Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  His nervousness made him draw the trigger when the brute was still many yards away. The shot went clear over its head to spend itself in the empty air. In desperation he nuzzled the stock below his chin, holding it tight till he was all but choked, and waited blindly. The thing loomed up before him in proportions almost gigantic; it seemed to leap to and fro, and blot out the summer heavens. He knew he was crazy; he knew, too, that life was in the balance, and that a random aim would mean a short passage to another world. Two glaring eyes shone out of the black mass, the centre, as it were, of its revolutions. With all his strength he drew the point to them and fired. Suddenly the fire seemed to go out, and the twin lights were darkened.

  When the party of pretty young women in summer raiment came up the path a minute later, they saw something dark in the mid-road, and on coming nearer found that it was their cousin. But he presented a strange appearance, for in place of the elegant, bronzed young man they knew, they found a broken-down creature with a bleeding throat and a ghastly face, sitting clutching a gun and weeping hysterically beside a hideous, eyeless dog with a shattered jaw which lay dead on the ground.

  Such is the tale of Mr. John Anthony Dean and his doings on that afternoon of summer. Yet it must be told — and for human nature’s sake I regret it — that his sudden flash into the heroic worked no appreciable difference on his ways. He fled the hill country that very month, and during the next winter published a book of very minor poetry (dedicated to his cousin, Miss Phyllis), which contained an execrable rondeau on his adventure, with the refrain—’From Canine Jaws’, wherein the author likened the dog to Cerberus, himself to ‘strong Amphitryon’s son’, and wound up with grateful thanksgiving to the ‘Muse’ for his rescue. As I said before, it is not my business to apologise for Mr. Dean; but it is my privilege to note this proof of the heroic inconsistency of man.

  The Oasis in the Snow

  Grey Weather, 1899

  THIS TALE WAS told to me by the shepherd of Callowa, when I sheltered once in his house against an April snowstorm — for he who would fish Gled in spring must fear neither wind nor weather. The shepherd was a man of great height, with the slow, swinging gait, the bent carriage, the honest eyes, and the weather-tanned face which are the marks of his class. He talked little, for life is too lonely or too serious in these uplands for idle conversation; but when once his tongue was loosened, under the influence of friendship or drink, he could speak as I have heard few men ever talk, for his mind was a storehouse of forty years’ experience, the harvest of an eye shrewd and observant. This story he told me as we sat by the fire, and looked forth every now and then drearily on the weather.

  They crack about snaw-storms nowadays, and ken naucht about them. Maybe there’s a wee pickle driftin’ and a road blockit, and there’s a great cry about the terrible storm. But, lord, if they had kenned o’ the storms I’ve kenned o’ they would speak a wee thing mair serious and respectfu. And bodies come here i’ the simmer and gang daft about the bonny green hills, as they ca’ them, and think life here sae quate and peacefu’, as if the folk here had nocht to dae but daunder roond their hills and follow their wark as trig and easy as if they were i’ the holms o’ Clyde and no i’ the muirs o’ Gled. But they dinna ken, and weel for them, how cauld and hungry and cruel are the hills, how easy a man gangs to his death i’ thae braw glens, how the wind stings i’ the morn and the frost bites at nicht, o’ the bogs and sklidders and dreich hillsides, where there’s life neither for man nor beast.

  Weel, about this story, it was yince in a Februar’ mony year syne that it a’ happened, when I was younger and lichter on my feet and mair gleg i’ the seein’.

  Ye mind Doctor Crichton — he’s deid thae ten ‘ear, but he was a braw doctor in his time. He could cure when anither was helpless, and the man didna leeve whae wad ride further on less errand.

  Now the doctor was terrible keen on fishin’ and shootin’ and a’ manner o’ sport. I’ve heard him say that there were three things he likit weel abune ithers. Yin was the back o’ a guid horse, anither a guid water and a clear wast wind, and the third a snawy day and a shot at the white hares. He had been crakin’ on me for mony a day to gang wi’ him, but I was thrang that ‘ear wi’ cairtin’ up hay for the sheep frae lower doon the glens and couldna dae’t. But this day I had trystit to gang wi’ him, for there had been a hard frost a’ the week, and the hares on the hills wad be in graund fettle. Ye ken the way o’ the thing. Yae man keeps yae side o’ the hill and the ither the ither, and the beasts gang atween them, back and forrit. Whiles ye’ll see them pop round the back o’ a dyke and aff again afore ye can get a shot. It’s no easy wark, for the skins o’ the craturs are ill to tell frae the snawy grund, and a man taks to hae a gleg ee afore he can pick them oot, and a quick hand ere he can shoot. But the doctor was rale skilfu’ at it and verra proud, so we set aff brisk-like wi’ our guns.

  It was snawin’ lichtly when we startit, and ere we had gone far it begood to snaw mair. And the air was terrible keen, and cut like a scythe-blade. We were weel wrappit up and walkit a’ our pith, but our fingers were soon like to come off, and it was nane sae easy to handle the gun. We tried the Wildshaw Hichts first, and got nane there, though we beat up and doon, and were near smoored wi’ snaw i’ the gullies. I didna half like the look o’ things, for it wasna canny that there should be nae hares, and, forbye, the air was gettin’ like a rusty saw to the face. But the doctor wad hear naething o’ turnin’ back, for he had plenty o’ speerit, had the man, and said if we didna get hares on yae hill we wad get them on the ither.

  At that time ye’ll mind that I had twae dowgs, baith guid but verra contrar’ in natur’. There was yin ca’ed Tweed, a fine, canty sort o’ beast, very freendly to the bairns, and gien to followin’ me to kirk and things o’ that sort. But he was nae guid for the shootin’, for he was mortal feared at the sound o’ a gun, and wad rin hame as he were shot. The ither I ca’ed Voltaire, because he was terrible against releegion.

  On Sabbath day about kirk-time he gaed aff to the hills, and never lookit near the hoose till I cam back. But he was a guid sheep dowg and, forbye, he was broken till the gun, and verra near as guid’s a retriever. He wadna miss a day’s shootin’ for the warld, and mony a day he’s gane wi’oot his meat ower the heid o’t. Weel, on this day he had startit wi’ us and said nae words about it; but noo he began to fa’ ahint, and I saw fine he didna like the business. I kenned the dowg never did onything wi’oot a guid reason, and that he was no easy to fricht, so I began to feel uneasy. I stopped for a meenute to try him, and pretended I was gaun to turn hame. He cam rinnin’ up and barkit about my legs as pleased as ye like, and when I turned again he looked awfu’ dowie.

  I pointed this oot to the doctor, but he paid nae attention. ‘Tut, tut,’ says he, ‘if ye’re gaun to heed a dowg’s havers, we micht gie a’ thing up at yince.’

  ‘It’s nae havers,’ I said, hot-like, for I didna like to hear my dowg misca’ed. ‘There’s mair sense in that beast than what’s in a heap o’ men’s heids.’

  ‘Weel, weel,’ he says, ‘sae let it be. But I’m gaun on, and ye can come or no, just as ye like.’

  ‘Doctor,’ says I again, ‘ye dinna ken the risk ye’re rinnin’. I’m a better juidge o’ the wather than you, and I tell ye that I’m feared at this day. Ye see that the air is as cauld’s steel, and yet there’s mist a’ in front o’ ye and ahint. Ye ken the auld owercome, “Rouk is snaw’s wraith,” and if we dinna see a fearsome snaw afore this day’s dune, I’ll own my time’s been wastit.’

  But naething wad move him, and I had to follow him for fair shame. Sune after, too, we startit some hares, and though we didna get ony, it set the excitement o’ the sport on us. I sune got as keen as himsel’, and sae we trampit on, gettin’ farther intil the hills wi’ every step, and thinkin’ naething about the snaw.

  We tried the Gledscleuch and got naething, and syne we gaed on to the Allercleuch, and no anither beast did we see. Then we struck straucht
for the Cauldhope Loch, which lies weel hoddit in hills miles frae ony man. But there we cam nae better speed, for a’ we saw was the frozen loch and the dowie threshes and snaw, snaw everywhere, lyin’ and fa’in’.The day had grown waur, and still that dour man wadna turn back. ‘Come on,’ says he, ‘the drift’s clearin’, and in a wee we’ll be on clear grund’; and he steppit oot as he were on the laigh road. The air wasna half as cauld, but thick just like a nicht in hairst; and though there wasna muckle snaw fa’in’ yet, it felt as though there were miles o”t abune in the cluds and pressin’ doun to the yirth. Forbye, it was terrible sair walkin’, for though the snaw on the grund wasna deep, it was thick and cloggin’. So on we gaed, the yin o’ us in high fettle, the ither no verra earin’, till we cam to the herd’s shielin’ o’ the Lanely Bield, whilk lies in the very centre o’ the hills, whaur I had never been afore.

  We chappit at the door and they took us in. The herd was a dacent man, yin Simon Trumbull, and I had seen him aften at kirk and market. So he bade us welcome, and telled us to get our claes dried, for we wadna gang anither step that nicht. Syne his wife made us tea, and it helpit us michtily, for we had drank a’ our whisky lang syne. They had a great fire roarin’ up the lum, and I was sweired, I can tell ye, to gang oot o’ the warm place again into the ill wather.

  But I must needs be aff if I was to be hame that nicht, and keep my wife from gaun oot o’ her mind. So I gets up and buttons to my coat.

  ‘Losh, man,’ says the herd, ‘ye’re never thinkin’ o’ leavin’. It’ll be the awfu’est nicht that ever man heard tell o’. I’ve herdit thae hills this mony ‘ear, and I never saw sic tokens o’ death i’ the air. I’ve my sheep fauldit lang syne, and my hoose weel stockit, or I wadna bide here wi’ an easy hert.’

  ‘A’ the mair need that I should gang,’ says I, ‘me that has naething dune. Ye ken fine my wife. She wad die wi’ fricht, if I didna come hame.’

  Simon went to the door and opened it. It blew back on the wa’, and a solid mass o’ snaw fell on the floor. ‘See that,’ he says. ‘If ye dinna believe me, believe your ain een. Ye need never think o’ seein’ Callowa the nicht.’

  ‘See it or no,’ said I, ‘I’ll hae to try ‘t. Ye’d better bide, doctor; there’s nae cause for you to come wi’ me.’

  ‘I’ll gang wi’ you,’ he said. ‘I brocht ye intil this, and I’ll see ye oot o’t.’ And I never liked the man sae weel as at the word.

  When the twae o’ us walkit frae that hoose it was like walkin’ intil a drift o’ snaw. The air was sae thick that we couldna richt see the separate flakes. It was just a great solid mass sinkin’ ever doun, and as heavy as a thousand ton o’ leid. The breath went frae me at the verra outset. Something clappit on my chest, and I had nocht to dae but warstle on wi’ nae mair fushion than a kittlin’. I had a grip o’ the doctor’s hand, and muckle we needit it, for we wad sune hae been separate and never mair heard o’. My dowg Voltaire, whae was gien for ordinar’ to rinnin’ wide and playin’ himsel’, kept close rubbin’ against my heels. We were miles frae hame, and unless the thing cleared there was sma’ chance o’ us winnin’ there. Yae guid thing, there was little wind, but just a saft, even fa’; so it wasna so bad as though it had been a fierce driftin’. I had a general kind o’ glimmer o’ the road, though I had never been in thae hills afore. If we held doun by the Lanely Bield Burn we wad come to the tap o’ the Stark Water, whilk cam into Gled no a mile abune Callowa. So on we warstled, prayin’ and greetin’ like bairns, wi’ scarce a thocht o’ what we were daein’.

  ‘Whaur are we?’ says the doctor in a wee, and his voice sounded as though he had a naipkin roond his mouth.

  ‘I think we should be somewhere near the Stark heid,’ said I. ‘We’re gaun doun, and there’s nae burn hereaways but it.’

  ‘But I aye thocht the Stark Glen was a’ sklidders at the heid,’ said he; ‘and this is as saft a slope as a hoose riggin’.’

  ‘I canna help that,’ says I. ‘It maun e’en be it, or we’ve clean missed the airt.’

  So on we gaed again, and the snaw aye got deeper. It wasna awfu’ saft, so we didna sink far as we walkit, but it was terrible wearin’. I sune was sae tired that I could scarce drag mysel’; forbye being frichtit oot o’ my senses. But the doctor was still stoot and hopefu’, and I just followed him.

  Suddenly, ere ever we kenned, the slope ceased, and we were walkin’ on flat grund. I could scarce believe my een, but there it was at my feet, as laigh as a kitchen floor. But the queer thing was that while a’ around was deep snaw, this place was a’ but bare, and here and there rigs o’ green land stuck oot.

  ‘What in the warld’s this?’ says I, as I steppit oot boldly, and I turned to my companion. When I saw him I was fair astonished. For his face was white as the snaw, and he was tremblin’ to his fingers.

  ‘Ye’re no feared, are ye?’ I asked. ‘D’ ye no ken guid land when ye see’t?”

  His teeth were chattering in his heid. ‘You hae na sense to be feared. The Almichty help us, but I believe we’re daein’ what nae man ever did afore.’

  I never saw sae queer a place. The great wecht o’ snaw was still fa’in’ on us, but it seemed to disappear when it cam to the grund. And our feet when we steppit aye sank a wee bit, but no in snaw. The feel i’ the air wasna cauld, but if onything’t was het and damp. The sweat began to rin doon aff my broo, and I could hear the man ahint me pantin’ like a broken-winded horse. I lookit roond me for the dowg, but nae dowg was to be seen; for at the first step we took on the queer land he had ta’en himsel’ aff. I didna like the look o’t, for it wad hae ta’en muckle to drive the beast frae my side.

  Every now and then we cam on a wee hillock whaur the snaw lay deeper, but the spaces atween were black and saft, and crunkled aneath the feet. Ye ken i’ the spring about the burn-heids how the water rins oot o’ the grund, and a’ the colour o’ the place is a sodden grey. Weel, ‘t was the same here. There was a seepin’, dreepin’ feel i’ the grund whilk made it awesome to the eye. Had I been i’ my clear senses, I wad hae been rale puzzled about the maitter, but I was donnered wi’ the drifts and the weariness, and thocht only o’ gettin’ by ‘t. But sune a kind o’ terror o’ the thing took me. Every time my feet touched the grund, as I walkit, a groo gae’d through my body. I grat wi’ the fair hate o’ the place, and when I lookit at my neebor it didna mak me better. For there he was gaun along shakin’ like a tree-tap, and as white’s a clout. It made it waur that the snaw was sae thick i’ the air that we couldna see a foot in front. It was like walkin’ blindfold roond the tap o’ a linn.

  Then a’ of a sudden the bare grund stopped, and we were flounderin’ among deep drifts up to the middle. And yet it was a relief, and my hert was strengthened. By this time I had clean lost coont o’ the road, but we keepit aye to the laigh land, whiles dippin’ intil a glen and whiles warstlin’ up a brae face. I had learned frae mony days in hill mists to keep frae gaun roond about. We focht our way like fair deevils, for the terror o’ the place ahint had grippit us like a vice. We ne’er spak a word, but wrocht till our herts were like to burst and our een felt fou o’ bluid. It got caulder and caulder, and thicker and ever thicker. Hope had lang syne gane frae us, and fricht had ta’en its place. It was just a maitter o’ keepin’ up till we fell down, and then...

  It wasna lang ere they fund us, for find us they did, by God’s grace and the help o’ the dowg. For the beast went hame and made sic a steer that my wife roused the nearest neebor and got folk startit oot to seek us. And wad ye believe it, the dowg took them to the verra bit. They fund the doctor last, and he lay in his bed for a month and mair wi’ the effects. But for mysel’, I was nane the waur. When they took me hame, I was put to bed, and sleepit on for twenty hoor, as if I had been streikit oot. They waukened me every six hoor, and put a spoonfu’ o’ brandy doon my throat, and when a’ was feenished, I rase as weel as ever.

  It was about fower months after that I had to gang ower to Annandale wi’ sheep, and cam back
by the hills. It was a road I had never been afore, and I think it was the wildest that ever man trod. I mind it was a warm, bricht day, verra het and wearisome for the walkin’. Bye and bye I cam to a place I seemed to ken, though I had never been there to my mind, and I thocht hoo I could hae seen it afore. Then I mindit that it was abune the heid o’ the Stark, and though the snaw had been in my een when I last saw it, I minded the lie o’ the land and the saft slope. I turned verra keen to ken what the place was whaur me and the doctor had had sic a fricht. So I went oot o’ my way, and climbed yae hill and gaed doun anither, till I cam to a wee rig, and lookit doun on the verra bit.

  I just lookit yince, and then turned awa’ wi’ my hert i’ my mooth.

  For there below was a great green bog, oozing and blinking in the sun.

  Gideon Scott

  IF anyone should travel up the pleasant valley of Tweed from Peebles, some distance up on the right hand bank of the river he would see a green spur on the side of a dark heath-clad hill. And if he were inclined to examine it further, he would find on the summit the ruins of what was once a castle. Across the river, among the trees, he would see a grey ivy-covered wall. These few stones are all that remain of two famous castles, the abode of a still more remarkable family. The Tweedies of Tinnis and Drumelzier were one of the oldest families in Scotland. They derived their name and origin from the genius, or water spirit of Tweed. For centuries they lorded over the whole district of Upper Tweeddale. But in more civilized times, like many other noble families, they got into debt, and in the beginning of the seventeenth century we find the last of the clan in a debtors’ prison in Edinburgh. The estates passed into other hands, and the place where once they were now knows them no more.