A cold treachery - Charles Todd [37]
Jarvis, rousing unexpectedly, asked, “Did the Follets know about the murders?”
“Yes, a search party had come through that morning. They'd put their dog in the barn, a first line of defense. I damned near lost my foot to it.”
Jarvis chuckled. “Follet is a careful man. The sheepdogs, I can tell you, are good workers. Faithful and dependable and possessed of amazing endurance.” His face sobered. “One or two will turn rogue and kill sheep. It's like a madness setting in on them, without warning. I daresay very like our murderer.”
Maggie Ingerson struggled through the snow in the wake of her dog. It turned its head several times to be certain she was still following. Once she called out, “Damn it, Sybil, I've only got two legs to your four, and one of them's half dead already.”
But Sybil went bounding on ahead, intent on her destination. Maggie, her breath coming in ragged gasps, shouted at the dog again. “I can't make it, I tell you! Dead sheep or no dead sheep!”
All the same, she did make it, reaching the pen some thirty minutes later, her face flushed with exertion, her graying fair hair straggling out of the man's hat she wore. Sybil was already standing there with tongue lolling and tail beating a tattoo in the air, as if in welcome.
The sheep pen was no more than a rough stone wall built up on three sides, the fourth open to allow the animals to go and come at will.
As her mistress leaned heavily against the nearest bit of snow-encrusted wall, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, Sybil dived into the banked flock of sheep, sending them flying in every direction.
Maggie swore with masculine proficiency, but the sheep were circling now, and where they had been clustered was something that was distinctly unsheeplike.
Sybil stood over it. The dog's face all but exclaimed her excitement at finding her treasure still in place. She sniffed at it, looking for enough bare skin to lick.
Maggie stared. Finally, driven by curiosity, she turned and moved into the pen, talking softly to the sheep as she made her way through them. Their sneezes marked her progress.
By the far wall, where the sheep had huddled against the wind, lay the curled figure of a human being.
A child . . .
It was wearing a heavy coat that was quickly turning white as snow blew in on it. And it looked to be dead. Maggie knelt beside it, her face intent, unsure whether or not to touch it.
And then, her gloved hands clumsily moving inside the coat, she felt the steady rise and ebb of the thin chest. The child appeared to have fallen into the deep sleep of sheer exhaustion. Satisfied, she got to her feet with some difficulty.
As if the cold air where the warmth of the sheep had been roused the boy, he moaned a little in his sleep.
Maggie stared down at him. It was no use, trying to wake him.
“I'll have to go back for the bloody sled!” she said aloud to Sybil. “Why in God's name didn't you tell me I needed the bloody sled!”
Sybil, grinning from ear to ear, faced her mistress and waited. The main task had been accomplished as far as she was concerned. Any further details were of no interest.
Maggie, making her way back through the sheep, shooed them towards the wall again, and then at the entrance to the pen, stopped stock still and looked around her.
There was only fell and cloudy sky and snow. Nothing that would explain the way the hair had suddenly risen on the back of her neck. The dog seemed oblivious to danger, and the sheep were already settling themselves again. But Maggie felt an inexplicable urgency. She turned swifly, in haste to reach the small farmyard and the shed where her sled was stored.
More than an hour later Maggie made it back, pushing the sheep aside and staring down again at the unwanted