Chapter XXI. HORROR OF DARKNESS
IT was long past dark that night when M'Adam staggered home.
All that evening at the Sylvester Arms his imprecations against Davidhad made even the hardest shudder. James Moore, Owd Bob, and the DaleCup were for once forgotten as, in his passion, he cursed his son.
The Dalesmen gathered fearfully away from the little dripping madman.For once these men, whom, as a rule, no such geyser outbursts couldquell, were dumb before him; only now and then shooting furtive glancesin his direction, as though on the brink of some daring enterpriseof which he was the objective. But M'Adam noticed nothing, suspectednothing.
When, at length, he lurched into the kitchen of the Grange, there was nolight and the fire burnt low. So dark was the room that a white ribandof paper pinned on to the table escaped his remark.
The little man sat down heavily, his clothes still sodden, and resumedhis tireless anathema.
"I've tholed mair fra him, Wullie, than Adam M'Adam ever thocht to tholefrom ony man. And noo it's gane past bearin'. He struck me, Wullie!struck his ain father. Ye see it yersel', Wullie. Na, ye werena there.Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him kenAdam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!"
He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled downthe old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece.
"We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!" And hebanged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip ofstill condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.
Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket ofhis coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companionof his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull;then placed it on the table by his side.
Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hunglimply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into aheavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet.
It was not till an hour later that David returned home.
As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like abody with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of hiswith the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left.
Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; thenstruck a match and stood in the doorway peering in.
"Not home, bain't he?" he muttered, the tiny light above his head. "Wetinside as well as oot by noo, I'll lay. By gum! but 'twas a lucky thingfor him I didna get ma hand on him this evenin'. I could ha' killedhim." He held the match above his head.
Two yellow eyes, glowing in the darkness like cairngorms, and a smalldim figure bunched up in a chair, told him his surmise was wrong. Manya time had he seen his father in such case before, and now he mutteredcontemptuously:
"Drunk; the leetle swab! Sleepin' it off, I reck'n."
Then he saw his mistake. The hand that hung above the floor twitched andwas still again.
There was a clammy silence. A mouse, emboldened by the quiet, scuttledacross the hearth. One mighty paw lightly moved; a lightning tap, andthe tiny beast lay dead.
Again that hollow stillness: no sound, no movement; only those twounwinking eyes fixed on him immovable.
At length a small voice from the fireside broke the quiet.
"Drunk--the--leetle--swab!"
Again a clammy silence, and a life-long pause.
"I thowt yo' was sleepin'," said David, at length, lamely.
"Ay, so ye said. 'Sleepin' it aff'; I heard ye." Then, still in the samesmall voice, now quivering imperceptibly, "Wad ye obleege me, sir, byleetin' the lamp? Or, d'ye think, Wullie, 'twad be soilin' his daintyfingers? They're mair used, I'm told, to danderin' with the bonnie brownhair o' his--"
"I'll not ha' ye talk o' ma Maggie so," interposed the boy passionately.
"_His_ Maggie, mark ye, Wullie--_his_! I thocht 'twad soon get thatfar."
"Tak' care, dad! I'll stan' but little more," the boy warned him inchoking voice; and began to trim the lamp with trembling fingers.
M'Adam forthwith addressed himself to Red Wull.
"I suppose no man iver had sic a son as him, Wullie. Ye ken what I'vedone for him, an' ye ken hoo he's repaid it. He's set himsel' aginme; he's misca'd me; he's robbed me o' ma Cup; last of all, he struckme--struck me afore them a'. We've toiled for him, you and I, Wullie;we've slaved to keep him in hoose an' hame, an' he's passed his time,the while, in riotous leevin', carousin' at Kenmuir, amusin' himself'wi' his--" He broke off short. The lamp was lit, and the strip of paper,pinned on to the table, naked and glaring, caught his eye.
"What's this?" he muttered; and unloosed the nail that clamped it down.
This is what he read:
"Adam Mackadam yer warned to mak' an end to yer Red Wull will be bestfor him and the Sheep. This is the first yo'll have two more the thirdwill be the last--"
It was written in pencil, and the only signature was a dagger, rudelylined in red.
M'Adam read the paper once, twice, thrice. As he slowly assimilatedits meaning, the blood faded from his face. He stared at it and stillstared, with whitening face and pursed lips. Then he stole a glance atDavid's broad back.
"What d'ye ken o' this, David?" he asked, at length, in a dry thinvoice, reaching forward in his chair.
"O' what?"
"O' this," holding up the slip. "And ye'el obleege me by the truth foronce."
David turned, took up the paper, read it, and laughed harshly.
"It's coom to this, has it?" he said, still laughing, and yet withblanching face.
"Ye ken what it means. I daresay ye pit it there; aiblins writ it. Ye'llexplain it." The little man spoke in the same small, even voice, and hiseyes never moved off his son's face.
"I've heard naethin'.... I'd like the truth, David, if ye can tell it."
The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to thepaper in his hand.
"Yo' shall have it, but yo'll not like it. It's this: Tupper lost asheep to the Killer last night."
"And what if he did?" The little man rose smoothly to his feet. Eachnoticed the others' face--dead-white.
"Why, he--lost--it--on--Wheer d'yo' think?" He drawled the words out,dwelling almost lovingly on each.
"Where?"
"On--the--Red--Screes."
The crash was coming--inevitable now. David knew it, knew that nothingcould avert it, and braced himself to meet it. The smile had fled fromhis face, and his breath fluttered in his throat like the wind before athunderstorm.
"What of it?" The little man's voice was calm as a summer sea.
"Why, your Wullie--as I told yo'--was on the Screes last night."
"Go on, David."
"And this," holding up the paper, "tells you that they ken as I kennoo, as maist o' them ha' kent this mony a day, that your Wullie, RedWull--the Terror--"
"Go on."
"Is--"
"Yes."
"The Black Killer."
It was spoken.
The frayed string was snapped at last. The little man's hand flashed tothe bottle that stood before him.
"Ye--liar!" he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the boy'shead. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his shoulder.
Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond,its contents trickling down the wall to the floor.
For a moment, darkness. Then the spirits met the lamp's smouldering wickand blazed into flame.
By the sudden light David saw his father on the far side the table,pointing with crooked forefinger. By his side Red Wull was standingalert, hackles up, yellow fangs bared, eyes lurid; and, at his feet, thewee brown mouse lay still and lifeless.
"Oot o' ma hoose! Back to Kenmuir! Back to yer ----" The unpardonableword, unmistakable, hovered for a second on his lips like some foulbubble, and never burst.
"No mither this time!" panted David, racing round the table.
"W
ullie!"
The Terror leapt to the attack; but David overturned the table ashe ran, the blunderbuss crashing to the floor; it fell, opposing amomentary barrier in the dog's path.
"Stan' off, ye--!" screeched the little man, seizing a chair in bothhands; "stan' off, or I'll brain ye!"
But David was on him.
"Wullie, Wullie, to me!"
Again the Terror came with a roar like the sea. But David, with a mightykick catching him full on the jaw, repelled the attack.
Then he gripped his father round the waist and lifted him from theground. The little man, struggling in those iron arms, screamed, cursed,and battered at the face above him, kicking and biting in his frenzy.
"The Killer! wad ye ken wha's the Killer? Go and ask 'em at Kenmuir! Askyer ----"
David swayed slightly, crushing the body in his arms till it seemedevery rib must break; then hurled it from him with all the might ofpassion. The little man fell with a crash and a groan.
The blaze in the corner flared, flickered, and died. There washell-black darkness, and silence of the dead.
David stood against the wall, panting, every nerve tightstrung as thehawser of a straining ship.
In the corner lay the body of his father, limp and still; and in theroom one other living thing was moving.
He clung close to the wall, pressing it with wet hands. The horror ofit all, the darkness, the man in the corner, that moving something,petrified him.
"Feyther!" he whispered.
There was no reply. A chair creaked at an invisible touch. Something wascreeping, stealing, crawling closer.
David was afraid.
"Feyther!" he whispered in hoarse agony, "are yo' hurt?"
The words were stifled in his throat. A chair overturned with a crash; agreat body struck him on the chest; a hot, pestilent breath volleyed inhis face, and wolfish teeth were reaching for his throat.
"Come on, Killer!" he screamed.
The horror of suspense was past. It had come, and with it he was himselfagain.
Back, back, back, along the wall he was borne. His hands entwinedthemselves around a hairy throat; he forced the great head with itshorrid lightsome eyes from him; he braced himself for the effort, liftedthe huge body at his breast, and heaved it from him. It struck the walland fell with a soft thud.
As he recoiled a hand clutched his ankle and sought to trip him. Davidkicked back and down with all his strength. There was one awful groan,and he staggered against the door and out.
There he paused, leaning against the wall to' breathe.
He struck a match and lifted his foot to see where the hand had clutchedhim.
God! there was blood on his heel.
Then a great fear laid hold on him. A cry was suffocated in his breastby the panting of his heart.
He crept back to the kitchen door and listened.
Not a sound.
Fearfully he opened it a crack.
Silence of the tomb.
He banged it to. It opened behind him, and the fact lent wings to hisfeet.
He turned and plunged out into the night, and ran through the blacknessfor his life. And a great owl swooped softly by and hooted mockingly:
"For your life! for your life! for your life!"
PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR