Bob Son of Battle [70]
life David's absence had created a void. Last as he would have been to own it, M' Adam felt acutely the boy's loss. It may have been he missed the ever-present butt; it may have been a nobler feeling. Alone with Red Wull, too late he felt his loneliness. Sometimes, sitting in the kitchen by himself, thinking of the past, he experienced sharp pangs of remorse; and this was all the more the case after Maggie's visit. Subsequent to that day the little man, to do him justice, was never known to hint by word or look an ill thing of his enemy's daughter. Once, indeed, when Melia Ross was drawing on a dirty imagination with Maggie for subject, M'Adam shut her up with:
"Ye're a maist amazin' big liar, Melia Ross." Yet, though for the daughter he had now no evil thought, his hatred for the father had never been so uncompromising.
He grew reckless in his assertions. His life was one long threat against James Moore's. Now he openly stated his conviction that, on the evenful night of the fight, James Moore, with object easily discernible, had egged David on to murder him.
"Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?" roared Tammas at last, enraged to madness.
"I will!" said M'Adam. And he did.
It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-town that he ful-. filled his vow.
That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion James Moore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising of the sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master went with his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It was already noon when the flock started from the yard.
On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam.
"I've a word to say to you, James Moore," he announced, as the Master approached.
"Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo' have," said the Master.
M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate.
Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape this Killer."
"Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam."
"Ay, there's me," acquiesced the little man. "But you--hoo d'yo' 'count for your luck?"
James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, now patrolling round the flock.
"There's my luck!" he said.
M'Adam laughed unpleasantly.
"So I thought," he said, "so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that yer luck," nodding at the gray dog, "will win you the Cup for certain a month hence,"
"I hope so!" said the Master.
"Strange if he should not after all," mused the little man.
James Moore eyed him suspiciously. "What d'yo' mean?" he asked sternly. M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. "There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip, that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him."
The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.
"I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him," he said, drawing himself up.
M'Adam lent forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face was all a-tremble.
"Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the father. Yet some one did,--set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed at me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!" There was a flush on the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. "One way or t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, am or baith, has got to go afore Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?"
The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, "That'll do, M'Adam," he said. "I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry we' yo'. Noo git off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis.
He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock, waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion everywhere.
"Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?" shouted the Master, seeing the danger.
It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, one man
"Ye're a maist amazin' big liar, Melia Ross." Yet, though for the daughter he had now no evil thought, his hatred for the father had never been so uncompromising.
He grew reckless in his assertions. His life was one long threat against James Moore's. Now he openly stated his conviction that, on the evenful night of the fight, James Moore, with object easily discernible, had egged David on to murder him.
"Then why don't yo' go and tell him so, yo' muckle liar?" roared Tammas at last, enraged to madness.
"I will!" said M'Adam. And he did.
It was on the day preceding the great summer sheep fair at Grammoch-town that he ful-. filled his vow.
That is always a big field-day at Kenmuir; and on this occasion James Moore and Owd Bob had been up and working on the Pike from the rising of the sun. Throughout the straggling lands of Kenmuir the Master went with his untiring adjutant, rounding up, cutting out, drafting. It was already noon when the flock started from the yard.
On the gate by the stile, as the party came up, sat M'Adam.
"I've a word to say to you, James Moore," he announced, as the Master approached.
"Say it then, and quick. I've no time to stand gossipin' here, if yo' have," said the Master.
M'Adam strained forward till he nearly toppled off the gate.
Queer thing, James Moore, you should be the only one to escape this Killer."
"Yo' forget yoursel', M'Adam."
"Ay, there's me," acquiesced the little man. "But you--hoo d'yo' 'count for your luck?"
James Moore swung round and pointed proudly at the gray dog, now patrolling round the flock.
"There's my luck!" he said.
M'Adam laughed unpleasantly.
"So I thought," he said, "so I thought! And I s'pose ye're thinkin' that yer luck," nodding at the gray dog, "will win you the Cup for certain a month hence,"
"I hope so!" said the Master.
"Strange if he should not after all," mused the little man.
James Moore eyed him suspiciously. "What d'yo' mean?" he asked sternly. M'Adam shrugged his shoulders. "There's mony a slip 'twixt Cup and lip, that's a'. I was thinkin' some mischance might come to him."
The Master's eyes flashed dangerously. He recalled the many rumors he had heard, and the attempt on the old dog early in the year.
"I canna think ony one would be coward enough to murder him," he said, drawing himself up.
M'Adam lent forward. There was a nasty glitter in his eye, and his face was all a-tremble.
"Ye'd no think ony one 'd be cooard enough to set the son to murder the father. Yet some one did,--set the lad on to 'sassinate me. He failed at me, and next, I suppose, he'll try at Wullie!" There was a flush on the sallow face, and a vindictive ring in the thin voice. "One way or t'ither, fair or foul, Wullie or me, am or baith, has got to go afore Cup Day, eh, James Moore! eh?"
The Master put his hand on the latch of the gate, "That'll do, M'Adam," he said. "I'll stop to hear no more, else I might get angry we' yo'. Noo git off this gate, yo're trespassin' as 'tis.
He shook the gate. M'Adam tumbled off, and went sprawling into the sheep clustered below. Picking himself up, he dashed on through the flock, waving his arms, kicking fantastically, and scattering confusion everywhere.
"Just wait till I'm thro' wi' 'em, will yo'?" shouted the Master, seeing the danger.
It was a request which, according to the etiquette of shepherding, one man