Michael Draycott rubbed his hands together as he saw the five shrink back. They were not used to such frank and instant challenge. Hardcastle had reminded them, moreover, of what he had done to certain men of theirs; and they looked on with sullen wonder as Brant brought up the twenty ewes.
It was Jake Bramber who first spoke. “Leave us those ewes, and maybe we’ll call it quits.”
“Quits?”
“There’s been a long peace between you Logie Folk and ours. You wouldn’t break it for a matter of a few sheep?”
“He’s talking sense, Master,” quavered Geordie Wiseman. “Let him have ’em, and save us all from being murdered every night of our lives.”
A laugh went up; but Hardcastle was in no mood for merriment.
“There are two roads, Geordie,” he said sharply—“to Logie or the Wilderness. You’ve got to choose. If a tenant of mine gives any sort of tribute—aye, if it’s a penny to a brat of theirs—he crosses over to Garsykes. And may hell deal softly with him there.”
The five men drew further back from Hardcastle. More than his rugged strength, more than memory of the battered three who had returned they feared this man’s strength of spirit, revealed suddenly—feared the ring of his voice, the upright head and brawny shoulders.
“A hard man, you,” said Jake.
“Yes, a hard man, I, and God be thanked for that.”