



Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer





BOB, SON OF BATTLE

By Alfred Ollivant



CONTENTS


     PART I  THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE
     Chapter I. The Gray Dog
     Chapter II. A Son of Hagar
     Chapter III. Red Wull
     Chapter IV. First Blood


     PART II THE LITTLE MAN
     Chapter V. A Man's Son
     Chapter VI. A Licking or a Lie
     Chapter VII. The White Winter
     Chapter VIII. M'Adam and His Coat


     PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY
     Chapter IX. Rivals,
     Chapter X. Red Wull Wins
     Chapter XI. Oor Bob,
     Chapter XII. How Red Wull Held the Bridge
     Chapter XIII. The Face in the Frame


     PART IV THE BLACK KILLER
     Chapter XIV. A Mad Man
     Chapter XV. Death on the Marches,
     Chapter XVI. The Black Killer
     Chapter XVII. A Mad Dog
     Chapter XVIII. How the Killer was Singed
     Chapter XIX. Lad and Lass
     Chapter XX. The Snapping of the String
     Chapter XXI. Horror of Darkness


     PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR
     Chapter XXII. A Man and a Maid
     Chapter XXIII. Th' Owd Un
     Chapter XXIV. A Shot in the Night
     Chapter XXV. The Shepherds' Trophy.


     PART VI  THE BLACK KILLER
     Chapter XXVI. Red-handed
     Chapter XXVII. For the Defence
     Chapter XXVIII. The Devil's Bowl
     Chapter XXIX. The Devil's Bowl
     Chapter XXX. The Tailless Tyke at Bay


     Postscript




PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE



Chapter I. THE GRAY DOG


THE sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse lying, long and low
in the shadow of the Muir Pike; on the ruins of peel-tower and barmkyn,
relics of the time of raids, it looked; on ranges of whitewashed
outbuildings; on a goodly array of dark-thatched ricks.

In the stack-yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men were
thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the other stood
perched on a ladder at a lower level.

The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut-brown countenance, was Tammas
Thornton, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for more than half a
century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped apparently in gloomy
meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales--man, he, with huge hands and
hairy arms; about his face an uncomely aureole of stiff, red hair; and
on his features, deep-seated, an expression of resolute melancholy.

"Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!" the old man was saying. "Yo' canna beat
'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I have, and niver
knew a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on 'em cooms up to Rex
son o' Rally. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! We's never won Cup since his
day."

"Nor niver shall agin, yo' may depend," said the other gloomily.

Tammas clucked irritably.

"G'long, Sam'! Todd!" he cried, "Yo' niver happy onless yo' making'
yo'self miser'ble. I niver see sich a chap. Niver win agin? Why, oor
young Bob he'll mak' a right un, I tell yo', and I should know. Not as
what he'll touch Rex son o' Rally, mark ye! I'm niver saying' so, Sam'l
Todd. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! I could tell yo' a tale or two o' Rex.
I mind me hoo--"

The big man interposed hurriedly.

"I've heard it afore, Tammas, I welly 'ave," he said.

Tammas paused and looked angrily up.

"Yo've heard it afore, have yo', Sam'l Todd?" he asked sharply. "And
what have yo' heard afore?"

"Yo' stories, owd lad--yo' stories o' Rex son o' Rally."

"Which on' em

"All on 'em, Tammas, all on 'em--mony a time. I'm fair sick on 'em,
Tammas, I welly am," he pleaded.

The old man gasped. He brought down his mallet with a vicious smack.

"I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin, Sam'l Todd, not if yo' was to go on
yo' bended knees for't. Nay; it bain't no manner o' use talkin'. Niver
agin, says I."

"I niver askt yo'," declared honest Sam'l.

"Nor it wouldna ha' bin no manner o' use if yo' had," said the other
viciously. "I'll niver tell yo' a tale agin if I was to live to be a
hunderd."

"Yo'll not live to be a hunderd, Tammas Thornton, nor near it," said
Sam'l brutally.

"I'll live as long as some, I warrant," the old man replied with spirit.
"I'll live to see Cup back i' Kenmuir, as I said afore."

"If yo' do," the other declared with emphasis, "Sam'l Todd niver spake a
true word. Nay, nay, lad; yo're owd, yo're wambly, your time's near run
or I'm the more mistook."

"For mussy's sake hold yo' tongue, Sam'l Todd! It's clack-clack all
day--" The old man broke off suddenly, and buckled to his work with
suspicious vigor. "Mak' a show yo' bin workin', lad," he whispered.
"Here's Master and oor Bob."

As he spoke, a tall gaitered man with weather-beaten face, strong, lean,
austere, and the blue-gray eyes of the hill-country, came striding into
the yard. And trotting soberly at his heels, with the gravest, saddest
eyes ever you saw, a sheep-dog puppy.

A rare dark gray he was, his long coat, dashed here and there with
lighter touches, like a stormy sea moonlit. Upon his chest an escutcheon
of purest white, and the dome of his head showered, as it were, with
a sprinkling of snow. Perfectly compact, utterly lithe, inimitably
graceful with his airy-fairy action; a gentleman every inch, you could
not help but stare at him--Owd Bob o' Kenmuir.

At the foot of the ladder the two stopped. And the young dog, placing
his forepaws on a lower rung, looked up, slowly waving his silvery
brush.

"A proper Gray Dog!" mused Tammas, gazing down into the dark face
beneath him. "Small, yet big; light to get about on backs o' his sheep,
yet not too light. Wi' a coat hard a-top to keep oot Daleland weather,
soft as sealskin beneath. And wi' them sorrerful eyes on him as niver
goes but wi' a good un. Amaist he minds me o' Rex son o' Rally."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Sam'l. But the old man heard him not.

"Did 'Enry Farewether tell yo' hoo he acted this mornin',