Bob, Son of Battle

  Chapter XII. HOW RED WULL HELD THE BRIDGE

  FROM that hour the fire of M'Adam's jealousy blazed into a mighty flame.The winning of the Dale Cup had become a mania with him. He had won itonce, and would again despite all the Moores, all the Gray Dogs, all theundutiful sons in existence; on that point he was resolved. The fact ofhis having tasted the joys of victory served to whet his desire. And nowhe felt he could never be happy till the Cup was his own--won outright.

  At home David might barely enter the room There the trophy stood.

  "I'll not ha' ye touch ma Cup, ye dirty-fingered, ill-begotten wastrel.Wullie and me won it--you'd naught to do wi' it. Go you to James Mooreand James Moore's dog."

  "Ay, and shall I tak' Cup wi' me? or will ye bide till it's took fromye?"

  So the two went on; and every day the tension approached nearerbreaking-point.

  In the Dale the little man met with no sympathy. The hearts of theDalesmen were to a man with Owd Bob and his master.

  Whereas once at the Sylvester Arms his shrill, ill tongue had beenrarely still, now he maintained a sullen silence; Jem Burton, at least,had no cause of complaint. Crouched away in a corner, with Red Wullbeside him, the little man would sit watching and listening as theDalesmen talked of Owd Bob's doings, his staunchness, sagacity, andcoming victory.

  Sometimes he could restrain himself no longer. Then he would springto his feet, and stand, a little swaying figure, and denounce thempassionately in almost pathetic eloquence. These orations alwaysconcluded in set fashion.

  "Ye're all agin us!" the little man would cry in quivering voice.

  "We are that," Tammas would answer complacently.

  "Fair means or foul, ye're content sae lang as Wullie and me are beat.I wonder ye dinna poison him--a little arsenic, and the way's clear foryour Bob."

  "'The way is clear enough wi'oot that," from Tammas caustically.

  Then a lengthy silence, only broken by that exceeding bitter cry: "Eh,Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us!"

  * * * * *

  And always the rivals--red and gray--went about seeking theiropportunity. But the Master, with his commanding presence and sterneyes, was ever ready for them. Toward the end, M'Adam, silent andsneering, would secretly urge on Red Wull to the attack; until, one dayin Grammoch-town, James Moore turned on him, his blue eyes glittering."D'yo' think, yo' little fule," he cried in that hard voice of his,"that onst they got set we should iver git either of them off alive?" Itseemed to strike the little man as a novel idea; for, from that moment,he was ever the first in his feverish endeavors to oppose his smallform, buffer-like, between the would-be combatants.

  * * * * *

  Curse as M'Adam might, threaten as he might, when the time came Owd Bobwon.

  The styles of the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, theinsinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; andthe fierce, driving fury of the other.

  The issue was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of theTailless Tyke gave in the time of trial; it may have been that his sheepwere wild, as M'Adam declared; certainly not, as the little man allegedin choking voice, that they had been chosen and purposely set aside toruin his chance. Certain it is that his tactics scared them hopelessly:and he never had them in hand.

  Act for Owd Bob, his dropping, his driving, his penning, aroused theloud-tongued admiration of crowd and competitors alike. He was patientyet persistent, quiet yet firm, and seemed to coax his charges in theright way in that inimitable manner of his own.

  When, at length, the verdict was given, and it was known that, afteran interval of half a century, the Shepherds' Trophy was won again by aGray Dog of Kenmuir, there was such a scene as has been rarely witnessedon the slope behind the Dalesman's Daughter.

  Great fists were slapped on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on thesun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; stalwart lungs were strained to theiruttermost capacity; and roars of "Moore!" "Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" "TheGray Dogs!" thundered up the hillside, and were flung, thundering, back.

  Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through thecheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity,seemed to wave his silvery brush in acknowledgment.

  Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cart-wheels and felled theHon. Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks flushedwith pleasure, waved her parasol, and attempted to restrain her son'sexuberance. Parson Leggy danced an unclerical jig, and shook hands withthe squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face.Long Kirby selected a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat downover his eyes. While Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley,and the rest joined hands and went raving round like so many giddygirls.

  Of them all, however, none was so uproarious in the mad heat of hisenthusiasm as David M'Adam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie,a conspicuous figure above the crowd, as he roared in hoarse ecstasy:

  "Weel done, oor Bob! Weel done, Mr. Moore! Yo've knocked him! Knock himagin! Owd Bob o' Kenmuir! Moore! Moore o' Kenmuir! Hip! Hip!" until thenoisy young giant attracted such attention in his boisterous delightthat Maggie had to lay a hand upon his arm to restrain his violence.

  Alone, on the far bank of the stream, stood the vanquished pair.

  The little man was trembling slightly; his face was still hot from hisexertions; and as he listened to the ovation accorded to his conqueror,there was a piteous set grin upon his face. In front stood the defeateddog, his lips wrinkling and hackles rising, as he, too, saw and heardand understood.

  "It's a gran' thing to ha' a dutiful son. Wullie," the little manwhispered, watching David's waving figure. "He's happy--and so are theya'--not sae much that James Moore has won, as that you and I are beat."

  Then, breaking down for a moment:

  "Eh, Wullie, Wullie! They're all agin us. It's you and I alane, lad."

  Again, seeing the squire followed by Parson Leggy, Viscount Birdsaye,and others of the gentry, forcing their way through the press to shakehands with the victor, he continued:

  "It's good to be in wi' the quality, Wullie. Niver mak' a friend of aman beneath ye in rank, nor an enemy of a man aboon ye: that's a soondprinciple, Wullie, if ye'd get on in honest England."

  He stood there, alone with his dog, watching the crowd on the far slopeas it surged upward in the direction of the committee tent. Only whenthe black mass had packed itself in solid phalanges about thatring, inside which, just a year ago, he had stood in very differentcircumstances, and was at length still, a wintry smile played for amoment about his lips. He laughed a mirthless laugh.

  "Bide a wee, Wullie--he! he! Bide a wee. 'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft agley.'"

  As he spoke, there came down to him, above the tumult, a faint cry ofmingled surprise and anger. The cheering ceased abruptly. There wassilence; then there burst on the stillness a hurricane of indignation.

  The crowd surged forward, then turned. Every eye was directed across thestream. A hundred damning fingers pointed at the solitary figure there.There were hoarse yells of: "There he be Yon's him! What's he done wi'it? Thief! Throttle him!"

  The mob came lumbering down the slope like one man, thundering theirimprecations on a thousand throats. They looked dangerous, and theirwrath was stimulated by the knot of angry Dalesmen who led the van.There was more than one white face among the women at the top of theslope as they watched the crowd blundering blindly down the hill. Therewere more men than Parson Leggy, the squire, James Moore, and the localconstables in the thick of it all, striving frantically with voice andgesture, ay, and stick too, to stem the advance.

  It was useless; on the dark wave rolled, irresistible.

  On the far bank stood the little man, motionless, awaiting them with agrin upon his face. And a little farther in front was the Tailless Tyke,his back and neck like a new-shorn wheat-field, as he rumbled a vastchallenge.

  "Come
on, gentlemen!" the little man cried. "Come on! I'll bide for ye,never fear. Ye're a thousand to one and a dog. It's the odds ye like,Englishmen a'."

  And the mob, with murder in its throat, accepted the invitation and cameon.

  At the moment, however, from the slope above, clear above the tramp ofthe multitude, a great voice bellowed: "Way! Way! Way for Mr. Trotter!"The advancing host checked and opened out; and the secretary of themeeting bundled through.

  He was a small, fat man, fussy at any time, and perpetually perspiring.Now his face was crimson with rage and running; he gesticulated wildly;vague words bubbled forth, as his short legs twinkled down the slope.

  The crowd paused to admire. Some one shouted a witticism, and the crowdlaughed. For the moment the situation was saved.

  The fat secretary hurried on down the slope, unheeding of any insult butthe one. He bounced over the plank-bridge: and as he came closer, M'Adamsaw that in each hand brandished a brick.

  "Hoots, man! dinna throw!" he cried, making a feint as though to turn insudden terror.

  "What's this? What's this?" gasped the secretary, waving his arms.

  "Bricks, 'twad seem," the other answered, staying his flight.

  The secretary puffed up like a pudding in a hurry.

  "Where's the Cup? Champion, Challenge, etc.," he jerked out. "Mind, sir,you're responsible! wholly responsible! Dents, damages, delays! What'sit all mean, sir? These--these monstrous creations "--he brandished thebricks, and M'Adam started back--"wrapped, as I live, in straw, sir, inthe Cup case, sir! the Cup case! No Cup! Infamous! Disgraceful! Insultme--meeting--committee--every one! What's it mean, sir?" He paused topant, his body filling and emptying like a bladder.

  M'Adam approached him with one eye on the crowd, which was heavingforward again, threatening still, but sullen and silent.

  "I pit 'em there," he whispered; and drew back to watch the effect ofhis disclosure.

  The secretary gasped.

  "You--you not only do this--amazing thing--these monstrosities"--hehurled the bricks furiously on the unoffending ground--"but you dare totell me so!"

  The little man smiled.

  "'Do wrang and conceal it, do right and confess it,' that's Englishmen'smotto, and mine, as a rule; but this time I had ma reasons."

  "Reasons, sir! No reasons can justify such an extraordinary breach ofall the--the decencies. Reasons? the reasons of a maniac. Not to saymore, sir. Fraudulent detention--fraudulent, I say, sir! What were yourprecious reasons?"

  The mob with Tammas and Long Kirby at their head had now well nighreached the plank-bridge. They still looked dangerous, and there wereisolated cries of:

  "Duck him!"

  "Chuck him in!"

  "An' the dog!"

  "Wi' one o' they bricks about their necks!"

  "There are my reasons!" said M'Adam, pointing to the forest of menacingfaces. "Ye see I'm no beloved amang yonder gentlemen, and"--in a stagewhisper in the other's ear--"I thocht maybe I'd be 'tacked on the road."

  Tammas foremost of the crowd, had now his foot upon the first plank.

  "Ye robber! ye thief! Wait till we set hands on ye, you and yergorilla!" he called.

  M'Adam half turned.

  "Wullie," he said quietly, "keep the bridge."

  At the order the Tailless Tyke shot gladly forward, and the leaders onthe bridge as hastily back. The dog galloped on to the rattling plank,took his post fair and square in the centre of the narrow way, and stoodfacing the hostile crew like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell: hisbull-head was thrust forward, hackles up, teeth glinting, and a distantrumbling in his throat, as though daring them to come on.

  "Yo' first, ole lad!" said Tammas, hopping agilely behind Long Kirby.

  "Nay; the old uns lead!" cried the big smith, his face gray-white. Hewrenched round, pinned the old man by the arms, and held him forciblybefore him as a covering shield. There ensued an unseemly strugglebetwixt the two valiants, Tammas bellowing and kicking in the throes ofmortal fear.

  "Jim Mason'll show us," he suggested at last.

  "Nay," said honest Jim; "I'm fear'd." He could say it with impunity; forthe pluck of Postie Jim was a matter long past dispute.

  Then Jem Burton'd go first?

  Nay; Jem had a lovin' wife and dear little kids at 'ome.

  Then Big Bell?

  Big Bell'd see 'isseif further first.

  A tall figure came forcing through the crowd, his face a little palerthan its wont, and a formidable knob-kerry in his hand.

  "I'm goin'!" said David.

  "But yo're not," answered burly Sam'l, gripping the boy from behind witharms like the roots of an oak. "Your time'll coom soon enough by thelook on yo' wi' niver no hurry."

  And the sense of the Dalesmen was with the big man; for, as old RobSaunderson said:

  "I reck'n he'd liefer claw on to your throat, lad, nor ony o' oors."

  As there was no one forthcoming to claim the honor of the lead, Tammascame forward with cunning counsel.

  "Tell yo' what, lads, we'd best let 'em as don't know nowt at all aboothim go first. And onst they're on, mind, we winna let 'em off; but keepa-shovin' and a-bovin 'on 'em forra'd. _Then_ us'll foller."

  By this time there was a little naked space of green round thebridge-head, like a fairy circle, into which the uninitiated might notpenetrate. Round this the mob hedged: the Dalesmen in front, strivingknavishly back and bawling to those behind to leggo that shovin'; andthese latter urging valorously forward, yelling jeers and contumely atthe front rank. "Come on! 'O's afraid? Lerrus through to 'em, then,ye Royal Stan'-backs!"--for well they knew the impossibility of theirdemand.

  And as they wedged and jostled thus, there stole out from their midst asgallant a champion as ever trod the grass. He trotted out into thering, the observed of all, and paused to gaze at the gaunt figure on thebridge. The sun lit the sprinkling of snow on the dome of his head; oneforepaw was off the ground; and he stood there, royally alert, scanninghis antagonist.

  "Th' Owd Un!" went up in a roar fit to split the air as the hero of theday was recognized. And the Dalesmen gave a pace forward spontaneouslyas the gray knight-errant stole across the green.

  "Oor Bob'll fetch him!" they roared, their blood leaping to fever heat,and gripped their sticks, determined in stern reality to follow now.

  The gray champion trotted up on to the bridge, and paused again, thelong hair about his neck rising like a ruff, and a strange glint in hiseyes; and the holder of the bridge never moved. Red and Gray stood thus,face to face: the one gay yet resolute, the other motionless, his greathead slowly sinking between his forelegs, seemingly petrified.

  There was no shouting now: it was time for deeds, not words. Only, abovethe stillness, came a sound from the bridge like the snore of a giant inhis sleep, and blending, with it, a low, deep, purring thunder like somemonster cat well pleased.

  "Wullie," came a solitary voice from the far side, "keep the bridge!"

  One ear went back, one ear was still forward; the great head was low andlower between his forelegs and the glowing eyes rolled upward so thatthe watchers could see the murderous white.

  Forward the gray dog stepped.

  Then, for the second time that afternoon, a voice, stern and hard, cameringing down from the slope above over the heads of the many.

  "Bob, lad, coom back!"

  "He! he! I thocht that was comin'," sneered the small voice over thestream.

  The gray dog heard, and checked.

  "Bob, lad, coom in, I say!"

  At that he swung round and marched slowly back, gallant as he had come,dignified still in his mortification.

  And Red Wull threw back his head and bellowed a paean ofvictory--challenge, triumph, scorn, all blended in that bull-like,blood-chilling blare.

  * * * * *

  In the mean time, M'Adam and the secretary had concluded their business.It had been settled that the Cup was to be delivered over to James Moorenot later than the following Satur
day.

  "Saturday, see! at the latest!" the secretary cried as he turned andtrotted off.

  "Mr. Trotter," M'Adam called after him. "I'm sorry, but ye maun bidethis side the Lea till I've reached the foot o' the Pass. Gin theygentlemen"--nodding toward the crowd--"should set hands on me, why--"and he shrugged his shoulders significantly. "Forbye, Wullie's keepin'the bridge."

  With that the little man strolled off leisurely; now dallying to pick aflower, now to wave a mocking hand at the furious mob, and so slowly onto the foot of the Muirk Muir Pass.

  There he turned and whistled that shrill peculiar note.

  "Wullie, Wullie, to me!" he called.

  At that, with one last threat thrown at the' thousand souls he had heldat bay for thirty minutes, the Tailless Tyke swung about and gallopedafter his lord.