A stab of fear took him unawares as if one of the Stealthy People had crept on him from behind. He shook it off, telling himself that the dread was part of his heritage of Logie. A grown man must learn to shake off nursery tales.
The swart, russet face of the land, crowned by Pengables, stood friend to him as he went down the twisting road; and it was in his heart to clear these lusty acres of the scum that hindered them. It was in his heart still when he came past Mathison’s pinfold, where in summer they gathered flocks for sheep washing.
Out of the pinfold came three gaunt men, and straddled across the road, barring it to him. They were unwashen, shifty folk to look at, and they asked tribute.
“I owe none,” said Hardcastle, with rough contempt.
“We’re Wilderness Folk,” said Long Murgatroyd, the tallest of the three.
Again fear played about the Master of Logie, from long habit—played for an instant, and was gone.
“How much would content you?” he asked, as if willing to drive a sober bargain.
“As much as you’ve got,” snarled Murgatroyd.
Hardcastle was beginning to see red, dancing lights between the gaunt men and himself, was ceasing to count the odds. “You shall have it.”
The three leered at each other. “What did I tell you?” asked one of them. “Nobody dare touch the Master of Logie, we said. Oh, we’d best go wide of the Master, we snivelled. But he’s frog-livered too, like the rest of his dalesmen.”