Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant (crime books to read TXT) 📕

M’Adam looked round suspiciously.

“What’s that?” he asked sharply.

At the moment, however, Mrs. Moore put her head out of the kitchen window.

“Coom thy ways in, Mister M’Adam, and tak’ a soop o’ tea,” she called hospitably.

“Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Moore, I will,” he answered, politely for him. And this one good thing must be allowed of Adam M’Adam:

that, if there was only one woman of whom he was ever known to speak well, there was also only one, in the whole course of his life, against whom he ever insinuated evil—and that was years afterward, when men said his brain was sapped. Flouts and jeers he had for every man, but a woman, good or bad, was sacred to him. For the sex that had given him his mother and his wife he had that sentiment of tender reverence which, if a man still preserve, he cannot be altogether bad. As he turned into the house he looked back at Red Wull.

“Ay, we may leave him,” he said. “That is, gin ye’re no afraid, Mr. Thornton?”

Of what happened while the men were within doors, it is enough to tell two things. First, that Owd Bob was no bully. Second, this: In the code of sheepdog honor there is written a word in stark black letters; and opposite it another word, writ large in the color of blood. The first is “Sheepmurder”; the second, “Death.” It is the one crime only to be wiped away in blood; and to accuse of the crime is to offer the one unpardonable insult. Every sheepdog knows it, and every shepherd.

That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: “Shot for sheepmurder”—” Shot for sheepmurder”; followed by a hollow stillness.

The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak on David’s behalf.

“lie’s such a good little lad, I do think,” she was saying.

“Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore,” the little man answered, a thought bitterly; “ye see enough of him.”

“Yo’ mun be main proud of un, mester,” the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: “an’ ‘im growin’ such a gradely lad.”

M’Adam shrugged his shoulders.

“I barely ken the lad,” he said. “By sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. He’s but seldom at hame.”

“An’ hoo proud his mother’d be if she could see him,” the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. “Eh, but she was fond o’ him, so she was.”

An angry flush stole over the little man’s face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.

“Ay, ay, Mrs. Moore,” he began. Then breaking off, and looking about him— “Where’s ma Wullie?” he cried excitedly. “James Moore!” whipping round on the Master, “ma Wullie’s gone—gone, I say!”

Elizabeth Moore turned away indignantly. “I do declar’ he tak’s more fash after yon little yaller beastie than iver he does after his own flesh,” she muttered.

“Wullie, ma we doggie! Wullie, where are ye? James Moore, he’s gone—ma Wullie’s gone!” cried the little man, running about the yard, searching everywhere.

“Cannot ‘a’ gotten far,” said the Master, reassuringly, looking about him.

“Niver no tellin’,” said Sam’l, appearing on the scene, pig-bucket in hand. “I inisdoot yo’ll iver see your dog agin, mister.” He turned sorrowfully to M’Adam.

That little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.

“It’s robbed I am—robbed, I tell ye!” he cried recklessly. “Ma wee Wull’s bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!”

“Yo’ munna say that, ma mon. No robbin’ at Kenmuir,” the Master answered sternly.

“Then where is he? It’s for you to say.”

“I’ve ma own idee, I ‘aye,” Sam’l announced opportunely, pig-bucket uplifted.

M’Adam turned on him.

“What, man? What is it?”

“I misdoot yo’ll iver see your dog agin, mister,” Sam’l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery.

“Noo, Sam’l, if yo’ know owt tell it, “ordered his master.

Sam’l grunted sulkily.

“Wheer’s oor Bob, then?” he asked.

At that M’Adam turned on the Master.

‘Tis that, nae doot. It’s yer gray dog, James Moore, yer—dog. I might ha’ kent it, “—and he loosed off a volley of foul words.

“Sweerin’ will no find him,” said the Master coldly. “Noo, Sam’l.”

The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M’Adam.

‘Twas ‘appen ‘aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin’ oot o’ yard wi’ little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin— and theer! little yaller ‘Un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin’ a-lickin’ his chops. Gone for-iver, I do reck’n. Ah, yo’ may well take on, Tammas Thornton!” For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with merriment.

M’Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair.

“Man, Moore,” he cried piteously, “it’s yer gray dog has murdered ma wee Wull! Ye have it from yer am man.”

“Nonsense,” said the Master encouragingly. ” ‘Tis but yon girt oof.”

Sam’l tossed his head and snorted.

“Coom, then, and i’ll show yo’,” he said, and led the way out of the yard. And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like Justice at the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob.

Straightway Sam’l whose humor was something of the calibre of old Ross’s, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. “Why’s he sit-tin’ so still, think ‘ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin’ his chops—ha! ha! “—and he roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of ‘Enry and oor Job.

At the sight, M’Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained him.

“Bob, lad,” called the Master, “coom here!” But even as he spoke, the gray dog cocked his ears, listened a moment, and then shot down the slope. At the same moment Tammas hallooed: “Theer he be! yon’s yaller un coomin’ oot o’ drain! La, Sam’l!” And there, indeed, on the slope below them, a little angry, smutty-faced figure was crawling out of a rabbit-burrow.

“Ye murderin’ devil, wad ye duar touch ma Wullie?” yelled M’Adam, and, breaking away, pursued hotly down the hill; for the gray dog had picked up the puppy, like a lancer a tent-peg, and was sweeping on, his captive in his mouth, toward the stream.

Behind, hurried James Moore and Sam’l, wondering what the issue of the comedy would be. After them toddled old Tammas, chuckling. While over the yard-wall was now a little cluster of heads: ‘Enry, oor Job, Maggie and David, and Vi’let Thornton, the dairy-maid.

Straight on to the plank-bridge galloped Owd Bob. In the middle he halted, leant over, and dropped his prisoner; who fell with a cool plop into the running water beneath.

Another moment and M’Adam had reached the bank of the stream. In he plunged, splashing and cursing, and seized the struggling puppy; then waded back, the waters surging about his waist, and Red Wull, limp as a wet rag, in his hand. The little man’s hair was dripping, for his cap was gone; his clothes clung to him, exposing the miserableness of his figure; and his eyes blazed like hot ashes in his wet face.

He sprang on to the bank, and, beside himself with passion, rushed at Owd Bob.

“Curse ye for a—”

“Stan’ back, or yo’ll have him at your throat!” shouted the Master, thundering up. “Stan’ back, I say, yo’ fule!” And, as the little man still came madly on, he reached forth his hand and hurled him back; at the same moment, bending, he buried the other hand deep in Owd Bob’s shaggy neck. It was but just in time; for if ever the fierce desire of battle gleamed in gray eyes, it did in the young dog’s as M’Adam came down on him.

The little man staggered, tottered, and fell heavily. At the shock, the blood gushed from his nose, and, mixing with the water on his face, ran down in vague red streams, dripping off his chin; while Red Wull, jerked from his grasp, was thrown afar, and lay motionless.

“Curse ye!” M’Adam screamed, his face dead-white save for the running red about his jaw. “Curse ye for a cowardly Englishman!” and, struggling to his feet, he made at the Master.

But Sam’l interposed his great bulk between the two.

“Easy, little mon,” he said leisurely, regarding the small fury before him with mournful interest. “Eli, but thee do be a little spit-cat, surely!”

James Moore stood, breathing deep, his hand still buried in Owd Bob’s coat.

“If yo’d touched him,” he explained, “I conidna ha’ stopped him. He’d ha’ mauled yo’ afore iver I could ha’ had him off. They’re bad to hold, the Gray Dogs, when they’re roosed.”

“Ay, ma word, that they are!” corroborated Tammas, speaking from the experience of sixty years. “Once on, yo’ canna get ‘em off.”

The little man turned away.

“Ye’re all agin me,” he said, and his voice shook. A pitiful figure he made, standing there with the water dripping from him. A red stream was running slowly from his chin; his head was bare, and face working.

James Moore stood eyeing him with some pity and some contempt. Behind was Tammas, enjoying the scene. While Sam’l regarded them all with an impassive melancholy.

M’Adam turned and bent over Red Wull, who still lay like a dead thing. As his master handled him, the button-tail quivered feebly; he opened his eyes, looked about him, snarled faintly, and glared with devilish hate at the gray dog and the group with him.

The little man picked him up, stroking him tenderly. Then he turned away and on to the bridge. Half-way across he stopped. It rattled feverishly beneath him, for he still trembled like a palsied man.

“Man, Moore!” he called, striving to quell the agitation in his voice—” I wad shoot yon dog.”

Across the bridge he turned again. “Man, Moore!” he called and paused. Ye’ll not forget this day.” And with that the blood flared up a dull crimson into his white face.