by John Buchan
Johnson had a gift of quick decision. He briefly explained to his followers his suspicions. “The man at the Beallach may not be the man whom the navvies saw at the Red Burn. The Red Burn fellow may have gone down the Machray side, and be now in the woods... Cameron, you take Andrew and Peter, and get down the glen in double-quick time. If you see anybody on Clonlet or in the woods, hunt him like hell. I’ll skin you if you let him escape. Drive him right down to the gardens, and send word to the men there to be on the look-out. You’ll be a dozen against one. Macnicol, you come with me, and you, Macqueen, and you three fellows, and we’ll make for the Beallach. We’ll cut up through the Sanctuary, for it don’t matter a damn about the deer if we only catch that swine. He’s probably lying up there till he can slip out in the darkness... And, Cameron, tell them to send a car up the Doran road. I may want a lift home.”
It was Cameron and his posse who spied Leithen on the side of Clonlet. All three were young men; they had the priceless advantage of acquaintance with the ground, while Leithen knew no more than the generalities of the map. As soon as he saw that he was pursued he turned up-hill with the purpose of making for Machray. He had had a long walk, but he felt fresh enough for another dozen miles or so, and he remembered his instructions to go north, if necessary even into Glenaicill.
But in this he had badly miscalculated. For the whistle of Cameron had alarmed a post of navvies in a nook of hill behind Leithen and at a greater altitude, who had missed him earlier for the simple reason that they had been asleep. Roused now to a sudden attention, they fanned out on the slope and cut him off effectively from any retreat towards Corrie na Sidhe. There were only two courses open to him — to climb the steep face of Clonlet or to go west towards the woods. The first would be hard, he did not even know whether the rock was climbable, and if he stuck there he would be an easy prey. He must go west, and trust to find some way to Machray round the far skirts of the mountain.
Cameron did not hurry, for he knew what would happen. So long as the navvies cut off retreat to the east the victim was safe. Leithen did not realise his danger till he found himself above the woods on a broad grassy ledge just under the sheer rocks of Clonlet. It was the place called Crapnagower, which ended not in a hill-side by which the butt of Clonlet could be turned, but in a bold promontory of rock which fell almost sheer to the meadows of Haripol. Long before he got to the edge he had an uncomfortable suspicion of what was coming, but when he peered over the brink and saw cattle at grass far below him, he had an ugly shock. It looked as if he were cornered, and cornered too in a place far from the main scene of action, where his misfortunes could not benefit Lamancha.
He turned and plunged downward through the woods direct for Haripol. There was still plenty of fight in him, and his pursuers would have a run for their money. These pursuers were not far off. Andrew had climbed the hill and had been moving fast parallel to Leithen, but farther down among the trees. Cameron was on the lower road, a grassy aisle among the thickets, and Peter, the swifter, had gone on ahead to watch the farther slopes. It was not long before Leithen was made aware of Andrew, and the sight forced him to his right in a long slant which would certainly have taken him into the arms of Peter.
But at this moment the Fates intervened in the person of Crossby.
That eminent correspondent, having inspired his fellow-journalists with the spirit of all mischief and thereby sadly broken the peace of Haripol, was now lying up from further pursuit in the woods, confident that he had done his best for the cause. Suddenly he became aware of the ex-Attorney-General descending the hill in leaps and bounds, and a gillie not fifty yards behind on his trail... Crossby behaved like Sir Philip Sidney and other cavaliers in similar crises. “Thy need is the greater,” was his motto, and as Leithen passed he whispered hoarsely to him to get into cover. Leithen, whose head was clear enough though his legs were aching, both heard and saw. He clapped down like a woodcock in a patch of bracken, while Crossby, whose garb and height were much the same as his, became the quarry in his stead.
The chase was not of long duration. The correspondent did not know the ground, nor did he know of the waiting Peter. Left to himself he might have outdistanced Andrew, but he was turned to his right, and rounded a corner to be embraced firmly and affectionately by the long arms of the gillie. “That’s five pund in our pockets, Andra, ma man,” the latter observed when the second gillie arrived. “If this is no John Macnab, it’s his brither, and anyway we’ve done what we were telled.” So, strongly held by the two men, the self-sacrificing Crossby departed into captivity.
Of these doings Leithen knew nothing. He did not believe that Crossby could escape, but the hunt had gone out of his ken. Now it is the nature of man that, once he is in flight, he cannot be content till he finds an indisputable place of refuge. This wood was obviously unhealthy, and he made haste to get out of it. But he must go circumspectly, and the first need was for thicker cover, for this upper part was too open for comfort. Below he saw denser scrub, and he started to make his way to it.
The trouble was that presently he came into Cameron’s view. The stalker had heard the crash of Crossby’s pursuit, and had not hurried himself, knowing the strategic value of Peter’s position. He proposed to wait, in case the fugitive doubled back. Suddenly he caught sight of Leithen farther up the hill, and apparently unfollowed. Had the man given the two gillies the slip? ... Cameron performed a very creditable piece of stalking. He wormed his way up- hill till he was above the bushes where Leithen was now sheltering. The next thing that much-enduring gentleman knew was that a large hand had been outstretched to grip his collar.
Like a stag from covert Leithen leaped forth, upsetting Cameron with his sudden bound. He broke through the tangle of hazel and wild raspberries, and stayed not on the order of his going. His pace downhill had always been remarkable, and Camerons’s was no match for it. Soon he had gained twenty yards, then fifty, but he had no comfort in his speed, for somewhere ahead were more gillies and he was being forced straight on Haripol, which was thick with the enemy.
The only plan in his head was to make for the Reascuill, which as he was aware flowed at this part of its course in a deep-cut gorge. He had a faint hope that, once there, he might find a place to lie up in till the darkness, for he knew that the Highland gillie is rarely a rock-climber. But the place grew more horrible as he continued. He was among rhododendrons now, and well- tended grass walks. Yes, there was a rustic arbour and what looked like a summer-seat. The beastly place was a garden. In another minute he would be among flower-pots and vineries with twenty gardeners at his heels. But the river was below — he could hear its sound — so, like a stag hard pressed by hounds, he made for the running water. A long slither took him down a steep bank of what had once been foxgloves, and he found his feet on a path.
And there, to his horror, were two women.
By this time his admirable wind was considerably touched, and the sweat was blinding his eyes, so that he did not see clearly. But surely one of the two was known to him.
Janet rose to the occasion like a bird. As he stood blinking before her she laughed merrily:
“Sir Edward,” she cried, “where in the world have you been? You’ve taken a very rough road.” Then she turned to Lady Claybody. “This is Sir Edward Leithen. He is staying with us and went out for an enormous walk this morning. He is always doing it. It was lucky you came this way, Sir Edward, for we can give you a lift home.”
Lady Claybody was delighted, she said, to meet one of whom she had heard so much. He must come back to the house at once and have tea and see her husband, “I call this a real romance,” she cried. “First Mr Palliser- Yeates — and then Sir Edward Leithen dropping like a stone from the hill- side.”
Leithen was beginning to recover himself, “I’m afraid I was trespassing,” he murmured. “I tried a short cut and got into difficulties. I hope I didn’t alarm you coming down that hill like an avalanche. I find it the easiest way.”
T
he mystified Cameron stood speechless, watching his prey vanishing in the company of his mistress.
CHAPTER 14. HARIPOL — WOUNDED AND MISSING
Lamancha watched Palliser-Yeates disappear along the hill-side, and then returned to the hollow top of the Beallach, which was completely cut off from view on either side. All that was now left of the mist was a fleeting vapour twining in scarves on the highest peaks, and the cliffs of Sgurr Dearg and Sgurr Mor towered above him in gleaming stairways. The drenched cloudberries sparkled in the sunlight, and the thousand little rivulets, which in the gloom had been hoarse with menace, made now a pleasant music. Lamancha’s spirits rose as the world brightened. He proposed to wait for a quarter of an hour till Wattie with the stag was well down the ravine and Palliser-Yeates had secured the earnest attention of the navvies. Then he would join Wattie and help him with the beast, and within a couple of hours he might be wallowing in a bath at Crask, having bidden John Macnab a long farewell.
Meantime he was thirsty, and laid himself on the ground for a long drink at an icy spring, leaving his rifle on a bank of heather.
When he rose with his eyes dim with water he had an unpleasing surprise. A man stood before him, having in his hands his rifle, which he pointed threateningly at the rifle’s owner.
“‘Ands up,” the man shouted. He was a tall fellow in navvy’s clothes, with a shock head of black hair, and a week’s beard — an uncouth figure with a truculent eye.
“Put that down,” said Lamancha. “You fool, it’s not loaded. Hand it over. Quick!”
For answer the man swung it like a cudgel.
“‘Ands up,” he repeated. “‘Ands up, you — , or I’ll do you in.”
By this time Lamancha had realised that his opponent was the peripatetic navvy, whom Palliser-Yeates had reported. An ugly customer he looked, and resolute to earn Claybody’s promised reward.
“What do you want?” he asked. “You’re behaving like a lunatic.”
“I want you to ‘ands up and come along o’ me.”
“Who on earth do you take me for?”
“You’re the poacher — Macnab. I seen you, and I seen the old fellow and the stag. You’re Macnab, I reckon, and you’re the — I’m after. Up with your ‘ands and look sharp.”
Mendacity was obviously out of the question, so Lamancha tried conciliation.
“Supposing I am Macnab — let’s talk a little sense. You’re being paid for this job, and the man who catches me is to have something substantial. Well, whatever Lord Claybody has promised you I’ll double it if you let me go.”
The man stared for a second without answering, and then his face crimsoned. But it was not with avarice but with wrath.
“No, you don’t,” he cried. “By — , you don’t come over me that way. I’m not the kind as sells his boss. I’m a white man, I am, and I’ll — well let you see it. ‘Ands up, you — , and march. I’ve a — good mind to smash your ‘ead for tryin’ to buy me.”
Lamancha looked at the fellow, his shambling figure contorted by hard toil out of its natural balance, his thin face, his hot, honest eyes, and suddenly felt ashamed. “I beg your pardon,” he grunted. “I oughtn’t to have said that. I had no right to insult you. But of course I refuse to surrender. You’ve got to catch me.”
He followed his words by a dive to his right, hoping to get between the man and the Sgurr Mor cliffs. But the navvy was too quick for him, and he had to retreat baffled. Lamancha was beginning to realise that the situation was really awkward. This fellow was both active and resolved; even if he gave him the slip he would be pursued down to the Doran, and the destination of the stag would be revealed... But he was by no means sure that he could give him the slip. He was already tired and cramped, and he had never been noted for his speed, like Leithen and Palliser-Yeates... He thought of another way, for in his time he had been a fair amateur middle-weight.
“You’re an Englishman. What about settling the business with our fists? Put the rifle down, and we’ll stand up together.”
The man spat sarcastically. “Ain’t it likely?” he sneered. “Thank you kindly, but I’m takin’ no risks this trip. You’ve to ‘ands up and let me tie ‘em so as you’re safe and then come along peaceable. If you don’t I’ll ‘it you as ‘ard as Gawd ‘ll let me.”
There seemed to be nothing for it but a scrap, and Lamancha, with a wary eye on the clubbed rifle, waited for his chance. He must settle this fellow so that he should be incapable of pursuit — a nice task for a respectable Cabinet Minister getting on in life. There was a pool beside his left foot, which was the source of one of the burns that ran down into the Sanctuary. Getting this between him and his adversary, he darted towards one end, checked, turned, and made to go round the other. The navvy struck at him with the rifle, and narrowly missed his head. Then he dropped the weapon, made a wild clutch, gripped Lamancha by the coat, and with a sound of rending tweed dragged him to his arms. The next moment the two men were locked in a very desperate and unscientific wrestling bout.
It was a game Lamancha had never played in his life before. He was a useful boxer in his way, but of wrestling he was utterly ignorant, and so, happily, was the navvy. So it became a mere contest of brute strength, waged on difficult ground with boulders, wells, and bog-holes adjacent. Lamancha had an athletic, well-trained body, the navvy was powerful but ill-trained; Lamancha was tired with eight or nine hours’ scrambling, his opponent had also had a wearing morning; but Lamancha had led a regular and comfortable life, while the navvy had often gone supperless and had drunk many gallons of bad whisky. Consequently the latter, though the heavier and more powerful man, was likely to fail first in a match of endurance.
At the start, indeed, he nearly won straight away by the vigour of his attack. Lamancha cried out with pain as he felt his arm bent almost to breaking- point and a savage knee in his groin. The first three minutes it was anyone’s fight; the second three Lamancha began to feel a dawning assurance. The other’s breath laboured, and his sudden spasms of furious effort grew shorter and easier to baffle. He strove to get his opponent on to the rougher ground, while that opponent manoeuvred to keep the fight on the patch of grass, for it was obvious to him that his right course was to wear the navvy down. There were no rules in this game, and it would be of little use to throw him; only by reducing him to the last physical fatigue could he have him at his mercy, and be able to make his own terms.
Presently the early fury of the man was exchanged for a sullen defence. Lamancha was getting very distressed himself, for the navvy’s great boots had damaged his shins and torn away strips of stocking and skin, while his breath was growing deplorably short. The two staggered around the patch of grass, never changing grips, but locked in a dull clinch into which they seemed to have frozen. Lamancha would fain have broken free and tried other methods, but the navvy’s great hands held him like a vice, and it seemed as if their power, in spite of the man’s gasping, would never weaken.
In this preposterous stalemate they continued for the better part of ten minutes. Then the navvy, as soldiers say, resumed the initiative. He must have felt his strength ebbing, and in a moment of violent disquiet have decided to hazard everything. Suddenly Lamancha found himself forced away from the chosen ground and dragged into the neighbouring moraine. They shaved the pool, and in a second were stumbling among slabs and screes and concealed boulders. The man’s object was plain: if he could make his lighter antagonist slip he might force him down in a place from which it would not be easy to rise.
But it was the navvy who slipped. He lurched backward, tripping over a stone, and the two rolled into a cavity formed by a boulder which had been split by its fall from Sgurr Mor in some bygone storm. It was three or four feet of a fall, and Lamancha fell with him. There was a cry from the navvy, and the grip of his arms slackened.
Lamancha scrambled out and looked back into the hole where the man lay bunched up as if in pain.
“Hurt?” he asked, and the answer came back, g
arnished with much profanity, that it was his —— leg.
“I’m dashed sorry. Look here, this fight is off. Let me get you out and see what I can do for you.”
The man, sullen but quiescent, allowed himself to be pulled out and laid on a couch of heather. Lamancha had feared for the thigh or the pelvis and was relieved to find that it was a clean break below the knee, caused by the owner’s descent, weighted by his antagonist, on an ugly, sharp-edged stone. But, as he looked at the limp figure, haggard with toil and poor living, and realised that he had damaged it in the pitiful capital which was all it possessed, its bodily strength, he suffered from a pang of sharp compunction. He loathed John Macnab and all his works for bringing disaster upon a poor devil who had to earn his bread.
“I’m most awfully sorry,” he stammered. “I wouldn’t have had this happen for a thousand pounds... “ Then he broke off, for in the face now solemnly staring at him he recognised something familiar. Where had he seen that long crooked nose before and that cock of the eyebrows?
“Stokes,” he cried, “You’re Stokes, aren’t you?” He recalled now the man who had once been his orderly, and whom he had last known as a smart troop sergeant.
The navvy tried to rise and failed. “You’ve got my name right, guv’nor,” he said, but it was obvious that in his eyes there was no recognition.
“You remember me — Lord Lamancha?” He had it all now — the fellow who had been a son of one of Tommy Deloraine’s keepers — a decent fellow and a humorous, and a good soldier. It was like the cussedness of things that he should go breaking the leg of a friend.
“Gawd!” gasped the navvy, peering at the shameful figure of Lamancha, whose nether garments were now well advanced in raggedness and whose peat- begrimed face had taken on an added dirtiness from the heat of the contest. “I can’t ‘ardly believe it’s you, sir.” Then, with many tropes of speech, he explained what, had he known, would have happened to Lord Claybody, before he interfered with the game of a gentleman as he had served under.
