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.
