Sim bent over the meal ark and plumbed its contents with his fist.Two feet and more remained: provender--with care--for a month, till he harvested the waterside corn and ground it at Ashkirk mill.He straightened his back better pleased; and, as he moved, the fine dust flew into his throat and set him coughing.He choked back the sound till his face crimsoned.
But the mischief was done.A woman's voice, thin and weary, came from the ben-end.The long man tiptoed awkwardly to her side.
"Canny, lass," he crooned."It's me back frae the hill.
There's a mune and a clear sky, and I'll hae the lave under thack and **** the morn.Syne I'm for Ninemileburn, and the coo 'ill be i' the byre by Setterday.Things micht be waur, and we'll warstle through yet.There was mair tint at Flodden."The last rays of October daylight that filtered through the straw lattice showed a woman's head on the pillow.The face was white and drawn, and the great black eyes--she had been an Oliver out of Megget--were fixed in the long stare of pain.Her voice had the high lilt and the deep undertones of the Forest.
"The bairn 'ill be gone ere ye ken, Sim," she said wearily."He canna live without milk, and I've nane to gie him.Get the coo back or lose the son I bore ye.If I were my ordinar' I wad hae't in the byre, though I had to kindle Ninemileburn ower Wat's heid."She turned miserably on her pillow and the babe beside her set up a feeble crying.Sim busied himself with re-lighting the peat fire.He knew too well that he would never see the milk-cow till he took with him the price of his debt or gave a bond on harvested crops.He had had a bad lambing, and the wet summer had soured his shallow lands.The cess to Branksome was due, and he had had no means to pay it.His father's cousin of the Ninemileburn was a brawling fellow, who never lacked beast in byre or corn in bin, and to him he had gone for the loan.But Wat was a hard man, and demanded surety; so the one cow had travelled the six moorland miles and would not return till the bond was cancelled.As well might he try to get water from stone as move Wat by any tale of a sick wife and dying child.
The peat smoke got into his throat and brought on a fresh fit of coughing.The wet year had played havoc with his chest and his lean shoulders shook with the paroxysms.An anxious look at the bed told him that Marion was drowsing, so he slipped to the door.
Outside, as he had said, the sky was clear.From the plashy hillside came the rumour of swollen burns.Then he was aware of a man's voice shouting.
"Sim," it cried, "Sim o' the Cleuch...Sim." A sturdy figure came down through the scrog of hazel and revealed itself as his neighbour of the Dodhead.Jamie Telfer lived five miles off in Ettrick, but his was the next house to the Cleuch shieling.
Telfer was running, and his round red face shone with sweat.
"Dod, man, Sim, ye're hard o' hearing.I was routin' like to wake the deid, and ye never turned your neck.It's the fray Ibring ye.Mount and ride to the Carewoodrig.The word's frae Branksome.I've but Ranklehope to raise, and then me and William's Tam will be on the road to join ye.""Whatna fray?" Sim asked blankly.
"Ninemileburn.Bewcastle's marching.They riped the place at cockcrow, and took twenty-six kye, five horse and a walth o'
plenishing.They were seen fordin' Teviot at ten afore noon, but they're gaun round by Ewes Water, for they durstna try the Hermitage Slack.Forbye they move slow, for the bestial's heavy wark to drive.They shut up Wat in the auld peel, and he didna win free till bye midday.Syne he was off to Branksome, and the word frae Branksome is to raise a' Ettrick, Teviotdale, Ale Water, and the Muirs o' Esk.We look to win up wi' the lads long ere they cross Liddel, and that at the speed they gang will be gey an' near sunrise.It's a braw mune for the job."Jarnie Telfer lay on his face by the burn and lapped up water like a dog.Then without another word he trotted off across the hillside beyond which lay the Ranklehope.
Sim had a fit of coughing and looked stupidly at the sky.Here was the last straw.He was dog-tired, for he had had little sleep the past week.There was no one to leave with Marion, and Marion was too weak to tend herself.The word was from Branksome, and at another time Branksome was to be obeyed.But now the thing was past reason.What use was there for a miserable careworn man to ride among the swank, well-fed lads in the Bewcastle chase? And then he remembered his cow.She would be hirpling with the rest of the Ninemileburn beasts on the road to the Border.The case was more desperate than he had thought.
She was gone for ever unless he helped Wat to win her back.And if she went, where was the milk for the child?
He stared hopelessly up at a darkening sky.Then he went to the lean-to where his horse was stalled.The beast was fresh, for it had not been out for two days--a rough Forest shelty with shaggy fetlocks and a mane like a thicket.Sim set his old saddle on it, and went back to the house.
His wife was still asleep, breathing painfully.He put water on the fire to boil, and fetched a handful of meal from the ark.
With this he made a dish of gruel, and set it by the bedside.He drew a pitcher of water from the well, for she might be thirsty.
Then he banked up the fire and steeked the window.When she woke she would find food and drink, and he would be back before the next darkening.He dared not look at the child.
The shelty shied at a line of firelight from the window, as Sim flung himself wearily on its back.He had got his long ash spear from its place among the rafters, and donned his leather jacket with the iron studs on breast and shoulder.One of the seams gaped.His wife had been mending it when her pains took her.
