Part 46 (1/2)
The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man's face was absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to sorrowful sympathy.
”Dear, dear! it's come to that, has it--at last?” he said gently, and his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. ”Man, I'm sorry--I canna tell ye I'm surprised. Masel', I kent it all alang.
But gin Adam M'Adam had tell't ye, no ha' believed him. Weel, weel, he's lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where he's sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!” He heaved a sigh, profoundly melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a little: ”Ye'll ha' come for the gun?”
James Moore listened to this harangue at first puzzled. Then he caught the other's meaning, and his eyes flashed.
”Ye fool, M'Adam! did ye hear iver tell o' a sheep-dog worryin' his master's sheep?”
The little man was smiling and suave again now, rubbing his hands softly together.
”Ye're right, I never did. But your dog is not as ither dogs--'There's none like him--none,' I've heard ye say so yersel, mony a time. An' I'm wi' ye. There's none like him--for devilment.” His voice began to quiver and his face to blaze. ”It's his cursed cunning that's deceived ivery one but me--whelp o' Satan that he is!” He shouldered up to his tall adversary. ”If not him, wha else had done it?” he asked, looking, up into the other's face as if daring him to speak.
The Master's s.h.a.ggy eyebrows lowered. He towered above the other like the Muir Pike above its surrounding hills.
”Wha, ye ask?” he replied coldly, ”and I answer you. Your Red Wull, M'Adam, your Red Wull. It's your Wull's the Black Killer! It's your Wull's bin the plague o' the land these months past! It's your Wull's killed ma sheep back o'yon!”
At that all the little man's affected good-humor fled.
”Ye lee, mon! ye lee!” he cried in a dreadful scream, dancing up to his antagonist. ”I knoo hoo 'twad be. I said so. I see what ye're at. Ye've found at last--blind that ye've been!--that it's yer ain h.e.l.l's tyke that's the Killer; and noo ye think by yer leein' impitations to throw the blame on ma Wullie. Ye rob me o' ma Cup, ye rob me o' ma son, ye wrang me in ilka thing; there's but ae thing left me--Wullie. And noo ye're set on takin' him awa'. But ye shall not--I'll kill ye first!”
He was all a-shake, bobbing up and down like a stopper in a soda-water bottle, and almost sobbing.
”Ha' ye no wranged me enough wi' oo that? Ye lang-leggit liar, wi' yer skulkin murderin' tyke!” he cried. ”Ye say it's Wullie. Where's yer proof?”--and he snapped his fingers in the other's face.
The Master was now as calm as his foe was pa.s.sionate. ”Where?” he replied sternly; ”why, there!” holding out his right hand. ”Yon's proof enough to hang a hunner'd.” For lying in his broad palm was a little bundle of that d.a.m.ning red hair.
”Where?”
”There!”
”Let's see it!” The little man bent to look closer.
”There's for yer proof!” he cried, and spat deliberately down into the other's naked palm. Then he stood back, facing his enemy in a manner to have done credit to a n.o.bler deed.
James Moore strode forward. It looked as if he was about to make an end of his miserable adversary, so strongly was he moved. His chest heaved, and the blue eyes blazed. But just as one had thought to see him take his foe in the hollow of his hand and crush him, who should come stalking round the corner of the house but the Tailless Tyke?
A droll spectacle he made, laughable even at that moment. He limped sorely, his head and neck were swathed in bandages, and beneath their ragged fringe the little eyes gleamed out fiery and bloodshot.
Round the corner he came, unaware of strangers; then straightway recognizing his visitors, halted abruptly. His hackles ran up, each individual hair stood on end till his whole body resembled a new-shorn wheat-field; and a snarl, like a rusty brake shoved hard down escaped from between his teeth. Then he trotted heavily forward, his head sinking low and lower as he came.
And Owd Bob, eager to take up the gage of battle, advanced, glad and gallant, to meet him. Daintily he picked his way across the yard, head and tail erect, perfectly self-contained. Only the long gray hair about his neck stood up like the ruff of a lady of the court of Queen Elizabeth.
But the war-worn warriors were not to be allowed their will.
”Wullie, Wullie, wad ye!” cried the little man.
”Bob, lad, coom in!” called the other. Then he turned and looked down at the man beside him, contempt flaunting in every feature.
”Well?” he said shortly.