Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle

by Alfred Ollivant

  The day’s competitions began with the Local Stakes, won by Rob Saunderson’s experienced old dog, Shep. There followed the Open Juveniles, won by Ned Hoppin’s young dog. It was late in the afternoon when, at last, the great event of the meeting was reached.

  In the enclosure behind the Dalesman’s Daughter, the clamor of the crowd grew to be ten times as great, and the yells of the bookmakers announcing the odds on the bets became still louder.

  “Walk up, gen’lemen, walk up! The old firm! Rasper? Yessir—twenty to one, bar two! Twenty to one, bar two! Bob? What price Bob? Even money, sir—no, not a penny longer, couldn’t do it! Red Wull? Who says Red Wull?”

  On the far side of the stream, clustered around the starting flag, is the finest range of sheepdogs ever seen together.

  “I’ve never seen such a field, and I’ve seen fifty,” is Parson Leggy’s conclusion.

  There, beside the tall form of his master, stands Owd Bob of Kenmuir, watched by everyone. His silvery tail fans the air, and he holds his dark head high as he gazes at his challengers, proudly aware that today will make his fame or spoil it. Below him, the mean-looking, smooth-coated black dog is the unbeaten Pip, winner of the renowned Cambrian Stakes at Llagollen—many think him the best of all the good dogs that have come from sheep-dotted Wales. Beside him, that handsome sable collie, with the tremendous coat and slash of white on throat and face, is the famous MacCallum More, fresh from his victory at the Highland contest. The hearty brown dog, who seems to be of many breeds, is from Yorkshire, the land of the Tykes—Merry, on whom the Yorkshiremen are betting as though they loved him. And Jess, the wiry black-and-tan, is the favorite of the men of the Derwent and Dove. Tupper’s big blue Rasper is there; Londesley’s Lassie; and many more—too many to mention: big and small, grand and mean, smooth and rough—and not a bad dog there.

  And alone, his back to the others, stands a stooped little figure, very noticeable indeed—Adam McAdam; while the great dog beside him, hideously scowling his defiance, is Red Wull, the Terror of the Border.

  The Tailless Tyke had already shown what a fighter he was. For MacCallum More, going up to examine this great rival who stood there so alone, had right away taken a violent dislike to him, and had spun at him with all the fury of the Highland bandit, who attacks first and explains afterward. Red Wull had immediately turned on him with savage, silent greed; bob-tailed Rasper was racing up to join in the attack; and in another second the three would have been locked together and no one could have separated them—but just in time McAdam stepped in and stopped them.

  One of the judges came hurrying up.

  “Mr. McAdam,” he cried angrily, “if that brute of yours starts fighting again, hang me if I don’t throw him out of the competition! Only last year at the Trials he killed the young Cossack dog.”

  A dull flash of passion swept across McAdam’s face. “Come here, Wullie!” he called. “If that Highland tyke attacks ye again, ye’re to be tossed out of the Trial.”

  No one paid any attention to him. The battle for the Cup had begun—little Pip starting it off.

  On the opposite slope, the uproar had died down now. Trades people left their goods, and the bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eye was fixed upon the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep on the far side of the stream.

  One after another, the competitors ran their course and penned their sheep—there wasn’t a single failure. And all of them received their fair reward of applause, except for Adam McAdam’s Red Wull.

  Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to defend his title, there rose a shout that made Maggie’s pale cheeks blush with pleasure and little Anne scream at the top of her lungs.

  His was a show beyond compare with any other. Sheep should be handled gently rather than hurried; persuaded, rather than forced. And when a sheepdog can subdue his own personality, when he can lead his sheep by pretending that they are leading him, then he has reached the high point of his art. The hearts of the Dalesmen swelled with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; Tammas pulled out that well-worn phrase of his—“As clever as any person, and as gentle as the spring sunshine”; the crowd bawled their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby puffed his cheeks and rattled the money in his trousers pockets; and rightly so.

  But it is enough to say, about this part of the contest, that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull were chosen to fight out the struggle one more time.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The course was changed and made more difficult. On the far side of the stream it was the same as before: up the slope; around a flag; down the hill again; through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down between the two flags; a turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was taken away from its earlier position, carried over the bridge, and up the near slope, and the hurdles were put together right below the spectators.

  The sheep had to be driven over the plank-bridge, and the penning was done beneath the very nose of the crowd. A difficult course, if ever there was one; and the time allowed was ten short minutes.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The spectators hustled and elbowed in their attempts to move into a good position. And they were right to do so; what was about to begin was the finest show of sheep-handling that anyone there would ever see.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Evan Jones and little Pip were the first to go.

  Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked together as they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a racing boat in Southampton Water; around the flag, through the gap, they brought their sheep. Down between the two flags—performing that awkward turn very well; and back to the bridge.

  There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow plank. Once, twice, and again, they broke and scattered; and each time the gallant little Pip, his tongue out and tail quivering, brought them back to the head of the bridge.

  At last one faced it; then another, and—but it was too late. The time was up. The judges signaled; and the Welshman called off his dog and left the course.

  Out of sight of everyone, in a hollow of the ground, Evan Jones sat down and took the small dark head between his knees—and you may be sure the dog’s heart was as heavy as the man’s. “We did our best, Pip,” he cried brokenly, “but we’re beat—for the first time ever!”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  There was no time to linger.

  James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run.

  There was no applause this time; not a voice was raised; faces were anxious; fingers twitched; the whole crowd was tense as a stretched wire. One wrong turn, one stubborn sheep, one ill-tempered judge, and the gray dog would be beaten. And everyone there knew it.

  Yet on the far side of the stream, master and dog went about their business as quietly as never before, as calmly as never before; it was as though they were rounding up a flock of their own on the Muir Pike.

  The old dog found his sheep in a twinkling of the eye, and a wild, scared threesome they turned out to be. Rounding the first flag, one bright-eyed fellow made a dash for the open. He was quick; but the gray dog was quicker: it was a splendid recovery, and a sound like a sob came up from the people watching on the hill.

  Down the slope they came toward the gap in the wall. A little below the opening, James Moore took up his position to stop them and turn them; while some distance behind his sheep Owd Bob came slowly along, seeming to follow them rather than drive them, yet watchful of every movement and knowing in advance what they were going to do. On he came, one eye on his master, the other on his sheep; never hurrying them, never exciting them, yet bringing them quickly along.

  Not a word was spoken; barely a movement of the hand or arm was made; yet master and dog worked like a single being.

  Through the gap, along the hill parallel to the spectators, playing into one another’s hands like a team at polo.

  They made a wide sweep for the turn at the flags, and the sheep wheeled as though obeying a command, dropped through them, an
d traveled rapidly toward the bridge.

  “Steady!” whispered the crowd.

  “Steady, man!” muttered Parson Leggy.

  “Hold ’em, for God’s sake!” croaked Kirby, his voice hoarse. “Damn! I knew it! I saw it coming!”

  The pace down the hill had grown quicker—too quick. Close to the bridge, the three sheep made an effort to break and scatter. A dash—and two were stopped; but the third went away like the wind, and after him Owd Bob, a gray streak against the green grass. Tammas was cursing silently; Kirby was white to his lips; and in the stillness, you could plainly hear the Dalesmen’s panting breath as it fluttered in their throats.

  “Gallop! They say he’s old and slow!” muttered the Parson. “Dash! Look at that!” For the gray dog, racing like a storm over the sea, had already brought the runaway back again.

  Man and dog were coaxing the three sheep one step at a time toward the bridge.

  One dared to step onto it—the others followed.

  In the middle, the leader stopped and tried to turn—and time was flying, flying, and there was still to come the penning of the sheep, which alone would take minutes. Many hands were reaching for their watches, but they could not take their eyes off the group below to look.

  “We’re beaten! I’ve won my bet, Tammas!” groaned Sammel. (The two had a long-standing bet on the event.) “I always knew how ’twould be. I always told you the owd tyke—” Then breaking into a bellow, his honest face red with enthusiasm: “Come on, Master! Good for you, Owd One! That’s the way!”

  For gray dog had leapt on the back of the sheep farthest behind; it had plowed forward against the next, and they were over the bridge and going up the slope in the midst of a thunder of applause.

  At the pen, it was a sight to see shepherd and dog working together. The Master, his face stern and a little whiter than usual, reaching forward with both hands, herding the sheep in; the gray dog, his eyes big and bright, dropping to the ground; crawling and creeping, closer and closer.

  “They’re in!—No—Yes—dang me! Stop ’er! Good, Owd Un! Ah-h-h, they’re in!” And the last sheep reluctantly passed through—just on the stroke of time.

  A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie’s white face turned pink; and the Dalesmen mopped their wet foreheads. The crowd surged forward, but the stewards held them back.

  “Back, please! Don’t pass the barriers! McAdam’s still to come!”

  From the far bank, the little man watched the scene. His coat and cap were off, and his hair gleamed white in the sun; his sleeves were rolled up; and his face was twitching but calm, as he stood—ready.

  The uproar over the stream at last died down. One of the judges nodded to him.

  “Now, Wullie—now or never!—‘Scots wha hae’!”—and they were off.

  “Back, gentlemen! Back! He’s off—he’s coming! McAdam’s coming!”

  They might well shout and push; for the great dog was on to his sheep before they knew it; and they went away with a rush, with him right on their backs. Up the slope they swept and around the first flag, already galloping. Down the hill toward the gap, and McAdam was flying ahead to turn them. But they passed him like a hurricane, and Red Wull was in front with a rush and turned them alone.

  “McAdam wins! Five to four McAdam! I bet against Owd Bob!” rang out a clear voice in the silence.

  Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wings of game birds driven by the hunt.

  “He’s lost ’em! They’ll break! They’re away!” was the cry.

  Sammel was halfway up the wheel of the Kenmuir wagon; every man was on his toes; ladies were standing in their carriages; even Jim Mason’s face flushed with momentary excitement.

  The sheep were tearing along the hillside, all together, like a white cloud driven by the wind. After them, galloping like a winner of the famous Waterloo dog race, came Red Wull. And last of all, leaping over the ground like a demon, heading not toward the two flags, but toward the plank-bridge, was the white-haired figure of McAdam.

  “He’s beat! The Killer’s beat!” roared a harsh voice.

  Red Wull was now racing parallel to the sheep and above them. All four were traveling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely twenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to it. To manage the turn, a change of direction had to be made almost at a right angle.

  “He’s beat! He’s beat! McAdam’s beat! He can’t make it nohow!” was the roar.

  From across the stream came a yell—

  “Turn ’em, Wullie!”

  At the word, the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned, still at the gallop, like a troop of horsemen, and came down through, clean and neat, between the flags; and on down to the stream they rattled, passing McAdam on the way as though he were standing still.

  “Well done, Wullie!” came the scream from the far bank; and from the crowd rose a burst of applause, for they were clapping in spite of themselves.

  “My word!”

  “Did you see that?”

  “By gob!”

  It was a turn, indeed, to make the smartest team of galloping horsemen proud. If he had been just a moment later, the sheep would have been too far past to strike the mark; a moment sooner, and they would have missed it.

  “It hasn’t been even two minutes so far. We’re beaten—don’t you think so, Uncle Leggy?” asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up sadly into the parson’s face.

  “It’s not what I think, my dear; it’s what the judges think,” the parson answered; and anyone could read, plainly written on his face, what he thought their verdict would be.

  Right on to the center of the bridge the lead sheep galloped and—stopped short.

  Up above in the crowd, there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigid fingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby’s face; and, at the back, a green-coated bookmaker slipped his notebook in his pocket, and glanced behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was the calmest one there.

  Red Wull had to have his way. Like the gray dog, he leapt on the back of the sheep farthest behind. But the red dog was heavy, whereas the gray dog was light. The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell.

  Almost before it had touched the water, McAdam, his face blazing and eyes bright, was in the stream. In a second, he had hold of the struggling creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half shoved it onto the bank.

  Again there was a round of applause, led by James Moore.

  The little man scrambled, panting, onto the bank and raced after sheep and dog. His face was white beneath the sweat; his breath came in trembling gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he was shaking in every part of his body, and yet he would not be beaten.

  They were up to the pen, and the last struggle began. The crowd, silent and motionless, craned forward to watch the strange, white-haired little man and the huge dog, working so close below them. McAdam’s face was white; his eyes staring, unnaturally bright; his bent body leaning forward; and he tapped with his stick on the ground like a blind man, coaxing the sheep in. And the Tailless Tyke, his tongue out and sides heaving, crept and crawled and worked his way up to the opening, more patient than he had ever been before.

  They were in at last.

  There was a lukewarm, half-hearted cheer; then silence.

  Exhausted and trembling, the little man leaned against the pen, one hand on it; while Red Wull, his sides still heaving, gently licked the other hand. Quite close stood James Moore and the gray dog; above was the black wall of people, utterly still; below, the judges comparing notes. In the silence you could almost hear the panting of the crowd.

  Then one of the judges went up to James Moore and shook him by the hand.

  The gray dog had won. Owd Bob of Kenmuir had won the Shepherds’ Trophy for good.

  There was a second of quivering silence; then a woman’s high-pitched laugh—and a deep bellow rang out through the waiting air: foll
owed by shouts, screams, hat-tossings, back-clappings, blending in a noise that made the many-winding waters of the Silver Lea quiver and quiver again.

  Owd Bob of Kenmuir had won the Shepherds’ Trophy for good and all.

  Maggie’s face flushed red. Little Anne flung her fat arms toward her triumphant Bob, and screamed with the best of them. Squire and parson, both red-cheeked, were shaking hands wildly. Long Kirby, who had not prayed for thirty years, exclaimed with heartfelt earnestness, “Thank God!” Sammel Todd bellowed in Tammas’s ear, and almost killed him with his pounding. Among the Dalesmen some laughed like drunken men; some cried like children; all joined in that roaring song of victory.

  To little McAdam, standing with his back to the crowd, that storm of cheering came as the first announcement of defeat.

  A wintry smile, like the sun over a March sea, crept across his face.

  “We might have known it, Wullie,” he muttered, soft and low. The tension eased, the battle lost, the little man almost broke down. There were red spots of color in his face; his eyes were big; his lips pitifully quivering; he was close to sobbing.

  An old man—utterly alone—he had put everything he had into this one last chance—and lost.

  Lady Eleanour noticed the wretched little figure standing alone on the edge of the wild mob. She noticed the expression on his face; and her tender heart went out to the man in his defeat.

  She went up to him and laid a hand upon his arm.

  “Mr. McAdam,” she said timidly, “won’t you come and sit down in the tent? You look so tired! I can find you a corner where no one shall disturb you.”

  The little man wrenched his arm roughly away. The unexpected kindness, coming at that moment, was almost too much for him. A few steps away, he turned again.

  “It’s very kind of yer ladyship,” he said hoarsely; and stumbled away to be alone with Red Wull.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Meanwhile, the victors stood like rocks in the tide. About them surged a continually changing crowd, shaking the man’s hand, patting the dog.

  Maggie had carried little Anne to offer her congratulations; Long Kirby had come; Tammas, Saunderson, Hoppin, Tupper, Londesley—all but Jim Mason; and now, elbowing through the press, came Squire and parson.