Long odds! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of numbers, yet struggled up again. His great head was torn and dripping; his eyes a gleam of rolling red and white; the little tail stern and stiff like the gallant stump of a flagstaff shot away. He was desperate, but indomitable; and he sobbed as he fought doggedly on.
Long odds! It could not last. And down he went at length, silent still--never a cry should they wring from him in his agony the Venus glued to that mangled pad; Rasper beneath him now; three at his throat; two at his ears; a crowd on flanks and body.
The Terror of the Border was down at last!
"Wullie, ma Wullie!" screamed M'Adam, bounding down the slope a crook's length in front of the rest. "Wullie! Wullie! to me!"At the shrill cry the huddle below was convulsed. It heaved and swelled and dragged to and fro, like the sea lashed into life by some dying leviathan.
A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. Agreat tossing head, bloody past recognition, flung out from the ruck. One quick glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little flying form in front; then with a roar like a waterfall plunged toward it, shaking off the bloody leeches as he went.
"Wullie! Wullie! I'm wi' ye!" cried that little voice, now so near.
Through -- through--through! -- an incomparable effort and his last. They hung to his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were round and about him. And down he went again with a sob and a little suffocating cry, shooting up at his master one quick, beseeching glance as the sea of blood closed over him --worrying, smothering, tearing, like foxhounds at the kill.
They left the dead and pulled away the living. And it was no light task, for the pack were mad for blood.
At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old Shep, stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was working; for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen years, and remain unmoved.
The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that her vengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was gasping out his life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet spot where they might lay them down to die. Before the night had fallen another had gone to his account. While not a dog who fought upon that day but carried the scars of it with him to his grave.
The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yet more terrible in his dying.
Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
At the sight the little man neither raved nor swore: it was past that for him. He sat down, heedless of the soaking ground, and took the mangled head in his lap very tenderly.
"They've done ye at last, Wullie--they've done ye at last," he said quietly; unalterably convinced that the attack had been organized while he was detained in the tap-room.
On hearing the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of his stump-tail. And with that the Tailless Tyke, Adam M'Adam's Red Wull, the Black Killer, went to his long home.
One by one the Dalesmen took away their dead, and the little man was left alone with the body of his last friend.
Dry-eyed he sat there, nursing the dead. dog's head; hour after hour--alone--crooning to himself:
'Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary wan' fought!
