Chapter XXIII: The House of the Four Men

Of the travelling of Rob to the south there is little enough to tell until he reached Rannoch, the country of Robertsons and Stewarts, and other clans more like to pick a pocket than to cry God-speed.

On the evening following the departure of Muckle John, Rob had bartered with a pedlar upon the road for a suit of old clothes, and too fearful of the future to refuse the exorbitant price demanded, he gave him some silver and buried his kilt in a mountain pool.

And so, with more confidence, he stepped out towards the south, and reached Loch Linnhe without misadventure. It was his intention to avoid all the district about Fort William by taking boat to the other side.

In this manner he passed through Glencoe and travelling by day, reached the head of Loch Rannoch in a dusk of drizzling rain.

Now the country that includes Rannoch, Lochaber and Breadalbane had no rival for insubordination in those days. It swarmed with broken men--cattle thieves and desperadoes of all kinds owning fealty to none but their own good pleasure, and only Jacobite so far as it was politic to be, and with an unsleeping eye to the plunder of the Lowlands.

It was with anxious steps, therefore, that Rob approached a solitary huddle of buildings lying in a snug hollow of the hills, thatched to the colour of the brown trees, with here and there a patch of young heather over the top of it. It was strangely hidden and quiet, with all the look of an old inn fallen on evil days.

For long Rob stared at it with dubious eyes; there was so little life about it, and so much that was mysteriously ominous. Though drenched with the thin hill rain, craving for food and shelter, he was in a half mind to continue his way, when the face of a man looked through the small hole in the side that served for a window--a green-white face it was, with staring unwavering eyes.

But where there was a living soul there would be food and shelter and Rob stepped forward, forgetting his secret fear. Inside the place, however, there was no sound, but only the monotonous dripping of water upon the muddy floor. In the centre of the room there hung a great pot upon a chain from the roof, and the place was so full of peat reek that it took him a few minutes to see where the man had gone.

Against the wall were layers of rushes, and a narrow stairway led up to a kind of loft about six feet above the floor. Under the loft were the cows. He could hear them coughing fitfully through the wooden partition.

It was a poor enough place and leaking from a score of holes, but it was warm, and so tired was he that he sat down before the peats and warmed his hands.

Presently the door opened and the man re-entered. Rob wondered how he had managed to come that way. He started when he saw Rob, but wished him good-day civilly enough and inquired if he could provide him with anything. He was a sallow, secretive looking fellow, with a tangled beard and hair and a terrible squint.

"You are passing south maybe," he said, busying himself about the place.

With some uneasiness Rob replied that he was journeying to Edinburgh seeking employment.

"It is a Stewart you will be?" remarked the man, squinting terribly.

"No," said Rob, "I am a Fraser."

"A Fraser," he echoed, "I take it you can pay your way."

"I can that," said Rob with some indignation for fear he should be sent back into the rain, and with a foolish notion that the man might be of assistance he drew out a dozen silver coins and clinked them in his open hand.

In the blue smoke of the place the man paused. He stood perfectly still with his ghastly squint accentuated. Then putting some meat into the pot he set the lid on, and going to the door spoke to some one outside. This he did so casually that Rob suspected nothing, but sat dozing before the warm glow, utterly spent and stupid with fatigue.

It must have been about eight of the clock that he finished his supper, and asked to be shown to a place to sleep. This the innkeeper did very readily, lighting him up the narrow stairway into the loft and pointing to a heap of dry heather in a corner. Out in the night the rain was falling dismally and below him Rob could hear the warm and comfortable breathing of the cows. Yet, tired though he was, a curious dread of falling asleep came on him. There was something about the place that set his nerves on edge. Was it the eerie silence of it--lost amongst the lonely elbow of the loch? But that was nothing new to him. Was it the strange catlike movements of the man with the squint? But he was probably a decent enough creature unused to strangers. Or was there danger lurking in the place, memories of dreadful things done there in the black darkness? His hand instinctively sought the dirk at his side.

_It was gone_!

In an instant he was upon his feet. Whether the man below had stolen it or not he dare not take the risk of staying in that lonely place unarmed. He must make his way into the night and trust to fortune that he would evade pursuit should there be any.

Very softly he felt his way about, hunting for a window or trapdoor. But there was no way of escape. Under the door leading to the stairway shone a rim of light thrown up by the peat fire below, and in one place where the wood had been eaten by mice there was a round hole large enough to command the room beneath. He lay at his length and peered down.

To his horror there were four men gathered about the fire--the innkeeper and three ragged, crouching figures, with cruelty and murder written all over their faces. They were dressed in a tartan so filthy and stained with rain and mud that Rob was ignorant of their clan. They were shaggy as cattle beasts, dirty, smoke-blackened fellows, below the average size, active as wild cats, and chattering in whispers like a crew of unwashed monkeys. Even in the remnants of the Chevalier's army Rob had not encountered such as these. Only in Lochaber and Rannoch could such scourings of the clans be found until one met the red Macgregors which Providence forfend.

The innkeeper had his back turned to the stairway, but by the motion of his hands Rob read what he said like an open page. He was telling them of the silver that he, in his rashness, had exposed.

In the red firelight Rob could see their eyes gleam beneath their matted hair. With hypnotized gaze he watched a man unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough, and with a gurgle in the throat requiring no explanation. So that was to be the end of it all--a secret murder by a band of lawless caterans ready to prey upon every stranger luckless enough to beg a night's lodging. He would never see Muckle John again. It made him wonder what he would have done to save his life. Muckle John always had a way.

Down below the men had risen to their feet. He saw them standing in their own steam, their heads close together, and their beards wagging as they whispered. Then one by one they approached the stairway. A wild terror seized him at that. The soft pat of their brogues upon the rungs of the ladder and the creak of it under their weight was like to make him scream.

Starting back he stood upon the trap door in the empty hope that they would not be able to lift it. A moment, and he felt it give a faint heave under him. It was delivered gently, as though the man on the ladder suspected it would be stiff or difficult to push back.

And then there was absolute silence.

Did they suspect that he was awake? Rob listened intently. But what he heard was the innkeeper softly ordering them back, and at that moment there sounded outside in the night a man's voice calling.

Once more Rob lay upon the floor and peered below. Around the fire the men were sitting as before. In the doorway the innkeeper was standing with the firelight upon his back. Outside there was the humid noise of a horse losing its hold in sopping ground, and again a voice called--

"Can you give me shelter?"

With a backward glance the innkeeper disappeared, leaving those crouching figures utterly silent. To Rob a wild flash of hope flamed suddenly. Who could say but this might be a friend in distress?

He heard the innkeeper open the door in the byre below him and stall the horse; but he never moved in his eagerness to watch who should enter the place. Suddenly a man looked in at the group about the fire, and hesitated as though he wished himself back upon the road. Then, entering, he drew off his cloak.

It was John Murray of Broughton.

The three men round the fire made no motion, threatening or otherwise. They crouched on their haunches as before, watching him under their shaggy eyebrows.

Murray, who was no coward in ordinary circumstances, but only highly strung and with the Lowland caution, stood out of their range obviously ill at ease, awaiting the innkeeper's return.

To Rob he looked very worn and hollow-cheeked and his clothes cheap and ill-fitting like the dress of a small Ayrshire farmer. A sword was at his side and there was a bulge in his coat-pocket like the butt end of a pistol, but Rob took little comfort from that, knowing how poor a defence a single man like Murray would put up under a swift attack.

The innkeeper re-entered the room and, shutting the door, barred it across with a heavy slab of wood. For weal or woe they were there till morning.

He motioned Murray forward saying nothing, and the men about the fire made room for him, watching him all the time as dogs eye a stranger, ready at a word to fling themselves upon his throat.

Murray hesitated before he sat down and cast one fleeting glance about the room. A sudden inclination came to Rob to shout a warning and leap down to join him before it was too late. But he knew that they would complete their evil work before even he could take a part.

The innkeeper stirred the iron pot and drew out a hank of meat upon a dirk. This he handed to Murray, who took it in a dejected fashion and began to eat, and very quietly, while Rob watched him in a stupor of horror, he stepped behind him. But he made no attack. Instead he shook his head at the others and jerked a thumb towards the room where Rob lay watching them. They evidently purposed to kill them both at one and the same time.

Underneath him the horse coughed and rattled its bit. Only an inch or two of wood between him and safety--only a thin decayed layer of wood. A rat was gnawing in a far corner; he heard it squeak in the darkness. Down below they were sitting quite speechless about the fire, waiting for the newcomer to seek his sleep. Murray was white and brooding, knowing no Gaelic, certain that danger was all about him, nodding with weariness and ever pulling up for dread of what was biding its time to strike. In haste Rob examined the flooring of the loft. His fingers ran along the fringes of the boards. No flaw, no splintered grain, no crumbling of worm-eaten plank. Still the rat gnawed with steady persistence in the far corner. Perhaps there was a way there. He groped about, and his hands encountered a sack propped up against the wall. It was very heavy but he moved it gradually. The rat scuttled away and dropped out of the room. He heard it fall upon the soft mud below, and into his face there rose the warm smell of cows.

Breathlessly he examined the flooring behind the sack, and at the corner where the thing had stood his hands groped in vacancy. There was a hole a foot in breadth. Without delay he gripped the frayed edge, where the rat had gnawed, in his strong muscular fingers and, setting his feet against the wall opposite him, strained to his fullest power.

With a sharp crack it broke away--a good two feet. Underneath the horse snorted with sudden fear; it seemed to be only a few inches beneath his hand. Lying full length, he stretched down into the pitch darkness and touched its ear, soothing it with a whisper.

The way lay clear.

Then, regaining his feet, he stole back to the other end of the place and looked down upon the men below. It was a curious, somewhat pathetic sight that met his eyes. Murray was upon his feet and bidding them good night. He looked as though he knew in his heart what deed they intended, and was on the point of appealing to their chivalry (if they had any), and yet too proud to do so. In the end he only bowed and, taking a rushlight from the innkeeper, climbed slowly up the stairway and lifted the trap-door.

Now it was evident to Rob that if Murray, unnerved by illness and fatigue came upon him suddenly, he might hesitate or utter a cry, and for this reason he hid himself behind the sack until he was in the room and the trap-door shut, when he whispered, "Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," as gently as he could.

There was a sharp sound like a gasp, and Murray replied in the same tone, "Who is it?"

With his finger on his lips, Rob appeared before him.

"Quick!" he whispered, "lift the sack with me and put it upon the trap-door. It will serve for a few minutes. They are cut-throats down there."

For an instant Murray fumbled with his sword and then, controlling himself, he aided Rob, though his strength was not of much value at such a time.

Fortunately for them, the four men below were hard at it together, whispering in Gaelic, and evidently in high feather over the business ahead, so that they did not hear the moving of the sack. That accomplished, Rob drew Murray to the far corner.

"Your horse is below," he said; "drop down and soothe him while I wait in case they come. Give me your sword. Lead him out upon the road and I'll join you there."

It was strange to take orders from a boy, but Murray had no option in such circumstances. He was no Highlander and had no foolish pride. Without a word, he slipped into the blackness of the stall, and Rob heard him patting his beast and turning it towards the door.

At that same moment however there came a noise at the sack that sent Rob across the floor with the naked sword-blade in his hand.

The trap-door lifted very slowly; a hand crept under its ledge and gripped the rough boarding a few inches from Rob. There was not a moment to delay. Falling upon his knees, he lunged into the darkness below. Instantly there rose a most horrible cry, something fell with a dull thud, and the trap-door banged upon the blade shivering it from the hilt downwards.

For his folly Rob was defenceless again.

But there was far worse to come, for at the noise of that terrible stricken voice there came a wild plunging of a horse outside and the dying thud of feet. Murray of Broughton was gone. Perhaps his beast bolted with terror; perhaps he waited and dreaded that Rob was killed--who can tell? He was of all men least able to endure suspense.

At that calamity there came to Rob a wild terror of the place and a panic to be gone. He reached the hole in the corner and dropped down upon the mud below. The fresh rain was blowing in upon his face from the open doorway where Murray had passed. He was out in it with a rush and into the friendly darkness, where he halted.

No movement came from the lonely inn--no cries or noise of any kind, only a brooding, death-like quiet as though the place were uninhabited or thronged with ghosts. In a kind of ghastly horror, he hesitated and then stole back, overcome by a curiosity too overwhelming to be crushed. Back he came and peered into the byre. But there was no sound--not even a rat gnawing at the wood. It was cold and forsaken. He crept round the outer wall, safe in the night whatever might occur, and stared at the black door where he had entered at the dusk, seeing no gleaming firelight on the wall.

The rain had stopped of a sudden, and a faint glimmer of starlight showed in the doorway black and void. There was no door but only a huddle of stones. Nearer he crept, until at last he could look into the room itself.

And at that he took to his heels and ran blindly into the night--anywhere so long as he was well away from that grim and desolate house.

For in the room there was no fire, no staircase nor any sign of living soul. Nothing but an empty, roofless ruin under the open sky.