Part 27 (1/2)

”I'd rather stop, but I must go on,” said Andrew grimly.

”Very well; we'll try to follow him.”

They drove back, pa.s.sing the roadmender, who leaned upon his spade looking after them; and a little while later Whitney pulled up at a broken gate that hung open. A rough track, grown with gra.s.s, led away from it between loose stone walls.

”Not intended for automobiles!” Whitney remarked, as he cautiously steered between the ruts. ”Williamson must have found it easier than we do.”

Andrew nodded. His comrade's eyes were keen, for only a crushed tuft of gra.s.s here and there suggested the track of a bicycle tire. Farther along they stopped at a gate where the loaning forked. One branch ran on; the other turned off, and in the distance a lonely white house showed amidst a clump of bare, wind-bent trees.

”He would not have gone to the farm,” said Whitney. ”Jump down and open the gate.”

They went on again carefully, but after a time the loaning got very rough and rushes grew across it where the ground was soft. After narrowly escaping an upset into the ditch on one side, Whitney stopped.

”I guess this is as far as she'll take us, and I see a peat-stack where we could leave her.”

Lifting down a small fir that closed a gap in the wall, they pushed the motorcycle across a strip of heath and against a pile of turf; and then they stopped to look about.

The light was rapidly going and the wind was falling. In front lay a stretch of moor, seamed by black peat-hags, in some of which water glistened; beyond the moor rough heather-covered slopes ran up to the black hillcrest. A curlew whistled overhead, and the sharp cry of a grouse rose from the darkening heath. Except for this, it was very still and the landscape looked strangely desolate. Not far ahead a patch of roof showed faintly among some stunted ash-trees.

”A cothouse,” said Andrew in surprise.

”We'll look at it,” Whitney answered, and started for the building.

One end had fallen down, but half the thatch remained upon the bending rafters. The rest had gone, and it was plain that the cot had been abandoned for a long time. Crossing a ditch by a rotten plank, they stood knee-deep among withered nettles at the door, and the ruined walls struck a mournful note in the gathering dark.

”There's a track here,” said Whitney. ”I guess the sheep go in.”

He struck a match as they entered, and, avoiding stones and fallen beams, they made for the door of an inner room. When they reached it, Whitney struck another match, and smiled as he held it up, for the light fell upon a single-cylinder motorcycle with a gun-case strapped to the carrier.

”Well,” he said, ”I expected this. If we cross the end of the hill going southeast, we would strike the sands somewhere abreast of the wreck?”

”Yes.”

”How's the tide?”

”High-water's about one o'clock. That means it's a big tide and, of course, runs out a long way on the ebb.”

”Then the sands will be dry and there'll be no gutters to cross. Well, I guess it's a long walk, but we've got to make it. Take your overalls off.”

Three or four minutes later they left the cothouse and struck across the heath. There was no track, but Andrew headed for a knoll on the mountain's sloping shoulder. After they left the level, the heather grew tall and strong, brus.h.i.+ng about their knees and entangling their feet. Then there were awkward rabbit-holes and granite boulders scattered about, and they bruised their s.h.i.+ns as they laboriously plodded upward. The light had almost gone, and there was nothing visible but the stretch of shadowy hillside in front.

Whitney heard Andrew breathing hard, and imagined that his injured leg was giving him trouble.

”Are we rus.h.i.+ng it too much?” he asked.

”I can hold out until we get to the top, and I'll be all right then.

It's gripping the brae with the side of my foot that bothers me.”

He went on without slackening speed, and the slope grew easier and the light breeze keener. Then the stretch of heather which had shut off their view suddenly fell away, and they looked down through the soft darkness on to a vast, black plain. There was nothing to distinguish land from sea; but a faint cl.u.s.ter of lights that p.r.i.c.ked the gloom like pin-points marked the English-sh.o.r.e, and farther off the flickering glare of blast-furnaces was reflected in the sky. In the middle distance, a twinkle showed where the Solway lights.h.i.+p guarded the fairway through the shoals; but there was no light near them, nor any sound except the distant murmur of the sea. They stood remote from the homes of men in the mountain solitude.