“It’s come to this, has it?” he said, still laughing, and yet his face, too, was turning pale.
“Ye know what it means. I imagine ye put it there; maybe ye wrote it. Ye’ll explain it.” The little man spoke in the same small, even voice, and his eyes never moved from his son’s face.
“It’s plain as day. Have ye not heard?”
“I’ve heard nothing. . . . I’d like the truth, David, if ye can tell it.”
The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to the paper in his hand.
“Yo’ shall have it, but yo’ll not like it. It’s this: Tupper lost a sheep to the Killer last night.”
“And what if he did?” The little man rose smoothly to his feet. Each noticed the other’s face—it was dead white.
“Why, he—lost—it—on— Where d’yo’ think?” He drawled the words out, pausing almost lovingly on each.
“Where?”
“On—the—Red—Screes.”
The crash was coming—it was unavoidable now. David knew it, knew that nothing could stop it, and braced himself to meet it. The smile had vanished from his face, and his breath fluttered in his throat like the wind before a thunderstorm.
“What of it?” The little man’s voice was calm as a summer sea.
“Why, yer Wullie—as I told you—was on the Screes last night.”
“Go on, David.”
“And this”—holding up the paper—“tells you that they know, as I know now, as most of them have known for many a day now, that your Wullie, Red Wull—the Terror—”
“Go on.”
“Is—”
“Yes.”
“The Black Killer.”
It was spoken.
The worn string had snapped at last. The little man’s hand flashed to the bottle that stood before him.
“Ye—liar!” he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the boy’s head. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his shoulder.
Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond, the liquor inside trickling down the wall to the floor.
For a moment, darkness. Then the alcohol met the lamp’s smoldering wick and blazed into flame.
By the sudden light, David saw his father on the far side of the table, pointing with a crooked forefinger. By his side, Red Wull was standing alert, his hackles up, his yellow fangs bared, his eyes glowing; and, at his feet, the little brown mouse lay still and lifeless.
“Out o’ my house! Back to Kenmuir! Back to yer—” The unforgivable word, unmistakable, hovered for a second on his lips like some foul bubble, and never burst.
“No mother this time!” panted David, racing around the table.
“Wullie!”
The Terror leapt to the attack; but David overturned the table as he ran, the blunderbuss crashing to the floor; it fell, and for a moment it was an obstacle in the dog’s path.
“Stand off, ye—!” screeched the little man, seizing a chair in both hands; “stand off, or I’ll knock yer brains out!”
But David was on him.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!”
Again the Terror came with a roar like the sea. But David, with a mighty kick catching him full on the jaw, repelled the attack.
Then he gripped his father around the waist and lifted him from the ground. The little man, struggling in those iron arms, screamed, cursed, and battered at the face above him, kicking and biting in his fury.
“The Killer! Would ye like to know who’s the Killer? Go and ask ’em at Kenmuir! Ask yer—”
David swayed slightly, crushing the body in his arms until it seemed that every rib must break; then hurled it from him with all the strength of his passion. The little man fell with a crash and a groan.
The blaze in the corner flared up, flickered, and died. There was a hellish black darkness, and a silence of the dead.
David stood against the wall, panting, every nerve strung as tight as the ropes of a sailing ship.
In the corner lay the body of his father, limp and still; and in the room one other living thing was moving.
He clung close to the wall, pressing it with wet hands. The horror of it all, the darkness, the man in the corner, that moving thing, petrified him.
“Father!” he whispered.
There was no reply. A chair creaked at an invisible touch. Something was creeping, stealing, crawling closer.
David was afraid.
“Father!” he whispered in hoarse agony, “are you hurt?”
The words were stifled in his throat. A chair overturned with a crash; a great body struck him on the chest; a hot, poisonous breath blasted in his face, and wolfish teeth were reaching for his throat.
“Come on, Killer!” he screamed.
The horror of the suspense was past. It had come, and with it he was himself again.
Back, back, back, along the wall he was carried. His hands wrapped themselves around a hairy throat; he forced the great head with its dreadful shining eyes from him; he braced himself for the effort, lifted the huge body from his chest, and heaved it from him.
It struck the wall and fell with a soft thud.
As he recoiled, a hand clutched his ankle and tried to trip him. David kicked back and down with all his strength. There was one awful groan, and he staggered against the door and out.
There he paused, leaning against the wall to breathe.
He struck a match and lifted his foot to see where the hand had clutched him.
God! There was blood on his heel.
Then a great fear took hold of him. A cry was suffocated in his chest by the pounding of his heart.
He crept back to the kitchen door and listened.
Not a sound.
Fearfully he opened it a crack.
Silence of the tomb.
He banged it shut. It opened behind him, and that fact gave wings to his feet.
He turned and plunged out into the night, and ran for his life through the blackness. And a great owl swooped softly by and hooted mockingly:
“For your life! for your life! for your life!”
Part Five
Owd Bob of Kenmuir
22
A Man and a Girl
IN THE village, even the Black Killer and the murder on the Screes were forgotten in this new excitement. The mystery surrounding the thing, and the fact that no one knew all of its details, caused everyone to be still more curious. There had been a fight; McAdam and the Terror had been badly hurt; and David had disappeared—those were the facts. But what had started the fight no one could say.
One or two of the Dalesmen had, in fact, a shrewd suspicion. Tupper looked guilty; Jem Burton muttered, “I know how it must have been”; while, as for Long Kirby, he vanished entirely, and did not reappear till three months had passed.
Injured as he had been, McAdam was still recovered enough to appear in the Sylvester Arms on the Saturday following the battle. He entered the taproom silently, without a word to anyone; one arm was in a sling and his head was bandaged. He took a careful look at every man present; and all of them except Tammas, who was shamelessly bold, and Jim Mason, who was innocent, fidgeted beneath the stare. Maybe it was just as well for Long Kirby that he was not there.
“Anything the matter?” asked Jem, at last, rather lamely, given the obvious marks left by the fight.
“Na, na; nothing out of the ordinary,” the little man replied, chuckling. “Only David attacked me, and when I was asleep, too. And”—with a shrug—“here I am now.” He sat down, wagging his bandaged head and grinning. “Ye see he’s so playful, ma Davie. He slaps ye over the head with a chair, kicks ye in the jaw, stamps on yer belly, and all as merry as the month of May.” And they could get nothing more from him, except that if David reappeared, it was McAdam’s firm intention to hand him over to the police for attempted parricide.
“‘Brutal assault on an old man by his son!’ That will look good in the Argus; he, he! They couldn’t let
him off with less than two years, is what I’m thinking.”
No one believed the story of the incident as McAdam told it, though they kept quiet. They felt that he had brought his punishment entirely on himself. Tammas, indeed, who was always rude when he was not being funny—and, in fact, the difference between the two was not very great—told him directly: “It served you right. And I only wish he’d made an end o’ you.”
“He did his best, poor lad,” McAdam reminded him gently.
“We’ve had enough o’ you,” continued the old man, who was not about to soften his opinions. “I’m quite sorry he didn’t slice yer throat while he was at it.”
At that, McAdam raised his eyebrows, stared, and then broke into a low whistle.
“That’s it, is it?” he muttered, as though a new light was dawning on him. “Ah, now I see.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The days passed. There was still no news of the missing boy, and Maggie’s face became pitifully white and careworn.
Of course she did not believe that David had attempted to murder his father, though she knew he had been desperately tormented. Still, it was a terrible thought that he might at any moment be arrested; and in her imagination she was constantly summoning up dreadful pictures of a trial, a conviction, and all that would follow.
Then Sammel started a wild theory that the little man had murdered his son and thrown the mutilated body down the dry well at the Grange. The story was, of course, ridiculous, and, coming from a man like Sammel, might well have been tossed aside with the mockery it deserved. Yet it was the worst thing the girl had imagined; and she decided, whatever the cost, to visit the Grange, face McAdam, and discover whether he could or would relieve her constant anxiety.
She hid her intention from her father, knowing well that if she revealed it to him, he would gently but firmly forbid her to try it; and on an afternoon some two weeks after David’s disappearance, choosing her opportunity, she picked up a shawl, threw it over her head, and hurried with pounding heart out of the farm and down the slope to the Wastrel.
The little plank-bridge rattled as she trotted across it; and she ran faster for fear that someone might have heard and come to look. And, indeed, at that moment it rattled again behind her, and she turned guiltily around. It proved, however, to be only Owd Bob, sweeping after her, and she was glad.
“Comin’ with me, lad?” she asked, as the old dog cantered up, thankful to have that gray protector with her.
Around Langholm Hollow the two now ran; over the lower slopes of the Pike, still clothed in summer, until, at last, they reached the Stony Bottom. Down the bramble-covered bank of the ravine the girl slid; picked her way from stone to stone across the streamlet tinkling in that rocky bed; and scrambled up the opposite bank.
At the top, she halted and looked back. The smoke from Kenmuir was winding slowly up against the sky; to her right, the low gray cottages of the village huddled in the shelter of the Dale; far away over the Marches towered the bleak and rocky Scaur; before her rolled the swelling slopes of the Muir Pike; while behind—she glanced timidly over her shoulder—was the hill, at the top of which squatted the Grange, lifeless, cold, scowling.
Her courage failed her. In her whole life she had never spoken to McAdam. Yet she knew him well enough from all David’s stories—ay, and hated him for David’s sake. She hated him and feared him, too; feared him intensely—this terrible little man. And, with a shudder, she remembered the dim face at the window, and thought of his famous hatred of her father. But even McAdam could hardly do harm to a girl coming, broken-hearted, to look for her lover. Besides, wasn’t Owd Bob with her?
And, turning, she saw the old dog standing a little way up the hill, looking back at her as though he wondered why she was waiting. “Aren’t I enough?” the faithful gray eyes seemed to say.
“Lad, I’m afraid,” was her answer to the unspoken question.
Yet that look determined her. She clenched her teeth, drew the shawl around her, and set off running up the hill.
Soon her run slowed to a walk, the walk to a few faltering steps, and the steps to a halt. Her breath was coming painfully, and her heart pounded against her side like the wing beats of a caged bird. Again her gray guardian looked up, urging her to come forward.
“Keep close, lad,” she whispered, starting on again. And the old dog loped up beside her, pushing against her skirt, as though to let her feel his presence.
So they reached the top of the hill; and the house stood before them, grim, unfriendly.
The girl’s face was now quite white, yet determined; she looked very much like her father. With her lips pressed together, breathing fast, she crossed the threshold of the entryway, stepping softly as though entering a house of the dead. There she paused and lifted a warning finger at Owd Bob, asking him to stay outside; then she turned to the door on the left of the entrance and tapped.
She listened, her head wrapped in the shawl, close to the wood paneling. There was no answer; she could hear only the drumming of her heart.
She knocked again. From inside came the scraping of a chair cautiously shoved back, followed by a deep-mouthed, echoing growl.
Her heart stood still, but she turned the handle and entered, leaving a crack open behind.
On the far side of the room, a little man was sitting. His head was bound in dirty bandages, and a bottle was on the table beside him. He was leaning forward; his face was gray, and he stared with naked horror in his eyes. One hand grasped the great dog, who stood at his side with yellow teeth glinting and muzzle hideously wrinkled; with the other he pointed a trembling finger at her.
“My God! Who are ye?” he cried hoarsely.
The girl stood close against the door, her fingers still on the handle; trembling like an aspen tree at the sight of that eerie pair.
The look in the little man’s eyes terrified her: his swollen pupils; his eyelids, bare of eyelashes and yawning wide; the broken row of teeth in his gaping mouth, froze her very soul. Rumors of the man’s insanity flooded back into her memory.
“I’m—I—” the words came in quivering gasps.
At the first word, however, the little man’s hand dropped; he leaned back in his chair and gave a sigh of relief from the bottom of his soul.
No woman had crossed that threshold since his wife died; and, for a moment, when the girl had first entered on silent feet, and awoke him from dreaming of days long past, he had thought this figure wrapped in her shawl, with her pale face and locks of hair peeping out, was no earthly visitor, but the spirit of the one he had loved so long ago and lost, come to blame him for breaking his word.
“Speak up, I can’t hear,” he said, in tones that were mild compared with those last wild words.
“I—I’m Maggie Moore,” the girl quavered.
“Moore! Maggie Moore, d’ye say?” he cried, half rising from his chair, a flush of color sweeping across his face, “the daughter of James Moore?” He paused for an answer, staring angrily at her; and she shrank, trembling, against the door.
The little man leaned back in his chair. Gradually a grim smile crept across his face.
“Well, Maggie Moore,” he said, half amused, “you’ve got pluck, anyway.” And his withered face looked at her almost kindly from beneath its dirty crown of bandages.
At that, the girl’s courage returned with a rush. After all, this little man was not so very terrible. Perhaps he would be kind. And in the relief of the moment, the blood swept back into her face.
There was not to be peace yet, however. The blush was still hot upon her cheeks, when she caught the patter of soft steps in the passageway outside. A dark muzzle flecked with gray pushed in at the crack of the door; two anxious gray eyes followed.
Before she could wave him back, Red Wull had seen the intruder. With a roar, he tore himself from his master’s hand, and dashed across the room.
“Back, Bob!” screamed Maggie, and the dark head retreated. The door slammed with a crash as the great d
og flung himself against it, and Maggie was hurled, breathless and white-faced, into a corner.
McAdam was on his feet, pointing with a shriveled finger, a fiendish expression on his face.
“Did you bring him? Did you bring that to my door?”
Maggie huddled in the corner, shaking with fear. Her eyes gleamed big and black in the white face peering from the shawl.
Red Wull was now beside her, snarling horribly. With his nose to the bottom of the door and his paws busy, he was trying to get out; while, on the other side, Owd Bob, also snuffling at the crack, scratched and pleaded to get in. Only two miserable inches of wood separated the pair.
“I brought him to protect me. I—I was afraid.”
McAdam sat down and laughed abruptly.
“Afraid! I’m surprised you weren’t afraid to bring him here. It’s the first time he’s ever set foot on my land, and it had best be the last time.” He turned to the great dog. “Wullie, Wullie, do ye hear me?” he called. “Come here. Lay ye down—so—under my chair—good lad. Now’s not the time to settle with him”—nodding toward the door. “We can wait for that, Wullie; we can wait.” Then, turning to Maggie, “If ye want him to make a show at the Trials two months from now, he’d best not come here again. If he does, he’ll not leave my land alive; Wullie will see to that. Now, what is it ye want of me?”
The girl in the corner, scared almost out of her senses by this last occurrence, remained silent.
McAdam saw her hesitation and grinned scornfully.
“I see how it is,” he said; “yer dad sent ye. Once before he wanted something from me, and did he come to get it himself like a man? Not he. He sent the son to rob the father.” Then, leaning forward in his chair and glaring at the girl, “Ay, and more than that! The night the lad attacked me he came”—speaking each word with hissing distinctness—“straight from Kenmuir!” He paused and stared at her intently, and she was still silent before him. “If I’d been killed, Wullie’d not have been allowed to compete for the Cup. With Adam McAdam’s Red Wull out of the way—now do ye see? Now do ye understand?”
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 17
