gentle, pitying
fingers; and he stood all the while grateful yet fidgeting, looking up
into his master's face as if imploring to be gone.

"He mun a had a rare tussle wi' some one--eh, dad?" said the girl, as
she worked.

"Ay; and wi' whom? 'Twasn't for nowt he got fightin', I war'nt. Nay;
he's a tale to tell, has The Owd Un, and--A h-h-h! I thowt as much. Look
'ee!" For bathing the bloody jaws, he had come upon a cluster of tawny
red hair, hiding in the corners of the lips.

The secret was out. Those few hairs told their own accusing tale. To but
one creature in the Daleland could they belong--"Th' Tailless Tyke."

"He mun a bin trespassin'!" cried Andrew.

"Ay, and up to some o' his bloody work, I'll lay my life," the Master
answered. "But Th' Owd Un shall show us."

The old dog's hurts proved less severe than had at first seemed
possible. His good gray coat, forest-thick about his throat, had never
served him in such good stead. And at length, the wounds washed and sewn
up, he jumped down all in a hurry from the table and made for the door.

"Noo, owd lad, yo' may show us," said the Master, and, with Andrew,
hurried after him down the hill, along the stream, and over Langholm
How. And as they neared the Stony Bottom, the sheep, herding in groups,
raised frightened heads to stare.

Of a sudden a cloud of poisonous flies rose, buzzing, up before them;
and there in a dimple of the ground lay a murdered sheep. Deserted by
its comrades, the glazed eyes staring helplessly upward, the throat
horribly worried, it slept its last sleep.

The matter was plain to see. At last the Black Killer had visited
Kenmuir.

"I guessed as much," said the Master, standing over the mangled body.
"Well, it's the worst night's work ever the Killer done. I reck'n Th'
Owd Un come on him while he was at it; and then they fought. And, ma
word! it munn ha' bin a fight too." For all around were traces of that
terrible struggle: the earth torn up and tossed, bracken uprooted, and
throughout little dabs of wool and tufts of tawny hair, mingling with
dark-stained iron-gray wisps.

James Moore walked slowly over the battlefield, stooping down as though
he were gleaning. And gleaning he was.

A long time he bent so, and at length raised himself.

"The Killer has killed his last," he muttered; "Red Wull has run his
course." Then, turning to Andrew: "Run yo' home, lad, and fetch the men
to carry yon away," pointing to the carcass, "And Bob