Betrayed

The silvery blue mists hung in streamers over the late summer field where the shaggy, large-horned cattle browsed placidly in the light of early dawn. The clansmen, hidden in the shadows of the tree line, watched as a lone figure moved carefully among the beasts, separating several of the creatures from the main herd and driving them off in the opposite direction.

“He's a cheeky devil” Jamie Gordon remarked softly, and not without some small admiration, to his eldest brother, the laird of Loch Brae.

Angus Gordon's eyes narrowed, a certain sign of his acute annoyance. Then he said in a cold, measured voice, “He'll be with his master in hell before the sun reaches the mid-heavens this day.
Loose the dogs!”

Freed of their leads, the canines leapt forward, barking and baying frantically as they scattered the cattle in their desire to chase after the intruder violating their master's pasture. It was a mixed pack. Smooth-coated greyhounds, as gray as the skies above, and darker, wiry-coated deerhounds, bigger, bulkier dogs capable of bringing down a man on the run.

“After him, laddies,” the laird called to his men. “We'll hang the thieving bastard from the nearest tree when we catch him!”

The Loch Brae clansmen moved from the shelter of the trees, running across the meadow after the now fleeing cattle thief, who was making for the forest on the
far side of the fields. The clansmen knew their best chance of catching the thief was before he reached the safety of the woodlands, but their quarry knew it, too. That knowledge added speed to his desperate flight. He ran as if wings had been attached to his heels.

“God's boots!” the laird swore violently as the thief disappeared into the trees, the dogs close on his heels. “We've likely lost him.”

“The dogs could still bring him down, Angus,” his brother said hopefully. “Let's follow a bit further.”

The laird shook his head as they ran. There was a stream not far into the woods, and if the thief was familiar with this territory, which he surely was, he'd head straight for it. The dogs would lose the track. Nonetheless he led his clansmen into the trees. Ahead of them the dogs continued to bay and then suddenly stopped. Almost immediately there was the sound of barking and whining.

“They've lost him,” the laird said, irritated. “He has gone to water.”

They came upon the dogs, milling about at the brook's edge. Jamie Gordon dashed across the stream, seeking to discover where the thief had exited the bank, but he was unable to find any tracks. Shaking his head, he crossed back over to his brother.

The laird was moving slowly along the bank, his eyes lowered. Surely the fleeing felon would have left some mark in the soft earth. Finally Angus smiled wryly. “Our thief is experienced at evading pursuit,” he said thoughtfully. “Interesting.” He signaled to his men. “Spread out upon both sides of the stream, and see if we can pick up the bastard's track. He canna have vanished into thin air.”

For some time the Gordon clansmen moved carefully
along the swiftly flowing water, but no trace could be found of their prey.

“Where could he have gone?”Jamie asked.

The laird shrugged. “We have saved the cattle” he said, “and while I should have liked to have hung the pilferer, I must be satisfied to have prevented their loss, Jamie-boy. Let's go home.” Calling to his men, he turned and made his way out of the woodland, the clansmen following. When they had again reached the laird's pasture, however, Angus Gordon burst out swearing.

‘Jesu! Mary!” he said angrily.

“Angus, what is it?” his brother asked.

“Look, Jamie-boy! The herd is short by eight head. God's boots! The son of a bitch doubled back!” Then comprehension dawned in his eyes. “No wonder we could not find a trace of him. He hid himself up in the trees. That great branch over the water! Of course! He went into the stream, throwing the dogs off, and swung himself up into the trees. That's why there was no trace of him, the clever devil. I have been a ruddy fool! We have been neatly diddled.” He turned to his head herdsman. “How many does that make in the last twelve-month, Donal?”

“An even dozen, my lord,” the herdsman answered. “Four last autumn, and now eight today. ’Tis bold, our thief is.”

“Aye,” the laird agreed grimly. “Bold as newly polished brass and a wee bit too clever for my taste, but mayhap not clever enough. The ground is yet damp from yesterday's rain. Not wet enough to betray our fleet-footed robber, but certainly damp enough for the heavy-footed beasties he'll be driving to make their mark in the earth. I'll wager we can track my cattle now. We'll give our thief a good bit of time to believe he
has managed to outfox us; then we'll see if we can find his trail and follow it to his lair. I want him to have time to reach his destination. I don't want my cows stampeding among the trees and doing themselves an injury.”

The laird, his brother, and their men settled themselves down to wait for a time. Pipes were lit. Oatcakes and flasks of cider were pulled forth and consumed. The talk was low. Finally Angus Gordon rose to his feet. He stretched his length in leisurely fashion.

“’Tis time,” he told the others, and they all got to their feet obediently, pipes knocked free of ash, flasks empty. “All right now, laddies, let's go!” the laird said. “A silver piece to the man who first finds the trail!” The clansmen spread out and shortly found the track of the laird's pilfered cattle. It led back into the forest at a different point, and across the same stream their earlier quarry had half forded. Then they began to climb a barely discernible path up the ben. The imprint of the cows’ hooves was visible in the ground. A fine rain had begun to fall, but the trail clearly led to this path, and there was no other way but the way that they went. The woodlands were thick with the summer's green growth.

“Donal”-the laird turned to his chief herdsman-“where does this trail lead? Do ye know?”

“These be the lands of the Hays of the Ben, my lord,” Donal replied, “but that old devil, Dugald Hay, and his wife, God assoil her good soul, are both long dead. I heard they had bairns at one time, but I don't know anyone who has ever seen them. I canna even be certain there is anyone left of that family.”

“There is someone left, for they've taken my cattle,” the laird replied grimly, “and when I catch the thief, we'll hang him as a lesson to all who would think to steal Gordon cattle.”

Suddenly the pathway opened into a clearing on the edge of the mountain. Nestled against the top of the ben was a stone tower house. Beyond it was a barn built of the same material.
And there was a small meadow in which eight cattle were grazing placidly.
The laird of Loch Brae smiled, well pleased to have found his property, for he had no doubt it was his property. Now he had but to find the thief and punish him. Leading his clansmen, he walked boldly up to the sturdy oak door of the tower house and pounded upon it with his clenched fist. It opened almost immediately.

“My lord?” Before him stood a little old woman with sharp brown eyes. Her gown was clean, if well worn. Despite her size, she most successfully blocked his entry.

“I am the laird of Loch Brae,” Angus Gordon said loftily. “I wish to see yer master.”

“Well, ye canna see him unless yer willing to go to hell, and if ye did, ’Tis unlikely from the look of ye that the devil would let ye come back,” the old woman said sharply. “Dugald Hay be dead these past five years, my lord. Now I'll ask ye again, what is yer business here?”

“Who are ye?” the laird demanded, refusing to be intimidated by the old woman, especially in front of his clansmen, although he would wager that many were cowed by her.

“I am Flora Hay, the housekeeper here at Hay Tower. Whatever it is ye want, we don't have it!”

“How do ye know what I want?” the laird said, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He was curious as to who, or what, the old dragon was protecting as she stood so defiantly barring his way.