Bob, Son of Battle Read online

  Chapter XXX. THE TAILLESS TYKE AT BAY

  ON the following morning there was a sheep-auction at the Dalesman'sDaughter.

  Early as many of the farmers arrived, there was one earlier. Tupper, thefirst man to enter the sand-floored parlor, found M'Adam before him.

  He was sitting a little forward in his chair; his thin hands rested onhis knees; and on his face was a gentle, dreamy expression such as noman had ever seen there before. All the harsh wrinkles seemed to havefled in the night; and the sour face, stamped deep with the bitternessof life, was softened now, as if at length at peace.

  "When I coom doon this mornin'," said Teddy Bolstock in a whisper, "Ifound 'im sittin' just so. And he's nor moved nor spoke since."

  "Where's th' Terror, then?" asked Tupper, awed somehow into like hushedtones.

  "In t' paddock at back," Teddy answered, "marchin' hoop and doon, hoopand doon, for a' the world like a sentry-soger. And so he was when Ilooked oot o' window when I wake."

  Then Londesley entered, and after him, Ned Hoppin, Rob Saunderson, JimMason, and others, each with his dog. And each man, as he came in andsaw the little lone figure for once without its huge attendant genius,put the same question; while the dogs sniffed about the little man, asthough suspecting treachery. And all the time M'Adam sat as thoughhe neither heard nor saw, lost in some sweet, sad dream; so quite, sosilent, that more than one thought he slept.

  After the first glance, however, the farmers paid him little heed,clustering round the publican at the farther end of the room to hear thelatest story of Owd Bob.

  It appeared that a week previously, James Moore with a pack of sheep hadmet the new Grammoch-town butcher at the Dalesmen's Daughter. A bargainconcluded, the butcher started with the flock for home. As he had nodog, the Master offered him Th' Owd Un. "And he'll pick me i' th' townto-morrow," said he.

  Now the butcher was a stranger in the land. Of course he had heard ofOwd Bob o' Kenmuir, yet it never struck him that this handsome gentlemanwith the quiet, resolute manner, who handled sheep as he had never seenthem handled, was that hero--"the best sheep-dog in the North."

  Certain it is that by the time the flock was penned in the enclosurebehind the shop, he coveted the dog--ay, would even offer ten pounds forhim!

  Forthwith the butcher locked him up in an outhouse--summit of indignity;resolving to make his offer on the morrow.

  When the morrow came he found no dog in the outhouse, and, worse, nosheep in the enclosure. A sprung board showed the way of escape of theone, and a displaced hurdle that of the other. And as he was making thediscovery, a gray dog and a flock of sheep, travelling along the roadtoward the Dalesman's Daughter, met the Master.

  From the first, Owd Bob had mistrusted the man. The attempt to confinehim set the seal on his suspicions. His master's sheep were not for sucha rogue; and he worked his own way out and took the sheep along withhim.

  The story was told to a running chorus of--"Ma word! Good, Owd Un!--Ho!ho! did he thot?"

  Of them all, only M'Adam sat strangely silent.

  Rob Saunderson, always glad to draw the little man, remarked it.

  "And what d'yo' think o' that, Mr. M'Adam, for a wunnerfu' story of awunnerfu' tyke?" he asked.

  "It's a gude tale, a vera gude tale," the little man answered dreamily."And James Moore didna invent it; he had it from the Christmas numbero' the _Flock-keeper_ in saxty." (On the following Sunday, old Rob, fromsheer curiosity, reached down from his shelf the specified number of thepaper. To his amazement he found the little man was right. There was thestory almost identically. None the less is it also true of Owd Bob o'Kenmuir.)

  "Ay, ay," the little man continued, "and in a day or two James Moore'llha' anither tale to tell ye--a better tale, ye'll think it--mairlaffable. And yet--ay---no---I'll no believe it! I niver loved JamesMoore, but I think, as Mr. Hornbut aince said, he'd rather die than lie.Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" he continued in a whisper. "Up till the end I cannashake him aff. Hafflins I think that where I'm gaein' to there'll begray dogs sneakin' around me in the twilight. And they're aye behind andbehind, and I canna, canna--"

  Teddy Bolstock interrupted, lifting his hand for silence.

  "D'yo' hear thot?--Thunder!"

  They listened; and from without came a gurgling, jarring roar, horribleto hear.

  "It's comin' nearer!"

  "Nay, it's goin' away!"

  "No thunder thot!"

  "More like the Lea in flood. And yet--Eh, Mr. M'Adam, what is it?"

  The little man had moved at last. He was on his feet, staring about him,wild-eyed.

  "Where's yer dogs?" he almost screamed.

  "Here's ma--Nay, by thunder! but he's not!" was the astonished cry.

  In the interest of the story no man had noticed that his dog had risenfrom his side; no one had noticed a file of shaggy figures creeping outof the room.

  "I tell ye it's the tykes! I tell ye it's the tykes! They're on maWullie--fifty to one they're on him! My God! My God! And me not there!Wullie, Wullie! "--in a scream--"I'm wi' ye!"

  At the same moment Bessie Boistock rushed in, white-faced.

  "Hi! Feyther! Mr. Saunderson! all o' you! T'tykes fightin' mad! Hark!"

  There was no time for that. Each man seized his stick and rushed for thedoor; and M'Adam led them all.

  A rare thing it was for M'Adam and Red Wull to be apart. So rare, thatothers besides the men in that little tap-room noticed it.

  Saunderson's old Shep walked quietly to the back door of the house andlooked out.

  There on the slope below him he saw what he sought, stalking up anddown, gaunt and grim, like a lion at feeding-time. And as the old dogwatched, his tail was gently swaying as though he were well pleased.

  He walked back into the tap-room just as Teddy began his tale. Twicehe made the round of the room, silent-footed. From dog to dog he went,stopping at each as though urging him on to some great enterprise. Thenhe made for the door again, looking back to see if any followed.

  One by one the others rose and trailed out after him: big blue Rasper,Londesley's Lassie, Ned Hoppin's young dog; Grip and Grapple, thepublican's bull-terriers; Jim Mason's Gyp, foolish and flirting evennow; others there were; and last of all, waddling heavily in the rear,that scarred Amazon, the Venus.

  Out of the house they pattered, silent and unseen, with murder in theirhearts. At last they had found their enemy alone. And slowly, in a blackcloud, like the shadow of death, they dropped down the slope upon him.

  And he saw them coming, knew their errand--as who should better than theTerror of the Border?--and was glad. Death it might be, and such anone as he would wish to die--at least distraction from that long-drawn,haunting pain. And he smiled grimly as he looked at the approachingcrowd, and saw there was not one there but he had humbled in his time.

  He ceased his restless pacing, and awaited them. His great head was highas he scanned them contemptuously, daring them to come on.

  And on they came, marching slow and silent like soldiers at a funeral:young and old; bob-tailed and bull; terrier and collie; flocking likevultures to the dead. And the Venus, heavy with years, rolled after themon her bandy legs panting in her hurry lest she should be late. For hadshe not the blood of her blood to avenge?

  So they came about him, slow, certain, murderous, opening out to cuthim off on every side. There was no need. He never thought to move. Longodds 'twould be--crushingly heavy; yet he loved them for it, and wastrembling already with the glory of the coming fight.

  They were up to him now; the sheep-dogs walking round him on their toes,stiff and short like cats on coals; their hacks a little humped; headsaverted; yet eying him askance.

  And he remained stock-still nor looked at them. His great chin wascocked, and his muzzle wrinkled in a dreadful grin. As he stood there,shivering a little, his eyes rolling back, his breath grating in histhroat to set every bristle on end, he looked a devil indeed.

  The Venus ranged alongside him. No preliminary stage for her; she neverwa
lked where she could stand, or stood where she could lie. But standshe must now, breathing hard through her nose, never taking her eyes offthat pad she had marked for her own. Close beside her were crop-earedGrip and Grapple, looking up at the line above them where hairy neck andshoulder joined. Behind was big Rasper, and close to him Lassie. Of theothers, each had marked his place, each taken up his post.

  Last of all, old Shep took his stand full in front of his enemy, theirshoulders almost rubbing, head past head.

  So the two stood a moment, as though they were whispering; eachdiabolical, each rolling back his eyes to watch the other. While fromthe little mob there rose a snarling, bubbling snore, like some giantwheezing in his sleep.

  Then like lightning each struck. Rearing high, they wrestled withstriving paws and the expression of fiends incarnate. Down they went,Shep underneath, and the great dog with a dozen of these wolves of hellupon him. Rasper, devilish, was riding on his back; the Venus--well forhim!--had struck and missed; but Grip and Grapple had their hold; andthe others, like leaping demoniacs, were plunging into the whirlpoolvortex of the fight.

  And there, where a fortnight before he had fought and lost the battle ofthe Cup, Red Wull now battled for his life.

  Long odds! But what cared he? The long-drawn agony of the night wasdrowned in that glorious delirium. The hate of years came bubblingforth. In that supreme moment he would avenge his wrongs. And he went into fight, revelling like a giant in the red lust of killing.

  Long odds! Never before had he faced such a galaxy of foes. His onechance lay in quickness: to prevent the swarming crew getting their holdtill at least he had diminished their numbers.

  Then it was a sight to see the great brute, huge as a bull-calf, strongas a bull, rolling over and over and up again, quick as a kitten;leaping here, striking there; shaking himself free; swinging hisquarters; fighting with feet and body and teeth--every inch of him atwar. More than once he broke right through the mob; only to turn againand face it. No flight for him; nor thought of it.

  Up and down the slope the dark mass tossed, like some hulk the sportof the waves. Black and white, sable and gray, worrying at that greatcentre-piece. Up and down, roaming wide, leaving everywhere a trail ofred.

  Gyp he had pinned and hurled over his shoulder. Grip followed; he shookher till she rattled, then flung her afar; and she fell with a horridthud, not to rise. While Grapple, the death to avenge, hung tighter. Ina scarlet, soaking patch of the ground lay Big Bell's lurcher, doubledup in a dreadful ball. And Hoppin's young dog, who three hours beforehad been the children's tender playmate, now fiendish to look on,dragged after the huddle up the hill. Back the mob rolled on her. Whenit was passed, she lay quite still, grinning; a handful of tawny hairand flesh in her dead mouth.

  So they fought on. And ever and anon a great figure rose up from theheaving inferno all around; rearing to his full height, his head raggedand bleeding, the red foam dripping from his jaws. Thus he would appearmomentarily, like some dark rock amid a raging sea; and down he would goagain.

  Silent now they fought, dumb and determined. Only you might have heardthe rend and rip of tearing flesh; a hoarse gurgle as some dog wentdown; the panting of dry throats; and now and then a sob from thatcentral figure. For he was fighting for his life. The Terror of theBorder was at bay.

  All who meant it were on him now. The Venus, blinded with blood, had herhold at last; and never but once in a long life of battles had she letgo; Rasper, his breath coming in rattles, had him horribly by the loins;while a dozen other devils with red eyes and wrinkled nostrils clungstill.

  Long odds! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of numbers,yet struggled up again. His great head was torn and dripping; his eyes agleam of rolling red and white; the little tail stern and stiff likethe gallant stump of a flagstaff shot away. He was desperate, butindomitable; and he sobbed as he fought doggedly on.

  Long odds! It could not last. And down he went at length, silentstill--never a cry should they wring from him in his agony; the Venusglued to that mangled pad; Rasper beneath him now; three at his throat;two at his ears; a crowd on flanks and body.

  The Terror of the Border was down at last!

  * * * * *

  "Wullie, ma Wullie!" screamed M'Adam, bounding down the slope a crook'slength in front of the rest. "Wullie! Wullie! to me!"

  At the shrill cry the huddle below was convulsed. It heaved and swelledand dragged to and fro, like the sea lashed into life by some dyingleviathan.

  A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. A greattossing head, bloody past recognition, flung out from the ruck. Onequick glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little flying form infront; then with a roar like a waterfall plunged toward it, shaking offthe bloody leeches as he went.

  "Wullie! Wullie! I'm wi' ye!" cried that little voice, now so near.

  Through--through--through!--an incomparable effort and his last. Theyhung to his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were round and abouthim. And down he went again with a sob and a little suffocating cry,shooting up at his master one quick, beseeching glance as the sea ofblood closed over him--worrying, smothering, tearing, like foxhounds atthe kill.

  They left the dead and pulled away the living. And it was no light task,for the pack were mad for blood.

  At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old Shep,stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was working;for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen years, and remainunmoved.

  The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that hervengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was gasping out hislife. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet spot where they mightlay them down to die. Before the night had fallen another had gone tohis account. While not a dog who fought upon that day but carried thescars of it with him to his grave.

  The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yetmore terrible in his dying.

  * * * * *

  Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.

  At the sight the little man neither raved nor swore: it was past thatfor him. He sat down, heedless of the soaking ground, and took themangled head in his lap very tenderly.

  "They've done ye at last, Wullie--they've done ye at last," he saidquietly; unalterably convinced that the attack had been organized whilehe was detained in the tap-room.

  On hearing the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of hisstump-tail. And with that the Tailless Tyke, Adam M'Adam's Red Wull, theBlack Killer, went to his long home.

  * * * * *

  One by one the Dalesmen took away their dead, and the little man wasleft alone with the body of his last friend.

  Dry-eyed he sat there, nursing the dead dog's head; hour afterhour--alone--crooning to himself:

  "'Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' mony an anxious day I thought We wad be beat.'

  An' noo we are, Wullie--noo we are!"

  So he went on, repeating the lines over and over again, always with thesame sad termination.

  "A man's mither--a man's wife--a man's dog! They three are a' littleM'Adam iver had to back him! D'ye mind the auld mither, Wullie? And her,'Niver be down-hearted, Adam; ye've aye got yer mither,' And ae day Ihad not. And Flora, Wullie (ye remember Flora, Wullie? Na, na; ye'dnot) wi' her laffin' daffin' manner, cryin' to one: 'Adam, ye say ye'realane. But ye've me--is that no enough for ony man?' And God kensit was--while it lasted!" He broke down and sobbed a while. "And youWullie--and you! the only man friend iver I had!" He sought the dog'sbloody paw with his right hand.

  "'An' here's a hand, my trusty fier, An gie's a hand o' thine; An' we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne.'"

  * * * * *

  He sat there, muttering, and stroking
the poor head upon his lap,bending over it, like a mother over a sick child.

  "They've done ye at last, lad--done ye sair. And noo I'm thinkin'they'll no rest content till I'm gone. And oh, Wullie!"--he bent downand whispered--"I dreamed sic an awfu' thing--that ma Wullie--but there!'twas but a dream."

  So he sat on, crooning to the dead dog; and no man approached him. OnlyBessie of the inn watched the little lone figure from afar.

  It was long past noon when at length he rose, laying the dog's headreverently down, and tottered away toward that bridge which once thedead thing on the slope had held against a thousand.

  He crossed it and turned; there was a look upon his face, half hopeful,half fearful, very piteous to see.

  "Wullie, Wullie, to me!" he cried; only the accents, formerly so fiery,were now weak as a dying man's.

  A while he waited in vain.

  "Are ye no comin', Wullie?" he asked at length in quavering tones."Ye've not used to leave me."

  He walked away a pace, then turned again and whistled that shrill, sharpcall, only now it sounded like a broken echo of itself.

  "Come to me, Wullie!" he implored, very pitifully. "'Tis the first timeiver I kent ye not come and me whistlin'. What ails ye, lad?"

  He recrossed the bridge, walking blindly like a sobbing child; and yetdry-eyed.

  Over the dead body he stooped.

  "What ails ye, Wullie?" he asked again. "Will you, too, leave me?"

  Then Bessie, watching fearfully, saw him bend, sling the great body onhis back, and stagger away.

  Limp and hideous, the carcase hung down from the little man's shoulders.The huge head, with grim, wide eyes and lolling tongue, jolted andswagged with the motion, seeming to grin a ghastly defiance at the worldit had left. And the last Bessie saw of them was that bloody, rollinghead, with the puny legs staggering beneath their load, as the twopassed out of the world's ken.

  * * * * *

  In the Devil's Bowl, next day, they found the pair: Adam M'Adam and hisRed Wull, face to face; dead, not divided; each, save for the other,alone. The dog, his saturnine expression glazed and ghastly in thefixedness of death, propped up against that humpbacked boulder beneathwhich, a while before, the Black Killer had dreed his weird; and, closeby, his master lying on his back, his dim dead eyes staring up at theheaven, one hand still clasping a crumpled photograph; the weary bodyat rest at last, the mocking face--mocking no longer--alight with awhole-souled, transfiguring happiness.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull lie buried together: one just within, theother just without, the consecrated pale.

  The only mourners at the funeral were David, James Moore, Maggie, and agray dog peering through the lych-gate.

  During the service a carriage stopped at the churchyard, and a lady witha stately figure and a gentle face stepped out and came across the grassto pay a last tribute to the dead. And Lady Eleanour, as she joinedthe little group about the grave, seemed to notice a more than usualsolemnity in the parson's voice as he intoned: "Earth to earth--ashesto ashes--dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection toeternal life."

  * * * * *

  When you wander in the gray hill-country of the North, in the loneliestcorner of that lonely land you may chance upon a low farmhouse, lying inthe shadow of the Muir Pike.

  Entering, a tall old man comes out to greet you--the Master of Kenmuir.His shoulders are bent now; the hair that was so dark is frosted; butthe blue-gray eyes look you as proudly in the face as of yore.

  And while the girl with the glory of yellow hair is preparing food foryou--they are hospitable to a fault, these Northerners--you will noticeon the mantelpiece, standing solitary, a massive silver cup, dented.

  That is the world-known Shepherds' Trophy, won outright, as the old manwill tell you, by Owd Bob, last and best of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.The last because he is the best; because once, for a long-drawn unit oftime, James Moore had thought him to be the worst.

  When at length you take your leave, the old man accompanies you to thetop of the slope to point you your way.

  "Yo' cross the stream; over Langholm How, yonder; past the Bottom; andoop th' hill on far side. Yo'll come on th' house o' top. And happenyo'll meet Th' Owd Un on the road. Good-day to you, sir, good-day."

  So you go as he has bidden you; across the stream, skirting the How,over the gulf and up the hill again.

  On the way, as the Master has foretold, you come upon an old gray dog,trotting soberly along. Th' Owd Un, indeed, seems to spend the eveningof his life going thus between Kenmuir and the Grange. The black muzzleis almost white now; the gait, formerly so smooth and strong, is stiffand slow; venerable, indeed, is he of whom men still talk as the bestsheep-dog in the North.

  As he passes, he pauses to scan you. The noble head is high, and onefoot raised; and you look into two big gray eyes such as you have neverseen before--soft, a little dim, and infinitely sad.

  That is Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, of whom the tales are many as the flowers onthe May. With him dies the last of the immortal line of the Gray Dogs ofKenmuir.

  * * * * *

  You travel on up the bill, something pensive, and knock at the door ofthe house on the top.

  A woman, comely with the inevitable comeliness of motherhood, opens toyou. And nestling in her arms is a little boy with golden hair and happyface, like one of Correggio's cherubs.

  You ask the child his name. He kicks and crows, and looks up at hismother; and in the end lisps roguishly, as if it was the merriest jokein all this merry world, "Adum Mataddum."

  * * * * *