Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “What brought you to this?” Lamancha asked.

  “I’ve ‘ad a lot of bad luck, sir. Nothing seemed to go right with me after the war. I found the missus ‘ad done a bunk, and I ‘ad two kids on my ‘ands, and there weren’t no cushy jobs goin’ for the likes of me. Gentlemen everywhere was puttin’ down their ‘osses, and I ‘ad to take what I could get. So it come to the navvyin’ with me, like lots of other chaps. The Gov’ment don’t seem to care what ‘appens to us poor Gawd-forgotten devils, sir.”

  The navvy stopped to cough, and Lamancha did not like the sound of it.

  “How’s your health?” he asked.

  “Not so bad, barrin’ a bit of ‘oarseness.”

  “That explains a lot. You’ll have consumption if you don’t look out. If you had been the man you were five years ago you’d have had me on my back in two seconds... I needn’t tell you, Stokes, that I’m dashed sorry about this, and I’ll do all I can to make it up to you. First, we must get that leg right.”

  Lamancha began by retrieving the rifle. It was a light, double-barrelled express which fortunately could be taken to pieces. He had some slight surgical knowledge, and was able to set the limb, and then with strips of his handkerchief and the rifle-barrel to put it roughly into a splint. Stokes appeared to have gone without breakfast, so he was given the few sandwiches which remained in Lamancha’s pocket and a stiff dram from his flask. Soon the patient was reclining in comparative comfort on the heather, smoking Lamancha’s tobacco in an ancient stump of a pipe, while the latter, with heavy brows, considered the situation.

  “You ought to get to bed at once, for you’ve a devil of a bad cough, you know. And you ought to have a doctor to look after that leg properly, for this contraption of mine is a bit rough. The question is, how am I going to get you down? You can’t walk, and you’re too much of a heavy-weight for me to carry very far. Also I needn’t tell you that this hill-side is not too healthy for me at present. I mean to go down it by crawling in the open and keeping to the gullies, but I can’t very well do that with you... It looks as if there is nothing for it but to wait till dark. Then I’ll nip over to Crask and send some men here with a stretcher.”

  Mr Stokes declared that he was perfectly happy where he was, and deprecated the trouble he was giving.

  “Trouble,” cried Lamancha, “I caused the trouble, and I’m going to see you through it.”

  “But you’ll get nabbed, sir, and there ain’t no bloomin’ good in my ‘aving my leg broke if Claybody’s going to nab you along of it. You cut off, sir, and never ‘eed me.”

  “I don’t want to be nabbed, but I can’t leave you... Wait a minute! If I followed Wattie — that is my stalker — down to the Doran I could send a message to Crask about a stretcher and men to carry it. I might get some food too. And then I’ll come back here, and we’ll bukk about Palestine till it’s time to go... It might be the best way... “

  But, even as he spoke, further plans were put out of the question by the advent of six men who had come quietly through the Beallach from the Sanctuary, and had unostentatiously taken up positions in a circle around the two ex- antagonists. Lamancha had been so engaged in Stoke’s affairs that he had ceased to remember that he was in enemy territory.

  His military service had taught him the value of the offensive. The new- comers were, he observed, three navvies, two men who were clearly gillies, and a warm and breathless young man in a suit of a dapperness startling on a wild mountain. This young man was advancing towards him with a determined eyes when Lamancha arose from his couch and confronted him.

  “Hullo!” he cried cheerfully, “you come just in time. This poor chap here has had a smash — broken his leg — and I was wondering how I was to get him down the hill.”

  Johnson Claybody stopped short. He had rarely seen a more disreputable figure than that which had risen from the heather — dissolute in garment, wild of hair, muddy beyond belief in countenance. Yet these dilapidated clothes had once, very long ago, been made by a good tailor, and the fellow was apparently some kind of a gentleman. He was John Macnab beyond doubt, for in his hand was the butt-end of a rifle. Now Johnson was the type of man who is miserable if he feels himself ill-clad or dirty, and discovers in a sense of tidiness a moral superiority. He rejoiced to have found his enemy, and an enemy over whom he felt at a notable advantage. But, unfortunately for him, no Merkland had ever been conscious of the appearance he represented or cared a straw about it. Lamancha in rags would have cheerfully disputed with an emperor in scarlet, and suffered no loss of confidence because of his garb, since he would not have given it a thought. What he was considering at the moment was the future of the damaged Stokes.

  “Who’s that?” Johnson asked peremptorily, pointing to the navvy.

  His colleagues hastened to inform him. “It’s Jim Stokes,” one of the three navvies volunteered. “What ‘ave you been doing to yourself, Jim?” And Macnicol added: “That’s the man that was to keep movin’ along this side o’ the hill, sir. I picked him, for he looked the sooplest.”

  Then the faithful Stokes uplifted his voice. “I done as I was told, sir, and kep’ movin’ all right, but I ain’t seen nothing, and then I ‘ad a nawsty fall among them blasted rocks and ‘urt my leg. This gentleman comes along and finds me and ‘as a try at patchin’ me up. But for ‘im, sir, I’d be lyin’ jammed between two stones till the crows ‘ad a pick at me.”

  “You’re a good chap, Stokes,” said Lamancha, “but you’re a liar. This man,” he addressed Johnson, “was carrying out your orders, and challenged me. I wanted to pass, and he wouldn’t let me, so we had a rough-and tumble, and through no fault of his he took a toss into a hole, and, as you see, broke his leg. I’ve set it and bound it up, but the sooner we get the job properly done the better. Hang it, it’s the poor devil’s livelihood. So we’d better push along.”

  His tone irritated Johnson. This scoundrelly poacher, caught red-handed with a rifle, presumed to give orders to his own men. He turned fiercely on Stokes.

  “You know this fellow? What’s his name?”

  “I can’t say as I rightly knows ‘im,” was the answer. “But ‘im and me was in the war, and he once gave me a drink outside Jerusalem.”

  “Are you John Macnab?” Johnson demanded.

  “I’m anything you please,” said Lamancha, “if you’ll only hurry and get this man to bed.”

  “Damn your impudence! What business is that of yours? You’ve been caught poaching and we’ll march you down to Haripol and get the truth out of you. If you won’t tell me who you are, I’ll find means to make you... Macnicol, you and Macqueen get on each side of him, and you three fellows follow behind. If he tries to bolt, club him... You can leave this man here. He’ll take no harm, and we can send back for him later.”

  “I’m sorry to interfere,” said Lamancha quietly, “but Stokes is going down now. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll come with you, for I’ve got to see him comfortably settled.”

  “You’ll come with us!” Johnson shouted. “Many thanks for your kindness. You’ll damn well be made to come. Macnicol, take hold of him.”

  “Don’t,” said Lamancha. “Please don’t. It will only mean trouble.”

  Macnicol was acutely unhappy. He recognised something in Lamancha’s tone which was perhaps unfamiliar to his master — that accent which means authority, and which, if disregarded, leads to mischief. He had himself served in Lovat’s Scouts, and the voice of this tatterdemalion was unpleasantly like that of certain high-handed officers of his acquaintance. So he hesitated and shuffled his feet.

  “Look at the thing reasonably,” Lamancha said. “You say I’m a poacher called John Something-or-other. I admit that you have found me walking with a rifle on your ground, and naturally you want an explanation. But all that can wait till we get this man down to a doctor. I won’t run away, for I want to satisfy myself that he’s going to be all right. Won’t that content you?”

  Johnson, to his disgust, felt
that he was being manoeuvred into a false position. He was by no means unkind, and this infernal Macnab was making him appear a brute. Public opinion was clearly against him; Macnicol was obviously unwilling to act, Macqueen he knew detested him, and the three navvies might be supposed to take the side of their colleague. Johnson set a high value on public opinion, and scrupled to outrage it. So he curbed his wrath, and gave orders that Stokes should be taken up. Two men formed a cradle with their arms, and the cortège proceeded down the hill-side.

  Lamancha took care to give his captors no uneasiness. He walked beside Macqueen, with whom he exchanged a few comments about the weather, and he thought his own by no means pleasant thoughts. This confounded encounter with Stokes had wrecked everything, and yet he could not be altogether sorry that it had happened. He had a chance now of doing something for an honest fellow — Stokes’s gallant lie to Johnson had convinced Lamancha of his superlative honesty. But it looked as if he were in for an ugly time with this young bounder, and he was beginning to dislike Johnson extremely. There were one or two points in his favour. The stag seemed to have departed with Wattie into the Ewigkeit and happily no eye at the Beallach had seen the signs of the gralloch. All that Johnson could do was to accuse him of poaching, teste the rifle; he could not prove the deed. Lamancha was rather vague about the law, but he was doubtful whether mere trespass was a grave offence. Then the Claybodys would not want to make too much fuss about it, with the journalists booming the doings of John Macnab... But wouldn’t they? They were the kind of people that liked advertisement, and after all they had scored. What a tale for the cheap papers there would be in the capture of John Macnab! And if it got out who he was?... It was very clear that that at all costs must be prevented... Had Johnson Claybody any decent feelings to which he could appeal? A sportsman? Well, he didn’t seem to be of much account in that line, for he had wanted to leave the poor devil on the hill.

  It took some time for the party to reach the Doran, which they forded at a point considerably below Archie’s former lair. Lamancha gave thanks for one mercy, that Archie and Wattie seemed to have got clean away. There was a car on the road which caused him a moment’s uneasiness, till he saw that it was not the Ford but a large car with an all-weather body coming from Haripol. The driver seemed to have his instructions, for he turned round — no light task in that narrow road with its boggy fringes — and awaited their arrival.

  Johnson gave rapid orders. “You march the fellow down the road, and bring the navvy — better take him to your cottage, Macqueen. I’ll go home in the car and prepare a reception for John Macnab.”

  It may be assumed that Johnson spoke in haste, for he had somehow to work off his irritation, and desired to assert his authority.

  “Hadn’t Stokes better go in the car?” Lamancha suggested in a voice which he strove to make urbane. “That journey down the hill can’t have done his leg any good.”

  Johnson replied by telling him to mind his own business, and then was foolish enough to add that he was hanged if he would have any lousy navvy in his car. He was preparing to enter, when something in Lamancha’s voice stopped him.

  “You can’t,” said the latter. “In common decency you can’t.”

  “Who’ll prevent me? Now, look here, I’m fed up with your insolence. You’ll be well advised to hold your tongue till we make up our minds how to deal with you. You’re in a devilish nasty position, Mr John Macnab, if you had the wits to see it. Macnicol, and you fellows, I’ll fire the lot of you if he escapes on the road. You’ve my authority to hit him on the head if he gets nasty.”

  Johnson’s foot was on the step, when a hand on his shoulder swung him round.

  “No, you don’t.” Lamancha’s voice had lost all trace of civility, for he was very angry. “Stokes goes in the car and one of the gillies with him. Here you, lift the man in.”

  Johnson had grown rather white, for he saw that the situation was working up to the ugliest kind of climax. He felt dimly that he was again defying public opinion, but his fury made him bold. He cursed Lamancha with vigour and freedom, but there was a slight catch in his voice, and a hint of anticlimax in his threats, for the truth was that he was a little afraid. Still it was a flat defiance, though it concluded with a sneering demand as to what and who would prevent him doing as he pleased, which sounded a little weak.

  “First,” said Lamancha, “I should have a try at wringing your neck. Then I should wreck any reputation you may have up and down this land. I promise you I should make you very sorry you didn’t stay in bed this morning.” Lamancha had succeeded in controlling himself — in especial he had checked the phrase “Infernal little haberdasher” which had risen to his lips — and his voice was civil and quiet again.

  Johnson gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m not afraid of a dirty poacher.”

  “If I’m a poacher that’s no reason why you should behave like a cad.”

  It is a melancholy fact which exponents of democracy must face that, while all men may be on a level in the eyes of the State, they will continue in fact to be preposterously unequal. Lamancha had been captured in circumstances of deep suspicion which he did not attempt to explain; he had been caught on Johnson’s land, by Johnson’s servants; the wounded man was in Johnson’s pay, and might reasonably be held to be at Johnson’s orders; the car was without question Johnson’s own. Yet this outrageous trespasser was not only truculent and impenitent; he was taking it upon himself to give orders to gillies and navvies, and to dictate the use of an expensive automobile. The truth is, that if you belong to a family which for a good many centuries has been accustomed to command and to take risks, and if you yourself, in the forty-odd years of your life, have rather courted trouble than otherwise, and have put discipline into Arab caravans, Central African natives, and Australian mounted brigades — well, when you talk about wringing necks your words might carry weight. If, too, you have never had occasion to think of your position, because no one has ever questioned it, and you promise to break down somebody else’s, your threat may convince others, because you yourself are so wholly convinced of your power in that direction. It was the complete lack of bluster in Lamancha, his sober matter-of-factness, that made Johnson suddenly discover in this potato-bogle of a man something formidable. He hesitated, the gillies hesitated, and Lamancha saw his chance. Angry as he was, he contrived to be conciliatory.

  “Don’t let us lose our tempers. I’ve no right to dictate to you, but you must see that we’re bound to look after this poor chap first. After that I’m at your disposal to give you any satisfaction you want”

  Johnson had not been practised in commercial negotiations for nothing. He saw that obstinacy would mean trouble, and would gain him little, and he cast about for a way to save his face. He went through a show of talking in whispers to Macnicol — a show which did not deceive his head-stalker. Then he addressed Macqueen. “We think we’d better get this fellow off our hands. You take him down in the car to your cottage, and put him up in your spare bed. Then come round to the house and wait for me.”

  “This is my show, if you’ll allow me, sir,” said Lamancha politely. He took a couple of notes from a wad he carried in an inner pocket. “Get hold of the nearest doctor — you can use the post-office telephone — and tell him to come at once, and get everything you need for Stokes. I’ll see you again. Don’t spare expense, for I’m responsible.”

  The car departed, and the walking party continued its way down the Doran glen. Lamancha’s anger was evaporating, philosophy had intervened, and he was prepared to make allowances for Johnson. But he recognised that the situation was delicate and the future cloudy, and, since he saw no way out, decided to wait patiently on events, always premising that on no account must he permit his identity to be discovered. That might yet involve violent action of a nature which he could not foresee. His consolation was the thought of the stag, now without doubt in the Crask larder. If only he could get clear of his captors, John Macnab would have won two out of th
e three events. Yes, and if Leithen and Palliser-Yeates had not blundered into captivity.

  He was presently reassured as to the fate of the latter. When the party entered the wooded lower glen of the Doran it was joined by four weary navvies who had been refreshing themselves by holding their heads in the stream. Interrogated by Macnicol, they told a tale of hunting an elusive man for hours on the hillside, of repeatedly being on the point of laying hold of him, of a demoniac agility and a diabolical cunning, and of his final disappearance into the deeps of the wood. Questioned about Stokes, they knew nothing. He had last been seen by them in the early morning when the mist first cleared, but it was his business to keep moving high up the hill near the rocks and he had certainly not joined in the chase when it started.

  Johnson’s temper was not improved by this news. Twice he had been put to public shame in front of his servants by this arrogant tramp who was John Macnab. He had been insulted and defied, but he knew in his heart that the true bitterness lay in the fact that he had also been frightened. Anger, variegated by fear, is apt to cloud a man’s common sense, and Johnson’s usual caution was deserting him. He was beginning to see red, and the news that there had been an accomplice was the last straw. Somehow or other he must get even with this bandit and bring him to the last extremity of disgrace. He must get him inside the splendours of Haripol, where, his foot on his native heath, he would recover the confidence which had been so lamentably to seek on the hill... He would, of course, hand him over to the police, but his soul longed for some more spectacular denouement...

  Then he thought of the journalists, who had made such a nuisance of themselves in the morning. They were certain to be still about the place. If they could see his triumphant arrival at Haripol they would write such a story as would blaze his credit to the world and make the frustrated poacher a laughing-stock.