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Authors: Allan Campbell McLean
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and she went up to a great black beast and slapped it on the flank, and it moved off in the direction of the dyke, followed by a smaller black cow with a white patch on its head. The rest of the cattle went on grazing unconcernedly.
We urged the cows on with frequent slaps and shouts towards a wooden gate in the dyke. I dragged the gate open and the cows lumbered across the culvert, and headed for the cottage. Mairi helped me to close the gate for the hinges were broken, and we sat on the dyke, watching the cows go home.
I leaned back, propping myself up on one elbow, feeling the sun hot on my face. From where I lay, the dark cone-shaped peak seemed to be looking down at me.
“What is that hill called?” I asked her.
Mairi jumped down and turned round, her elbows on the dyke, and her small, brown face cupped in her hands.
“Which one?” she asked.
“The one like a cone with the hollow below it,” I said.
She squinted up at it.
“That’s Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh.”
“It sounds good when you say it like that,” I said, teasing her.
“But it is just as good in English,” she replied seriously.
“It can’t be,” I smiled.
“It is,” she insisted. She straightened up and glanced again at the towering peak. “It is the Hill of the Red Fox.”
Chapter 8
The Hill of the Red Fox! I felt the impact of the words like a blow in the face. I looked up at the towering peak, inclining over the dark hollow. So that was the Hill of the Red Fox, no more than a few hours’ walk from Achmore, and I had been wondering how I would find it. I could hardly believe that the hill I was gazing at could be the one named on the torn page from the diary. The message had been thrust into my hand in such strange circumstances that the whole incident had acquired a dream-like quality. That it was real, as real as the girl on the dyke beside me, was something I could not readily grasp.
I floundered in a host of wild surmises. How had the man with the scar known I was going to Achmore? What had he hidden at the Hill of the Red Fox? What would I do if the man with the brilliant blue eyes suddenly appeared on the scene? Did the man with the scar intend to contact me again, and if so, would he take me into his confidence?
Each line of thought opened up a dozen possibilities, everyone more bewildering than the last. Chance seemed to have thrust me into a labyrinth from which there was no escape, and I wished desperately that I had someone to confide in.
All these thoughts raced through my mind in the space of a few seconds, and I was startled when Mairi cried, “Race you back to the house.”
She sped swiftly across the close-cropped grass, her pigtails streaming out behind her. I scrambled to my feet and started forward.
“Mairi! Stop!” I cried. “Wait for me.”
She did not give me even a backward glance, and I raced after her. When I neared the cottage, I saw the reason why my cries had gone unheeded. Murdo Beaton was standing outside the cottage, hishands in the pockets of his faded blue denim jacket. Mairi was not to be seen, and I supposed she had darted inside the house.
As I drew near him, I slowed to a walk. There was a dull flush on his face, and he kept digging the heel of his tackety boot into the soft turf. I knew he was angry, but my mind was in such a turmoil that, if he had not spoken first, I believe I would have blurted out the whole story to him.
“Where have you been?” he snapped.
“Out the back,” I answered, “on the dyke.”
“I heard you calling Mairi,” he said suspiciously. “Let the girl be. Time enough for fooling around when the work is done, and there is always work in this place.” He half turned, and added ungraciously, “Come on in. Breakfast has been ready this while back.”
I followed him into the kitchen, deriding myself for being so foolish as to think I could confide in him. If treasure were hidden at the Hill of the Red Fox, the last man to inform would be Murdo
We urged the cows on with frequent slaps and shouts towards a wooden gate in the dyke. I dragged the gate open and the cows lumbered across the culvert, and headed for the cottage. Mairi helped me to close the gate for the hinges were broken, and we sat on the dyke, watching the cows go home.
I leaned back, propping myself up on one elbow, feeling the sun hot on my face. From where I lay, the dark cone-shaped peak seemed to be looking down at me.
“What is that hill called?” I asked her.
Mairi jumped down and turned round, her elbows on the dyke, and her small, brown face cupped in her hands.
“Which one?” she asked.
“The one like a cone with the hollow below it,” I said.
She squinted up at it.
“That’s Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh.”
“It sounds good when you say it like that,” I said, teasing her.
“But it is just as good in English,” she replied seriously.
“It can’t be,” I smiled.
“It is,” she insisted. She straightened up and glanced again at the towering peak. “It is the Hill of the Red Fox.”
Chapter 8
The Hill of the Red Fox! I felt the impact of the words like a blow in the face. I looked up at the towering peak, inclining over the dark hollow. So that was the Hill of the Red Fox, no more than a few hours’ walk from Achmore, and I had been wondering how I would find it. I could hardly believe that the hill I was gazing at could be the one named on the torn page from the diary. The message had been thrust into my hand in such strange circumstances that the whole incident had acquired a dream-like quality. That it was real, as real as the girl on the dyke beside me, was something I could not readily grasp.
I floundered in a host of wild surmises. How had the man with the scar known I was going to Achmore? What had he hidden at the Hill of the Red Fox? What would I do if the man with the brilliant blue eyes suddenly appeared on the scene? Did the man with the scar intend to contact me again, and if so, would he take me into his confidence?
Each line of thought opened up a dozen possibilities, everyone more bewildering than the last. Chance seemed to have thrust me into a labyrinth from which there was no escape, and I wished desperately that I had someone to confide in.
All these thoughts raced through my mind in the space of a few seconds, and I was startled when Mairi cried, “Race you back to the house.”
She sped swiftly across the close-cropped grass, her pigtails streaming out behind her. I scrambled to my feet and started forward.
“Mairi! Stop!” I cried. “Wait for me.”
She did not give me even a backward glance, and I raced after her. When I neared the cottage, I saw the reason why my cries had gone unheeded. Murdo Beaton was standing outside the cottage, hishands in the pockets of his faded blue denim jacket. Mairi was not to be seen, and I supposed she had darted inside the house.
As I drew near him, I slowed to a walk. There was a dull flush on his face, and he kept digging the heel of his tackety boot into the soft turf. I knew he was angry, but my mind was in such a turmoil that, if he had not spoken first, I believe I would have blurted out the whole story to him.
“Where have you been?” he snapped.
“Out the back,” I answered, “on the dyke.”
“I heard you calling Mairi,” he said suspiciously. “Let the girl be. Time enough for fooling around when the work is done, and there is always work in this place.” He half turned, and added ungraciously, “Come on in. Breakfast has been ready this while back.”
I followed him into the kitchen, deriding myself for being so foolish as to think I could confide in him. If treasure were hidden at the Hill of the Red Fox, the last man to inform would be Murdo
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