SIR EDWARD LEITHEN'S MYSTERIES - Complete Series. Buchan John

of the crags.

      “Good,” said Lamancha. “This will blanket the shot.”

      “Ba-ad too,” growled Wattie, “for we’ll be duntin’ against the auld bitch.”

      Lamancha believed he had located the stags well enough to go to them in black darkness. You had only to follow the stream to its head, and they were on the left bank a hundred yards or so from the rocks. But when he reached the burn he found that his memory was useless. There was not one stream but dozens, and it was hard to say which was the main channel. It was a loud world again, very different from the first corrie, but, when he would have hastened, Wattie insisted on circumspection. “There’s the hind,” he said, “and maybe since we’re out o’ Macqueen’s sicht there’s nae need to hurry.”

      His caution was justified. As they drew themselves up the side of a small cascade the tops of a pair of antlers were seen over the next rise. Lamancha thought they were those of one of the three stags, but Wattie disillusioned him. “We’re no within six hundred yards o’ yon beasts,” he said.

      A long circuit was necessary, happily in good cover, and the stream was not rejoined till at a point where its channel bore to the south, so that their wind would not be carried to the beasts below the knoll. After that it seemed advisable to Wattie to keep to the water, which was flowing in a deep-cut bed. It was a job for a merman rather than for breeched human beings, for Wattie would permit of no rising to a horizontal or even to a kneeling position. The burn entered at their collars and flowed steadily through their shirts to an exit at their knees. Never had men been so comprehensively and continuously wet. Lamancha’s right arm ached with pulling the rifle along the bank—he always insisted on carrying his weapon himself—while his body was submerged in the icy outflow of Sgurr Dearg’s springs.

      The pressure of Wattie’s foot in his face halted him. Blinking through the spray, he saw his leader’s head raised stiffly to the alert in the direction of a little knoll. Even in the thick weather he could detect a pair of bat-like ears, and he realised that these ears were twitching. It did no need Wattie’s whisper of “the auld bitch” to reveal the enemy.

      The two lay in the current for what seemed to Lamancha at least half an hour. He had enough hill-craft to recognise that their one hope was to stick to the channel, for only thus was there a chance of their presence being unrevealed by the wind. But the channel led them very close to the hind. If the brute chose to turn her foolish head they would be within view.

      With desperate slowness, an inch at a time, Wattie moved upwards. He signed to Lamancha to wait while he traversed a pool where only his cap and nose showed above the water. Then came a peat wallow, when his face seemed to be ground into the moss, and his limbs to be splayed like a frog’s and to move with frog-like jerks. After that was a little cascade, and, beyond, the shelter of a big boulder which would get him out of the hind’s orbit. Lamancha watched this strange progress with one eye; the other was on the twitching ears. Mercifully all went well, and Wattie’s stern disappeared round a corner of rock.

      He laboured to follow with the same precision. The pool was easy enough except for the trailing of the rifle. The peat was straightforward going, though in his desire to follow his leader’s example he dipped his face so deep in the black slime that his nostrils were plugged with it, and some got into his eyes which he dared not try to remove. But the waterfall was a snag. It was no light task to draw himself up against the weight of descending water, and at the top he lay panting for a second, damming up the flow with his body…Then he moved on; but the mischief had been done.

      For the sound of the release of the pent-up stream had struck a foreign note on the hind’s ear. It was an unfamiliar noise among the many familiar ones which at the moment filled the corrie. She turned her head sharply, and saw something in the burn which she did not quite understand. Lamancha, aware of her scrutiny, lay choking, with the water running into his nose; but the alarm had been given. The hind turned her head, and trotted off up-wind.

      The next he knew was Wattie at his elbow making wild signals to him to rise and follow. Cramped and staggering, he lumbered after him away from the stream into a moraine of great granite blocks. “We’re no twa hundred yards from the stags,” the guide whispered. “The auld bitch will move them, but please God we’ll get a shot.” As Lamancha ran he marvelled at Wattie’s skill, for he himself had not a notion where in the wide world the beasts might be.

      They raced to a knoll, and Wattie flung himself flat on the top.

      “There,” he cried. “Steady, man. Tak the nearest. A hundred yards. Nae mair.”

      Lamancha saw through the drizzle three stags moving at a gentle trot to the south—up-wind, for in the corrie the eddies were coming oddly. They were not really startled, but the hind had stirred them. The big stag was in the centre of the three, and the proper shot was the last—a reasonable broadside.

      Wattie’s advice had been due to his loyalty to John Macnab, and not to his own choice, and this Lamancha knew. The desire of the great stag was on him, as it was on the hunter in Homer, and he refused to be content with the second-best. It was not an easy shot in that bad light, and it is probable that he would have missed; but suddenly Wattie gave an unearthly bark, and for a second the three beasts slowed down and turned their heads towards the sound.

      In that second Lamancha fired. The great head seemed to bow itself, and then fling upwards, and all three disappeared at a gallop into the mist.

      “A damned poor tailoring shot!” Lamancha groaned.

      “He’s deid for all that, but God kens how far he’ll run afore he drops. He’s hit in the neck, but a wee thing ower low…We can bide here a while and eat our piece. If ye wasna John Macnab I could be wishin’ we had brought a dog.”

      Lamancha, cold, wet, and disgusted, wolfed his sandwiches, had a stiff dram from his flask, and smoked a pipe before he started again. He cursed his marksmanship, and Wattie forbore to contradict him; doubtless Jim Tarras had accustomed him to a standard of skill from which this was a woeful declension. Nor would he hold out much hope. “He’ll gang into the first corrie and when he finds the wund different there he’ll turn back for the Reascuill. If this was our ain forest and the weather wasna that thick, we might get another chance at him there…Oh, aye, he might gang for ten mile. The mist is a good thing, for Macqueen will no see what’s happenin’, but if it was to lift, and he saw a’ the stags in the corrie movin’, you and me wad hae to find a hidy-hole till the dark…Are ye ready, my lord?”

      They crossed the ridge which separated them from the first corrie, close to the point where it took off from the massif of Sgurr Dearg. It was a shorter road than the one they had come by, and they could take it safely, for they were now moving up-wind, owing to the curious eddy from the south. Over the ridge it would be a different matter, for there the wind would be easterly as before. But it was a stiff climb and a slow business, for they had to make sure that they were on the track of the stag.

      Wattie trailed the blood-marks like an Indian, noticing splashes on stones and rushes which Lamancha would have missed. “He’s sair hit,” he observed at one point. “See! He tried that steep bit and couldna manage it. There’s the mark o’ his feet turnin’…He’s stoppit here…Aye, here’s his trail, and it’ll be the best for you and me. There’s nothing like a wounded beast for pickin’ the easiest road.”

      At the crest the air stirred freely, and, as it seemed to Lamancha, with a wet chill. Wattie gave a grunt of satisfaction, and sniffed it like a pointer dog. He moistened his finger and held it up; then he plucked some light grasses and tossed them into the air.

      “That’s a mercifu’ dispensation! Maybe that shot that ye think ye bauchled was the most providential shot ye ever fired…The wund is shiftin’. I looked for it afore night, but no that early in the day. It’s wearin’ round to the south. D’ye see what that means?”

      Lamancha shook his head. Disgust had made his wits dull.

      “Yon beast, as I telled ye, was a traiveller. There’s nothing to keep him in Haripol forest. But he’ll no leave it unless the wund will let