Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant
Chapter XXIX THE DEVIL'S BOWL
IT was Owd Bob. There could be no mistaking. In the wide world therewas but one Owd Bob o' Kenmuir. The silver moon gleamed down on the darkhead and rough gray coat, and lit the white escutcheon on his chest.
And in the darkness James Moore was lying with his face pressed downwardthat he might not see.
Once he raised himself on his arms; his eyes were shut and faceuplifted, like a blind man praying. He passed a weary hand across hisbrow; his head dropped again; and he moaned and moaned like a man ineverlasting pain.
Then the darkness lifted a moment, and he stole a furtive glance, like amurderer's at the gallows-tree, at the scene in front.
It was no dream; clear and cruel in the moonlight the humpbackedboulder; the dead sheep; and that gray figure, beautiful, motionless,damned for all eternity.
The Master turned his face and looked at Andrew, a dumb, pitifulentreaty in his eyes; but in the boy's white, horror-strickencountenance was no comfort. Then his head lolled down again, and thestrong man was whimpering.
"He! he! he! 'Scuse ma laffin', Mr. Moore--he! he! he!"
A little man, all wet and shrunk, sat hunching on a mound above them,rocking his shrivelled form to and fro in the agony of his merriment.
"Ye raskil--he! he! Ye rogue--he! he!" and he shook his fist waggishlyat the unconscious gray dog. "I owe ye anither grudge for this--ye'veanteecipated me"--and he leant back and shook this way and that inconvulsive mirth.
The man below him rose heavily to his feet, and tumbled toward themocker, his great figure swaying from side to side as though in blinddelirium, moaning still as he went. And there was that on his face whichno man can mistake. Boy that he was, Andrew knew it.
"Feyther! feyther! do'ee not!" he pleaded, running after his father andlaying impotent hands on him.
But the strong man shook him off like a fly, and rolled on, swaying andgroaning, with that awful expression plain to see in the moonlight.
In front the little man squatted in the rain, bowed double still; andtook no thought to flee.
"Come on, James Moore! Come on!" he laughed, malignant joy in his voice;and something gleamed bright in his right hand, and was hid again. "I'vebin waitin' this a weary while noo. Come on!"
Then had there been done something worse than sheep-murder in thedreadful lonesomeness of the Devil's Bowl upon that night; but ofa sudden, there sounded the splash of a man's foot, falling heavilybehind; a hand like a falling tree smote the Master on the shoulder; anda voice roared above the noise of the storm:
"Mr. Moore! Look, man! look!"
The Master tried to shake off that detaining grasp; but it pinned himwhere he was, immovable.
"Look, I tell yo'!" cried that great voice again.
A hand pushed past him and pointed; and sullenly he turned, ignoring thefigure at his side, and looked.
The wind had dropped suddenly as it had risen; the little man on themound had ceased to chuckle; Andrew's sobs were hushed; and in thebackground the huddled flock edged closer. The world hung balanced onthe pinpoint of the moment. Every eye was in the one direction.
With dull, uncomprehending gaze James Moore stared as bidden. There wasthe gray dog naked in the moonlight, heedless still of any witnesses;there the murdered sheep, lying within and without that distorted shade;and there the humpbacked boulder.
He stared into the shadow, and still stared.
Then he started as though struck. The shadow of the boulder had moved!
Motionless, with head shot forward and bulging eyes, he gazed.
Ay, ay, ay; he was sure of it--a huge dim outline as of a lion_couchant_, in the very thickest of the blackness.
At that he was seized with such a palsy of trembling that he must havefallen but for the strong arm about his waist.
Clearer every moment grew that crouching figure; till at length theyplainly could discern the line of arching loins, the crest, thick as astallion's, the massive, wagging head. No mistake this time. There helay in the deepest black, gigantic, revelling in his horrid debauch--theBlack Killer!
And they watched him at his feast. Now he burrowed into the spongyflesh; now turned to lap the dark pool which glittered in the moonlightat his side like claret in a silver cup. Now lifting his head, hesnapped irritably at the rain-drops, and the moon caught his wicked,rolling eye and the red shreds of flesh dripping from his jaw. Andagain, raising his great muzzle as if about to howl, he let thedelicious nectar trickle down his throat and ravish his palate.
So he went on, all unsuspicious, wisely nodding in slow-mouthedgluttony. And in the stillness, between the claps of wind, they couldhear the smacking of his lips.
While all the time the gray dog stood before him, motionless, as thoughcarved in stone.
At last, as the murderer rolled his great head from side to side, he sawthat still figure. At the sight he leaped back, dismayed. Then with adeep-mouthed roar that shook the waters of the Tarn he was up and acrosshis victim with fangs bared, his coat standing erect in wet, rigidfurrows from topknot to tail.
So the two stood, face to face, with perhaps a yard of rain-pierced airbetween them.
The wind hushed its sighing to listen. The moon stared down, whiteand dumb. Away at the back the sheep edged closer. While save for theeverlasting thunder of the rain, there was utter stillness.
An age, it seemed, they waited so. Then a voice, clear yet low and faraway, like a bugle in a distant city, broke the silence.
"Eh, Wullie!" it said.
There was no anger in the tones, only an incomparable reproach; thesound of the cracking of a man's heart.
At the call the great dog leapt round, snarling in hideous passion. Hesaw the small, familiar figure, clear-cut against the tumbling sky; andfor the only time in his life Red Wull was afraid.
His blood-foe was forgotten; the dead sheep was forgotten; everythingwas sunk in the agony of that moment. He cowered upon the ground, anda cry like that of a lost soul was wrung from him; it rose on the stillnight air and floated, wailing, away; and the white waters of the Tarnthrilled in cold pity; out of the lonely hollow; over the desolateMarches; into the night.
On the mound above stood his master. The little man's white hair wasbared to the night wind; the rain trickled down his face; and his handswere folded behind his back. He stood there, looking down into the dellbelow him, as a man may stand at the tomb of his lately buried wife. Andthere was such an expression on his face as I cannot describe.
"Wullie, Wullie, to me!" he cried at length; and his voice sounded weakand far, like a distant memory.
At that, the huge brute came crawling toward him on his belly,whimpering as he came, very pitiful in his distress. He knew his fate asevery sheep-dog knows it. That troubled him not. His pain, insufferable,was that this, his friend and father, who had trusted him, should havefound him in his sin.
So he crept up to his master's feet; and the little man never moved.
"Wullie--ma Wullie!" he said very gently. "They've aye bin agin me--andnoo you! A man's mither--a man's wife--a man's dog! they're all I'veiver had; and noo ain o' they three has turned agin me! Indeed I amalone!"
At that the great dog raised himself, and placing his forepaws on hismaster's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him who was already hurtpast healing, stood towering above him; while the little man laid histwo colds hands on the dog's shoulders.
So they stood, looking at one another, like a man and his love.
* * * * *
At M'Adam's word, Owd Bob looked up, and for the first time saw hismaster.
He seemed in nowise startled, but trotted over to him. There was nothingfearful in his carriage, no haunting blood-guiltiness in the true grayeyes which never told a lie, which never, dog-like, failed to look youin the face. Yet his tail was low, and, as he stopped at his master'sfeet, he was quivering. For he, too, knew, and was not unmoved.
For weeks he had tracked the Killer; for weeks he had follow
"I thowt t'had been yo', lad," the Master whispered, his hand on thedark head at his knee--"I thowt t'had bin yo'!"
* * * * *
Rooted to the ground, the three watched the scene between M'Adam and hisWull.
In the end the Master was whimpering; Andrew crying; and David turnedhis back.
At length, silent, they moved away.
"Had I--should I go to him" asked David hoarsely, nodding toward hisfather.
"Nay, nay, lad," the Master replied. "Yon's not a matter for a mon'sfriends."
So they marched out of the Devil's Bowl, and left those two alonetogether.
* * * * *
A little later, as they trampled along, James Moore heard littlepattering, staggering footsteps behind.
He stopped, and the other two went on.
"Man," a voice whispered, and a face, white and pitiful, like a mother'spleading for her child, looked into his--"Man, ye'll no tell them a' I'dno like 'em to ken 'twas ma Wullie. Think an 't had bin yer ain dog."
"You may trust me!" the other answered thickly.
The little man stretched out a palsied hand.
"Gie us yer hand on't. And G-God bless ye, James Moore!"
So these two shook hands in the moonlight, with none to witness it butthe God who made them.
And that is why the mystery of the Black Killer is yet unsolved inthe Daleland. Many have surmised; besides those three only one otherknows--knows now which of those two he saw upon a summer night was theguilty, which the innocent. And Postie Jim tells no man.