e's for home, maybe a score mile away, and no one
the wiser i' th' mornin'. And so on, till he cooms to a bloody death,
the murderin' traitor."

"If he does!" said Jim.

"And he does, they say, nigh always. For he gets bolder and bolder wi'
not bein' caught, until one fine night a bullet lets light into him. And
some mon gets knocked nigh endways when they bring his best tyke home i'
th' mornin', dead, wi' the sheep's wool yet stickin' in his mouth."

The postman whistled again.

"It's what owd Wrottesley'd tell on to a tick. And he'd say, if ye
mind, Master, as hoo the dog'd niver kill his master's sheep--kind o'
conscience-like."

"Ay, I've heard that," said the Master. "Queer too, and 'im bein' such a
bad un!"

Jim Mason rose slowly from his knees.

"Ma word," he said, "I wish Th' Owd Un was here. He'd 'appen show us
summat!"

"I nob'but wish he was, pore owd lad!" said the Master.

As he spoke there was a crash in the wood above them; a sound as of some
big body bursting furiously through brushwood.

The two men rushed to the top of the rise. In the darkness they could
see nothing; only, standing still and holding their breaths, they could
hear the faint sound, ever growing fainter, of some creature splashing
in a hasty gallop over the wet moors.

"Yon's him! Yon's no fox, I'll tak' oath. And a main big un, too, hark
to him!" cried Jim. Then to Gyp, who had rushed off in hot pursuit:
"Coom back, chunk-'ead. What's use o' you agin a gallopin' potamus?"

Gradually the sounds died away and away, and were no more.

"Thot's 'im, the devil!" said the Master at length.

"Nay; the devil has a tail, they do say," replied Jim thoughtfully. For
already the light of suspicion was focusing its red glare.

"Noo I reck'n we're in for bloody times amang the sheep for a while,"
said the Master, as Jim picked up his bags.

"Better a sheep nor a mon," answered the postman, still harping on the
old theme.

Chapter XVI. THE BLACK KILLER

THAT, as James Moore had predicted, was the first only of a long
succession of such solitary crimes.

Those who have not lived in a desolate country like that about the
Muir Pike, where sheep are paramount and every other man engaged in the
profession pastoral, can barely imagine the sensation aroused. In market
place, tavern, or cottage, the subject of conversation was always the
latest sheep-murder and the yet-undetected criminal.

Sometimes there would be a lull, and