CHAPTER VIII
HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A CHALLENGE
The first cocks had just begun to crow and the clocks had not yet struckfive when Dickson presented himself at Mrs. Morran's back door. Thatactive woman had already been half an hour out of bed, and was drinkingher morning cup of tea in the kitchen. She received him with cordiality,nay, with relief.
"Eh, sirs, but I'm glad to see ye back. Guid kens what's gaun on at theHoose thae days. Mr. Heritage left here yestreen, creepin' round bydyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It's a mercy to get aresponsible man in the place. I aye had a notion ye wad come back, for,thinks I, nevoy Dickson is no the yin to desert folk in trouble....Whaur's my wee kist?... Lost, ye say. That's a peety, for it's been mycheese-box thae thirty year."
Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced his need of at leastthree hours' sleep. As he rolled into bed his mind was curiously atease. He felt equipped for any call that might be made on him. That Mrs.Morran should welcome him back as a resource in need gave him a newassurance of manhood.
He woke between nine and ten to the sound of rain lashing against thegarret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of sleep andrecovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his disgust thathe had lost his composure. All the flock of fears that had left himwhen, on the top of the Glasgow tram-car, he had made the great decisionhad flown back again and settled like black crows on his spirit. He wasrunning a horrible risk and all for a whim. What business had he to bemixing himself up in things he did not understand? It might be a hugemistake, and then he would be a laughing stock; for a moment he repentedhis telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion; there could beno mistake, except the fatal one that he had taken on a job too big forhim. He sat on the edge of his bed and shivered, with his eyes on thegrey drift of rain. He would have felt more stout-hearted had the sunbeen shining.
He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the village streetwas Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad blunder, for his reasontold him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter hid aslong as possible.
There was a knock at the cottage door, and presently Mrs. Morranappeared.
"It's the man frae the inn," she announced. "He's wantin' a word wi' ye.Speakin' verra ceevil, too."
"Tell him to come up," said Dickson. He might as well get the interviewover. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know of their conversation. Thesight of himself back again when he had pretended to be off to Glasgowwould remove him effectually from the class of the unsuspected. Hewondered just what line Dobson would take.
The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low door. His face waswrinkled into a smile, which nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial.His voice had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson was consciousof a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody whom he had recently seen.It was Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin forward, thesame odd cheek-bones, the same unctuous heartiness of speech. Theinnkeeper, well washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad copy ofthe factor. They must be near kin, perhaps brothers.
"Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it's pitifu' weather, and justwhen the farmers are wanting a dry seed-bed. What brings ye back here?Ye travel the country like a drover."
"Oh, I'm a free man now and I took a fancy to this place. An idle bodyhas nothing to do but please himself."
"I hear ye're taking a lease of Huntingtower?"
"Now who told you that?"
"Just the clash of the place. Is it true?"
Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.
"I maybe had half a thought of it, but I'll thank you not to repeat thestory. It's a big house for a plain man like me, and I haven't properlyinspected it."
"Oh, I'll keep mum, never fear. But if ye've that sort of notion, I canunderstand you not being able to keep away from the place."
"That's maybe the fact," Dickson admitted.
"Well! It's just on that point I want a word with you." The innkeeperseated himself unbidden on the chair which held Dickson's modestraiment. He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger tapped Dickson'spyjama-clad knees. "I can't have ye wandering about the place. I'm verysorry, but I've got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you think that bybidin' here ye can see more of the House and the policies, ye're wrong,Mr. McCunn. It can't be allowed, for we're no' ready for ye yet. D'yeunderstand? That's Mr. Loudon's orders.... Now, would it not be a farbetter plan if ye went back to Glasgow and came back in a week's time?I'm thinking of your own comfort, Mr. McCunn."
Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was clearly instructed to get ridof him at all costs for the next few days. The neighbourhood had to becleared for some black business. The tinklers had been deputed to driveout the Gorbals Die-Hards, and as for Heritage they seemed to have losttrack of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object of their care. Butwhat could Dobson do if he refused? He dared not show his true hand. Yethe might, if sufficiently irritated. It became Dickson's immediateobject to get the innkeeper to reveal himself by rousing his temper. Hedid not stop to consider the policy of this course; he imperativelywanted things cleared up and the issue made plain.
"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking so much about mycomfort," he said in a voice into which he hoped he had insinuated asneer. "But I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious folk about here.You needn't be feared for your old policies. There's plenty of nicewalks about the roads, and I want to explore the sea-coast."
The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. "That's no' allowedeither," he said. "The shore's as private as the policies.... Well, Iwish ye joy tramping the roads in the glaur."
"It's a queer thing," said Dickson meditatively, "that you should keepan hotel and yet be set on discouraging people from visiting thisneighbourhood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel of yours is allsham. You've some other business, you and these lodgekeepers, and in myopinion it's not a very creditable one."
"What d'ye mean?" asked Dobson sharply.
"Just what I say. You must expect a body to be suspicious, if you treathim as you're treating me." Loudon must have told this man the storywith which he had been fobbed off about the half-witted Kennedyrelative. Would Dobson refer to that?
The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but he controlled his temperwith an effort. "There's no cause for suspicion," he said. "As far asI'm concerned it's all honest and aboveboard."
"It doesn't look like it. It looks as if you were hiding something up inthe House which you don't want me to see."
Dobson jumped from his chair, his face pale with anger. A man in pyjamason a raw morning does not feel at his bravest, and Dickson quailed underthe expectation of assault. But even in his fright he realised thatLoudon could not have told Dobson the tale of the half-witted lady. Thelast remark had cut clean through all camouflage and reached the quick.
"What the hell d' ye mean?" he cried. "Ye're a spy, are ye? Ye fatlittle fool, for two cents I'd wring your neck."
Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that a suspicion ofthreat, a hint of bullying, will rouse some unsuspected obstinacy deepdown in their souls. The insolence of the man's speech woke a quiet butefficient little devil in Dickson.
"That's a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a gentleman. If you'venothing to hide what way are you so touchy? I can't be a spy unlessthere's something to spy on."
The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was apparently acting oninstructions, and had not yet come to the end of them. He made anattempt at a smile.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot. But it nettled me tohear ye say that.... I'll be quite frank with ye, Mr. McCunn, and,believe me, I'm speaking in your best interests. I give ye my wordthere's nothing wrong up at the House. I'm on the side of the law, andwhen I tell ye the whole story ye'll admit it. But I can't tell it yeyet.... This is a wild, lonely bit and very few folk bide in it. Andthese are wild times, when a lot of queer things happen that never getinto the papers. I tell ye it
's for your own good to leave Dalquharterfor the present. More I can't say, but I ask ye to look at it as asensible man. Ye're one that's accustomed to a quiet life and no' meantfor rough work. Ye'll do no good if you stay, and, maybe, ye'll landyourself in bad trouble."
"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed. "What is it you're expecting? SinnFein?"
The innkeeper nodded. "Something like that."
"Did you ever hear the like? I never did think much of the Irish."
"Then ye'll take my advice and go home? Tell ye what, I'll drive ye tothe station."
Dickson got up from the bed, found his new safety-razor and began tostrop it. "No, I think I'll bide. If you're right there'll be more tosee than glaury roads."
"I'm warning ye, fair and honest. Ye ... can't ... be ... allowed ... to... stay ... here!"
"Well, I never!" said Dickson. "Is there any law in Scotland, think you,that forbids a man to stop a day or two with his auntie?"
"Ye'll stay?"
"Ay, I'll stay."
"By God, we'll see about that."
For a moment Dickson thought that he would be attacked, and he measuredthe distance that separated him from the peg whence hung his waterproofwith the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained himself and movedto the door. There he stood and cursed him with a violence and a venomwhich Dickson had not believed possible. The full hand was on the tablenow.
"Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer," (I paraphrase), "would_you_ set up to defy me? I tell ye, I'll make ye rue the day ye wereborn." His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the maltreatment instore for the body of the defiant one.
"Impident dog," said Dickson without heat. He noted with pleasure thatthe innkeeper hit his head violently against the low lintel, and,missing a step, fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen, where Mrs.Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him trenchantly from thepremises.
Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by and by went down tothe kitchen and watched his hostess making broth. The fracas with Dobsonhad done him all the good in the world, for it had cleared the problemof dubieties and had put an edge on his temper. But he realised that itmade his continued stay in the cottage undesirable. He was now the focusof all suspicion, and the innkeeper would be as good as his word and tryto drive him out of the place by force. Kidnapping, most likely, andthat would be highly unpleasant, besides putting an end to hisusefulness. Clearly he must join the others. The soul of Dicksonhungered at the moment for human companionship. He felt that his couragewould be sufficient for any team-work, but might waver again if he wereleft to play a lone hand.
He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran's kail--an early lunch,for that lady, having breakfasted at five, partook of the midday mealabout eleven. Then he explored her library, and settled himself by thefire with a volume of Covenanting tales, entitled _Gleanings among theMountains_. It was a most practical work for one in his position, for ittold how various eminent saints of that era escaped the attention ofClaverhouse's dragoons. Dickson stored up in his memory several of theincidents in case they should come in handy. He wondered if any of hisforbears had been Covenanters; it comforted him to think that some oldprogenitor might have hunkered behind turf walls and been chased for hislife in the heather. "Just like me," he reflected. "But the dragoonsweren't foreigners, and there was a kind of decency about Claverhousetoo."
About four o'clock Dougal presented himself in the back kitchen. He wasan even wilder figure than usual, for his bare legs were mud to theknees, his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body, and, having losthis hat, his wet hair was plastered over his eyes. Mrs. Morran said, notunkindly, that he looked "like a wull-cat glowerin' through a whinbuss."
"How are you, Dougal?" Dickson asked genially. "Is the peace of naturesmoothing out the creases in your poor little soul?"
"What's that ye say?"
"Oh, just what I heard a man say in Glasgow. How have you got on?"
"Not so bad. Your telegram was sent this mornin'. Old Bill took it in toKirkmichael. That's the first thing. Second, Thomas Yownie has took aparty to get down the box from the station. He got Mrs. Sempill's pownyand he took the box ayont the Laver by the ford at the herd's hoose andgot it on to the shore maybe a mile ayont Laverfoot. He managed to getthe machine up as far as the water, but he could get no farther, forye'll no' get a machine over the wee waterfa' just before the Laver endsin the sea. So he sent one o' the men back with it to Mrs. Sempill, and,since the box was ower heavy to carry, he opened it and took the stuffacross in bits. It's a' safe in the hole at the foot o' the Huntingtowerrocks, and he reports that the rain has done it no harm. Thomas has madea good job of it. Ye'll no fickle Thomas Yownie."
"And what about your camp on the moor?"
"It was broke up afore daylight. Some of our things we've got with us,and most is hid near at hand. The tents are in the auld wife'shenhoose," and he jerked his disreputable head in the direction of theback door.
"Have the tinklers been back?"
"Ay. They turned up about ten o'clock, no doubt intendin' murder. I leftWee Jaikie to watch developments. They fund him sittin' on a stone,greetin' sore. When he saw them, he up and started to run, and theycried on him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. Then they cried out wherewere the rest, and he telled them they were feared for their lives andhad run away. After that they offered to catch him, but ye'll no' catchJaikie in a hurry. When he had run round about them till they werewappit, he out wi' his catty and got one o' them on the lug. Syne hemade for the Laverfoot and reported."
"Man, Dougal, you've managed fine. Now I've something to tell you," andDickson recounted his interview with the innkeeper. "I don't think it'ssafe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn't be any use, hiding incellars and such like, and not daring to stir a foot. I'm coming withyou to the House. Now tell me how to get there."
Dougal agreed to this view. "There's been nothing doing at the Hoose theday, but they're keepin' a close watch on the policies. The cripus maycome any moment. There's no doubt, Mr. McCunn, that ye're in danger, forthey'll serve you as the tinklers tried to serve us. Listen to me. Ye'llwalk up the station road, and take the second turn on your left, a weegrass road that'll bring ye to the ford at the herd's hoose. Cross theLaver--there's a plank bridge--and take straight across the moor in thedirection of the peakit hill they call Grey Carrick. Ye'll come to a bigburn, which ye must follow till ye get to the shore. Then turn south,keepin' the water's edge till ye reach the Laver, where you'll find oneo' us to show ye the rest of the road.... I must be off now, and Iadvise ye not to be slow of startin', for wi' this rain the water'srisin' quick. It's a mercy it's such coarse weather, for it spoils theveesibility."
"Auntie Phemie," said Dickson a few minutes later, "will you oblige meby coming for a short walk?"
"The man's daft," was the answer.
"I'm not. I'll explain if you'll listen.... You see," he concluded, "thedangerous bit for me is just the mile out of the village. They'll no' beso likely to try violence if there's somebody with me that could be awitness. Besides, they'll maybe suspect less if they just see a decentbody out for a breath of air with his auntie."
Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned presently equippedfor the road. She had indued her feet with goloshes and pinned up herskirts till they looked like some demented Paris mode. An ancient bonnetwas tied under her chin with strings, and her equipment was completed byan exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-handled umbrella, which, sheexplained, had been a Christmas present from her son.
"I'll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's," she announced. "Thewife's a freend o' mine and will set me a bit on the road back. Yeneedna fash for me. I'm used to a' weathers."
The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a tearing wind from thesouth-west scoured the land. Beyond the shelter of the trees the moorwas a battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into spindrift andgave to the stagnant bog-pools the appearance of running water. The windwas behind the travellers, and
Mrs. Morran, like a full-rigged ship,was hustled before it, so that Dickson, who had linked arms with her,was sometimes compelled to trot.
"However will you get home, mistress?" he murmured anxiously.
"Fine. The wind will fa' at the darkenin'. This'll be a sair time forships at sea."
Not a soul was about, as they breasted the ascent of the station roadand turned down the grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd's. The herd'swife saw them from afar and was at the door to receive them.
"Megsty! Phemie Morran!" she shrilled. "Wha wad ettle to see ye on a daylike this? John's awa' at Dumfries, buyin' tups. Come in, the baith o'ye. The kettle's on the boil."
"This is my nevoy Dickson," said Mrs. Morran. "He's gaun to stretch hislegs ayont the burn, and come back by the Ayr road. But I'll be blitheto tak' my tea wi' ye, Elspeth.... Now, Dickson, I'll expect ye back onthe chap o' seeven."
He crossed the rising stream on a swaying plank and struck into themoorland, as Dougal had ordered, keeping the bald top of Grey Carrickbefore him. In that wild place with the tempest battling overhead he hadno fear of human enemies. Steadily he covered the ground, till hereached the west-flowing burn that was to lead him to the shore. Hefound it an entertaining companion, swirling into black pools, foamingover little falls, and lying in dark canal-like stretches in the flats.Presently it began to descend steeply in a narrow green gully, wherethe going was bad, and Dickson, weighted with pack and waterproof, hadmuch ado to keep his feet on the sodden slopes. Then, as he rounded acrook of hill, the ground fell away from his feet, the burn swept in awater-slide to the boulders of the shore, and the storm-tossed sea laybefore him.
It was now that he began to feel nervous. Being on the coast againseemed to bring him inside his enemies' territory, and had not Dobsonspecifically forbidden the shore? It was here that they might be lookingfor him. He felt himself out of condition, very wet and very warm, buthe attained a creditable pace, for he struck a road which had been usedby manure-carts collecting seaweed. There were faint marks on it, whichhe took to be the wheels of Dougal's "machine" carrying theprovision-box. Yes. On a patch of gravel there was a double set oftracks, which showed how it had returned to Mrs. Sempill. He was exposedto the full force of the wind, and the strenuousness of his bodilyexertions kept his fears quiescent, till the cliffs on his left sunksuddenly and the valley of the Laver lay before him.
A small figure rose from the shelter of a boulder, the warrior who borethe name of Old Bill. He saluted gravely.
"Ye're just in time. The water has rose three inches since I've beenhere. Ye'd better strip."
Dickson removed his boots and socks. "Breeks, too," commanded the boy;"there's deep holes ayont thae stanes."
Dickson obeyed, feeling very chilly, and rather improper. "Now, followme," said the guide. The next moment he was stepping delicately on verysharp pebbles, holding on to the end of the scout's pole, while an icystream ran to his knees.
The Laver as it reaches the sea broadens out to the width of fifty orsixty yards and tumbles over little shelves of rock to meet the waves.Usually it is shallow, but now it was swollen to an average depth of afoot or more, and there were deeper pockets. Dickson made the passageslowly and miserably, sometimes crying out with pain as his toes strucka sharper flint, once or twice sitting down on a boulder to blow like awhale, once slipping on his knees and wetting the strange excrescenceabout his middle, which was his tucked-up waterproof. But the crossingwas at length achieved, and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried himselfperfunctorily and hastily put on his garments. Old Bill, who seemed tobe regardless of wind or water, squatted beside him and whistled throughhis teeth.
Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Huntingtower cape, so sheer thata man below was completely hidden from any watcher on the top. Dickson'sheart fell, for he did not profess to be a cragsman and had indeed ahorror of precipitous places. But as the two scrambled along the foot,they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of them unclimbable, butoffering something more hopeful than the face. At one of these Old Billhalted and led the way up and over a chaos of fallen rock and loosesand. The grey weather had brought on the dark prematurely, and in thehalf-light it seemed that this ravine was blocked by an unscalable massof rock. Here Old Bill whistled, and there was a reply from above. Roundthe corner of the mass came Dougal.
"Up here," he commanded. "It was Mr. Heritage that fund this road."
Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves between the mass and the cliffup a spout of stones, and found themselves in an upper storey of thegulley, very steep but practicable even for one who was no cragsman.This in turn ran out against a wall up which there led only a narrowchimney. At the foot of this were two of the Die-Hards, and there wereothers above, for a rope hung down by the aid of which a package waseven now ascending.
"That's the top," said Dougal, pointing to the rim of sky, "and that'sthe last o' the supplies." Dickson noticed that he spoke in a whisper,and that all the movements of the Die-Hards were judicious and stealthy."Now, it's your turn. Take a good grip o' the rope, and ye'll findplenty holes for your feet. It's no more than ten yards and ye're wellheld above."
Dickson made the attempt and found it easier than he expected. The onlytrouble was his pack and waterproof, which had a tendency to catch onjags of rock. A hand was reached out to him, he was pulled over theedge, and then pushed down on his face.
When he lifted his head Dougal and the others had joined him and thewhole company of the Die-Hards was assembled on a patch of grass whichwas concealed from the landward view by a thicket of hazels. Another,whom he recognised as Heritage, was coiling up the rope.
"We'd better get all the stuff into the old Tower for the present,"Heritage was saying. "It's too risky to move it into the House now.We'll need the thickest darkness for that, after the moon is down.Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising soon and before that we mustall be indoors."
Then he turned to Dickson, and gripped his hand. "You're a high class ofsportsman, Dogson. And I think you're just in time."
"Are they due to-night?" Dickson asked in an excited whisper, faintagainst the wind.
"I don't know about They. But I've got a notion that some devilish queerthings will happen before to-morrow morning."