He had ridden by Commonside and was high on the Caerlanrig before he saw signs of men.The moon swam in a dim dark sky, and the hills were as yellow as corn.The round top of the Wisp made a clear mark to ride by.Sim was a nervous man, and at another time would never have dared to ride alone by the ruined shieling of Chasehope, where folk said a witch had dwelt long ago and the Devil still came in the small hours.But now he was too full of his cares to have room for dread.With his head on his breast he let the shelty take its own road through the mosses.
But on the Caerlanrig he came on a troop of horse.They were a lusty crowd, well-mounted and armed, with iron basnets and corselets that jingled as they rode.Harden's men, he guessed, with young Harden at the head of them.They cried him greeting as he fell in at the tail."It's Long Sim o' the Cleuch," one said; "he's sib to Wat or he wadna be here.Sim likes his ain fireside better than the 'Bateable Land'."The companionship of others cheered him.There had been a time, before he brought Marion from Megget, when he was a well kenned figure on the Borders, a good man at weaponshows and a fierce fighter when his blood was up.Those days were long gone; but the gusto of them returned.No man had ever lightlied him without paying scot.He held up his head and forgot his cares and his gaping jackets.In a little they had topped the hill,and were looking down on the young waters of Ewes.
The company grew, as men dropped in from left and right.Sim recognised the wild hair of Charlie of Geddinscleuch, and the square shoulders of Adam of Frodslaw.They passed Mosspaul, a twinkle far down in the glen, and presently came to the long green slope which is called the Carewoodrig, and which makes a pass from Ewes to Hermitage.To Sim it seemed that an army had encamped on it.Fires had been lit in a howe, and wearied men slept by them.These were the runners, who all day had been warning the dales.By one fire stood the great figure of Wat o'
the Ninemileburn, blaspheming to the skies and counting his losses.He had girded on a long sword, and for better precaution had slung an axe on his back.At the sight of young Harden he held his peace.The foray was Branksome's and a Scott must lead.
Dimly and stupidly, for he was very weary, Sim heard word of the enemy.The beasts had travelled slow, and would not cross Liddel till sunrise.Now they were high up on Tarras water, making for Liddel at a ford below the Castletown.There had been no time to warn the Elliots, but the odds were that Lariston and Mangerton would be out by morning.
"Never heed the Elliots," cried young Harden."We can redd our ain frays, lads.Haste and ride, and we'll hae Geordie Musgrave long ere he wins to the Ritterford, Borrowstonemoss is the bit for us."And with a light Scott laugh he was in the saddle.
They were now in a land of low hills, which made ill-going.Acompanion gave Sim the news.Bewcastle and five-score men and the Scots four-score and three."It's waur to haul than to win,"said the man." Ae man can take ten beasts when three 'ill no keep them.There'll be bluidy war on Tarras side ere the nicht's dune."Sim was feeling his weariness too sore for speech.He remembered that he had tasted no food for fifteen hours.He found his meal-poke and filled his mouth, but the stuff choked him.It only made him cough fiercely, so that Wat o' the Ninemileburn, riding before him, cursed him for a broken-winded fool.Also he was remembering about Marion, lying sick in the darkness twenty miles over the hills.
The moon was clouded, for an east wind was springing up.It was ill riding on the braeface, and Sim and his shelty floundered among the screes.He was wondering how long it would all last.
Soon he must fall down and be the scorn of the Border men.The thought put Marion out of his head again.He set his mind on tending his horse and keeping up with his fellows.
Suddenly a whistle from Harden halted the company.A man came running back from the crown of the rig.A whisper went about that Bewcastle was on the far side, in the little glen called the Brunt Burn.The men held their breath,and in the stillness they heard far off the sound of hooves on stones and the heavy breathing of cattle.
It was a noble spot for an ambuscade.The Borderers scattered over the hillside, some riding south to hold the convoy as it came down the glen.Sim's weariness lightened.His blood ran quicker; he remembered that the cow, his child's one hope, was there before him.He found himself next his cousin Wat, who chewed curses in his great beard.When they topped the rig they saw a quarter of a mile below them the men they sought.The cattle were driven in the centre, with horsemen in front and rear and flankers on the braeside.
"Hae at them, lads," cried Wat o' the Ninemileburn, as he dug spurs into his grey horse.From farther down the glen he was answered with a great shout of "Branksome".
Somehow or other Sim and his shelty got down the steep braeface.
The next he knew was that the raiders had turned to meet him--to meet him alone, it seemed; the moon had come out again, and their faces showed white in it.The cattle, as the driving ceased, sank down wearily in the moss.A man with an iron ged turned, cursing to receive Wat's sword on his shoulder-bone.Alight began to blaze from down the burn--Sim saw the glitter of it out of the corner of an eye--but the men in front were dark figures with white faces.
The Bewcastle lads were stout fellows, well used to hold as well as take.They closed up in line around the beasts, and the moon lit the tops of their spears.Sim brandished his ash-shaft, which had weighed heavily these last hours, and to his surprise found it light.He found his voice, too, and fell a-roaring like Wat.
Before he knew he was among the cattle.Wat had broken the ring, and men were hacking and slipping among the slab sides of the wearied beasts.The shelty came down over the rump of a red buliock, and Sim was sprawling on his face in the trampled grass.
He struggled to rise, and some one had him by the throat.
