At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old Shep, stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was working; for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen years, and remain unmoved.
The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that her vengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was gasping out his life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet spot where they might lay them down to die. Before the night had fallen another had gone to his account. While not a dog who fought upon that day but carried the scars of it with him to his grave.
The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yet more terrible in his dying.
Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
At the sight the little man neither raved nor swore: it was past that for him. He sat down, heedless of the soaking ground, and took the mangled head in his lap very tenderly.
“They've done ye at last, Wullie—they've done ye at last,” he said quietly; unalterably convinced that the attack had been organized while he was detained in the tap-room.
On hearing the loved little voice, the dog gave one weary wag of his stump-tail. And with that the Tailless Tyke, Adam M'Adam's Red Wull, the Black Killer, went to his long home.
One by one the Dalesmen took away their dead, and the little man was left alone with the body of his last friend.