Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle

by Alfred Ollivant

  “Well done, James! Well done, indeed! Knew you’d win! told you so—eh, eh!” Then, playfully, to Owd Bob: “Knew you would, Robert, old man! Ought to—Robert the Devil—mustn’t be a naughty boy—eh, eh!”

  “The first time ever the Dale Cup’s been won outright!” said the Parson, “and I daresay it never will be again. And I think Kenmuir’s the very fittest place for its final home, and a Gray Dog of Kenmuir for its winner.”

  “Oh, by the way!” the Squire interrupted. “I’ve arranged for the Manor dinner to be two weeks from today, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? I want all the tenants there.” He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute had fought his way back. “I’d forgotten something!” he shouted. “Tell your Maggie perhaps you’ll have news for her after it—eh, eh!”—and he was gone again.

  Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face at his elbow.

  “I must congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye beat us—you and the gentlemen—you and the judges.”

  “It was a close thing, McAdam,” the other answered. “And you made a grand fight. In all my life I never saw a finer turn than yours by the two flags yonder. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “Hard feelings! Me? Is it likely? No, no. ‘Do unto every man as he does unto you—and something more besides,’ that’s my motto. I owe ye many a good turn, which I’ll pay ye yet. No, no; there’s no good quarreling with fate—or with judges. Well, I wish you well for your victory. Perhaps it’ll be our turn next.”

  Then a rush of men, headed by Sammel, roughly hustled little McAdam out of the way and bore the other one off on their shoulders in noisy triumph.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettier speech than ever. Yet all the while she was haunted by a white, miserable face; and all the while she was conscious of two black moving dots in the Murk Muir Pass opposite her—alone, abandoned, a contrast to the cheering crowd around her.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-renowned Shepherds’ Trophy, came to rest for good and all; won outright by the last of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir—Owd Bob.

  Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs will now be told.

  Part Six

  The Black Killer

  CHAPTER 26

  Red-Handed

  THE SUN was hiding behind the Pike. Over the lowlands, the feathery breath of the night still hovered. And the hillside was shivering in the chill of dawn.

  Down on the silvery meadow beside the Stony Bottom there lay the ruffled body of a dead sheep. All around the victim, the dewy ground was dark and patchy like rumpled velvet; coarse ferns trampled down; stones dislodged as though by struggling feet; and the whole spotted with red on all sides.

  Twenty or so yards up the hill, in a twisting and turning confusion of red and gray, two dogs had death-holds on each other. While yet higher, a pack of wild-eyed hill-sheep watched the bloody drama, fascinated.

  The fight raged on. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the crimson foam dripping from their jaws; now rearing up high with arching crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, twisting disorder—the two fought out their blood-feud.

  Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, edging nearer and nearer to see the outcome. In just this way, the women of Rome must have craned their necks around the arenas to see two men fighting to the death.

  The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the morning peered, horrified, over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping valley there arose the yodeling of a man driving his cattle home.

  Day was upon them.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  James Moore was waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window. He leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for he knew that the old dog would not be calling for no reason.

  “Lord o’ mercy! Whatever’s happened to you, Owd One?” he cried in anguish. And, indeed, his favorite, splotched with blood and earth, almost unrecognizable, was a pitiful sight.

  In a moment, the Master was downstairs and out of the house, examining him.

  “Poor old lad, you’ve caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged tear on the dog’s cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood still came out, staining the white patch on his chest; while his head and neck were clotted with the red.

  The Master quickly called for Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, nightgown-wearing, barefooted figure appeared wide-eyed in the doorway, and then ran off screaming.

  They treated the old warrior on the table in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds and bandaged them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master’s face as if begging to be gone.

  “He must have had a rare fight with someone—eh, dad?” said the girl as she worked.

  “Ay; and with whom? It wasn’t for nothing he got into a fight, I’m sure. Nay; he has a tale to tell, has the Owd Un, and— Ah-h-h! I thought as much. Look there!” For in bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster of tawny red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.

  The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. There was only one creature in the Daleland they could belong to—“The Tailless Tyke.”

  “He must have been trespassing!” cried Andrew.

  “Ay, and up to some of his bloody work, I’ll bet my life,” the Master answered. “But the Owd Un shall show us.”

  The old dog’s hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed possible. His good gray coat, thick as a forest around his throat, had never been so useful to him. And at last, the wounds washed and sewn up, he jumped down from the table, all in a hurry, and made for the door.

  “Now, old lad, you may show us,” said the Master, and, with Andrew, hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and over Langholm Hollow. And as they came near the Stony Bottom, the sheep, clustering in groups, raised frightened heads to stare.

  Suddenly, a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, before them; and there in a hollow of the ground lay a murdered sheep. Abandoned by its comrades, the glassy eyes staring helplessly upward, the throat horribly torn, it slept its last sleep.

  The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited Kenmuir.

  “I guessed as much,” said the Master, standing over the mangled body. “Well, it’s the worst night’s work the Killer has ever done. I suppose the Owd Un must have come upon him while he was at it; and then they fought. And my word! It must have been quite a fight, too.” For all around were traces of that terrible struggle: the earth torn up and tossed, ferns uprooted, and throughout, little tufts of wool and of tawny hair, mingling with dark-stained iron-gray wisps.

  James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as though he were searching for clues. And searching he was.

  He bent down a long time, and finally stood up.

  “The Killer has killed his last,” he muttered; “Red Wull has done his worst and will do no more.” Then, turning to Andrew: “Run on home, lad, and get the men to carry that away”—pointing to the carcass. “And Bob, lad, you’ve done your work for today, and right well, too; go on home with him. I’m off to see to this!”

  He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a rock. At last the proof was in his hand. Once and for all, the hill country would be rid of its killer.

  As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two big gray eyes, half doubting, half remorseful, wholly wistful, looked up at him, and the silvery brush of his waving tail signaled a silent request.

  “Eh, Owd One, yo’ should have gone with Andrew,” the Master said. “However, since yo’re here, come along.” And he walked on up the hill, his thin face hard and threatening, with the gray dog at his heels.

  As they came near the house, McAdam was standing in the doorway, sucking
his twig as always. James Moore looked at him closely as he came, but the sour face framed in the door revealed nothing. Sarcasm, surprise, defiance were all written there, plain to read; but no guilty awareness of why James Moore had come, no storm of passion to hide a frightened heart. If this was an act, it was very well done.

  As man and dog passed through the opening in the hedge, the expression on the little man’s face changed again. He started forward.

  “James Moore, as I live!” he cried, and advanced with both hands out, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. “Indeed, it has been a long while since ye’ve honored my poor house.” And, in fact, it was nearly twenty years. “I take it most kind in ye to look in on a lonely old man. Come along in and let’s have a chat. James Moore knows very well how welcome he always is in my little home.”

  The Master ignored the greeting.

  “One of my sheep has been killed in back of the Dyke,” he announced shortly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “The Killer?”

  “The Killer.”

  The friendliness beaming in every wrinkle of the little man’s face was transformed into wondering interest; and that in turn gave way to sorrowful sympathy.

  “Dear, dear! It’s come to that, has it—at last?” he said gently, and his eyes wandered to the gray dog and rested sadly upon him. “Man, I’m sorry—I can’t tell ye I’m surprised. Myself, I knew it all along. But if Adam McAdam had told ye, ye wouldn’t have believed him. Well, well, he’s lived his life, if any dog ever did; and now he must go where he has sent many before him. Poor man! Poor dog!” He heaved a sigh, deeply melancholy, tender, and sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: “Ye’ve come to get the gun?”

  James Moore listened to this speech, at first puzzled. Then he understood McAdam’s meaning, and his eyes flashed.

  “Ye fool, McAdam! Did ye ever hear of a sheepdog attacking his own master’s sheep?”

  The little man was smiling and calm again now, rubbing his hands softly together.

  “Ye’re right, I never did. But your dog is not like other dogs—’There’s none like him—none,’ I’ve heard ye say so yerself, many a time. And I say you’re right. There’s none like him—for devilment.” His voice began to quiver and his face to blaze. “It’s his cursed cleverness that has fooled everyone but me—child of Satan that he is!” He stood up to his tall adversary. “If it wasn’t him, who else would have done it?” he asked, looking up into the other’s face as if daring him to speak.

  The Master’s shaggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the other like the Muir Pike above its surrounding hills.

  “Who, ye ask?” he answered coldly, “and I’ll tell you. Your Red Wull, McAdam, your Red Wull. It’s your Wull that’s the Black Killer! It’s your Wull that has been the plague of the land all these months! It’s your Wull that has killed my sheep back there!”

  At that, all the little man’s false good humor vanished.

  “Ye lie, man! Ye lie!” he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to his antagonist. “I knew how ’twould be. I said so. I see what ye’re up to. Ye’ve found out at last—blind as ye’ve been!—that it’s your own hell’s tyke that’s the Killer; and now ye think by yer lyin’ accusations to throw the blame on my Wullie. Ye rob me of my Cup, ye rob me of my son, ye treat me unfairly in everything; I have only one thing left to me—Wullie. And now ye want to take him away, too. But ye shall not—I’ll kill ye first!”

  He was shaking, bobbing up and down like a cork in water, and almost sobbing.

  “Have ye not wronged me enough without that? You long-legged liar, with yer skulking, murdering tyke!” he cried. “You say it’s Wullie. Where’s yer proof?”—and he snapped his fingers in the other man’s face.

  The Master was now as calm as his foe was passionate. “Where?” he answered sternly; “why, there!”—holding out his right hand. “There’s proof enough to hang a hundred.” And lying in his broad palm was a little bundle of that damning red hair.

  “Where?”

  “There!”

  “Let’s see it!” The little man bent to look closer.

  “There’s what I think of yer proof!” he cried, and he spat straight down into the other man’s bare palm. Then he stood back, facing his enemy in a way that would have earned him respect, if his act had been a nobler one.

  James Moore stepped forward. It looked as if he were about to make an end of his miserable adversary, so angry was he. His chest heaved and his blue eyes blazed. But just when it seemed that he would take his foe in the hollow of his hand and crush him, who should come stalking around the corner of the house but the Tailless Tyke?

  He was a pathetic sight, laughable even at that moment. He limped badly, his head and neck were wrapped in bandages, and beneath their ragged edges the little eyes gleamed out fiery and bloodshot.

  Around the corner he came, unaware of strangers; then, immediately recognizing his visitors, he stopped short. His hackles went up, each hair stood on end till his whole body looked like a newly mown wheat field; and a snarl, like a rusty brake shoved down hard, escaped from between his teeth. Then he trotted heavily forward, his head sinking lower and lower as he came.

  And Owd Bob, eager to accept the challenge of a fight, stepped forward, glad and brave, to meet him. Delicately he picked his way across the yard, head and tail up, perfectly calm. Only the long gray hair around his neck stood up like the great collar of a noble lady in the court of Queen Elizabeth.

  But the battle-weary warriors were not going to be allowed to have their way.

  “Wullie, Wullie, stop!” cried the little man.

  “Bob, lad, come in!” called the other. Then he turned and looked down at the man beside him, scorn showing in every feature of his face.

  “Well?” he said shortly.

  McAdam’s hands were opening and shutting; his face was quite pale beneath his sun-browned skin; but he spoke calmly.

  “I’ll tell ye the whole story, and it’s the truth,” he said slowly. “I was up there this morning”—pointing to the window above—“and I saw Wullie crouching down alongside the Stony Bottom. (Ye know he can run free on my land at night, same as your dog.) In a minute, I saw another dog coming along on your side of the Bottom. He creeps up to the sheep on the hillside, chases ’em, and knocks one down to the ground. The sun was risen by then, and I see the dog clear as I see you now. It was that dog there—I swear it!” His voice rose as he spoke, and he pointed an accusing finger at Owd Bob.

  “Now, Wullie! I thought. And before you could clap yer hands, Wullie was over the Bottom and onto him as he gorged himself—the bloody-minded murderer! They fought and fought—I could hear the roaring where I stood. I watched till I could watch no longer, and, all in a sweat, I ran down the stairs and out. When I got there, there was yer tyke racing for Kenmuir, and Wullie coming up the hill to me. It’s God’s truth, I’m telling ye. Take him home, James Moore, and let his dinner be an ounce o’ lead. It will be the best day’s work ye ever done.”

  The little man had to be lying—clearly lying. Yet he spoke with an earnestness, a seeming belief in his own story, that might have convinced anyone who did not know him so well. But the Master only looked down on him with greater scorn.

  “It’s Monday today,” he said coldly. “I’ll give ye till Saturday. If you’ve not done your duty by then—and you know very well what it is—I shall come and do it for ye. In any case, I shall come and see. I’ll remind ye again on Thursday—you’ll be at the Manor dinner, I suppose. Now I’ve warned yo’, and you know best whether I mean it or not. Bob, lad!”

  He turned away, but turned back again.

  “I’m sorry for ye, but I have to do my duty—and so have you. Till Saturday I shall breathe no word to any soul about this business, so that if you see good to put him out of the way without bother, no one need ever know as how Adam McAdam’s Red Wull was the Black Killer.”

  He turned away for the second time. But the little man sprang
after him, and clutched him by the arm.

  “Look ye here, James Moore!” he cried in a thick, shaky, horrible voice. “You’re big, I’m small; you’re strong, I’m weak; you have everyone behind you, I have no one; you tell your story, and they’ll believe ye—for you go to church; I tell mine, and they’ll think I’m lying—for I don’t. But one word in your ear! If ever again I catch ye on my land, by God!”—he swore a great oath—“I won’t spare you. You know best if I mean it or not.” And his face was dreadful to see in its hideous determination.

  CHAPTER 27

  For the Defense

  THAT NIGHT, a vague story was whispered in the Sylvester Arms. But Tammas, when he was questioned, pursed his lips and said: “Nay, I’ve sworn to say nothing.” Which was the old man’s way of declaring that he knew nothing.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down dressed in their best clothes. It was the day of the Squire’s annual dinner for his tenants.

  The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until they had been thoroughly inspected by Maggie; for the girl liked her menfolk to represent Kenmuir honorably on these occasions. So she brushed Andrew’s jacket, tied his scarf, saw that his boots and hands were clean, and generally neatened him up till she had changed the awkward adolescent into a thoroughly “proper young man.”

  And all the while, she was thinking of that other boy—on such gala days, she had done the same for him. And her father, seeing the tears in her eyes, and remembering the Squire’s mysterious hint, said gently:

  “Cheer up, lass. I might have news for you tonight!”

  The girl nodded, and smiled sadly.

  “Maybe so, dad,” she said. But in her heart she was doubtful.

  Still, it was with a cheerful face that, a little later, she stood in the door with little Anne and Owd Bob and waved goodbye to the travelers; while the golden-haired girl, fiercely gripping the old dog’s tail with one hand and her sister with the other, cried out to them a wordless farewell.