The first cold flicker of dawn stole across the green. The red eye of the morning peered aghast over the shoulder of the Pike. And from the sleeping dale there arose the yodling of a man driving his cattle home. Day was upon them. * * * * * James Moore was waked by a little whimpering cry beneath his window. He leapt out of bed and rushed to look; for well he knew 'twas not for nothing that the old dog was calling. “Lord o' mercy! whativer's come to yo', Owd Un?” he cried in anguish. And, indeed, his favorite, war-daubed almost past recognition, presented a pitiful spectacle. In a moment the Master was downstairs and out, examining him. “Poor old lad, yo' have caught it this time!” he cried. There was a ragged tear on the dog's cheek; a deep gash in his throat from which the blood still welled, staining the white escutcheon on his chest; while head and neck were clotted with the red. Hastily the Master summoned Maggie. After her, Andrew came hurrying down. And a little later a tiny, night-clad, naked-footed figure appeared in the door, wide-eyed, and then fled, screaming. They doctored the old warrior on the table in the kitchen. Maggie tenderly washed his wounds, and dressed them with 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.