“He’s taken many sheep of ours. So I just asked Brant if he’d missed any ewes of his own this morning when he counted the tally. He owned to a score.”
“Well?”
“Nay, you needn’t be so high and mighty about it. They’re in our pinfold yonder—tribute, as you might say, for what Storm’s done to ours.”
“There’s a pinfold over Logie way, and three sheep of yours tried to stop me there. Did I break all their bones, or only half? I’ve often wondered.”
And now the five men stared at Hardcastle, marvelling at his hardihood.
“There’s one of you killed a dog of mine,” said the Master, his eyes holding Jake’s, “and he’ll pay toll for that.”
“Seems as if times were changed,” growled the little man, strutting it still. “D’ye know what it means when the Lost Folk put an arrow on a gate?”
“We know,” said Hardcastle—“and, Brant, go down to their pinfold and bring back our ewes.”