Murgatroyd recalled the Master’s farewell to him awhile since. Hardcastle’s words had a way of sticking, he’d noticed.
“Damn you all ways, Nita Langrish,” he said, and laughed heavily, and took the field-track up to Garsykes.
II
Hardcastle rode slowly home to Logie, after his encounter in the wayside ditch. For a week he had been restless, wondering what Garsykes meant to do with him. Now they had shot their bolt, and he survived. Never in his life had he known this keen, hard joy that was growing with the feud. Once they had tried to take him at the pinfold—and once a man had come to fire his house and been over-blown by snow. Now they had stretched a rope across the road to hinder him, and he was up in saddle again. Whatever the future had in store, he had given no tribute to Garsykes, and would give none.
At a bend of the road he met Shepherd Brant, who greeted him with taciturn relief.
“It’s better to be quick than dead, Master.”
“It is, Stephen,” said Hardcastle, answering dryness with dryness.
“Rebecca was in such a rare taking about you—thinking you were murdered on the Norbrigg road—that I set off in search. Has it been raining in those parts?”
“Raining? No.”
“I only wondered, seeing you dripping-wet.”