“Here comes Nita. She sent us to fire Logie, and then talked big about doing what we couldn’t. She’s laughed at us too long, the hussy.”
She faced the answering uproar and laughed afresh at them. “Little Nita does what she promises,” she said, pointing to the caves above. “Hardcastle has gone in to find his wanton, and she’s with him there.”
They fell back then, muttering, and her tongue whipped them as of old.
“I’ve trapped them for you—and you whine and skulk here asking questions. They’d be out of the trap by now, if I hadn’t picked ten from among you to guard the caves—ten who shaped more like men than rabbits.”
“Art lying, Nita, as of old?” growled Murgatroyd.
Again she pointed to the black mouth that gashed the fells. And now in the keen light they saw ten of theirs moving to and fro about the cave-front, and a great shout went up.
In a moment they were racing pell-mell up the slope, save for Nita and Widow Mathison, who kept the Garsykes inn.
“You’re coming to see Logie’s end?” asked Nita, looking back after she had started to follow her men at leisure.
“No,” said the widow. “I’ve too much flesh on my bones to care for hill-climbing.”
A light shone in the basket-weaver’s eyes—the light of thunder skies that ripen to full-blooded tempest. Merciless, brooding long, her spite against Logie had come to victory. But more than that went to this mood of Nita’s. By mother’s milk and father’s training she had been taught that Garsykes had striven for centuries out of mind to tumble Logie’s pride to ground.