The Hill of the Red Fox

by Allan Campbell McLean

  I moved on more cautiously, following the line of an old peat cutting, and I could hear the swift flowing waters of the burn before I spotted him again. He was on the other side of the burn, still moving rapidly in the direction of Achmore Lodge.

  By good fortune I must have kept to his path because I reached the burn at a point where four large, flat stepping stones made its crossing a simple matter. Taking care to keep well down, I pressed on behind him.

  Before he reached the Lodge he veered left and cut across the main road. By the time I had reached the road, I had lost sight of him again and I stood for a moment not knowing which way to go. I plunged across the road and came on to a narrow winding track. I raced on and almost gave myself away when I rounded a bend, where the track dropped steeply, and saw him directly below me. I fell flat on my face in the wet bracken by the side of the track, and watched him carefully until he vanished around an outcropping of rock. I scrambled to my feet and followed him slowly.

  The track wound round the top of a disused quarry and came out on what seemed to be the face of the cliff. There was no sign of Murdo Beaton and I advanced slowly, wondering what could have happened to him. I reached the edge of the cliff and lay flat on my stomach looking down.

  I was looking down into the gorge where the Mealt river entered the sea. The roar of the falls was loud in my ears, and looking back I saw the bridge over the river on the main road and the long white waterfall crashing down into the gorge.

  There was a sheltered bay where the river met the sea, and the narrow crescent of sand gleamed white against the dark waters of the Sound. A long, low building stood on the far river bank and behind it there was a square of tall poles hung with nets. A boat lay at her moorings a little way from shore, lifting and dropping against the wash of the incoming swell, and I saw a tiny dinghy drawn up on the shore in front of the building. Of Murdo Beaton there was no sign. He had vanished.

  I inched forward cautiously until I was hanging over the grass-covered cliff face. It seemed to be a sheer drop to the gorge far below, and I was on the point of retreating along the track, when I saw him. He was half-way down the cliff, but from where I was lying it did not seem possible for any man to make his way down that sheer face to the bottom of the gorge.

  I watched him closely. Sometimes he disappeared from view under an outcropping rock, only to reappear again lower down. I slowly realized that there must be a narrow path winding down the face of the cliff to the gorge below. I lost sight of him again for a long time, and when at last he came into view he was walking rapidly down the opposite bank of the river towards the long, low building.

  I wondered how he had crossed the river. There must be a bridge farther back, hidden from view.

  Two men emerged from the shadow of the building to meet him. I edged back from the cliff face in case one of them should look up and spot my white face against the dark line of the cliff.

  Some insect was crawling up my leg and I rolled over on my side and bent forward to brush it away. As I did so, I looked back along the track. My heart gave one sickening leap and seemed to contract. I looked round wildly but I had my back to the cliff and there was no escape.

  I stared fixedly in front of me, unable to move. A man was coming towards me, bent almost double, and running swiftly.

  Chapter 13

  The man reached me as I scrambled to my feet, and flung himself on me. I was thrown to the ground with a force that knocked the wind from my body, and before I could cry out a hand was clapped over my mouth. I struggled wildly, but my arms were pinned to the ground by the weight of the man’s body, and I knew that further resistance was hopeless. I let my body go limp, but the hand across my mouth never slackened.

  A voice hissed in my ear, “Of all the thrawn beggars!”

  I looked up, wide-eyed, into the angry face of Duncan Mòr. He was wearing a long black oilskin coat and a sou’wester pulled down over his eyes. The sou’wester had hidden his face when he came charging towards me with his head down, and his figure had been concealed by the long coat.

  He took his hand from my mouth, and I gasped for breath.

  “I should skelp the stuffing out o’ ye,” he declared.

  “The stuffing’s out of me already,” I said weakly.

  “Never the fear o’ it,” he hissed. “It would take a bigger dunt than yon to knock some sense into that thick black skull.” But for all his angry tone, he patted my shoulder, and added softly, “I had to do it, a bhalaich. Another second and you were for shouting your head off.”

  “But how did you know I was here?” I whispered.

  “I didn’t,” he said grimly. “Was I not after telling you I would be keeping my eyes open this night?”

  “I know, but I heard Murdo Beaton leave the house,” I said, “and I thought it would be a good idea to follow him.”

  “Fine I could see you had the thrawn streak of the Camerons in you,” exclaimed Duncan Mòr.

  “But …” I began.

  “Ist, ist,” he hissed, and motioned me to follow him.

  Side by side, we crawled forward until we were lying full length on the edge of the cliff, looking down to the tiny bay far below. The three men were standing on the shore, gazing out to sea. From our vantage point, they looked like toy figures dwarfed by the immense perpendicular slopes of the sides of the gorge.

  The wind was rising steadily. It came in sudden gusts, sweeping across the gorge and slashing the rain into my face. With each gust, I sheltered my face in the crook of my arm until the lull came. It was more sheltered down in the bay, but I noticed that the boat was tossing at her moorings, and the dark surface of the Sound was broken by white-topped waves.

  Suddenly an intermittent light flashed from far out in the Sound. One of the men on the shore raised something to his shoulder, and an answering series of lights flashed across the water.

  “Is it morse?” I whispered.

  Duncan Mòr’s lips were within an inch of my ear when he answered.

  “Aye,” he murmured. “The fellow down below is signalling with an Aldis Lamp.”

  The three men ran back to the dinghy and dragged it down to the river. The tallest of the three took up the oars and rowed out to the moored boat. When the dinghy came alongside the boat he shipped his oars and leaned over and grasped the gunwale while the other two sprang aboard. The oarsman clambered after them, and I saw him stoop in the stern of the boat and fasten the dinghy’s painter. Another man freed the mooring rope, and the tall man took up the oars and pulled out to sea with long, steady strokes. As the boat left the shelter of the bay, and met the full force of the wind, I could see her pitching and tossing. A white cloud of spray broke over her bows, drenching the oarsman, but he never faltered and the boat moved steadily out to sea.

  “The Red Fellow is at the oars,” said Duncan Mòr, “and a dirty trip he is in for by the looks o’ things.”

  “Do you think they’ll sink?” I asked. “It’s not a very big boat.”

  “If it was yourself at the oars you would be thinking it was big enough,” said Duncan Mòr. “Mind you, a coble is on the slow side, and difficult to handle, but it will stand an awful hammering.”

  Dark rainclouds were scudding across the sky, and the boat had dwindled to a tiny speck in the distance. It would soon be lost to sight in the gathering darkness of the night, and I felt able to speak freely.

  “What is the building down there?” I asked, pointing to the long, low building by the river bank.

  “The salmon fishermen’s bothy,” said Duncan Mòr. “You can see one of their nets there, spread out on the drying poles. A seal made an awful mess of it, and the boys will be after patching it on Monday.”

  He pointed out the marker buoys in the bay, and described how the bag nets were laid to catch the incoming salmon as they tried to make their way up the river.

  “A fine dry spring, wi’ a steady breeze o’ north wind, and there is good fishing here,” he said. “I have seen the time w
hen they cleared over a hundred salmon a day, and most o’ them twelve pounders at that.” He chuckled. “Mind you, there is always a few manage to get by the nets and reach the pool under the falls. Many a good salmon I lifted from the pool, Alasdair.”

  “Who do they belong to?” I asked, thinking of Murdo Beaton’s outburst about salmon poaching.

  “Whoever has the Lodge takes over the fishing,” he replied. “I would say that the fish in the nets yonder” — he pointed down to the bay — “belong to Major Cassell. The Major, poor man, paid for the nets and he pays for the men to work the fishing. But the fish in the river, well now, that is another story as the other man said.”

  “But aren’t they Major Cassell’s fish just the same?” I persisted.

  “Well, I never rightly asked them,” he said jokingly. “But if there was no rainwater from the hill there would be no river, and I doubt if Major Cassell could claim title to the rains from the heavens. No, no, Alasdair, the Lord put the fish in the river and they are there for the taking.”

  I looked down at the bothy, with its white stone walls capped by a black roof of tarred felt.

  “What would happen if the fishermen should wake up?” I said.

  Duncan Mòr laughed.

  “The bothy is empty,” he answered. “The salmon fishermen come down every morning and leave in the afternoon. This place has the name of being haunted and they would rather tramp miles to work than stay the night. One of those boys comes all the way over the moor from Garos. Mind you, it is a gey funny ghost if you ask me.”

  “But somebody might see the signalling lights,” I said.

  “Never the fear o’ it,” he scoffed. “All good folk are in their beds long since. It is the Sabbath the morn.”

  “Who do you think are the other two in the coble?” I asked.

  “Whoever they are, they can be thankful the Red Fellow is at the oars,” said Duncan Mòr. “It is no easy work to bring a boat back to this shore on a night like this.”

  The rain was falling steadily and dark clouds hung low over the Sound. The black roof of the bothy merged into the shadows, and only the white crescent of the sandy beach remained clearly defined. I strained my eyes, peering across the darkening water, but there was no sign of the coble.

  The rain dripped down the collar of my coat, wetting my neck, and I shivered, feeling chilled. Even as I watched, the Sound was blotted out in darkness and rain, and all I could see was the wash of the waves on the shore.

  Suddenly Duncan Mòr cocked his head.

  “Ist!” he hissed.

  I could hear the roar of the falls, and the soughing of the wind in the gorge, and something else. It was a low, humming noise, and it came from the darkness of the Sound. After a while it faded, and there was only the ceaseless pounding of the falls and the eerie moan of the wind.

  We lay perfectly still for a long time until I began to get pins and needles in my foot, and I wished I could get up and stretch my chilled limbs and stamp my feet. I was going to ask Duncan Mòr if it was safe to move, when I heard the creak of rowlocks. There was silence again, then I heard the low murmur of voices over the water, and saw the dark shape of the dinghy nose up the river. It drew in to the bank in front of the bothy, and two shadowy figures leapt out and hauled it up the river bank.

  A few seconds must have elapsed, although it seemed like minutes, before I realized the significance of what I had seen. Three men had gone out in the boat but only two had returned.

  I almost cried out aloud in astonishment, and I looked at Duncan Mòr, but he motioned me to be silent. When I looked down again, the two men could not be seen. Then I saw the sudden faint flare of a match, sheltered by cupped hands, and the glowing point of a cigarette end. The men must have moved to the shelter of the bothy.

  After a while, a red point arched through the air and vanished in the river. Two shadowy forms emerged from the end of the bothy, and made off up the river bank.

  Duncan Mòr signed to me to follow him, and he crawled along the track on all fours. I followed him awkwardly, surprised at the stiffness in my legs. When we were clear of the gorge, he straightened up and I walked by his side.

  We walked rapidly, and in silence, and stopped at the main road. Duncan Mòr glanced round.

  “You need all your time,” he said sharply, “or the Red Fellow will be on your heels. Do you think you can manage?”

  “I think so,” I said doubtfully.

  The night had darkened and the formless blackness of the moor lay all around. I was filled with misgivings, but I dare not acknowledge that I was afraid of losing my way.

  “If you can’t manage,” he said, “I will come with you, but I would rather be on the heels of the fellow with Murdo Ruadh.”

  If it had not been for me he would have been unhindered, so I said recklessly, “I’ll manage.”

  “Right, then,” he said swiftly. He flung out his arm. “Away you go in that direction, and you will strike the stepping stones over the burn wi’ no bother. Keep straight on and you will come out at the foot of the croft. If you make your way up the croft by the drain you can’t go wrong. Oidhche mhath mata.”

  I plunged across the road in the direction of his pointing finger, and when I thought I was out of sight, I started to run. I stumbled over the uneven ground, never looking to my right or left, fearful of losing my way. The wet coat, flapping around my legs, hindered me, and I got a stitch in my side, but I gritted my teeth and carried on.

  I stopped just in time, or I would have pitched headlong into the burn, and I walked cautiously along the bank looking for the stepping stones. The bank sloped steeply down to the burn, and it did not look like the place where I had crossed when following Murdo Beaton. I retraced my steps, anxiety mounting, and I was about to risk plunging across the burn in my wellingtons, when I saw the stepping stones.

  I stepped across, congratulating myself on my good fortune. It was not as difficult as I had expected. The worst part was over now that I had crossed the burn. All I had to do was to reach the dyke and make my way up the croft to the safety of the house.

  I ran on, buffeted by the wind and the rain, and slowed down by the rising ground and the burning pain in my side. I caught my foot in a tuft of heather and crashed heavily to the ground. Without looking where I was going, I picked myself up and stumbled on. I blundered into a patch of soft bog, and before I could check myself I had sunk in up to my knees. I struggled desperately to free myself, but I could get no purchase to lever my legs clear of the suction of the bog.

  It was the darkness that terrified me. If only I could see where I was, and what I was doing, but I was trapped in the blackness of the night. I struggled frantically, but I felt myself sinking deeper. Gathering my strength in a final despairing effort, I lunged forward and fell face downwards into the wet slime of the bog.

  I lay there panting, gasping in great breaths of air. When I had rested, I struggled to my feet and heaved desperately, trying to lift my right foot clear of the bog. There was a squelching, sucking sound and I thought I was free, but my foot came out of my wellington and I staggered and almost overbalanced a second time. The shock of the icy water of the bog on my stockinged foot made me catch my breath, and I groped around for my wellington and pulled it clear of the bog. I pushed my foot into it and stepped back, at the same time drawing my left foot clear.

  Once I was on firm ground, I made a wide detour of the soft patch of bog. Half-walking, half-running, I staggered on.

  I expected to strike the dyke at any time, but the ground seemed to be sloping away in front of me. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands to try to relieve the awful burning pain in my side, and ran on, sucking in quick breaths of air.

  By the time I reached the burn, I had slowed to a stumbling walk. I stood on the bank, rocking on my heels, gazing stupidly at the dark rushing water. I drew the back of my hand across my eyes trying to brush away the rain and the sweat, and work out what had happened. It was the dyke I should b
e facing, not the burn. The burn lay in the opposite direction to Achmore. Gradually it dawned on me that from the time I crossed the stepping stones I must have wandered round in a wide arc. Had it not been for the burn I would have stumbled on blindly until I reached the road.

  I turned round and forced my aching legs to carry me forward. With my heart pounding madly, I stumbled on into the blackness of the night. I don’t know how many times I fell. It seemed that I was forever picking myself up and staggering on, when all I wanted to do was to lie still in the wet heather and gasp my fill of the cool night air.

  When I reached the dyke, I sagged across it, almost sobbing from exhaustion. I had never thought I would manage to find it, and now that the solid bank supported me I could hardly summon sufficient strength to clamber over it. The pain in my side seemed to be constricting my stomach, but I dug my hands into the bank and crawled painfully over the dyke. I almost fell into the drain below, but I managed to pull myself clear and crawl on to the firm ground of the croft.

  The going was easier now, and I staggered on, bent almost double, up the steep brae. I no longer felt the wind or the rain; I was incapable of feeling anything except the knife turning in my side. My legs were not now moving of their own accord; I had to force them forward for each individual step.

  I pulled up short against the dark bulk of a house and, dulled as my senses were, I felt a shock of horror when I realized that it was not the familiar thatched cottage. I thought I had blundered into some nightmarish land, where everything was strange, and all the familiar landmarks had vanished. I groped my way round the house, wondering where I could be. Then I blundered into the rain-butt under the drainpipe and knew it was Hector MacLeod’s.

  I ran blindly across the croft, stumbling over the drain, and topped the rise above the cottage. I wondered what I would do if Murdo Beaton had reached the house before me, but it was like someone else thinking, and I was at the door of the cottage with my hand on the knob. There could be no turning back now, I realized dully.