John Buchan - The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

“And what about your camp on the moor?”

“It was broke up afore daylight. Some of our things we’ve got with us, but most is hid near at hand. The tents are in the auld wife’s hen-hoose.” and he jerked his disreputable head in the direction of the back door.

“Have the tinklers been back?”

“Aye. They turned up about ten o’clock, no doubt intendin’ murder. I left Wee Jaikie to watch developments. They fund him sittin’ on a stone, greetin’ sore. When he saw them, he up and started to run, and they cried on him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Then they cried out where were the rest, and he telled them they were feared for their lives and had run away. After that they offered to catch him, but ye’ll no’ catch Jaikie in a hurry. When he had run round about them till they were wappit, he out wi’ his catty and got one o’ them on the lug. Syne he made for the Laverfoot and reported.”

“Man, Dougal, you’ve managed fine. Now I’ve something to tell you,” and Dickson recounted his interview with the innkeeper. “I don’t think it’s safe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn’t be any use, hiding in cellars and such like, and not daring to stir a foot. I’m coming with you to the House. Now tell me how to get there.”

Dougal agreed to this view. “There’s been nothing doing at the Hoose the day, but they’re keepin’ a close watch on the policies. The cripus may come any moment. There’s no doubt, Mr. McCunn, that ye’re in danger, for they’ll serve you as the tinklers tried to serve us. Listen to me. Ye’ll walk up the station road, and take the second turn on your left, a wee grass road that’ll bring ye to the ford at the herd’s hoose. Cross the Laver—there’s a plank bridge—and take straight across the moor in the direction of the peakit hill they call Grey Carrick. Ye’ll come to a big burn, which ye must follow till ye get to the shore. Then turn south, keepin’ the water’s edge till ye reach the Laver, where you’ll find one o’ us to show ye the rest of the road… I must be off now, and I advise ye not to be slow of startin’, for wi’ this rain the water’s risin’ quick. It’s a mercy it’s such coarse weather, for it spoils the veesibility.”

“Auntie Phemie,” said Dickson a few minutes later, “will you oblige me by coming for a short walk?”

“The man’s daft,” was the answer.

“I’m not. I’ll explain if you’ll listen… You see,” he concluded, “the dangerous bit for me is just the mile out of the village. They’ll no’ be so likely to try violence if there’s somebody with me that could be a witness. Besides, they’ll maybe suspect less if they just see a decent body out for a breath of air with his auntie.”

Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned presently equipped for the road. She had indued her feet with galoshes and pinned up her skirts till they looked like some demented Paris mode. An ancient bonnet was tied under her chin with strings, and her equipment was completed by an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-handled umbrella, which, she explained, had been a Christmas present from her son.

“I’ll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd’s,” she announced. “The wife’s a freend o’ mine and will set me a bit on the road back. Ye needna fash for me. I’m used to a’ weathers.”

The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a tearing wind from the south-west scoured the land. Beyond the shelter of the trees the moor was a battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the appearance of running water. The wind was behind the travellers, and Mrs. Morran, like a full-rigged ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson, who had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled to trot.

“However will you get home, mistress?” he murmured anxiously.

“Fine. The wind will fa’ at the darkenin’. This’ll be a sair time for ships at sea.”

Not a soul was about, so they breasted the ascent of the station road and turned down the grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd’s. The herd’s wife saw them from afar and was at the door to receive them.

“Megsty! Phemie Morran!” she shrilled. “Wha wad ettle to see ye on a day like this? John’s awa’ at Dumfries, buyin’ tups. Come in, the baith o’ ye. The kettle’s on the boil.”

“This is my nevoy Dickson,” said Mrs. Morran. “He’s gaun to stretch his legs ayont the burn, and come back by the Ayr road. But I’ll be blithe to tak’ my tea wi’ ye, Elspeth… Now, Dickson, I’ll expect ye hame on the chap o’ seeven.”

He crossed the rising stream on a swaying plank and struck into the moorland, as Dougal had ordered, keeping the bald top of Grey Carrick before him. In that wild place with the tempest battling overhead he had no fear of human enemies. Steadily he covered the ground, till he reached the west-flowing burn, that was to lead him to the shore. He found it an entertaining companion, swirling into black pools, foaming over little falls, and lying in dark canal-like stretches in the flats. Presently it began to descend steeply in a narrow green gully, where the going was bad, and Dickson, weighted with pack and waterproof, had much ado to keep his feet on the sodden slopes. Then, as he rounded a crook of hill, the ground fell away from his feet, the burn swept in a water-slide to the boulders of the shore, and the storm-tossed sea lay before him.

It was now that he began to feel nervous. Being on the coast again seemed to bring him inside his enemies’ territory, and had not Dobson specifically forbidden the shore? It was here that they might be looking for him. He felt himself out of condition, very wet and very warm, but he attained a creditable pace, for he struck a road which had been used by manure-carts collecting seaweed. There were faint marks on it, which he took to be the wheels of Dougal’s “machine” carrying the provision-box. Yes. On a patch of gravel there was a double set of tracks, which showed how it had returned to Mrs. Sempill. He was exposed to the full force of the wind, and the strenuousness of his bodily exertions kept his fears quiescent, till the cliffs on his left sunk suddenly and the valley of the Laver lay before him.

A small figure rose from the shelter of a boulder, the warrior who bore the name of Old Bill. He saluted gravely.

“Ye’re just in time. The water has rose three inches since I’ve been here. Ye’d better strip.”

Dickson removed his boots and socks. “Breeks too,” commanded the boy; “there’s deep holes ayont thae stanes.”

Dickson obeyed, feeling very chilly, and rather improper. “Now follow me,” said the guide. The next moment he was stepping delicately on very sharp pebbles, holding on to the end of the scout’s pole, while an icy stream ran to his knees.

The Laver as it reaches the sea broadens out to the width of fifty or sixty yards and tumbles over little shelves of rock to meet the waves. Usually it is shallow, but now it was swollen to an average depth of a foot or more, and there were deeper pockets. Dickson made the passage slowly and miserably, sometimes crying out with pain as his toes struck a sharper flint, once or twice sitting down on a boulder to blow like a whale, once slipping on his knees and wetting the strange excrescence about his middle, which was his tucked-up waterproof. But the crossing was at length achieved, and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried himself perfunctorily and hastily put on his garments. Old Bill, who seemed to be regardless of wind or water, squatted beside him and whistled through his teeth.

Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Huntingtower cape, so sheer that a man below was completely hidden from any watcher on the top. Dickson’s heart fell, for he did not profess to be a cragsman and had indeed a horror of precipitous places. But as the two scrambled along the foot, they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of them unclimbable, but offering something more hopeful than the face. At one of these Old Bill halted, and led the way up and over a chaos of fallen rock and loose sand. The grey weather had brought on the dark prematurely, and in the half-light it seemed that this ravine was blocked by an unscalable nose of rock. Here Old Bill whistled, and there was a reply from above. Round the corner of the nose came Dougal.