"Looking for you in the glen, I believe. But which of you is Long
Pete?"
The man he had met first said it was his name, and Foster resumed: "Then I imagine the fellow with the gun means to declare that you struck him."
"He would!" Pete remarked, grinning. "Weel, it's lucky I hae twa three friends wha'll show that I couldna' ha' been near the spot just then. But we'll need to hurry."
"I think I understand," said Foster, who went on with them. "Still you can't save much time, even if you walk very fast."
"Verra true," Pete replied. "But it's no' difficult to pit back the clock."
Leaving the road presently, they struck across a bog that got softer as they advanced until Foster felt the rotten turf tremble beneath his feet. All round were clumps of rushes, patches of smooth but treacherous moss, and holes where water glimmered in the moonlight. He imagined it was a dangerous place for a stranger to cross, but his companions knew the way, and although he sank to the top of his boots they reached firmer ground. Soon afterwards, Pete showed him a rough track that crossed the side of a hill.
"Yon's your road and ye'll see the clachan in aboot a mile. If they're no' verra willing to tak' ye in, ye can tell them ye're a freend o' mine."
Foster thanked him and followed the track, which led him to a hollow where lights shone among a clump of bare ash trees. A few low, white houses straggled along the roadside, and he thought one that was somewhat larger and had dormer windows was the change-house. When he knocked he was shown into an untidy kitchen where two men sat drinking by a peat fire. At first, the landlord seemed doubtful about being able to find room for him, but his manner changed when Foster carelessly mentioned that he understood from Pete that he would be welcome, and one of the others gave him a keen glance.
"Where met ye Pate?" he asked.
"On the hill," said Foster, who felt sure of his ground. "I helped him with the net."