THE GAMEKEEPER
The second winter came, and with the first frost Gibbie resumed his sheepskin coat and the brogues and leggings which he had made for himself of deer-hide tanned with the hair.It pleased the two old people to see him so warmly clad.It pleased them also that, thus dressed, he always reminded them of some sacred personage undetermined--Jacob, or John the Baptist, or the man who went to meet the lion and be killed by him--in Robert's big Bible, that is, in one or other of the woodcuts of the same.Very soon the stories about him were all stirred up afresh, and new rumours added.This one and that of the children declared they had caught sight of the beast-loon, running about the rocks like a goat; and one day a boy of Angus's own, who had been a good way up the mountain, came home nearly dead with terror, saying the beast-loon had chased him a long way.He did not add that he had been throwing stones at the sheep, not perceiving any one in charge of them.So, one fine morning in December, having nothing particular to attend to, Angus shouldered his double-barrelled gun, and set out for a walk over Glashgar, in the hope of coming upon the savage that terrified the children.He must be off.That was settled.Where Angus was in authority, the outlandish was not to be suffered.The sun shone bright, and a keen wind was blowing.
About noon he came in sight of a few sheep, in a sheltered spot, where were little patches of coarse grass among the heather.On a stone, a few yards above them, sat Gibbie, not reading, as he would be half the time now, but busied with a Pan's-pipes--which, under Donal's direction, he had made for himself--drawing from them experimental sounds, and feeling after the possibility of a melody.
He was so much occupied that he did not see Angus approach, who now stood for a moment or two regarding him.He was hirsute as Esau, his head crowned with its own plentiful crop--even in winter he wore no cap--his body covered with the wool of the sheep, and his legs and feet with the hide of the deer--the hair, as in nature, outward.
The deer-skin Angus knew for what it was from afar, and concluding it the spoil of the only crime of which he recognized the enormity, whereas it was in truth part of a skin he had himself sold to a saddler in the next village, to make sporrans of, boiled over with wrath, and strode nearer, grinding his teeth.Gibbie looked up, knew him, and starting to his feet, turned to the hill.Angus, levelling his gun, shouted to him to stop, but Gibbie only ran the harder, nor once looked round.Idiotic with rage, Angus fired.One of his barrels was loaded with shot, the other with ball: meaning to use the shot barrel, he pulled the wrong trigger, and liberated the bullet.It went through the calf of Gibbie's right leg, and he fell.It had, however, passed between two muscles without injuring either greatly, and had severed no artery.The next moment he was on his feet again and running, nor did he yet feel pain.Happily he was not very far from home, and he made for it as fast as he could--preceded by Oscar, who, having once by accident been shot himself, had a mortal terror of guns.Maimed as Gibbie was, he could yet run a good deal faster up hill than the rascal who followed him.But long before he reached the cottage, the pain had arrived, and the nearer he got to it the worse it grew.In spite of the anguish, however, he held on with determination; to be seized by Angus and dragged down to Glashruach, would be far worse.
Robert Grant was at home that day, suffering from rheumatism.He was seated in the ingle-neuk, with his pipe in his mouth, and Janet was just taking the potatoes for their dinner off the fire, when the door flew open, and in stumbled Gibbie, and fell on the floor.The old man threw his pipe from him, and rose trembling, but Janet was before him.She dropt down on her knees beside the boy, and put her arm under his head.He was white and motionless.
"Eh, Robert Grant!" she cried, "he's bleedin'."The same moment they heard quick yet heavy steps approaching.At once Robert divined the truth, and a great wrath banished rheumatism and age together.Like a boy he sprang to the crap o' the wa', whence his yet powerful hand came back armed with a huge rusty old broad-sword that had seen service in its day.Two or three fierce tugs at the hilt proving the blade immovable in the sheath, and the steps being now almost at the door, he clubbed the weapon, grasping it by the sheathed blade, and holding it with the edge downward, so that the blow he meant to deal should fall from the round of the basket hilt.As he heaved it aloft, the gray old shepherd seemed inspired by the god of battles; the rage of a hundred ancestors was welling up in his peaceful breast.His red eye flashed, and the few hairs that were left him stood erect on his head like the mane of a roused lion.Ere Angus had his second foot over the threshold, down came the helmet-like hilt with a dull crash on his head, and he staggered against the wall.
"Tak ye that, Angus Mac Pholp!" panted Robert through his clenched teeth, following the blow with another from his fist, that prostrated the enemy.Again he heaved his weapon, and standing over him where he lay, more than half-stunned, said in a hoarse voice, "By the great God my maker, Angus Mac Pholp, gien ye seek to rise, I'll come doon on ye again as ye lie!--Here, Oscar!--He's no ane to haud ony fair play wi', mair nor a brute beast.--Watch him, Oscar, and tak him by the thro't gien he muv a finger."The gun had dropped from Angus's hand, and Robert, keeping his eye on him, secured it.
"She's lodd," muttered Angus.
"Lie still than," returned Robert, pointing the weapon at his head.
"It'll be murder," said Angus, and made a movement to lay hold of the barrel.
"Haud him doon, Oscar," cried Robert.The dog's paws were instantly on his chest, and his teeth grinning within an inch of his face.
