Bob Son of Battle | Page 3

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ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

Bob Son of Battle
by Alfred Ollivant

CONTENTS

PART I THE COMING OF THE
TAILLESS TYKE

Chapter I.
The Gray Dog
Chapter II.
A Son of Hagar
Chapter III.
Red Wull

Chapter IV.
First Blood

PART II THE LITTLE MAN

Chapter V.
A Man's Son
Chapter VI.
A Licking or a Lie
Chapter VII.
The White Winter
Chapter VIII.
M'Adam and His Coat

PART III THE SHEPHERDS' TROPHY

Chapter IX.
Rivals,

Chapter X.
Red Wull Wins
Chapter XI.
Oor Bob,
Chapter XII.
How Red Wull Held the Bridge
Chapter XIII.
The Face in the Frame

PART V OWD BOB 0' KENMUIR

PART IV THE BLACK KILLER

Chapter XIV.
A Mad Man
Chapter XV.
Death on the Marches,
Chapter XVL.

The Black Killer
Chapter XVII.
A Mad Dog
Chapter XVIII.
How the Killer was Singed
Chapter XIX.
Lad and Lass
Chapter XX.
The Snapping of the String
Chapter XXI.
Horror of Darkness
Chapter XXII.
A Man and a Maid
Chapter XXIII.
Th' Owd Un
Chapter XXIV.
A Shot in the Night
Chapter XXV.
The Shepherds' Trophy

PART VI THE BLACK KILLER

Chapter XXVI.
Red-handed
Chapter XXVII.
For the Defence
Chapter XXVIII.
The Devil's Bowl
Chapter XXIX.
The Devil's Bowl
Chapter XXX.
The Tailless Tyke at Bay

PART I THE COMING OF THE
TAILLESS TYKE

Chapter I.
THE GRAY DOG

THE sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse lying, long and
low in the shadow of the Muir Pike; on the ruins of peel-tower and
barmkyn, relics of the time of raids, it looked; on ranges of
whitewashed outbuildings; on a goodly array of dark-thatched ricks.
In the stack-yard, behind the lengthy range of stables, two men were
thatching. One lay sprawling on the crest of the rick, the other stood
perched on a ladder at a lower level.
The latter, small, old, with shrewd nut-brown countenance, was
Tammas Thornton,, who had served the Moores of Kenmuir for more
than half a century. The other, on top of the stack, wrapped apparently
in gloomy meditation, was Sam'l Todd. A solid Dales-- man, he, with
huge hands and hairy arms; about his face an uncomely aureole of stiff,
red hair; and on his features, deep-seated, an expression of resolute
melancholy.
"Ay, the Gray Dogs, bless 'em!" the old man was saying. "Yo' canna
beat 'em not nohow. Known 'em ony time this sixty year, I have, and
niver knew a bad un yet. Not as I say, mind ye, as any on 'em cooms up
to Rex son o' Rally. Ah, he was a