Anger fired his slow brain.He reached out his long arms and grappled a leather jerkin.His nails found a seam and rent it, for he had mighty fingers.Then he was gripping warm flesh, tearing it like a wild beast, and his assailant with a cry slackened his hold."Whatna wull-cat..." he began, but he got no further.The hoof of Wat's horse came down on his head and brained him.A splatter of blood fell on Sim's face.
The man was half wild.His shelty had broken back for the hill, but his spear lay a yard off.He seized it and got to his feet, to find that Wat had driven the English over the burn.The cattle were losing their weariness in panic, and tossing wild manes among the Scots.It was like a fight in a winter's byre.
The glare on the right grew fiercer, and young Harden's voice rose, clear as a bell, above the tumult.He was swearing by the cross of his sword.
On foot, in the old Border way, Sim followed in Wat's wake,into the bog and beyond the burn.He laired to his knees, but he scarcely heeded it.There was a big man before him, a foolish, red-haired fellow, who was making great play with a cudgel.He had shivered two spears and was singing low to himself.Farther off Wat had his axe in hand and was driving the enemy to the brae.There were dead men in the moss.Sim stumbled over a soft body, and a hand caught feebly at his heel."To me, lads," cried Wat."Anither birse and we hae them broken."But something happened.Harden was pushing the van of the raiders up the stream, and a press of them surged in from the right.Wat found himself assailed on his flank, and gave ground.
The big man with the cudgel laughed loud and ran down the hill, and the Scots fell back on Sim.Men tripped over him, and as he rose he found the giant above him with his stick in the air.
The blow fell, glancing from the ash-shaft to Sim's side.
Something cracked and his left arm hung limp.But the furies of hell had hold of him now.He rolled over, gripped his spear short, and with a swift turn struck upwards.The big man gave a sob and toppled down into a pool of the burn.
Sim struggled to his feet, and saw that the raiders were beginning to hough the cattle One man was driving a red spear into a helpless beast.It might have been the Cleuch cow.The sight maddened him, and like a destroying angel he was among them.One man he caught full in the throat, and had to set a foot on breast before he could tug the spear out.Then the head shivered on a steel corselet, and Sim played quarterstaff with the shaft.The violence,of his onslaught turned the tide.Those whom Harden drove up were caught in a vice, and squeezed out, wounded and dying and mad with fear, on to the hill above the burn.Both sides were weary men, or there would have been a grim slaughter.As it was, none followed the runners, and every now and again a Scot would drop like a log, not from wounds but from dead weariness.
Harden's flare was dying down.Dawn was breaking and Sim's wild eyes cleared.Here a press of cattle, dazed with fright, and the red and miry heather.Queer black things were curled and stretched athwart it.He noticed a dead man beside him, perhaps of his own slaying.It was a shabby fellow, in a jacket that gaped like Sim's.His face was thin and patient, and his eyes, even in death, looked puzzled and reproachful.He would be one of the plain folk who had to ride, willy-nilly, on bigger men's quarrels.Sim found himself wondering if he, also, had a famished wife and child at home.The fury of the night had gone, and Sim began to sob from utter tiredness.
He slept in what was half a swoon.When he woke the sun was well up in the sky and the Scots were cooking food.His arm irked him, and his head burned like fire.He felt his body and found nothing worse than bruises, and one long shallow scar where his jacket was torn.
A Teviotdale man brought him a cog of brose.Sim stared at it and sickened: he was too far gone for food.Young Harden passed, and looked curiously at him."Here's a man that has na spared himsel'," he said."A drop o' French cordial is the thing for you, Sim." And out of a leathern flask he poured a little draught which he bade Sim swallow.
The liquor ran through his veins and lightened the ache of his head.He found strength to rise and look round.Surely they were short of men.If these were all that were left Bewcastle had been well avenged.
Jamie Telfer enlightened him."When we had gotten the victory, there were some o' the lads thocht that Bewcastle sud pay scot in beasts as weel as men.Sae Wat and a score mair rade off to lowse Geordie Musgrave's kye.The road's clear, and they'll be back ower Liddell by this time.Dod, there'll be walth o'
plenishin' at the Ninemileburn."
Sim was cheered by the news.If Wat got back more than his own he might be generous.They were cooking meat round the fire, the flesh of the cattle killed in the fight.He went down to the nearest blaze, and was given a strip of roast which he found he could swallow.
"How mony beasts were killed?" he asked incuriously, and was told three.Saugh poles had been set up to hang the skins on.Anotion made Sim stagger to his feet and go to inspect them.
There could be no mistake.There hung the brindled hide of Marion's cow.
Wat returned in a cloud of glory, driving three-and-twenty English beasts before him--great white fellows that none could match on the Scottish side.He and his lads clamoured for food, so more flesh was roasted, till the burnside smelt like a kitchen.The Scots had found better than cattle, for five big skins of ale bobbed on their saddles.Wat summoned all to come and drink, and Harden, having no fear of reprisals, did not forbid it.
