‘“Whar’s old Lant?”
‘And the wide-eyed youngster replied: “Why, he’s gone up ower t’ fell-end to Tom Brackenrigg’s. He wain’t [will not] be back till varra laet [late].”
‘“All right;” and the questioner, moving away out of the fold, was soon lost to view in the driving snow. After, these long years Ned had at last located his victim, and now, with long-stored rage in his heart, he made up the snow-covered moor-path. “Me legs aren’t as stiddy as they used to be,” he muttered to himself, as he stuck fast and then collapsed into a deeper drift than usual. But, determined on his evil course, though he was still racked with weakness and gaol-fever, he straightened himself on to his feet and pushed on into the whirling blast.
‘About the same time old Lant Braithwaite at the moorland farm threw down his hand of cards.
‘“Bejocks, Jackie!” he said to his partner, “ah’ve clean forgitten to look at them traps doon be Blin’ Tarn edge. Ah’ll away.”
‘And, despite all arguments to stay, the old man—he was now upwards of seventy—set out. He spoke to a shepherd who was forcing his way against the seething gale to attend to his flock, and that was the last time he was seen alive. Next morning a search was made, and old Lant was found frozen stiff in the green copse you can see the tops of from here.‘
‘And the old poacher?’ a voice queried.
‘Ned was found dead, an awful baffled look on his face, crouched up among the heather just this side the ridge—near that big boulder above the beck course. Though within half a mile, he never found his enemy, after all.‘
‘And Dick?’
‘Well, Dick hung about in a shiftless way for a while, then went clean away, and one fine morning, when the lilies bloomed among the rocks around, he was found drowned in the Fairy’s Kailpot down the next dale.’