Part 45 (1/2)

That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds'

Trophy, came to wander no more; won outright by the last of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir--Owd Bob.

Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told.

PART VI THE BLACK KILLER

Chapter XXVI RED-HANDED

THE SUN was hiding behind the Pike. Over the lowlands the feathery breath of night hovered still. And the hillside was s.h.i.+vering in the chillness of dawn.

Down on the silvery sward beside the Stony Bottom there lay the ruffled body of a dead sheep. All about the victim the dewy ground was dark and patchy like dishevelled velvet; bracken trampled down; stones displaced as though by straggling feet; and the whole spotted with the all-pervading red.

A score yards up the hill, in a writhing confusion of red and gray, two dogs at death-grips. While yet higher, a pack of wild-eyed hill-sheep watched, fascinated, the b.l.o.o.d.y drama.

The fight raged. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the crimson froth dripping from their jaws; now rearing high with arching crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, worrying disorder--the two fought out their blood-feud.

Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, ever edging nearer to watch the issue. Just so must the women of Rome have craned round the arenas to see two men striving in death-struggle.

The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the morning peered aghast over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping dale there arose the yodling of a man driving his cattle home.

Day was upon them.

James Moore was waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window.

He leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for well he knew 'twas not for nothing that the old dog was calling.

”Lord o' mercy! whativer's come to yo', Owd Un?” he cried in anguish.

And, indeed, his favorite, war-daubed almost past recognition, presented a pitiful spectacle.

In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him.

”Poor old lad, yo' have caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged tear on the dog's cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his chest; while head and neck were clotted with the red.

Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed figure appeared in the door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming.

They doctored the old warrior on the table in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds, and dressed them with gentle, pitying fingers; and he stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up into his master's face as if imploring to be gone.

”He mun a had a rare tussle wi' some one--eh, dad?” said the girl, as she worked.

”Ay; and wi' whom? 'Twasn't for nowt he got fightin', I war'nt. Nay; he's a tale to tell, has The Owd Un, and--A h-h-h! I thowt as much. Look 'ee!” For bathing the b.l.o.o.d.y jaws, he had come upon a cl.u.s.ter of tawny red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.

The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. To but one creature in the Daleland could they belong--”Th' Tailless Tyke.”

”He mun a bin trespa.s.sin'!” cried Andrew.

”Ay, and up to some o' his b.l.o.o.d.y work, I'll lay my life,” the Master answered. ”But Th' Owd Un shall show us.”