamor of the crowdincreased tenfold, and the yells of the bookmakers were redoubled.
"Walk up, gen'lemen, walk up! the ole firm! Rasper? Yessir--twenty toone bar two! Twenty to one bar two! Bob? What price, Bob? Even money,sir--no, not a penny longer, couldn't do it! Red Wull? 'oo says RedWull?"
On the far side the stream is clustered about the starting flag thefinest array of sheep-dogs ever seen together.
"I've never seen such a field, and I've seen fifty," is Parson Leggy'sverdict.
There, beside the tall form of his master, stands Owd Bob o' Kenmuir,the observed of all. His silvery brush fans the air, and he holds hisdark head high as he scans his challengers, proudly conscious thatto-day will make or mar his fame. Below him, the mean-looking,smooth-coated black dog is the unbeaten Pip, winner of the renownedCambrian Stakes at Llangollen--as many think the best of all the gooddogs that have come from sheep-dotted Wales. Beside him that handsomesable collie, with the tremendous coat and slash of white on throatand face, is the famous MacCallum More, fresh from his victory at theHighland meeting. The cobby, brown dog, seeming of many breeds, is fromthe land o' the Tykes--Merry, on whom the Yorkshiremen are laying asthough they loved him. And Jess, the wiry black-and-tan, is the favoriteof the men of of the Derwent and Dove. Tupper's big blue Rasper isthere; Londesley's Lassie; and many more--too many to mention: big andsmall, grand and mean, smooth and rough--and not a bad dog there.
And alone, his back to the others, stands a little bowed, conspicuousfigure--Adam M'Adam; while the great dog beside him, a hideousincarnation of scowling defiance, is Red Wull, the Terror o' the Border.
The Tailless Tyke had already run up his fighting colors. For MacCallumMore, going up to examine this forlorn great adversary, had conceivedfor him a violent antipathy, and, straightway, had spun at him withall the fury of the Highland cateran, who attacks first and explainsafterward. Red Wull, forthwith, had turned on him with savage, silentgluttony; bob-tailed Rasper was racing up to join in the attack; and inanother second the three would have been locked inseparably--but just intime M'Adam intervened. One of the judges came hurrying up.
"Mr. M'Adam," he cried angrily, "if that brute of yours gets fightingagain, hang me if I don't disqualify him! Only last year at the Trialshe killed the young Cossack dog."
A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. "Come here,Wullie!" he called. "Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to bedisqualified."
He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun--little Pip leadingthe dance.
On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now. Hucksters left theirwares, and bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eyewas intent on the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep over thestream.
One after one the competitors ran their course and penned theirsheep--there was no single failure. And all received their just meed ofapplause, save only Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to uphold his title, there went upsuch a shout as made Maggie's wan cheeks to blush with pleasure, and weeAnne to scream right lustily.
His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather thanhurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheep-dog has attainedthe summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads hissheep in pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmenswell with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well mightTammas pull out that hackneyed phrase, "The brains of a mon and the wayof a woman"; well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirbypuff his cheeks and rattle the money in his trouser pockets.
But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wullwere selected to fight out the struggle afresh.
The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream itremained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again;through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the twoflags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from itsformer position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and thehurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators.
The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning donebeneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there wasone; and the time allowed, ten short minutes.
* * * * *
The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors to obtain agood position. And well they might; for about to begin was the finestexhibition of sheep-handling any man there was ever to behold.
* * * * *
Evan Jones and Little Pip led off.
Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked togetheras they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a yacht inSouthampton Water; round the flag, through the gap, they brought theirsheep. Down between the two flags--accomplishing right well that awkwardturn; and back to the bridge.
There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow way. Once,twice, and again, they broke; and each time the gallant little Pip, histongue out and tail quivering, brought them back to the bridge-head.
At length one faced it; then another, and--it was too late. Time was up.The judges signalled; and the Welshman called off his dog and withdrew.
Out of sight of mortal eye, in a dip of the ground, Evan Jones sat downand took the small dark head between his knees--and you may be sure thedog's heart was heavy as the man's. "We did our pest, Pip," he criedbrokenly, "but we're peat--the first t
ime ever we've been!"
* * * * *
No time to dally.
James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run.
No applause this time; not a voice was raised; anxious faces; twitchingfingers; the whole crowd tense as a stretched wire. A false turn, awilful sheep, a cantankerous judge, and the gray dog would be beat. Andnot a man there but knew it.
Yet over the stream master and dog went about their business neverso quiet, never so collected; for all the world as though they wererounding up a flock on the Muir Pike.
The old dog found his sheep in a twinkling and a wild, scared trio theyproved. Rounding the first flag, one bright-eyed wether made a dashfor the open. He was quick; but the gray dog was quicker: a splendidrecover, and a sound like a sob from the watchers on the hill.
Down the slope they came for the gap in the wall. A little below theopening, James Moore took his stand to stop and turn them; while adistance behind his sheep loitered Owd Bob, seeming to follow ratherthan drive, yet watchful of every movement and anticipating it. On hecame, one eye on his master, the other on his sheep; never hurryingthem, never flurrying them, yet bringing them rapidly along.
No word was spoken; barely a gesture made; yet they worked, master anddog, like one divided.
Through the gap, along the hill parallel to the spectators, playing intoone another's hands like men at polo.
A wide sweep for the turn at the flags, and the sheep wheeled as thoughat the word of command, dropped through them, and travelled rapidly forthe bridge.
"Steady!" whispered the crowd.
"Steady, man!" muttered Parson Leggy.
"Hold 'em, for God's sake!" croaked Kirby huskily. "D--n! I knew it! Isaw it coming!"
The pace down the hill had grown quicker--too quick. Close on the bridgethe three sheep made an effort to break. A dash--and two were checked;but the third went away like the wind, and after him Owd Bob, a graystreak against the green.
Tammas was cursing silently; Kirby was white to the lips; and in thestillness you could plainly hear the Dalesmen's sobbing breath, as itfluttered in their throats.
"Gallop! they say he's old and slow!" muttered the Parson. "Dash! Lookat that!" For the gray dog, racing like the Nor'easter over the sea, hadalready retrieved the fugitive.
Man and dog were coaxing the three a step at a time toward the bridge.
One ventured--the others followed.
In the middle the leader stopped and tried to turn--and time was flying,flying, and the penning alone must take minutes. Many a man's hand wasat his watch, but no one could take his eyes off the group below him tolook.
"We're beat! I've won bet, Tammas!" groaned Sam'l. (The two had along-standing wager on the matter.) "I allus knoo hoo 'twould be. Iallus told yo' th' owd tyke--"
Then breaking into a bellow, his honest face crimson with enthusiasm:"Coom on, Master! Good for yo', Owd Un! Yon's the style!"
For the gray dog had leapt on the back of the hindmost sheep; it hadsurged forward against the next, and they were over, and making up theslope amidst a thunder of applause.
At the pen it was a sight to see shepherd and dog working together.The Master, his face stern and a little whiter than its wont, castingforward with both hands, herding the sheep in; the gray dog, his eyesbig and bright, dropping to hand; crawling and creeping, closer andcloser.
"They're in!--Nay--Ay--dang me! Stop 'er! Good, Owd Un! Ah-h-h, they'rein!" And the last sheep reluctantly passed through--on the stroke oftime.
A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie's white face turned pink; andthe Dalesmen mopped their wet brows. The mob surged forward, but thestewards held them back.
"Back, please! Don't encroach! M'Adam's to come!"
From the far bank the little man watched the scene. His coat and capwere off, and his hair gleamed white in the sun; his sleeves were rolledup; and his face was twitching but set as he stood--ready.
The hubbub over the stream at length subsided. One of the judges noddedto him.
"Noo, Wullie--noo or niver!--'Scots wha hae'! "--and they were off.
"Back, gentlemen! back! He's off--he's coming! M'Adam's coming!"
They might well shout and push; for the great dog was on to his sheepbefore they knew it; and they went away with a rush, with him right ontheir backs. Up the slope they swept and round the first flag, alreadygalloping. Down the hill for the gap, and M'Adam was flying ahead toturn them. But they passed him like a hurricane, and Red Wull was infront with a rush and turned them alone.
"M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!" rang out a clearvoice in the silence.
Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wingsof driven grouse.
"He's lost 'em! They'll break! They're away!" was the cry.
Sam'l was half up the wheel of the Kenmuir wagon; every man was on histoes; ladies were standing in their carriages; even Jim Mason's faceflushed with momentary excitement.
The sheep were tearing along the hillside, all together, like a whitescud. After them, galloping like a Waterloo winner, raced Red Wull. Andlast of all, leaping over the ground like a demoniac, making not for thetwo flags, but the plank-bridge, the white-haired figure of M'Adam.
"He's beat! The Killer's beat!" roared a strident voice.
"M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!" rang out theclear reply.
Red Wull was now racing parallel to the fugitives and above them. Allfour were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barelytwenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel toit. To effect the turn a change of direction must be made almost througha right angle.
"He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!" was theroar.
From over the stream a yell--"Turn 'em, Wullie!"
At the word the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned,still at the gallop, like a troop of cavalry, and dropped, clean andneat, between the flags; and down to the stream they rattled, passingM'Adam on the way as though he was standing.
"Weel done, Wullie!" came the scream from the far bank; and from thecrowd went up an involuntary burst of applause.
"Ma word!
"Did yo' see that?"
"By gob!"
It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the gallopinghorse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they musthave overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss.
"He's not been two minutes so far. We're beaten--don't you think so,Uncle Leggy?" asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up piteously into theparson's face.
"It's not what I think, my dear; it's what the judges think," the parsonreplied; and what he thought their verdict would be was plainly writ onhis face for all to read.
Right on to the centre of the bridge the leading sheep gallopedand--stopped abruptly.
Up above in the crowd there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigidfingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby's face; and, at theback, a green-coated bookmaker slipped his note-book in his pocket, andglanced behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was thecalmest there.
Red Wull was not to be denied. Like his forerunner he leapt on the backof the hindmost sheep. But the red dog was heavy where the gray waslight. The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell.
Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyesflaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the strugglingcreature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, halfshoved it on to the bank.
Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore.
The little man scrambled, panting, on to the bank and raced after sheepand dog. His face was white beneath the perspiration; his breath came inquavering gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he wastrembling in every limb, and yet indomitable.
They were up to the pen, and the last wrestle began. The crowd, silentand motionless, craned forward to watch the uncanny, white-haired little
man and the huge dog, working so close below them. M'Adam's face waswhite; his eyes staring, unnaturally bright; his bent body projectedforward; and he tapped with his stick on the ground like a blind man,coaxing the sheep in. And the Tailless Tyke, his tongue out and flanksheaving, crept and crawled and worked up to the opening, patient as hehad never been before.
They were in at last.
There was a lukewarm, half-hearted cheer; then silence.
Exhausted and trembling, the little man leant against the pen, onehand on it; while Red Wull, his flanks still heaving, gently licked theother. Quite close stood James Moore and the gray dog; above was theblack wall of people, utterly still; below, the judges comparing notes.In the silence you could almost hear the panting of the crowd.
Then one of the judges went up to James Moore and shook him by the hand.
The gray dog had won. Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophyoutright.
A second's palpitating silence; a woman's hysterical laugh--anda deep-mouthed bellow rent the expectant air: shouts, screams,hat-tossings, back-clappings blending in a din that made themany-winding waters of the Silver Lea quiver and quiver again.
Owd Bob o' Kenmuir had won the Shepherds' Trophy outright.
Maggie's face flushed a scarlet hue. Wee Anne flung fat arms towardher triumphant Bob, and screamed with the best. Squire and parson, eachred-cheeked, were boisterously shaking hands. Long Kirby, who had notprayed for thirty years, ejaculated with heartfelt earnestness, "ThankGod!" Sam'l Todd bellowed in Tammas's ear, and almost slew him with hismighty buffets. Among the Dalesmen some laughed like drunken men; somecried like children; all joined in that roaring song of victory.
To little M 'Adam, standing with his back to the crowd, that storm ofcheering came as the first announcement of defeat.
A wintry smile, like the sun over a March sea, crept across his face.
"We might a kent it, Wullie," he muttered, soft and low. The tensionloosed, the battle lost, the little man almost broke down. There werered dabs of color in his face; his eyes were big; his lips pitifullyquivering; he was near to sobbing.
An old man--utterly alone he had staked his all on a throw--and lost.
Lady Eleanour marked the forlorn little figure, standing solitary on thefringe of the uproarious mob. She noticed the expression on his face;and her tender heart went out to the lone man in his defeat.
She went up to him and laid a hand upon his arm.
"Mr. M'Adam," she said timidly, "won't you come and sit down in thetent? You look _so_ tired! I can find you a corner where no one shalldisturb you."
The little man wrenched roughly away. The unexpected kindness, comingat that moment, was almost too much for him. A few paces off he turnedagain.
"It's reel kind o' yer ladyship," he said huskily; and tottered away tobe alone with Red Wull.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the victors stood like rocks in the tideway. About them surgeda continually changing throng, shaking the man's hand, patting the dog.
Maggie had carried wee Anne to tender her congratulations; Long Kirbyhad come; Tammas, Saunderson, Hoppin, Tupper, Londesley--all but JimMason; 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 veryfittest place for its final home, and a Gray Dog of Kenmuir for itswinner."
"Oh, by the by!" burst in the squire. "I've fixed the Manor dinner forto-day fortnight, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? Want allthe tenants there." He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute hadfought his way back. "I'd forgotten something!" he shouted. "Tell yourMaggie perhaps you'll have news for her after it eh! eh!" and he wasgone again.
Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face athis elbow.
"I maun congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye've beat us--you and thegentlemen--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 flagsyonder. I hope yo' bear no malice."
"Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. 'Do onto ivery man as he does ontoyou--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' agin fate--andthe judges. Weel, I wush you well o' yer victory. Aiblins' twill be oorturn next."
Then a rush, headed by Sam'l, roughly hustled the one away and bore theother 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 allthe while she was conscious of two black moving dots in the Murk MuirPass opposite her--solitary, desolate, a contrast to the huzzaing crowdaround.
* * * * *
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 GrayDogs of Kenmuir--Owd Bob.
Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told.
PART VI THE BLACK KILLER
Bob, Son of Battle Page 25
