Chapter VIII. How a Middle-Aged Crusader Accepted a Challenge

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

The first cocks had just begun to crow and clocks had not yet
struck five when Dickson presented himself at Mrs. Morran's back
door. That active woman had already been half an hour out of bed,
and was drinking her morning cup of tea in the kitchen. She
received him with cordiality, nay, with relief.

"Eh, sir, but I'm glad to see ye back. Guid kens what's gaun
on at the Hoose thae days. Mr. Heritage left here yestreen,
creepin' round by dyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It's
a mercy to get a responsible man in the place. I aye had a notion
ye wad come back, for, thinks I, nevoy Dickson is no the yin to
desert folk in trouble.... Whaur's my wee kist?....Lost, ye say.
That's a peety, for it's been my cheesebox thae thirty year."

Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced his need of at
least three hours' sleep. As he rolled into bed his mind was
curiously at ease. He felt equipped for any call that might be made
on him. That Mrs. Morran should welcome him back as a resource in
need gave him a new assurance of manhood.

He woke between nine and ten to the sound of rain lashing
against the garret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of
sleep and recovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his
disgust that he had lost his composure. All the flock of fears,
that had left him when on the top of the Glasgow tram-car he had
made the great decision, had flown back again and settled like black
crows on his spirit. He was running a horrible risk and all for a
whim. What business had he to be mixing himself up in things he did
not understand? It might be a huge mistake, and then he would be a
laughing stock; for a moment he repented his telegram to Mr. Caw.
Then he recanted that suspicion; there could be no mistake, except
the fatal one that he had taken on a job too big for him. He sat on
the edge of the bed and shivered with his eyes on the grey drift of
rain. He would have felt more stout-hearted had the sun been
shining.

He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the
village street was Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad
blunder, for his reason told him that he should have kept his
presence in Dalquharter hid as long as possible. There was a knock
at the cottage door, and presently Mrs. Morran appeared.

"It's the man frae the inn," she announced. "He's wantin' a
word wi' ye. Speakin' verra ceevil, too."

"Tell him to come up," said Dickson. He might as well get
the interview over. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know of their
conversation. The sight of himself back again when he had pretended
to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually from the class of
the unsuspected. He wondered just what line Dobson would take.

The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low door. His
face was wrinkled into a smile, which nevertheless left the small
eyes ungenial. His voice had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly
Dickson was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody
whom he had recently seen. It was Loudon. There was the same
thrusting of the chin forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same
unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well washed and
polished and dressed, would be no bad copy of the factor. They must
be near kin, perhaps brothers.

"Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it's pitifu' weather,
and just when the farmers are wanting a dry seed-bed. What brings
ye back here? Ye travel the country like a drover."

"Oh, I'm a free man now and I took a fancy to this place. An
idle body has nothing to do but please himself."

"I hear ye're taking a lease of Huntingtower?"

"Now who told you that?"

"Just the clash of the place. Is it true?"

Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.

"I had maybe had half a thought of it, but I'll thank you not
to repeat the story. It's a big house for a plain man like me, and
I haven't properly inspected it."

"Oh, I'll keep mum, never fear. But if ye've that sort of
notion, I can understand you not being able to keep away from the
place."

"That's maybe the fact," Dickson admitted.

"Well! It's just on that point I want a word with you." The
innkeeper seated himself unbidden on the chair which held Dickson's
modest raiment. He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger
tapped Dickson's pyjama-clad knees. "I can't have ye wandering
about the place. I'm very sorry, but I've got my orders from Mr.
Loudon. So if you think that by bidin' here you can see more of the
House and the policies, ye're wrong, Mr. McCunn. It can't be
allowed, for we're no' ready for ye yet. D'ye understand? That's
Mr. Loudon's orders.. ..Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye
went back to Glasgow and came back in a week's time? I'm thinking
of your own comfort, Mr. McCunn."

Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was clearly instructed
to get rid of him at all costs for the next few days. The
neighbourhood had to be cleared for some black business. The
tinklers had been deputed to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards, and as
for Heritage they seemed to have lost track of him. He, Dickson,
was now the chief object of their care. But what could Dobson do if
he refused? He dared not show his true hand. Yet he might, if
sufficiently irritated. It became Dickson's immediate object to get
the innkeeper to reveal himself by rousing his temper. He did not
stop to consider the policy of this course; he imperatively wanted
things cleared up and the issue made plain.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking so much about
my comfort," he said in a voice into which he hoped he had
insinuated a sneer. "But I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious
folk about here. You needn't be feared for your old policies.
There's plenty of nice walks about the roads, and I want to explore
the sea-coast."

The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. "That's no'
allowed either," he said. "The shore's as private as the policies..
..Well, I wish ye joy tramping the roads in the glaur."

"It's a queer thing," said Dickson meditatively, "that you
should keep a hotel and yet be set on discouraging people from
visiting this neighbourhood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel
of yours is all sham. You've some other business, you and these
lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it's not a very creditable one."

"What d'ye mean?" asked Dobson sharply.

"Just what I say. You must expect a body to be suspicious,
if you treat him as you're treating me." Loudon must have told this
man the story with which he had been fobbed off about the
half-witted Kennedy relative. Would Dobson refer to that?

The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but he controlled
his temper with an effort.

"There's no cause for suspicion," he said. "As far as I'm
concerned it's all honest and above-board."

"It doesn't look like it. It looks as if you were hiding
something up in the House which you don't want me to see."

Dobson jumped from his chair. his face pale with anger. A man
in pyjamas on a raw morning does not feel at this bravest, and
Dickson quailed under the expectation of assault. But even in his
fright he realized that Loudon could not have told Dobson the tale
of the half-witted lady. The last remark had cut clean through all
camouflage and reached the quick.

"What the hell d'ye mean?" he cried. "Ye're a spy, are ye?
Ye fat little fool, for two cents I'd wring your neck."

Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that a suspicion
of threat, a hint of bullying, will rouse some unsuspected obstinacy
deep down in their souls. The insolence of the man's speech woke a
quiet but efficient little devil in Dickson.

"That's a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a gentleman. If
you've nothing to hide what way are you so touchy? I can't be a spy
unless there's something to spy on."

The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was apparently
acting on instructions, and had not yet come to the end of them. He
made an attempt at a smile.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot. But it
nettled me to hear ye say that....I'll be quite frank with ye, Mr.
McCunn, and, believe me, I'm speaking in your best interests. I
give ye my word there's nothing wrong up at the House. I'm on the
side of the law, and when I tell ye the whole story ye'll admit it.
But I can't tell it ye yet....This is a wild, lonely bit, and very
few folk bide in it. And these are wild times, when a lot of queer
things happen that never get into the papers. I tell ye it's for
your own good to leave Dalquharter for the present. More I can't
say, but I ask ye to look at it as a sensible man. Ye're one that's
accustomed to a quiet life and no' meant for rough work. Ye'll do
no good if you stay, and, maybe, ye'll land yourself in bad
trouble."

"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed. "What is it you're
expecting? Sinn Fein?"

The innkeeper nodded. "Something like that."

"Did you ever hear the like? I never did think much of the
Irish."

"Then ye'll take my advice and go home? Tell ye what, I'll
drive ye to the station."

Dickson got up from the bed, found his new safety-razor and
began to strop it. "No, I think I'll bide. If you're right
there'll be more to see than glaury roads."

"I'm warning ye, fair and honest. Ye...can't...be...allowed.
..to...stay...here!"

"Well I never!" said Dickson. "Is there any law in Scotland,
think you, that forbids a man to stop a day or two with his
auntie?"

"Ye'll stay?"

"Ay, I'll stay."

"By God, we'll see about that."

For a moment Dickson thought that he would be attacked, and he
measured the distance that separated him from the peg whence hung
his waterproof with the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained
himself and moved to the door. There he stood and cursed him with a
violence and a venom which Dickson had not believed possible. The
full hand was on the table now.

"Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer" (I
paraphrase), "would you set up to defy me? I tell ye, I'll make ye
rue the day ye were born." His parting words were a brilliant sketch
of the maltreatment in store for the body of the defiant one.

"Impident dog," said Dickson without heat. He noted with
pleasure that the innkeeper hit his head violently against the low
lintel, and, missing a step, fell down the loft stairs into the
kitchen, where Mrs. Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him
trenchantly from the premises.

Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by and by went
down to the kitchen and watched his hostess making broth. The
fracas with Dobson had done him all the good in the world, for it
had cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an edge on his
temper. But he realized that it made his continued stay in the
cottage undesirable. He was now the focus of all suspicion, and the
innkeeper would be as good as his word and try to drive him out of
the place by force. Kidnapping, most likely, and that would be
highly unpleasant, besides putting an end to his usefulness. Clearly
he must join the others. The soul of Dickson hungered at the moment
for human companionship. He felt that his courage would be
sufficient for any team-work, but might waver again if he were left
to play a lone hand.

He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran's kail--an
early lunch, for that lady, having breakfasted at five, partook of
the midday meal about eleven. Then he explored her library, and
settled himself by the fire with a volume of Covenanting tales,
entitled Gleanings Among the Mountains. It was a most practical
work for one in his position, for it told how various eminent saints
of that era escaped the attention of Claverhouse's dragoons.
Dickson stored up in his memory several of the incidents in case
they should come in handy. He wondered if any of his forbears had
been Covenanters; it comforted him to think that some old progenitor
might have hunkered behind turf walls and been chased for his life
in the heather. "Just like me," he reflected. "But the dragoons
weren't foreigners, and there was a kind of decency about
Claverhouse too."

About four o'clock Dougal presented himself in the back
kitchen. He was an even wilder figure than usual, for his bare legs
were mud to the knees, his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body,
and, having lost his hat, his wet hair was plastered over his eyes.
Mrs. Morran said, not unkindly, that he looked "like a wull-cat
glowerin' through a whin buss."

"How are you, Dougal?" Dickson asked genially. "Is the peace
of nature smoothing out the creases in your poor little soul?"

"What's that ye say?"

"Oh, just what I heard a man say in Glasgow. How have you got
on?"

"No' so bad. Your telegram was sent this mornin'. Auld Bill
took it in to Kirkmichael. That's the first thing. Second, Thomas
Yownie has took a party to get down the box from the station. He got
Mrs. Sempills' powny, and he took the box ayont the Laver by the
ford at the herd's hoose and got it on to the shore maybe a mile
ayont Laverfoot. He managed to get the machine up as far as the
water, but he could get no farther, for ye'll no' get a machine over
the wee waterfa' just before the Laver ends in the sea. So he sent
one o' the men back with it to Mrs. Sempill, and, since the box was
ower heavy to carry, he opened it and took the stuff across in bits.
It's a' safe in the hole at the foot o' the Huntingtower rocks, and
he reports that the rain has done it no harm. Thomas has made a good
job of it. Ye'll no' fickle Thomas Yownie."

"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 goloshes 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.

"Up here," he commanded. "It was Mr. Heritage that fund this
road."

Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves between the nose and
the cliff up a spout of stones, and found themselves in an upper
storey of the gulley, very steep, but practicable even for one who
was no cragsman. This in turn ran out against a wall up which there
led only a narrow chimney. At the foot of this were two of the
Die-Hards, and there were others above, for a rope hung down, by the
aid of which a package was even now ascending.

"That's the top," said Dougal, pointing to the rim of sky,
"and that's the last o' the supplies." Dickson noticed that he
spoke in a whisper, and that all the movements of the Die-Hards were
judicious and stealthy. "Now, it's your turn. Take a good grip o'
the rope, and ye'll find plenty holes for your feet. It's no more
than ten yards and ye're well held above."

Dickson made the attempt and found it easier than he expected.
The only trouble was his pack and waterproof, which had a tendency
to catch on jags of rock. A hand was reached out to him, he was
pulled over the edge, and then pushed down on his face. When he
lifted his head Dougal and the others had joined him, and the whole
company of the Die-Hards was assembled on a patch of grass which was
concealed from the landward view by a thicket of hazels. Another,
whom he recognized as Heritage, was coiling up the rope.

"We'd better get all the stuff into the old Tower for the
present," Heritage was saying. "It's too risky to move it into the
House now. We'll need the thickest darkness for that, after the moon
is down. Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising soon, and
before that we must all be indoors."

Then he turned to Dickson and gripped his hand. "You're a
high class of sportsman, Dogson. And I think you're just in
time."

"Are they due to-night?" Dickson asked in an excited whisper,
faint against the wind.

"I don't know about They. But I've got a notion that some
devilish queer things will happen before to-morrow morning."