LITMIR.BIZ

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ahint, and I saw fine he didna like the business. I kenned the dowg never did onything wi’oot a guid reason, and that he was no easy to fricht, so I began to feel uneasy. I stopped for a meenute to try him, and pretended I was gaun to turn hame. He cam rinnin’ up and barkit about my legs as pleased as ye like, and when I turned again he looked awfu’ dowie.

      I pointed this oot to the doctor, but he paid nae attention. “Tut, tut,” says he, “if ye ‘re gaun to heed a dowg’s havers, we micht gie a’thing up at yince.”

      “It’s nae havers,” I said, hot-like, for I didna like to hear my dowg misca’ed. “There’s mair sense in that beast than what’s in a heap o’ men’s heids.”

      “Weel, weel,” he says, “sae let it be. But I’m gaun on, and ye can come or no, just as ye like.”

      “Doctor,” says I again, “ye dinna ken the risk ye ‘re rinnin’. I’m a better juidge o’ the wather than you, and I tell ye that I’m feared at this day. Ye see that the air is as cauld’s steel, and yet there’s mist a’ in front o’ ye and ahint. Ye ken the auld owercome, ‘Rouk is snaw’s wraith,’ and if we dinna see a fearsome snaw afore this day’s dune, I ‘ll own my time’s been wastit.”

      But naething wad move him, and I had to follow him for fair shame. Sune after, too, we startit some hares, and though we didna get ony, it set the excitement o’ the sport on us. I sune got as keen as himsel’, and sae we trampit on, gettin’ farther intil the hills wi’ every step, and thinkin’ naething about the snaw.

      We tried the Gledscleuch and got naething, and syne we gaed on to the Allercleuch, and no anither beast did we see. Then we struck straucht for the Cauldhope Loch, which lies weel hoddit in hills miles frae ony man. But there we cam nae better speed, for a’ we saw was the frozen loch and the dowie threshes and snaw, snaw everywhere, lyin’ and fa’in’. The day had grown waur, and still that dour man wadna turn back. “Come on,” says he, “the drift’s clearin’, and in a wee we ‘ll be on clear grund;” and he steppit oot as he were on the laigh road. The air wasna half as cauld, but thick just like a nicht in hairst; and though there wasna muckle snaw fa’in’ yet, it felt as though there were miles o’ ‘t abune in the cluds and pressin’ doun to the yirth. Forbye, it was terrible sair walkin’, for though the snaw on the grund wasna deep, it was thick and cloggin’. So on we gaed, the yin o’ us in high fettle, the ither no verra carin’, till we cam to the herd’s shielin’ o’ the Lanely Bield, whilk lies in the very centre o’ the hills, whaur I had never been afore.

      We chappit at the door and they took us in. The herd was a dacent man, yin Simon Trumbull, and I had seen him aften at kirk and market. So he bade us welcome, and telled us to get our claes dried, for we wadna gang anither step that nicht. Syne his wife made us tea, and it helpit us michtily, for we had drank a’ our whisky lang syne. They had a great fire roarin’ up the lum, and I was sweired, I can tell ye, to gang oot o’ the warm place again into the ill wather.

      But I must needs be aff if I was to be hame that nicht, and keep my wife from gaun oot o’ her mind. So I gets up and buttons to my coat.

      “Losh, man,” says the herd, “ye ‘re never thinkin’ o’ leavin’. It ‘ll be the awfu’est nicht that ever man heard tell o’. I’ve herdit thae hills this mony ‘ear, and I never saw sic tokens o’ death i’ the air. I’ve my sheep fauldit lang syne, and my hoose weel stockit, or I wadna bide here wi’ an easy hert.”

      “A’ the mair need that I should gang,” says I, “me that has naething dune. Ye ken fine my wife. She wad die wi’ fricht, if I didna come hame.”

      Simon went to the door and opened it. It blew back on the wa’, and a solid mass o’ snaw fell on the floor. “See that,” he says. “If ye dinna believe me, believe your ain een. Ye need never think o’ seein’ Callowa the nicht.”

      “See it or no,” said I, “I ‘ll hae to try’t. Ye’d better bide, doctor; there’s nae cause for you to come wi’ me.”

      “I ‘ll gang wi’ you,” he said. “I brocht ye intil this, and I ‘ll see ye oot o’t.” And I never liked the man sae weel as at the word.

      When the twae o’ us walkit frae that hoose it was like walkin’ intil a drift o’ snaw. The air was sae thick that we couldna richt see the separate flakes. It was just a great solid mass sinkin’ ever doun, and as heavy as a thousand ton o’ leid. The breath went frae me at the verra outset. Something clappit on my chest, and I had nocht to dae but warstle on wi’ nae mair fushion than a kittlin’. I had a grip o’ the doctor’s hand, and muckle we needit it, for we wad sune hae been separate and never mair heard o’. My dowg Voltaire, whae was gien for ordinar’ to rinnin’ wide and playin’ himsel’, kept close rubbin’ against my heels. We were miles frae hame, and unless the thing cleared there was sma’ chance o’ us winnin’ there. Yae guid thing, there was little wind, but just a saft, even fa’; so it wasna so bad as though it had been a fierce driftin’. I had a general kind o’ glimmer o’ the road, though I had never been in thae hills afore. If we held doun by the Lanely Bield Burn we wad come to the tap o’ the Stark Water, whilk cam into Gled no a mile abune Callowa. So on we warstled, prayin’ and greetin’ like bairns, wi’ scarce a thocht o’ what we were daein’.

      “Whaur are we?” says the doctor in a wee, and his voice sounded as though he had a naipkin roond his mouth.

      “I think we should be somewhere near the Stark heid,” said I. “We ‘re gaun doun, and there’s nae burn hereaways but it.”

      “But I aye thocht the Stark Glen was a’ sklidders at the heid,” said he; “and this is as saft a slope as a hoose riggin’.”

      “I canna help that,” says I. “It maun e’en be it, or we’ve clean missed the airt.”

      So on we gaed again, and the snaw aye got deeper. It wasna awfu’ saft, so we didna sink far as we walkit, but it was terrible wearin’. I sune was sae tired that I could scarce drag mysel’; forbye being frichtit oot o’ my senses. But the doctor was still stoot and hopefu’, and I just followed him.

      Suddenly, ere ever we kenned, the slope ceased, and we were walkin’ on flat grund. I could scarce believe my een, but there it was at my feet, as laigh as a kitchen floor. But the queer thing was that while a’ around was deep snaw, this place was a’ but bare, and here and there rigs o’ green land stuck oot.

      “What in the warld’s this?” says I, as I steppit oot boldly, and I turned to my companion. When I saw him I was fair astonished. For his face was white as the snaw, and he was tremblin’ to his fingers.

      “Ye ‘re no feared, are ye?” I asked. “D ‘ye no ken guid land when ye see’t?”

      His teeth were chattering in his heid. “You hae na sense to be feared. The Almichty help us, but I believe we ‘re daein’ what nae man ever did afore.”

      I never saw sae queer a place. The great wecht o’ snaw was still fa’in’ on us, but it seemed to disappear when it cam to the grund. And our feet when we steppit aye sank a wee bit, but no in snaw. The feel i’ the air wasna cauld, but if onything ‘t was het and damp. The sweat began to rin doon aff my broo, and I could hear the man ahint me pantin’ like a broken-winded horse. I lookit roond me for the dowg, but nae dowg was to be seen; for at the first step we took on the queer land he had ta’en himsel’ aff. I didna like the look o’t, for it wad hae ta’en muckle to drive the beast frae my side.

      Every now and then we cam on a wee hillock whaur the snaw lay deeper, but the spaces atween were black and saft, and crunkled aneath the feet. Ye ken i’ the spring about the burn-heids how the water rins oot o’ the grund, and a’ the colour o’ the place is a sodden grey. Weel, ‘t was the same here. There was a seepin’, dreepin’ feel i’ the grund whilk made it awesome to the eye. Had I been i’ my clear senses, I wad hae been rale puzzled about the maitter, but I was donnered wi’ the drifts and the weariness, and thocht only o’ gettin’ by’t. But sune a kind o’ terror o’ the thing took me. Every time

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