The Hill of the Red Fox

by Allan Campbell McLean

  It was the fall that saved me. Even as I fell I heard the whine of a bullet passing over my head and the loud report of a rifle. I had torn the skin from my hands on the loose gravel of the road, but I hardly felt the pain. Crouching low, I dashed across the road out of the beam of the headlights and into the enveloping blackness of the night.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the lighted windows of the Lodge, to get my bearings, and made off in a wide sweep in the direction of the main road. I intended to get well away from the Lodge before cutting back across the moor towards Achmore. I heard a man’s voice shouting orders, and caught the words, “To the back …” and then his voice was lost in the rising scream of the gale.

  The wind was at my back and I ran like one possessed, stumbling over the uneven ground, falling and picking myself up again almost in the one movement. At any moment I expected to hear my pursuers pounding along behind me and the thought gave me wings. I splashed through pools and across old peat cuttings, and once I blundered into a peat stack; but I carried on doggedly. I had left my raincoat in the Lodge and I was soaked to the skin by the driving rain, but I was thankful that the wind was behind me.

  When I was well away from the Lodge, I turned in the direction of Achmore. Once I had crossed the burn and the dyke at the foot of the crofts, I would make for Hector MacLeod’s house. Not even Major Cassell and his gang could overcome the men of Achmore.

  I was running with my head down, trying to escape the worst of the driving wind and rain, and I must have gone twenty or thirty yards before I saw the lights. They were facing me across the moor, evenly spaced, in a wide arc. I stopped short, thinking with a chill of horror of all the stories I had heard of ghostly lights on the moor at night; of men who had disappeared without trace, and cattle that had vanished overnight.

  The lights were moving towards me, flashing on and off. Slowly it dawned on me that what I was seeing was no ghostly vision, but the beams from five torches. So that was why I had not been followed! The Major’s men must have left the Lodge by the door behind the garage and formed a cordon to prevent me breaking through to Achmore. Now they were slowly combing the moor for me, and I would be forced back against the cliffs from which there was no escape.

  I watched the flashing torches coming closer and heard the shouts of the men calling to one another and I turned on my heel and ran blindly across the moor. I stumbled and almost fell in the drain by the side of the main road, then I was across the road and running madly on. In a little while I would reach the cliffs and I could retreat no farther. Partly from exhaustion, and partly from a feeling of utter hopelessness I stopped running and dropped into the wet heather. I lay on my stomach, chilled and shivering, watching the line of torches advancing slowly.

  Every so often the line would halt and turn back to beat the ground more thoroughly. Once I heard the man in the centre of the line call out excitedly, and the two men on either side of him raced across to join him. I could see the light from their torches jogging up and down as they stumbled over the rough ground, little knowing that it was a false alarm and I was lying in the heather watching them. After a while, the lights thinned out again and the line moved forward once more.

  It was only a matter of time before I was caught. There was no hope of hiding in the heather; they were beating the ground too thoroughly for that. Once they spotted me I was doomed. They would close in on me in an instant, and when I was captured there could be no hope of escaping a second time. Major Cassell’s words were still fresh in my mind, and I knew I could expect no mercy.

  The two men at either end of the arc were almost level with me. If I attempted to run to the north or south they could cut me off easily. I saw the bright beam of the torch at the southern end of the line sweep across the road. The man there must have taken up a position above the gorge. Whichever way I turned I was trapped. All I could do to delay the end was to retreat to the cliffs.

  I scrambled to my feet and stumbled away from the advancing lights, my sodden trousers chafing my legs as I ran. I never saw the cart in the darkness and I blundered into it, barking my shin badly. I groped my way round the huge wooden wheel, and came up against the shadowy outline of a tinker’s tent. I stood still, swaying on my feet, not knowing which way to turn. Somebody came up silently behind me and gripped my arm. I was too tired to struggle and I let him push me round the side of the tent.

  My captor bent down and drew the tent flap aside, but his grip on my arm never relaxed. There was a lantern inside the tent, and in the dim light shining out of the open flap I could see that I was held by an old tinker. He was dressed in rags and his face was like an old brown nut. He called softly in Gaelic and a young man came out of the tent.

  My wits started to function again, and I gasped, “You’ve got to help me. They’ll kill me if they catch me.”

  The old man said, “We want no trouble, boy. There is trouble enough for the likes of us without interfering with folk from the Lodge.”

  So they had heard the shot, and doubtless seen the lights of the searchers on the Moor. My hopes sank.

  “You had best be off,” said the young man. “We want no part in this.”

  I glanced around desperately and saw the ring of lights drawing steadily nearer. They must have reached the main road and in a few minutes they would be on me.

  “But you’ve got to help me,” I cried.

  A gust of wind shook the tent and the rain hammered incessantly on the taut canvas.

  “Be off with you,” growled the young man.

  The lights had crossed the main road and were coming relentlessly towards us. Perhaps it was the wave of fear that gripped me, prompting some hidden corner of my memory into action, or it may have been the freshly caught salmon I saw, half hidden under a sack inside the tent, that reminded me of the fat man who had once been a poacher and was a friend of the tinkers.

  Whatever it was, I know I gasped, “Jamie Finlayson sent me.”

  Nobody spoke. Then a hand pushed me into the tent and I fell sprawling across a heap of blankets. The young man crossed swiftly to the lantern and blew it out, and I heard the wet canvas of the flap slap back into place as he left the tent.

  Chapter 22

  I lay across the rough blankets listening to the drumming of the rain on the tent. My immediate reaction was one of relief that I was no longer exposed to the fury of the storm. I was too dazed to appreciate the extent of my good fortune. All I wanted to do was to lie still and rest. The chase across the moor had exhausted me, numbing my mind as well as my body. I could hardly realize that I had succeeded, at least for the time being, in eluding my pursuers.

  Somewhere outside, a man cried out. I was on my feet in an instant, poised ready for flight, my tiredness forgotten. But flight was impossible. I was trapped within the narrow confines of the tent; what had been an eagerly sought shelter was now a cage. Sick at heart, I crouched down, straining my ears to catch every sound.

  A sudden furious gust of wind shook the flimsy walls of the tent, and the framework rocked and creaked under the onslaught. For one dreadful moment I thought it was about to succumb to the force of the wind and leave me exposed and defenceless. Then the gust subsided and there was only the steady drumming of the rain against the taut canvas.

  I heard several voices all talking at once, then a cold, commanding voice that I knew only too well, cut in and silenced the others. It was Major Cassell.

  “What are you doing out at this time of night?” he demanded curtly.

  It was the young tinker who replied, although I hardly recognized his voice. There was nothing belligerent about him now; indeed, his voice had such a whining, grovelling note that the little confidence I had left, vanished at the sound of it. I waited tensely for him to betray me.

  “What are you doing out at this time of night?” repeated the Major, in an even sharper tone.

  “We heard the shot, sir,” whined the tinker, “and saw the lights on the moor and we were after wondering what could
be the cause o’ it.”

  “There was no shot,” snapped the Major. “My car backfired. Understand?”

  “Your car back-fired, sir,” he repeated obediently.

  “Don’t try to bluff me,” said Major Cassell angrily. “You chaps are never inside at night; it’s in the daytime you take your rest. I know you too well. At night you’re prowling around to see what you can lift. It’s the police for you, if you’re not careful. Understand? And the old man as well.”

  I could hear the whining note of complaint in the tinker’s voice, although I could not make out the words.

  The Major cut him short, and said curtly, “Enough of that. I want to know if you have seen a boy running this way. I am responsible for him. He is mentally unbalanced. Understand? Not right in the head. Thinks everybody is going to harm him. It’s not the first time he has run away, but I am worried about him. If he is left out on a night like this he will get his death of cold. If you can lead me to him, I’ll not report you to the police this time.”

  Nobody spoke for what seemed an eternity.

  “Well,” said Major Cassell impatiently, “have you seen the boy? Come on, man, there’s a five-pound note for you if you help me.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen him,” admitted the tinker.

  Once more there was an ominous silence. I could picture the tinker silently pocketing the five-pound note and pointing to the tent. Still nobody spoke. There was no sound save the beating of the rain on the canvas and the rising shriek of the wind as it swept down from the hill, flung itself against the tent, and subsided angrily into a low sough, gathering strength for the next gust. It would have been a relief to my overwrought nerves if I had shouted, “I’m here,” and put an end to the terrible suspense of my own free will. Somehow or other I controlled myself and waited tensely.

  “Well, where is he?” barked the Major. “Speak up, man.”

  At least he had been unwilling to give me up, I thought, and no poor man could be expected to withstand the lure of a five-pound note coupled with the threat of the police. Whatever happened, it was better than waiting like this, anticipating each word as if it were the stroke of an executioner’s sword. I crouched back against the wall of the tent, expecting the flap to be thrown open at any moment and the Major’s men to rush in and seize me.

  “I didn’t want to be disappointing you, sir,” whined the tinker. “It was myself tried to stop the boy, but he was away before I could get a right grip on him. Running like a hare he was and heading straight for the cliff. Never a chance would he have with his head down and the night so black. Aye, and bad off-shore currents too. Maybe the poor boy’s body will never be washed up.”

  “You are sure he went over the cliff?” queried the Major eagerly, and I noticed that he could not keep the relief out of his voice.

  “Certain sure, sir,” assented the tinker. “If I could have got a right grip on him I might have held him, but how was I to know that the poor truaghan would make for the cliff?”

  Major Cassell cleared his throat. “I’m sure you did your best, my man,” he said. “Here. Take this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the tinker. “Thank you.”

  The Major said something that I didn’t catch and then there was silence again with only the monotonous drumming of the rain on the tent. I shivered suddenly and picked up one of the blankets and wrapped it around my legs, and sat down to wait.

  I must have dozed off to sleep for when I looked up suddenly with a start the young tinker was standing in the middle of the tent with a lighted match in his hand. He lit the lamp and blew out the match and stood looking down at a silver coin in his hand. He thrust it into his pocket.

  “Gentry,” he growled, making the word sound like an oath, and spat on the floor.

  “Have they gone?” I asked nervously, hardly able to believe that he had stood by me.

  “Aye, the most o’ them,” he answered. “But a couple of them are searching around the edge o’ the cliff and another one is prowling about below the crofts at Achmore.” He looked at me thoughtfully, and said slowly, “They must want you terrible bad, boy.”

  Looking up at his dark, unshaven face I wondered how far I could trust him, and I was instantly ashamed of the thought. Had he not sheltered me from Major Cassell’s men, and rejected a handsome reward, all on the strength of the name of Jamie Finlayson? But I knew it was one thing for a tinker to help the friend of a fellow poacher and quite another for him to come to the aid of the law. He would want nothing to do with the police, so I would have to be careful I didn’t scare him off. If only I had Duncan Mòr to guide me.

  “Do you know Duncan Mòr MacDonald of Mealt?” I said suddenly.

  “Aye, I know the big fellow,” he said guardedly.

  “He has taken to the hills,” I said. “The police are after him.”

  The tinker showed no surprise.

  “I know that,” he said calmly, “and many the long day will they spend looking for him. There is not a better man on the hill in all the western world than Duncan Mòr. It is me that knows that, and it is the polis will be knowing it before they are done with the big fellow.”

  There could be no doubt where his sympathy lay, so I said eagerly, “I’ve got to see Duncan Mòr before tomorrow night. I …”

  I stopped short. The tent flap was pulled aside and I saw the old tinker’s face framed in the opening. He hissed something in Gaelic, then withdrew again, and the wet flap slapped back across the opening.

  “The men are coming back from the cliff,” said the young tinker softly.

  He pushed me into the far corner of the tent, and I lay flat on the grass while he threw some blankets over me.

  “Be quiet,” he whispered. “You are safe enough.”

  Almost at once my throat started to tickle and I wanted to cough. I could feel the cough welling up inside me, but I fought it back and tried to breathe slowly through my nose. To make matters worse, my back started to itch, and I was sure that some insect was crawling up my leg. I clenched my fists until the nails dug into the palms of my hands, and willed myself to lie still when every fibre of my body was longing for movement.

  Suddenly the blanket was yanked away from my head and shoulders. I let out a cry of surprise and sprang to my feet, but it was only the young tinker.

  “They are away now,” he said quietly, “but there is still a man on watch below Achmore and others forby for all I know. It is yourself is here for the night, boy, and maybe longer or the name of my father’s son is not Seumas Stewart.”

  “But I must see Duncan Mòr,” I protested. “You don’t understand. It’s important. I’ve got to see him. You don’t understand, I tell you.”

  “I understand well enough,” he retorted. “You would never make the hill at all on a night like this, and what happens if you walk into the men from the Lodge? Fine they would know who had hidden you, and they would be after telling the Major. Aye, the Major with the eyes on him as cold as a hungry cat. No, no, boy, when you leave this tent it is inside a bedroll with you and into the bottom of the cart. That is all there is about it.”

  “But I’ve got to see Duncan Mòr,” I cried wildly, and in my anxiety I stepped forward and clutched his ragged jacket.

  He looked at me curiously, and said slowly, “Many a thing I would do for a friend of Jamie Finlayson, but if you leave this tent, and the Major’s men get you, myself and the old man are done for. We are poor folk of the road and hard enough is the life for us without the Major putting the law on us.”

  I knew well enough that he was speaking the truth, but all I could do was to repeat doggedly, “I’ve got to see Duncan Mòr.”

  The tinker took my hand from his jacket and said quietly, “If the big fellow is to be found, it is myself will take a message to him, but time enough for that in daylight.” I made to speak, but he went on quickly, “You are blue with the cold, boy, and shaking like a leaf. Off with those clothes and dry yourself.”

  I had not reali
zed how chilled I had become. My legs were numb and I could hardly stop my teeth chattering. I stripped off my clothes obediently, and the tinker handed me a tattered towel and I rubbed my wet body until the skin tingled and glowed.

  There was an old iron stove in the centre of the tent with a crooked chimney protruding through the domed roof, and the tinker tied a string from the chimney to one of the hazel ribs of the tent and hung my wet clothes over it. Then he spread some dry hay on the ground and folded four blankets in such a way that they formed a rough sleeping bag and laid them on top of the hay.

  I wriggled down between the rough blankets, certain that I would never sleep again until I had seen Duncan Mòr and told him all I knew. I can remember seeing the tinker break a peat across his knee and drop it into the stove, then my eyes seemed to close of their own volition. I must have fallen asleep instantly.

  I woke up once during the night and I started up and looked around fearfully, wondering where I was. The lamp was still burning and the old tinker was crouched down beside the tent flap, puffing away at a short clay pipe. There was something reassuring about his watchful figure and I turned on my side and closed my eyes again. In the morning Seumas Stewart would take a message to Duncan Mòr and all would be well. But how was he to find him in all that rock-girt waste of hill country? With a sob of relief, I recalled the cave in the hill hidden by the two rowan trees. Duncan Mòr was sure to be lying up in the old still. With that comforting thought in my mind, I fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

  When I awoke the flap was open and the sunlight was streaming into the tent. The gale must have spent itself during the night for the air was still. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and yawning. The old man was standing over a pot on the stove. Without a word he gathered my clothes from the makeshift line and tossed them over to me. They were dry and warm and I dressed quickly.

  I was about to go out of the tent when the old man seized me by the shoulder and dragged me back.

  “Stay. Stay,” he said excitedly. “Wait for Seumas. Understand?”