Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (classic literature list TXT) 📖

‘twixt heaven and earth, he seemed a million miles apart from living soul.

No sound, and yet the murderer must be there. Ay, there was the tinkle of a dislodged stone; and again, the tread of stealthy feet.

The Killer was moving; alarmed; was off.

Quick!

He rose to his full height; gathered himself, and leapt.

Something collided with him as he sprang; something wrestled madly with him; something wrenched from beneath him; and in a clap he heard the thud of a body striking ground far below, and the slithering and splattering of some creature speeding furiously down the hillside and away.

“Who the blazes?” roared he.

“What the devil?” screamed a little voice.

The moon shone out.

“Moore!”

“M’Adam!”

And there they were still struggling over the body of a dead sheep.

In a second they had disengaged and rushed to the edge of the Fall. In the quiet they could still hear the scrambling hurry of the fugitive far below them. Nothing was to be seen, however, save an array of startled sheep on the hillside, mute witnesses of the murderer’s escape.

The two men turned and eyed each other; the one grim, the other sardonic: both dishevelled and suspicious.

“Well?”

Weel?”

A pause and, careful scrutiny.

“There’s blood on your coat.”

“And on yours~”

Together they walked hack into the little moonlit hollow. There lay the murdered sheep in a pool of blood. Plain it was to see whence the marks on their coats came. M’Adam touched the victim’s head with his~ foot. The movement exposed its throat,. With a shudder he replaced it as it was.

The two men stood back and eyed one another.

“What are yo’ doin’ here?”

“After the Killer. What are you?”

“After the Killer?”

“Hoo did you come?”

“Up this path,” pointing to the one behind him. “Hoo did you?”

“Up this.”

Silence; then again:

“I’d ha’ had him but for yo’.”

“I did have him, but ye tore me aff,”

A pause again.

“Where’s yer gray dog?” This time the challenge was unmistakable.

“I sent him after the Killer. Wheer’s your Red Wull?”

“At hame, as I tell’t ye before.”

“Yo’ mean yo’ left him there?” M’Adams’ fingers twitched.

“He’s where I left him.”

James Moore shrugged his shoulders. And the other began:

“When did yer dog leave ye?”

“When the Killer came past.”

“Ye wad say ye missed him then?”

“I say what I mean.”

“Ye say he went after the Killer. Noo the Killer was here,” pointing to the dead sheep. “Was your dog here, too?”

“If he had been he’d been here still.”

“Onless he went over the Fall!”

“That was the Killer, yo’ fule.”

“Or your dog.”

“There was only one beneath me. I felt him.”

“Just so,” said M’Adam, and laughed. The other’s brow contracted.

“An’ that was a big un,” he said slowly. The little man stopped his cackling.

“There ye lie,” he said, smoothly. “He was small.”

They looked one another full in the eyes.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said the Mas-. ter.

“It’s a matter of fact,” said the other. The two stared at one another, silent and stern, each trying to fathom the other’s soul; then they turned again to the brink of the. Fall. Beneath them, plain to see, was the splash and furrow in the shingle marking the Killer’s line of retreat. They looked at one another again, and then each departed the way he had come to give his version of the story.

‘If Th’ Owd Un had kept wi’ me, I should Iha’ had him.”

And— “I tell ye I did have him, but James Moore :~~ulled me aff. Strange, too, his dog not bein’ —‘him!”

Chapter XXII A MAN AND A MAID

IN the village even the Black Killer and the murder on the Screes were forgotten in this new sensation. The mystery in which the affair was wrapped, and the ignorance as to all its details, served to whet the general interest. There had been a fight; M’Adam and the Terror had been mauled; and David had disappeared—those were the facts. But what was the origin of the affray no one could say.

One or two of the Dalesmen had, indeed, a shrewd suspicion. Tupper looked guilty; Jem Burton muttered, “I knoo hoo ‘twould be”; while as for Long Kirby, he vanished entirely, not to reappear till three months had sped.

Injured as he had been, M’Adam was yet sufficiently recovered to appear in the Sylvester Arms on the Saturday following the battle. He entered the tap-room silently with never a word to a soul; one arm was in a sling and his head bandaged. He eyed every man present critically; and all, except Tammas, who was brazen, and Jim Mason, who was innocent, fidgeted beneath the stare. Maybe it was well for Long Kirby he was not there.

“Onythin’ the matter? ” asked Jem, at length, rather lamely, in view of the plain evidences of battle.

“Na, na; naethin’ oot o’ the ordinar’,” the little man replied, giggling. “Only David set on me, and me sleepin’. And,” with a shrug, “here I am noo.” He sat down, wagging his bandaged head and grinning. “Ye see he’s sae playfu’, is Davie. He wangs ye o’er the head wi’ a chair, kicks ye in the jaw, stamps on yer wame, and all as merry as May.” And nothing further could they get from him, except that if David reappeared it was his firm resolve to hand him over to the police for attempted parricide.

‘Brutal assault on an auld man by his son!’

‘Twill look well in the Argus; he! he! They couldna let him aff under two years, I’m thinkin’.”

M’Adam’s version of the affair was received with quiet incredulity. The general verdict was that he had brought his punishment entirely on his own head. Tammas, indeed, who was always rude when he was not witty, and, in fact, the difference between the two things is only one of degree, told him straight: “It served yo’ well reet. An’ I nob’but wish he’d made an end to yo’.”

“He did his best, puir lad,” M’Adam reminded him gently.

“We’ve had enough o’ yo’,” continued the uncompromising old man. “I’m fair grieved he didna slice yer throat while he was at it.” At that M’Adam 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, noo I see.”

The days passed on. There was still no news of the missing one, and Maggie’s face became pitifully white and haggard.

Of course she did not believe that David had attempted to murder his father, desperately tried as she knew he had been. Still, it was a terrible thought to her that he might at any moment be arrested; and her girlish imagination was perpetually conjuring up horrid pictures of a trial, conviction, and the things that followed.

Then Sam’l started a wild theory that the little man had murdered his son, and thrown the mangled body down the dry well at the Grange. The story was, of course, preposterous, and, coming from such a source, might well have been discarded with the ridicule it deserved. Yet it served to set the cap on the girl’s fears; and she resolved, at whatever cost, to visit the Grange, beard M’Adam, and discover whether he could not or would not allay her gnawing apprehension.

Her intent she concealed from her father, knowing well that were she to reveal it to him, he would gently but firmly forbid the attempt; and on an afternoon some fortnight after David’s disappearance, choosing her opportunity, she picked up a shawl, threw it over her head, and fled with palpitating heart out of the farm and down the slope to the Wastrel.

The little plank-bridge rattled as she tripped across it; and she fled faster lest any one should have heard and come to look. And, indeed, at the moment it rattled again behind her, and she started guiltily round. It proved, however, to be only Owd Bob, sweeping after, and she was glad.

“Comin’ wi’ me, lad?” she asked as the old dog cantered up, thankful to have that gray protector with her.

Round Langholm now fled the two conspirators; over the summer-clad lower slopes of the Pike, until, at length, 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 cuddled in the bosom of the Dale; far away over the Marches towered the gaunt 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 heart failed her. In her whole life she had never spoken to M’Adam. Yet she knew him well enough from all David’s accounts— ay, and hated him for David’s sake. She hated him and feared him, too; feared him mortally—this terrible little man. And, with a shudder, she recalled the dim face at the window, and thought of his notorious hatred of her father. But even M’Adam could hardly harm a girl coming, broken-hearted, to seek her lover. Besides, was not 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 waited. “Am I not enough?” the faithful gray eyes seemed to say.

“Lad, I’m fear’d,” was her answer to the unspoken question.

Yet that look determined her. She clenched her little teeth, drew the shawl about her, and set off running up the hill.

Soon the run dwindled to a walk, the walk to a crawl, and the crawl to a halt. Her breath was coming painfully, and her heart pattered against her side like the beatings of an imprisoned bird. Again her gray guardian looked up, encouraging her forward.

“Keep close, lad,” she whispered, starting forward afresh. And the old dog ranged up beside her, shoving into 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 set; the resemblance to her father was plain to see. With lips compressed and breath quick-coming, she crossed the threshold, treading softly as though in a house of the dead. There she paused and lifted a warning finger at her companion, bidding him halt without; then she turned to the door on the left of the entrance and tapped.

She listened, her head buried in the shawl, close to the wood panelling. There was no answer; she could only hear the drumming of her heart.

She knocked again. From within came the scraping of a chair cautiously shoved back, followed by a deep-mouthed cavernous growl.

Her heart stood still, but she turned the handle and entered, leaving a crack open behind.

On the far side the room a little man was sitting. His head was swathed in dirty bandages, and a bottle was on the table beside him. He was leaning forward; his face was gray, and there was a stare of 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 palsied finger at her.

“Ma God! wha are ye?” he cried hoarsely.

The girl stood hard against the door, her fingers still on the handle; trembling like an aspen at the sight of that uncannie pair.

That look