Читать книгу Storm - Henry James Halliwell Sutcliffe - Страница 5

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Hardcastle halted by and by, for a backward glance at the Wilderness, and still the glow of victory was with him. Battle was up in earnest now between Logie and the Broken Folk. There could be no withdrawal, whichever way it ended.

“A terrible land for thieves, Master,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.

Hardcastle turned sharply, to find his own shepherd, Brant, beside him.

“Why, Stephen, you’re wide of the home pastures—and you’ve a gun for company, instead of a stick and a grizzled collie.”

Short, thick-set and sturdy, Brant had the eyes of those who journey on far hill-tops, living alone with sheep and dogs and weather.

“You’ve heard of Storm’s doings lately?”

“News filters through, but I’ve little use for gossip—especially of friends.”

“Aye, you were always partial to Storm, and I fair loved the dog myself. Best of his kind, he was—knew how to round ewes up the pastures like a marvel—till he fell from grace.”

“We all do, Stephen, time and time.”

“You’re partial to him, as I said. But a dog that takes to worrying sheep, and feeding on ’em, is a cannibal—eats his own flesh-and-blood, as you might say.”

“You trained him to be jealous, Brant?”

“Shepherds do. A dog that’s any man’s dog means as much as a bunch of windle-straws.”

“Yet I could always whistle him from your side.”

“Aye,” growled the shepherd— “and see what comes of it. A sheep-stealer, he, and me with a gun in my hands. That’s what is coming to Storm, for I’ve news of him this way.”

“Then likely he’s back in the Logie country by this time. Either way, bad luck to your shooting, Stephen.”

“There seems bad luck to your riding, Master,” said the shepherd dryly, “or you’d not be footing it from Norbrigg. It’s not natural, like, to see you without feet in stirrups.”

“The mare went lame, and I had to leave her.”

“Was there no nag to be borrowed, then?”

“There was, but I sit astride my own horse, or none.”

Brant looked over the wastes, then at the Master’s face. Old days and new were nagging at him with their memories.

“Like yourself, and always a little bit liker as the years pass. What of Garsykes yonder?” he broke off.

“Well?” asked Hardcastle, blunt and hard.

“It’s no way well. A festering sore I call’m, and our farmers tame as lice.”

“Tamer. They haven’t a bite at all.”

A silence came to Brant. He had dared to speak of the Lost Folk, here in the broken lands, and suddenly he remembered boyhood’s days. When he was spoiling for mischief, he was told he’d be tossed to the Wilderness Folk, and never come out again. In later years he had heard his elders speak of paying tribute to the Lost People—lest worse befell. And now the old stealthy menace seemed to creep about him as his glance sought the broken lands again.

“The devil take us, Master,” grumbled Brant.

“It’s likely he will, all in good time—but why just now?”

Brant scratched his wiry beard and pondered. Hill silences had taught him to be wary of speech when deep-hidden feelings sought outlet. “Because we’re content to let this shame go on,” he said at last. “It’s hard to unravel, this fear of the Lost Folk. I’m small myself, but most of our men—yeomen, and hinds, and what not—could make a meal of any two such lean swine as they breed Garsykes way.”

“Yet they don’t, Brant. They just unfasten their pockets and give tribute.”

“They’ll be asking tribute of you one day soon,” said the shepherd, after another restless silence. “And what then?”

“They’ve asked it, Stephen. Hadn’t you seen my face was a trifle out of shape?”

“Oh, I’d seen; but it was not my place to ask what private diversion you’d been finding Norbrigg way.”

Hardcastle laughed outright at Brant’s gravity, that hid a dry humour of its own. “I gave more than I took, Stephen.”

“Then a bonny mess t’others must be in. Who were they, Master?”

“Long Murgatroyd and two I didn’t know.”

Fire kindled suddenly in the shepherd’s eyes. “It had to come, and I’m glad its come. Garsykes gets past itself these days!”

“How many will stand for Logie, now the feud’s up?”

“Me for one, and another here and there. I wouldn’t count on many—but it’s the staunch few that matter—and, Master, fear will reach you by and by. Never heed it though it will be cold as east wind before the snows come.”

“Fear?” said Hardcastle, body and heart aglow with memory of blows taken and given for Logie’s honour.

“Aye, just fear. I’ve heard my fore-elders talk of what happens to a man that thwarts the Lost Folk. And now I’ll give you good-day. It’s time I put a dollop of lead into Storm. It would rankle when my time came to go, if I’d left a sheep-killer rife about the fells.”