“I’ve lost twenty ewes. There’s no denying that,” he grumbled. “And Storm—that old, ancient devil—is with them up the pastures.”
“He saved you and me, Brant—saved us for Logie and the days to come.”
“You were always partial to him, as I’ve told you time and again. I’d rather have died than be saved by a ravisher of ewes.”
“Maybe—but I’d rather live, to put fear of Logie on these Garsyke swine.”
For a mile they went, Hardcastle and his shepherd, in sharp disagreement. Then Brant turned, with a dry chuckle.
“There’s sense in that. After the few hundred years they’ve been putting fear on Logie, it’s time we had our turn. But I cannot thole the thought o’ Storm, and never will.”
As they rounded the bend where Widow Dyke’s cottage stood snug and lonely, its garden-patch ablaze with red butterflies that feasted on the tall-standing Michaelmas daisies, Nita Langrish met them in the road. A little, toddling chap had hold of her hand, and she was singing a song to him.
Now grow you big, and grow you tall,
Lad o’ the Wilderness.
You’ll give the Logie Folk a call