Bob Son of Battle

A >> Alfred Ollivant >> Bob Son of Battle

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David shouted as he cleared the gate, but the brute paid no heed,
and was almost touching the fugitive when Owd Bob came
galloping round the corner, and in a second had flashed between
pursuer and pursued. So close were the two that as he swung round
on the startled sow, his tail brushed the baby to the ground;. and
there she lay kicking fat legs to heaven and calling on all her gods.

David, leaving the old dog to secure the warrior pig, ran round to
her; but he was anticipated. The whole matter had barely occupied
a minute's time; and Maggie, rushing from the kitchen, now had
the child in her arms and was hurrying back with her to the house.

"Eh, ma pet, are yo' hurted, deane?" David could hear her asking
tearfully, as he crossed the yard and established himself in the
door.

"Well," said he, in bantering tones, "yo'm a nice wench to ha'
charge o' oor Annie!"

It was a sore subject with the girl, and well he knew it. Wee Anne,
that golden-haired imp of mischief, was forever evading her
sister-mother's eye and attempting to immolate herself. More than
once she had only been saved from serious hurt by the watchful
devotion of Owd Bob, who always found time, despite his many
labors, to keep a guardian eye on his well-loved lassie. In the
previous winter she had been lost on a bitter night on the Muir
Pike; once she had climbed into a field with the Highland bull, and
barely escaped with her life, while the gray dog held the brute in
check; but a little while before she had been rescued from
drowning by the Tailless Tyke; there had been numerous other
mischances; and now the present mishap. But the girl paid no heed
to her tormentor in her joy at finding the child all unhurt.

"Theer! yo' bain't so much as scratted, ma precious, is yo'?" she
cried. "Rin oot agin, then," and the baby toddled joyfully away.

Maggie rose to her feet and stood with face averted. David's eyes
dwelt lovingly upon her, admiring the pose of the neat head with
its thatch of pretty brown hair; the slim figure, and slender
ankles, peeping modestly from beneath her print frock.

"Ma word! if yo' dad should hear tell o' boo his Anne--" he broke
off into a long-drawn whistle.

Maggie kept silence; but her lips quivered, and the flush deepened
on her cheek.

"I'm fear'd I'll ha' to tell him," the boy continued, "'Tis but ma
duty."

"Yo' may tell wham yo' like what yo' like," the girl replied coldly;
yet there was a tremor in her voice.

"First yo' throws her in the stream," David went on remorselessly;
"then yo' chucks her to the pig, and if it had not bin for me--"

"Yo', indeed!" she broke in contemptuously. "Yo'! 'twas Owd Bob
reskied her. Yo'd nowt' to do wi' it, 'cept lookin' on--'bout what
yo're fit for."

"I tell yo'," David pursued stubbornly, ~'an' it had not bin for me
yo' wouldn't have no sister by noo. She'd be lying', she would, pore
little lass, cold as ice, pore mite, wi' no breath in her. An' when yo'
dad coom home there'd be no Wee Anne to rin to him, and climb
on his knee, and yammer to him, and beat his face. An he'd say,
'What's gotten to oor Annie, as I left wi' yo'?' And then yo'd have to
tell him, 'I never took no manner o' fash after her, dad; d'reckly yo'
back was turned, I--'"

The girl sat down, buried her face in her apron, and indulged in the
rare luxury of tears.

"Yo're the cruellest mon as iver was, David M'Adam," she sobbed,
rocking to and fro.

He was at her side in a moment, tenderly bending over her.

"Eh, Maggie, but I am sorry, lass--"

She wrenched away from beneath his hands.

"I hate yo'," she cried passionately.

He gently removed her hands from before her tear-stained face.

"I was nob'but laffin', Maggie," he pleaded; "say yo' forgie me."

"I don't," she cried, struggling. "I think yo're the hatefullest lad as
iver lived.

The moment was critical; it was a time for heroic measures.

"No, yo' don't, lass," he remonstrated; and, releasing her wrists,
lifted the little drooping face, wet as it was, like the earth after a
spring shower, and, holding it between his two big hands, kissed it
twice.

"Yo' coward!" she cried, a flood of warm red crimsoning her
cheeks; and she struggled vainly to be free.

"Yo' used to let me," he reminded her in aggrieved tones.

"I niver did!" she cried, more indignant than truthful.

"Yes, yo' did, when we was little uns; that is, yo' was allus for
kissin' and I was allus agin it. And noo," with whole-souled
bitterness, "I mayn't so much as keek at yo' over a stone wall."

However that might be, he was keeking at her from closer range
now; and in that position--for he held her firmly still--she could
not help but keek back. He looked so handsome ~--humble for
once; penitent yet reproachful; his own eyes a little moist; and,
withal, his old audacious self,--that, despite herself, her anger grew
less hot.

"Say yo' forgie me and l'll let yo' go."

"I don't, nor niver shall," she answered firmly; but there was less
conviction in her heart than voice.

"Iss yo' do, lass," he coaxed, and kissed her again.

She struggled faintly.

"Hoo daur yo'?" she cried through her tears. But he was not to be
moved.

"Will yo' noo?" he asked.

She remained dumb, and he kissed her again.

"Impidence!" she cried.

"Ay," said he, closing her mouth.

"I wonder at ye, Davie!" she said, surrendering.

After that Maggie must needs give in; and it was well understood,
though nothing definite had been said, that the boy and girl were
courting. And in the Dale the unanimous opinion was that the
young couple would make "a gradely pair, surely."

M'Adam was the last person to hear the news, long after it had
been common knowledge in the village. It was in the Sylvester
Arms he first heard it, and straightway fell into one of those
foaming frenzies characteristic of him.

"The dochter o' Moore o' Kenmuir, d'ye say? sic a dochter o' sic a
man! The dochter o' th' one man in the wand that's harmed me
aboon the rest! I'd no ha' believed it gin ye'd no tell't me. Oh,
David, David! I'd no ha' thocht it even o' you, ill son as ye've aye
bin to me. I think he might ha' waited till his auld dad was gone,
and he'd no had to wait lang the noo." Then the little man sat down
and burst into tears. Gradually, however, he resigned himself, and
the more readily when he realized that David by his act had
exposed a fresh wound into which he might plunge his barbed
shafts. And he availed himself to the full of his new opportunities.
Often and often David was sore pressed to restrain himself.

"Is't true what they're sayin' that Maggie Moore's nae better than
she should be?" the little man asked one evening with anxious
interest.

"They're not sayin' so, and if they were 'twad be a lie," the boy
answered angrily.

M'Adam leant back in his chair and nodded his head.

"Ay, they tell't me that gin ony man knew 'twad be David
M'Adam."

David strode across the room.

"No, no main o' that," he shouted. "Y'ought to be 'shamed, an owd
mon like you, to speak so o' a lass." The little man edged close up
to his son, and looked up into the fair flushed face towering above
him.

"David," he said in smooth soft tones, "I'm 'stonished ye dinna
strike yen auld dad." He stood with his hands clasped behind his
back as if daring the young giant to raise a finger against him. "Ye
maist might noo," he continued suavely. "Ye maun be sax inches
taller, and a good four stane heavier. Hooiver, aiblins ye're wise to
wait. Anither year twa I'll be an auld man, as ye say, and feebler,
and Wullie here'll be gettin' on, while you'll be in the prime o' yer
strength. Then I think ye might hit me wi' safety to your person,
and honor to yourself."

He took a pace back, smiling.

"Feyther," said David, huskily, "one day yo'll drive me too far."

Chapter XX. THE SNAPPING OF THE STRING

THE spring was passing, marked throughout with the bloody trail
of the Killer. The adventure in the Scoop scared him for a while
into innocuousness; then he resumed his game again with
redoubled zest. It seemed likely he would harry the district till
some lucky accident carried him off, for all chance there was of
arresting him.

You could still hear nightly in the Sylvester Arms and elsewhere
the assertion, delivered with the same dogmatic certainty as of old,
"It's the Terror, I tell yo'!" and that irritating, inevitable reply: "Ay;
but wheer's the proof?" While often, at the same moment, in a
house not far away, a little lonely man was sitting before a
low-burnt fire, rocking to and fro, biting his nails, and muttering to
the great dog whose head lay between his knees:

"If we had but the proof, Wullie! if we had but the proof! I'd give
ma right hand aff my arm gin we had the proof to-morrow."

Long Kirby, who was always for war when some one else was to
do the fighting, suggested that David should be requested, in the
name of the Dalesmen, to tell M'Adam that he must make an end
to Red Wull. But Jim Mason quashed the proposal, remarking truly
enough that there was too much bad blood as it was between father
and son; while Tammas proposed with a sneer that the smith
should be his own agent in the IJatter.

Whether it was this remark of Tammas's which stung the big man
into action, or whether it was that the intensity of his hate gave
him unusual courage, anyhow, a few days later, M'Adam caught
him lurking in the granary of the Grange.

The little man may not have guessed his murderous intent; yet the
blacksmith's white-faced terror, as he crouched away in the darkest
corner, could hardly have escaped remark; though--and Kirby may
thank his stars for it--the treacherous gleam of a gun-barrel,
ill-concealed behind him, did.

"Hullo, Kirby!" said M'Adam cordially, "ye'll stay the night wi'
me?" And the next thing the big man heard was a giggle on the far
side the door, lost in the clank of padlock and rattle of chain.
Then--through a crack-- "Good-night to ye. Hope ye'll be comfie."
And there he stayed that night, the following day and next
night--thirty-six hours in all, with swedes for his hunger and the
dew off the thatch for his thirst.

Meanwhile the struggle between David and his father seemed
coming to a head. The little man's tongue wagged more bitterly
than ever; now it was never at rest--searching out sores, stinging,
piercing.

Worst of all, he was continually dropping innuendoes, seemingly
innocent enough, yet with a world of subtile meaning at their back,
respecting Maggie. The leer and wink with which, when David
came home from Kenmuir at nights, he would ask the simple
question, "And was she kind, David--eh, eh?" made the boy's blood
boil within him.

And the more effective the little man saw his shots to be, the more
persistently he plied them. And David retaliated in kind. It was a
war of reprisals. There was no peace; there were no truces in
which to bury the dead before the opponents set to slaying others.
And every day brought the combatants nearer to that final struggle,
the issue of which neither cared to contemplate.

There came a Saturday, toward the end of the spring, long to be
remembered by more than David in the Dale.

For that young man the day started sensationally. Rising before
cock-crow, and going to the window, the first thing he saw in the
misty dawn was the gaunt, gigantic figure of Red Wull, hounding
up the hill from the Stony Bottom; and in an instant his faith was
shaken to its foundation.

The dog was travelling up at a long, slouch ing trot; and as he
rapidly approached the house, David saw that his flanks were all
splashed with red mud, his tongue out, and the foam dripping from
his jaws, as though he had come far and fast.

He slunk up to the house, leapt on to the sill of the unused
back-kitchen, some five feet from the ground, pushed with his paw
at the cranky old hatchment, which was its only covering; and, in a
second, the boy, straining out of the window the better to see,
heard the rattle of the boards as the dog dropped within the house.

For the moment, excited as he was, David held his peace. Even the
Black Killer took only second place in his thoughts that morning.
For this was to be a momentous day for him.

That afternoon James Moore and Andrew would, he knew, be over
at Grammoch-town, and, his work finished for the day, he was
resolved to tackle Maggie and decide his fate. If she would have
him--well, he would go next morning and thank God for it,
kneeling beside her in the tiny village church; if not, he would
leave the Grange and all its unhappiness behind, and straightway
plunge out into the world.

All through a week of stern work he had looked forward to this
hard-won half-holiday. Therefore, when, as he was breaking off at
noon, his father turned to him and said abruptly:

"David, ye're to tak' the Cheviot lot o'er to Grammoch-town at
once," he answered shortly:

"Yo' mun tak' 'em yo'sel', if yo' wish 'em to go to-day."

"Na," the little man answered; "Wuflie and me, we're busy. Ye're
to tak' 'em, I tell ye."

"I'll not," David replied. "If they wait for me, they wait till
Monday," and with that he left the room.

"I see what 'tis," his father called after him; "she's give ye a tryst at
Kenmuir. Oh, ye randy David!"

"Yo' tend yo' business; I'll tend mine," the boy answered hotly.

Now it happened that on the previous day Maggie had given him a
photograph of herself, or, rather, David had taken it and Maggie
had demurred. As he left the room it dropped from his pocket. He
failed to notice his loss, but directly he was gone M'Adam pounced
on it.

"He! he! Wullie, what's this?" he giggled, holding the photograph
into his face. "He! he! it's the jade hersel', I war'nt; it's Jezebell"

He peered into the picture.

"She kens what's what, I'll tak' oath, Wullie. See her eyes--sae saft
and languishin'; and her lips--such lips, Wullie!" He held the
picture down for the great dog to see: then walked out of the room,
still sniggering, and chucking the face insanely beneath its
cardboard chin.

Outside the house he collided against David. The boy had missed
his treasure and was hurrying back for it.

"What yo' got theer?" he asked suspiciously.

"Only the pictur' o' some randy quean," his father answered,
chucking away at the inanimate chin.

"Gie it me!" David ordered fiercely. "It's mine."

"Na, na," the little man replied. "It's no for sic douce lads as dear
David to ha' ony touch wi' leddies sic as this."

"Gie it me, I tell ye, or I'll tak' it!" the boy shouted.

"Na, na; it's ma duty as yer dad to keep ye from sic limmers." He
turned, still smiling, to Red Wull.

"There ye are, Wullie!" He threw the photograph to the dog. "Tear
her, Wullie, the Jezebel!"

The Tailless Tyke sprang on the picture, placed one big paw in the
very centre of the face, forcing it into the muck, and tore a corner
off; then he chewed the scrap with unctious, slobbering gluttony,
dropped it, and tore a fresh piece.

David dashed forward.

"Touch it, if ye daur, ye brute!" he yelled; but his father seized him
and held him back.

'And the dogs o' the street,' " he quoted. David turned furiously on
him.

"I've half a mind to brak' ivery bone in yer body!" he shouted,
"robbin' me o' what's mine and throwin' it to yon black brute!"

"Whist, David, whist!" soothed the little man. "Twas but for yer
am good yer auld dad did it. 'Twas that he had at heart as he aye
has. Rin aff wi' ye noo to Kenmuir. She'll mak' it up to ye, I war'nt.
She's leeberal wi' her favors, I hear. Ye've but to whistle and she'll
come."

David seized his father by the shoulder.

"An' yo' gie me much more o' your sauce," he roared.

"Sauce, Wullie," the little man echoed in a gentle voice.

"I'll twist yer neck for yo'!"

"He'll twist my neck for me."

"I'll gang reet awa', I warn yo', and leave you and yer Wullie to yer
lone."

The little man began to whimper.

"It'll brak' yer auld dad's heart, lad," he said.

"Nay; yo've got none. But 'twill ruin yo', please God. For yo' and
yer Wullie'll get ne'er a soul to work for yo'--yo' cheeseparin',
dirty-tongued Jew."

The little man burst into an agony of affected tears, rocking to and
fro, his face in his hands. gaein' to leave us--the son o' my bosom!
my Benjamin! my little Davie! he's gaein' awa'!"

David turned away down the hill; and M'Adam lifted his stricken
face and waved a hand at him.

'Adieu, dear amiable youth!' " he cried in broken voice; and
straightway set to sobbing again.

Half-way down to the Stony Bottom David turned.

"I'll gie yo' a word o' warnin'," he shouted back. "I'd advise yo' to
keep a closer eye to yer Wullie's goings on, 'specially o' nights, or
happen yo'il wake to a surprise one mornin'."

In an instant the little man ceased his fooling. "And why that?" he
asked, following down the hill.

"I'll tell yo'. When I wak' this mornin' I walked to the window, and
what d'yo' think I see? Why, your Wullie gollopin' like a good tin
up from the Bottom, all foamin', too, and red-splashed, as if he'd
coom from the Screes. What had he bin up to, I'd like to know?"

"What should he be doin'," the little man replied, "but havin' an eye
to the stock? and that when the Killer might be oot."

David laughed harshly.

"Ay, the Killer was oot, I'll go bail, and yo' may hear o't afore the
evenin', ma man," and 'with that he turned away again.

As he had foreseen, David found Maggie alone. But in the heat of
his indignation against his father he seemed to have forgotten his
original intent, and instead poured his latest troubles into the girl's
sympathetic ear.

"There's but one mon in the world he wishes worse nor me," he
was saying. It was late in the afternoon, and he was still inveighing
against his father and his fate. Maggie sat in her father's chair by
the fire, knitting; while he lounged on the kitchen table, swinging
his long legs.

"And who may that be?" the girl asked.

"Why, Mr. Moore, to be sure, and Th' Owd Un, too. He'd do either
o' them a mischief if he could."

"But why, David?" she asked anxiously. "I'm sure dad niver hurt
him, or ony ither mon for the matter o' that."

David nodded toward the Dale Cup which rested on the
mantelpiece in silvery majesty.

"It's yon done it," he said. "And if Th' Owd Un wins agin, as win he
will, bless him! why, look out for 'me and ma Wullie'; that's all."

Maggie shuddered, and thought of the face at the window.

" 'Me and ma Wullie,' " David continued; "I've had about as much
of them as I can swaller. It's aye the same--'Me and ma Wullie,'
and 'Wullie and me,' as if I never put ma hand to a stroke! Ugh!
"--he made a gesture of passionate disgust--" the two on 'em fair
madden me. I could strike the one and throttle t'other," and he
rattled his heels angrily together.

"Hush, David," interposed the girl; "yo' munna speak so o' your
dad; it's agin the commandments."

'Tain't agin human nature," he snapped in answer. "Why, 'twas
nob'but yester' morn' he says in his nasty way, 'David, ma gran'
fellow, hoo ye work! ye 'stonish me!' And on ma word,
Maggie"--there were tears in the great boy's eyes--" ma back was
nigh broke wi' toilin'. And the Terror, he stands by and shows his
teeth, and looks at me as much as to say, 'Some day, by the grace o'
goodness, I'll ha' my teeth in your throat, young mon.'

Maggie's knitting dropped into her lap and she looked up, her soft
eyes for once flashing.

"It's cruel, David; so 'tis!" she cried. "I wonder yo' bide wi' him. If
he treated me so, I'd no stay anither minute. If it meant the House
for me I'd go," and she looked as if she meant it.

David jumped off the table.

"Han' yo' niver guessed why I stop, lass, and me so happy at
home?" he asked eagerly.

Maggie's eyes dropped again.

"Hoo should I know?" she asked innocently. "Nor care, neither, I
s'pose," he said in reproachful accents. "Yo' want me me to go and
leave yo', and go reet awa'; I see hoo 'tis. Yo' wouldna mind, not
yo', if yo' was niver to see pore David agin. I niver thowt yo'
wellylike me, Maggie; and noo I know it."

"Yo' silly lad," the girl murmured, knitting steadfastly.

"Then yo' do," he cried, triumphant, "I knew yo' did." He
approached close to her chair, his face clouded with eager anxiety.

"But d'yo' like me more'n just likin-', Mag-. gie? dy'yo'," he bent
and whispered in the little ear.

The girl cuddled over her work so that he could not see her face.

"If yo' won't tell me yo' can show me," he coaxed. "There's other
things besides words,"

He stood before her, one hand on the chair-back on either side. She
sat thus, caged between his arms, with drooping eyes and
heightened color.

"Not so close, David, please," she begged, fidgeting uneasily; but
the request was unheeded.

"Do'ee move away a wee," she implored. "Not till yo've showed
me," he said, relentless.

"I canna, Davie," she cried with laughing, petulance.

"Yes, yo' can, lass."

"Tak' your hands away, then."

"Nay; not till yo've showed me."

A pause.

"Do'ee, Davie," she supplicated.

"Do'ee," he pleaded.

She tilted her face provokingly, but her eyes were still down.

"It's no manner o' use, Davie."

"Iss, 'tis," he coaxed.

"Niver."

"Please."

A lengthy pause.

"Well, then--" She looked up, at last, shy, trustful, happy; and the
sweet lips were tilted further to meet his.

And thus they were situated, lover-like, when a low, rapt voice
broke in on them,--

'A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination.'

Oh, Wullie, I wush you were here!"

It was little M'Adam. He was leaning in at the open window,
leering at the young couple, his eyes puckered, an evil expression
on his face.

"The creetical moment! and I interfere! David, ye'll never forgie
me."

The boy jumped round with an oath; and Maggie, her face flaming,
started to her feet. The tone, the words, the look of the little man at
the window were alike insufferable.

"By thunder! I'll teach yo' to come spyin' on me!" roared David.
Above him on the mantel-piece blazed the Shepherds' Trophy.
Searching any missile in his fury, he reached up a hand for it.

Ay, gie it me back, Ye robbed me o't," the little man cried, holding
out his arms as if to receive it.

"Dinna, David," pleaded Maggie, with restraining hand on her
lover's arm.

"By the Lord! I'll give him something!" yelled the boy. Close by
there stood a pail of soapy water. He seized it, swung it, and
slashed its contents at the leering face in the window.

The little man started back, but the dirty torrent caught him and
soused him through. The bucket followed, struck him full on the
chest, and rolled him over in the mud. After it with a rush came
David.

"I'll let yo' know, spyin' on me!" he yelled. "I'll--" Maggie, whose
face was as white now as it had been crimson, clung to him,
kxampering him.

"Dinna, David, dinna!" she implored. "He's ycr am dad."

"I'll dad him! I'll learn him!" roared David half through the
window.

At the moment Sam'l Todd came floundering furiously round the
corner, closely followed by 'Enry and oor Job.

"Is he dead?" shouted Sam'l seeing the prostrate form.

"Ho! ho!" went the other two.

They picked up the draggled little man and hustled him out of the
yard like a thief, a man on either side and a man behind.

As they forced him through the gate, he struggled round.

"By Him that made ye! ye shall pay for this, David M'Adam, you
and yer--"

But Sam'l's big hand descended on his mouth, and he was borne
away before that last ill word had flitted into being.

Chapter XXI. HORROR OF DARKNESS

IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home.

All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against
David had made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd
Bob, and the Dale Cup were for once forgotten as, in his passion,
he cursed his son.

The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping
madman. For once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser
outbursts could quell, were dumb before him; only now and then
shooting furtive glances in his direction, as though on the brink of
some daring enterprise of which he was the objective. But
M'Adam noticed nothing, suspected nothing.

When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there
was no light and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a
white riband of paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark.

The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and
resumed his tireless anathema.

"I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht
to thole from ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck
me, Wullie! struck his airi father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye
werena there. Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam!
But I'll gar him ken Adam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!"

He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled
down the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the
mantelpiece.

"We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!" And
he banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart
that slip of still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.

Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket
of his coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond
companion of his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and
took a long pull; then placed it on the table by his side.

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