“Thot's it. I've never seen the like afore myself, but I've heard ma grandad speak o't mony's the time. An owd dog'll git the cravin' for sheep's blood on him, just the same as a mon does for the drink; he creeps oot o' nights, gallops afar, hunts his sheep, downs 'er, and satisfies the cravin'. And he nary kills but the one, they say, for he knows the value o' sheep same as you and me. He has his gallop, quenches the thirst, and then he's for home, maybe a score mile away, and no one the wiser i' th' mornin'. And so on, till he cooms to a bloody death, the murderin' traitor.” “If he does!” said Jim. “And he does, they say, nigh always. For he gets bolder and bolder wi' not bein' caught, until one fine night a bullet lets light into him. And some mon gets knocked nigh endways when they bring his best tyke home i' th' mornin', dead, wi' the sheep's wool yet stickin' in his mouth.” The postman whistled again. “It's what owd Wrottesley'd tell on to a tick. And he'd say, if ye mind, Master, as hoo the dog'd niver kill his master's sheep--kind o' conscience-like.” “Ay, I've heard that,” said the Master. “Queer too, and 'im bein' such a bad un!” Jim Mason rose slowly from his knees. “Ma word,” he said, “I wish Th' Owd Un was here. He'd 'appen show us summat!” “I nob'but wish he was, pore owd lad!” said the Master. As he spoke there was a crash in the wood above them; a sound as of some big body bursting furiously through brushwood. The two men rushed to the top of the rise. In the darkness they could see nothing; only, standing still and holding their breaths, they could hear the faint sound, ever growing fainter, of some creature splashing in a hasty gallop over the wet moors. “Yon's him! Yon's no fox, I'll tak' oath. And a main big un, too, hark to him!” cried Jim. Then to Gyp, who had rushed off in hot pursuit: “Coom back, chunk-'ead. What's use o' you agin a gallopin' potamus?” Gradually the sounds died away and away, and were no more. “Thot's 'im, the devil!” said the Master at length. “Nay; the devil has a tail, they do say,” replied Jim thoughtfully. For already the light of suspicion was focusing its red glare. “Noo I reck'n we're in for bloody times amang the sheep for a while,” said the Master, as Jim picked up his bags. “Better a sheep nor a mon,” answered the postman, still harping on the old theme. Chapter XVI. THE BLACK KILLER THAT, as James Moore had predicted, was the first only of a long succession of such solitary crimes. Those who have not lived in a desolate country like that about the Muir Pike, where sheep are paramount and every other man engaged in the profession pastoral, can barely imagine the sensation aroused. In market place, tavern, or cottage, the subject of conversation was always the latest sheep-murder and the yet-undetected criminal.