ase. But the Killer never
returned to the kill, and went about in the midst of the all, carrying
on his infamous traffic and laughing up his sleeve.

In the meanwhile the Dalesmen raged and swore vengeance; their
impotence, their unsuccess, and their losses heating their wrath to
madness. And the bitterest sting of it all lay in this; that though they
could not detect him, they were nigh to positive as to the culprit.

Many a time was the Black Killer named in low-voiced conclave; many a
time did Long Kirby, as he stood in the Border Ram and watched M'Adam
and the Terror walking down the High, nudge Jim Mason and whisper:

"Theer's the Killer--oneasy be his grave!" To which practical Jim always
made the same retort:

"Ay, theer's the Killer; but wheer's the proof?"

And therein lay the crux. There was scarcely a man in the countryside
who doubted the guilt of the Tailless Tyke; but, as Jim said, where
was the proof? They could but point to his well-won nickname; his evil
notoriety; say that, magnificent sheep-dog as he was, he was known even
in his work as a rough handler of stock; and lastly remark significantly
that the grange was one of the few farms that had so far escaped
unscathed. For with the belief that the Black Killer was a sheep-dog
they held it as an article of faith that he would in honour spare his
master's flock.

There may, indeed, have been prejudice in their judgement. For each has
his private grudge against the Terror; and nigh every man bore on his
own person, or his clothes, or on the body of his dog, the mark of that
huge savage.

Proof?

"Why, he near killed ma Lassie!" cries Londesley.

"And he did kill the Wexer!"

"And Wan Tromp!"

"And see pore old Wenus!" says John Swan, and pulls out that fair
Amazon, battered almost past recognition, but a warrioress still.

"That's Red Wull--bloody be his end!"

"And he laid ma Rasper by for nigh three weeks!" continues Tupper,
pointing to the yet-unhealed scars on the neck of the big bobtail. "See
thisey--his work."

"And look here!" cries Saunderson, exposing a ragged wound in Shep's
throat; "thot's the Terror--black be his fa'!"

"Ay," says Long Kirby with an oath; "the tykes love him nigh as much as
we do."

"Yes," says Tammas. "Yo' jest watch!"

The old man slips out of the tap-room; and in another moment from the
road without comes a heavy, regular pat-pat-pat, as of some big creature
approaching, and, blending with the sound,