Johnstone of the Border Part 41

"That's so; we've been 'most half an hour buying the few things you wanted. He's probably talking to somebody. Making friends with strangers is a way he has, particularly when he knows we're waiting."

"I could suggest another explanation," Andrew replied.

He looked round at a clatter of heavy boots and saw two dark figures against a square of light. Then a door was shut and d.i.c.k came up with a man who wore an oilskin cap and jersey. d.i.c.k was awkwardly holding a big paper bag.

"It's no' a good night," said the seaman. "I wouldna' say but we might have a s.h.i.+ft o' wind before long. They're telling me ye have brought up in the west bay."

"For the night," said Andrew. "It's an exposed place."

"It's a' that. If the wind comes from the south'ard, it will take good ground-tackle to hold ye."

"What about the burnfoot gutter?"

"It's snug enough, but ye might have to stop a week. Ye canna' beat oot when there's any sea running on the sands."

"Are there any geese about?"

"Weel, I did see two or three bernicle, a week ago; but if it's shooting ye want, ye'll have to gang doon west. The geese have moved on, but I hear the duck are throng on the flats roon Deefoot, behind the Ross."

Andrew said nothing. He had picked up d.i.c.k at Kirkcudbright on the Dee, but had not seen a duck about the river mouth. It seemed that the man had learned that they came from the head of Solway, but did not know they were then returning from the west. He left them at the end of the village and Andrew then asked d.i.c.k what had kept him.

"The eggs," d.i.c.k grinned. "Jim insisted on them and I didn't want to disappoint him, though they're scarce just now. I should advise him to take them before they smash; I'm not clever at carrying eggs in a paper bag."

"Where did you get them?" Whitney asked as he took the bag.

"Where do you think? When you're in doubt in a Scotch clachan, it's safe to try the change-house."

"I suppose that means the saloon," said Whitney. "Well, I suspected something of the kind."

Leaving the road outside the village, they struck across some wet fields and came to a marsh, through which a muddy creek wound crookedly. After jumping deep drains and floundering through rushes, they reached a steep bank of gravel, with a cut where the creek made its way to the sea. A mooring buoy floated in the channel; and across the channel lay a waste of sand, dotted with shallow pools. This ran seaward until it was lost in the haze.

An old shooting punt that Andrew had repaired lay upon the gravel and they dragged her down. As she was larger than usual and the big gun had been uns.h.i.+pped for the voyage, she would carry them all; though her shallow hull was deep in the water and the yacht some distance off. They had brought their ordinary shoulder guns on the chance of getting a shot at geese or duck. The village was about a mile away, and the spot looked strangely desolate; although a raised causeway, lined by stunted thorns, that ran back into the mist, seemed to suggest that a road came down to the sands across the creek.

Andrew took the long paddle when they pushed off, and the tide carried them away between muddy banks veined with tiny rivulets of water. In coming, soon after high tide, they had crossed the sands, following the line of beach, but now they must head seaward until they could round the end of the projecting shoal. Soon the banks got lower and the riband of water widened; and then a tall upright branch rose ahead of them.

"That perch is new since I was here last," Andrew remarked. "Who was the fellow you were talking to, d.i.c.k?"

"I don't know. He told me he had a boat at the burnfoot, but the fis.h.i.+ng wasn't good."

They drifted on until a strong ripple broke the surface ahead. A small black object tossed in the disturbed patch.

"What's that?" asked Whitney. "Looks like a lobster trap."

"Lobsters prefer stones," said Andrew. "I don't think there are any here, but we'll see, if you get hold of the buoy. Anyhow, it will let me stop paddling and throw some water out."

He headed across the channel, and Whitney, crouching on deck, seized the ring of corks. The punt swung round sharply with her bow to the stream and there was an angry splash against her planks. Whitney was glad to ease the strain on his arms by making fast the wet line.

"The tide's running strong," he said.

Andrew nodded.

"The buoy's not on a lobster creel or we'd have pulled it up. I wonder what depth there is?"

He pushed down the double-ended paddle, which, as used in shooting punts, is about nine feet long, and touched bottom when it was wet half-way up. Then he held the blade against the stream until the punt sheered across the channel, dragging the line with her, when he tried again. This time he could not find bottom.

"It looks as if the corks are meant to mark a corner of the bank," he said. "In a way, that's curious, because fishermen don't often bother about a buoy. They know the ground and are satisfied with sounding with an oar."

Andrew began to bail her out, and Whitney and d.i.c.k sat on the after deck while he caught the water which ran toward them in the bailing can.

"What about the geese?" Whitney asked.

"The man mentioned bernicle and I'd expect to find them on the outer end of the flat, because it's soft ground and bernicle get their food in the mud. Besides, I'd like to see how this channel runs as the sands dry; there's more water than I thought. Suppose we leave the punt and walk down the edge? As it's lower than the top of the bank, we'd be out of sight."

"I'll stay in the punt," said d.i.c.k. "I'm not fond of crawling through soft mud. Then, if you put up some birds, they'll probably fly over me."

They paddled ash.o.r.e and left him with the punt, Andrew showing him two small rollers, which would help him to launch her if he wished to come after them. The sand was soft and made a sucking noise about their sea-boots, but this was the only sound except the faint ripple of the tide. The sh.o.r.e was hidden and there was nothing visible beyond the stretch of sloppy flat that vanished into the mist. The haze, however, was not thick, and faint moonlight filtered through.

"What do you expect to find here?" Whitney asked.

"I don't know. I'm curious about the buoy and I imagine that the fellow d.i.c.k was with wanted us to clear out. He was right in saying that we'd brought up in an exposed place; but why did he tell us ducks were plentiful down west?"

Whitney made a sign of agreement.

"It's certainly suspicious."

They went on while the sand got softer, but they saw nothing except a few small wading birds and a black-backed gull. Then Andrew stopped near the outer end of the bank. Something black floated in the midst of a tide-ripple, about forty yards away.

"Another buoy and a bigger one, marking the fairway to the gut," he said thoughtfully. "With that and the compa.s.s course to the corks we saw, I'd take a boat drawing eight feet up to the burnfoot at five hours' flood, on an average tide."

"Eight feet draught would give you a pretty big boat; a vessel of about a hundred tons would float on that. But what would bring her here?"

"That's the point," said Andrew. "I believe old wooden schooners sometimes take cargoes of coal up these gutters and dump it into carts on the beach, but I'm not quite satisfied."

He turned suddenly, as he heard a flapping of canvas, and a few moments later, a tall dark shape emerged from the haze. At first, it had no clear outline, but Andrew knew it was the topsail of a cutter-rigged boat, beating in against the tide. She grew in distinctness until they could see her black hull washed by a streak of foam, and the straining mainsail, slanted away from them. The iron shoe of a trawl-beam projected between her shrouds, and the net hung in a dark festoon over her weather side. The wind was abeam just there and she pa.s.sed them, sailing fast; but they waited, knowing that it would draw ahead where the channel curved. Presently, there was a banging of canvas that suddenly swung upright, and then filled and vanished on the other tack.

"Smart work!" Andrew commented. "They'll have about twenty yards of deep water to gather way in before they bring her round again, against the stream. The fellows who can beat her round that bend don't need buoys. I'd like to take some bearings: this gutter's very sketchily indicated on the chart."

"Sh.o.r.e bearings wouldn't be of much use to anybody who wanted to come up in the dark."

"That's true," Andrew agreed thoughtfully. "But we came for geese, and we may as well make our way back across the middle of the sand."

After a while they found a nearly dry gutter, and moved up it cautiously until Andrew stopped. Out of the dark came a clear, high note, the clanging cry of the bernicle geese. It was answered from one side and behind, and then a measured fanning became audible. This swelled into a rhythmic creak as the broad wings beat the air.

The men crouched low, with tingling nerves, clenching their guns and straining for the first glimpse of the approaching birds.

"Flying low and right over," Andrew whispered. "Fire when you see the first!"

Whitney got down on one knee, while the ooze soaked through his trousers and ran into his sea-boot. But this did not matter; it was worth sinking waist-deep to hear the wild call break out close ahead.