“I've heard naethin'.... I'd like the truth, David, if ye can tell it.”
The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to the paper in his hand.
“Yo' shall have it, but yo'll not like it. It's this: Tupper lost a sheep to the Killer last night.”
“And what if he did?” The little man rose smoothly to his feet. Each noticed the others' face—dead-white.
“Why, he—lost—it—on—Wheer d'yo' think?” He drawled the words out, dwelling almost lovingly on each.
“Where?”
“On—the—Red—Screes.”
The crash was coming—inevitable now. David knew it, knew that nothing could avert it, and braced himself to meet it. The smile had fled from his face, and his breath fluttered in his throat like the wind before a thunderstorm.
“What of it?” The little man's voice was calm as a summer sea.
“Why, your Wullie—as I told yo'—was on the Screes last night.”