Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer BOB, SON OF BATTLE By Alfred Ollivant CONTENTS PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE Chapter I. The Gray Dog Chapter II. A Son of Hagar Chapter III. Red Wull Chapter IV. First Blood PART II THE LITTLE MAN Chapter V. A Man's Son Chapter VI. A Licking or a Lie Chapter VII. The White Winter Chapter VIII. M'Adam and His Coat PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY Chapter IX. Rivals, Chapter X. Red Wull Wins Chapter XI. Oor Bob, Chapter XII. How Red Wull Held the Bridge Chapter XIII. The Face in the Frame PART IV THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XIV. A Mad Man Chapter XV. Death on the Marches, Chapter XVI. The Black Killer Chapter XVII. A Mad Dog Chapter XVIII. How the Killer was Singed Chapter XIX. Lad and Lass Chapter XX. The Snapping of the String Chapter XXI. Horror of Darkness PART V OWD BOB O' KENMUIR Chapter XXII. A Man and a Maid Chapter XXIII. Th' Owd Un Chapter XXIV. A Shot in the Night Chapter XXV. The Shepherds' Trophy. PART VI THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XXVI. Red-handed Chapter XXVII. For the Defence Chapter XXVIII. The Devil's Bowl Chapter XXIX. The Devil's Bowl Chapter XXX. The Tailless Tyke at Bay Postscript PART I THE COMING OF THE TAILLESS TYKE Chapter I. THE GRAY DOG THE sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse lying, long and low in the shadow of the Muir Pike; on the ruins of peel-tower and barmkyn, relics of the time of raids, it looked; on ranges of whitewashed outbuildings; on a goodly array of dark-thatched ricks. In the stack-yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men were thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the other stood perched on a ladder at a lower level. The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut-brown countenance, was Tammas Thornton, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for more than half a century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped apparently in gloomy meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales--man, he, with huge hands and hairy arms; about his face an uncomely aureole of stiff, red hair; and on his features, deep-seated, an expression of resolute melancholy. “Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!” the old man was saying. “Yo' canna beat 'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I have, and niver knew a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on 'em cooms up to Rex son o' Rally. Ah, he was a one, was Rex! We's never won Cup since his day.” “Nor niver shall agin, yo' may depend,” said the other gloomily. Tammas clucked irritably.