The Hill of the Red Fox

by Allan Campbell McLean

  His English was halting and difficult to make out, but there was no mistaking the urgency of his tone. I nodded, but he did not return to the stove until I had gone back to my bed and sat down on the blankets.

  I never heard the approach of the young tinker. His shadow fell across the opening and when I looked up he was standing inside the tent. He was wearing a pair of badly fitting, thin-soled shoes, the uppers of which were split and broken, but he moved as quickly and surely as a cat. His jacket hung about his shoulders in tattered shreds and his trousers had been patched and repatched until it was hard to trace the pattern of the original cloth. Perched on the back of his head, at a jaunty angle, was an old tweed cap, and his black curly hair sprouted out from under it in all directions. His face was lean and watchful, and he reminded me of some wild animal, bold in its own fashion, but poised ready for instant flight.

  “Time for food, boy,” he said, “and then we will be after seeing about the big fellow on the hill.”

  I hadn’t thought to look at my watch and when I did so I saw that both hands pointed to twelve o’clock. A flood of remonstrances rose to my lips, but I bottled them down. It was my own fault that I had slept so late, and I could not deny the tinker his meal before he took the long tramp to the hill.

  We ate fresh salmon with our fingers and thick slices of bread and butter and washed it all down with strong sweet tea. Nobody spoke, and I was glad of the silence because I was so hungry I did not want to waste time on words when I could be eating.

  When we had finished, Seumas Stewart eyed me contemplatively.

  “What do you want me to say to the big fellow?” he asked.

  “Tell him to listen to the radio,” I said slowly. “Tell him a special announcement is being broadcast every two hours. Tell him it was a submarine we heard that Saturday night in the Sound. Tell him Major Cassell is trying to get Dr Reuter away from Skye tonight.”

  The tinker repeated the words over and over again, until he had memorized them, and I told him to search the hill to the south of Loch Cuithir, for I was sure that Duncan Mòr would not be far from the old still.

  “I will need to head south by Creag Langall,” he said, “or they will be after seeing me from the Lodge. It will be night before I am back, but if Duncan Mòr is on the hill I will find him.”

  He spoke rapidly to his father in Gaelic and the old man looked at me and nodded several times and said something that brought a smile to the young tinker’s face.

  “My father says if you try to leave the tent he will knock you senseless,” he said.

  I looked at the old man and he nodded vigorously and shook his fist at me. When I turned to speak to Seumas Stewart he was on his way out of the tent.

  That day in the tinker’s tent was the longest day I have ever known. The old man sat outside the open tent flap, smoking his short clay pipe, as motionless as a figure carved in bronze. From time to time he took his pipe from his mouth and spat, but that was the only movement he ever made. In the afternoon he made tea and we ate some cheese sandwiches and more salmon, then he took up his position outside the tent again. Once I thought he had fallen asleep, but when I moved across to the tent-flap his head jerked round and he motioned me back to my corner.

  I thought that the hours would never pass and then, when the light faded inside the tent and it was dusk, the tempo changed. It was as if the laggard hours had slipped smoothly into step and were marching away at a rapidly quickening pace. My spirits sank. Soon it would be midnight, and at midnight Dr Reuter was due to be whisked away from Skye.

  It was ten-thirty by my watch, and the old man had lit the lamp and was sitting down by the stove, when Seumas Stewart slipped into the tent in his silent, cat-like way. He closed the flap behind him and stood with his back to it.

  I sprang to my feet.

  “Well, did you find him?” I cried.

  “Aye, I found him right enough,” he said, “after I had near tramped my feet off circling the hill above Loch Cuithir.”

  “Where was he?” I asked.

  Seumas Stewart took a crumpled cigarette end from his pocket and lit it. He puffed at it for a while in silence, then said, “Duncan Mòr was coming over Bealach na Leacaich with all the men of the Long Glen behind him and not a man but was carrying a gun of some sort and himself with a face like thunder.

  “‘Well now,’ said I, ‘is it rabbits you are after, Duncan Mòr?’ ‘No, not rabbits, Seumas,’ said he, ‘but that weasel in the Lodge, and I will be after dragging the guts from him before this night is done.’ He had been hearing you were drowned, and the rage on him was something terrible. I told him you were well and safe enough in the tent.”

  “Did you give him the message?” I asked, unable to contain myself any longer.

  “Aye, I gave him the message,” he went on, “and he said to me, ‘Tell Alasdair Beag I have heard the wireless already and this night it is the Major himself will be feeling the lash of the old law.’”

  “Was that all he said?” I wanted to know, unable to conceal my disappointment at Duncan Mòr’s lack of appreciation for what I had done.

  “No, there was more than that,” answered the young tinker, and I thought he looked at me with a new respect in his eyes. “Duncan Mòr took my arm in such a grip that I thought he would crush the muscle to jelly altogether, and he said, ‘I am not the man to be forgetting what you have done for me, Seumas Stewart, but your work is not yet finished this day. You will go back to your tent and you will keep Alasdair Beag there until the work of the night is done. He is a thrawn beggar and you will need to be firm with him, but you will watch over him, Seumas Stewart, or my ghost will stalk you through all eternity.’”

  “But where is he?” I cried. “I must see him.”

  “Duncan Mòr and all the men of the Long Glen met the men of Achmore above Dun Crianan,” said the tinker. “They made for the gorge. There was a man on watch there, but before the poor truaghan could get to his feet Duncan Mòr had nearly choked the life out of him. They have smashed the coble and the dinghy and Ruairidh the Leodhasach from the Long Glen has planted something on the bridge. Then they melted away behind the rocks and into the bracken. Not a man would you see there but the gorge is alive with them, and I am thinking there is dark work on hand this night.”

  I dived for the opening, but Seumas Stewart was too quick for me. He seized me around the waist and dragged me back into the tent.

  “Would you have me killed?” he demanded. “The big fellow will tear me apart — well I know it — if I let you away.”

  “I don’t care, I’ve got …”

  My words were cut short by a low, muffled explosion, followed by a volley of shots. I saw the clay pipe slip from the old man’s mouth to the ground, but he made no attempt to stoop and pick it up. All three of us stood looking at one another. A second volley of shots rang out. As Seumas Stewart ran to the door of the tent, I was hard on his heels.

  Chapter 23

  After the noise of the explosion and the firing, there was something almost sinister about the silence that followed, as if it covered even darker deeds. Seumas Stewart’s strong brown fingers closed around my arm, and we stood side by side waiting tensely. Somewhere in the distance a dog started to bark, and I could hear the lowing of a cow, but these friendly, familiar sounds seemed only to heighten the feeling of tension.

  Then the firing started again, and I felt the young tinker’s grip tighten on my arm. There was the harsh, ugly chatter of what sounded to me like a machine-gun, interspersed with sporadic bursts of rifle fire. Silence again, deep and impenetrable, then the sound of a dog howling. Strange how the howl of a dog at night could chill the blood more than the death-dealing chatter of a gun. I shivered.

  “Eighteen years I have been on the road in Skye,” said Seumas Stewart softly, “and never did I hear the like o’ this. Think you, Alasdair Beag, of the tales that will be told of this night’s work. When I am an old man they will be talking of it still, from Sleat to
Trotternish. And what am I to say? That I spent the night in my tent like an old cailleach? Seall, Alasdair, it would shame my children’s children. Come you, Duncan Mòr or no Duncan Mòr, we will take a look at the gorge this night.”

  He set off at a swift trot, still holding me firmly by the arm. The old tinker called after us, and Seumas shouted something to him in Gaelic, but we were almost out of earshot when the old man flung back an angry rejoinder.

  We trotted along the winding path that led beyond the disused quarry to the gorge. There was a thin moon overhead, partly obscured by rainclouds, and a gentle smirr of rain was drifting down. I would have stumbled and fallen many times had it not been for Seumas Stewart’s supporting grip on my arm. The tinker was as nimble and sure-footed as a goat.

  “No tricks now,” panted Seumas, as we neared the approach to the gorge. “We stick together, mind. Duncan Mòr MacDonald would have me in pieces if anything happened to you tonight, a bhalaich.”

  I was about to reply when two men suddenly sprang to their feet from the shelter of the thick bracken below the track. Something hard jabbed into my ribs, and I instinctively raised my hand as a bright light flashed into my eyes, dazzling me.

  “Well, well, Alasdair Beag,” cried a familiar voice, “so it is yourself eh? A good job for you, I’m thinking, that the big fellow is away down the gorge.”

  The torch was switched off and I stood there blinking hard. It was some time before I recognized the sturdy figure of Hector MacLeod. There was another man by his side, holding a rifle at the ready, and blocking the path of Seumas Stewart. I had met him when I had been on the hill with Duncan Mòr. His name was Norman Ross, and he came from the Long Glen.

  “We heard the explosion,” I cried. “What’s happening?”

  “Much has been happening this night,” returned Hector MacLeod soberly. “The boys are after having broken into the county magazine in the quarry, and helped themselves to two sticks of gelignite and a length of fuse. Ruairidh the Leodhasach set a charge on the bridge. The same fellow can handle explosives. The charge was well timed, right enough. The bridge went up as Murdo Ruadh was leading the way across.” He paused and added grimly, “That was the end o’ the Red Fellow and three others forby.”

  I heard the air being expelled from Seumas Stewart’s lungs in a long, wondering whistle.

  “There was some stramash, I can tell you,” went on Hector MacLeod. “The rest of them dropped their guns and dived for the river. The boys shot down two of them before they got across, and Duncan Mòr leapt a good fifteen feet and collared that black rogue o’ a scientist. Here he is.”

  He shone his torch into the bracken, and I started back when the light picked out the limp figure of Dr Reuter. The scientist was lying on his back, his hands spread out palms upwards. His face had a death-like pallor, and the blood was oozing out of a deep cut across his forehead.

  “Is he dead?” I whispered.

  “Never the fear o’ it,” said Norman Ross. “But I doubt it will be a while before he comes round. He was starting to ford the river when Duncan Mòr landed on his back. I’m telling you that fellow has never taken such a shaking in all his days.”

  He had hardly finished speaking before the ugly chatter of a quick-firing gun sounded from the depths of the gorge.

  “That’s no rifle,” declared Seumas Stewart.

  “Yon’s a Sten gun,” said Hector MacLeod. “Three o’ them got across the river to the bothy. They must have had a Sten gun hidden there, and there can be no shortage o’ ammunition judging by the way they are using it.”

  Seumas Stewart of the quick ears suddenly hissed a warning. He pushed me down into the bracken, at the same time flattening himself down beside me. Hector MacLeod and Norman Ross melted into the shadows. It was then that I heard the footsteps for the first time. They were heavy, dragging footsteps and they were coming slowly towards us.

  “Co tha’n sud?” barked Norman Ross.

  It was Roderick MacPherson of Achmore who answered.

  “Thigibh an so,” he cried.

  Norman Ross and Hector bounded to meet him, and Seumas Stewart and I scrambled to our feet and hurried to assist them. Hector flashed on his torch, and it was a grim sight that met our eyes. Roderick MacPherson, his clothes torn and his face streaked with sweat and dirt, was swaying on his feet with the long figure of Iain Ban MacDonald draped across his shoulder. It was only when Seumas and Hector grasped Iain Ban and lowered him to the ground, that I noticed the wound in Roderick’s leg. Norman Ross saw it, too. There was a deep gash in his left leg below the knee and the blood was still flowing freely.

  But Roderick brushed us aside. “Look you to Iain Ban,” he insisted. “He is shot in the shoulder and has lost a deal of blood.”

  “I’ll be right enough,” muttered Iain Ban through clenched teeth, “but sorry I am that I am not in at the finish.”

  “You have done more than enough,” said Roderick MacPherson. “If …”

  The rapid stutter of the Sten gun cut into his words, and he made as if to turn and head back to the gorge.

  Norman Ross seized him by the shoulder.

  “You are done, Roderick,” he exclaimed. “That leg o’ yours is laid open to the bone.”

  Seumas Stewart came forward with his silent, cat-like tread and snatched the rifle from Norman’s hands.

  “Look to the boy, Tormod,” he called, “or you will have Duncan Mòr to answer to,” and so saying he made off for the gorge.

  “Tinker or no, he is a cool fellow that one,” said Norman Ross.

  Roderick MacPherson stretched out in the bracken alongside Iain Ban, and Hector and Norman and I squatted down on our heels facing them.

  “Are they still holding out in the bothy?” asked Hector.

  Roderick nodded. “They have the Sten gun mounted in the window,” he said, “and the walls of the bothy make a grand fort.”

  “Right enough,” added Norman Ross. “I believe those walls are every inch o’ three foot thick, and solid stone forby.”

  “It is some job,” sighed Hector. “I doubt we will need to wait for the polis.”

  “Not if Duncan Mòr can help it,” retorted Roderick. “The big fellow is after crawling round to the back o’ the bothy. He has soaked rags in petrol, and if he can come up on them unawares, he is for firing the roof o’ the bothy and smoking them out.”

  As Roderick spoke, we heard the steady fusillade of shots and the answering chatter of the Sten gun.

  “The boys are doing their best to cover him,” went on Roderick, “but if the Major’s men get a sight of him it is the end o’ the big fellow.”

  None of us spoke, and I suppose we were all thinking the same thing. What if Duncan Mòr was seen and shot down? It was Norman who first saw the glow in the sky, and then we all saw the slowly ascending column of thick black smoke.

  “He has done it!” cried Hector. “That is the tarred felt going up.”

  “Aye, they are finished once they are forced out of the bothy,” said Roderick grimly.

  As if in confirmation of his words, all we could hear was some desultory rifle fire. The Sten gun was silent.

  “Well, well,” exclaimed Hector, “it has been some night, right enough. Mind you, I can hardly believe that the Major is at the back o’ this lot. Such a nice, friendly fellow, and him so keen on the bird-watching.”

  “I’m thinking the police will need an awful lot o’ proof,” added Norman Ross.

  “But the proof is in the Lodge,” I cried excitedly. “It’s in the safe, in the Major’s study.”

  I thought of the metal deed box I had seen him take out of the wall safe, and his words to Dr Reuter, and I turned to go. I would see to it that the proof was at hand, when the police came.

  “Where are you away to, Alasdair?” Hector MacLeod called sharply.

  “To the Lodge,” I answered over my shoulder, “to get the proof.”

  “Wait you,” cried Hector. “Duncan Mòr said …”

>   “Duncan Mòr will understand,” I called back. “He will need to have proof for the police.”

  Hector shouted something after me, but I didn’t hear what he said.

  I ran all the way to the Lodge, straight up the gravelled drive from the main road. The front door stood wide open, as they had doubtless left it in their haste to get to the shore, and the dim hall light was burning. I crossed the hall quickly and hurried up the passage to the Major’s study. The door was slightly ajar and the light streamed out into the passage. I smiled to myself, visualizing the hurried departure the Major had made, leaving doors open and not even stopping to switch off the lights. Still smiling to myself, I opened the door and walked into the study.

  “Good evening, Master Cameron,” said Major Cassell. He too was smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile. “Come in and close the door,” he went on. “I hope you won’t try anything foolish like trying to run for it, or I’m afraid I should have to shoot you.”

  He leaned back in his desk chair, and it was then that I saw the black revolver in his right hand. I closed the door slowly, backing against it to make it shut, my eyes never leaving the gun in his hand.

  “Come over here and sit down,” he commanded, indicating a straight-backed chair in front of the desk.

  I moved across to it like a sleepwalker, my legs moving stiffly and my hands held a little way in front of me, as if to ward off any movement of the gun.

  “It is lucky for me that you never stop to think, Master Alasdair,” the Major went on, in the same low, conversational tone. “But this time there is no fool to leave a key in the lock. This time, my friend, you have me to deal with.”

  “I thought you were at the shore,” I muttered. The words slipped out involuntarily. I suppose I must have been thinking aloud.

  He felt for a cigarette with his left hand, and when he lifted the lid the cigarette box played the Christmas Carol, “Silent Night.” The tune jangled through my head, and he must have read the expression on my face, because he said mockingly, “All is calm; all is bright. Is it, Master Alasdair?”