Wattie was back again by Lamancha’s side. “That puzzled the auld b***h,” was his only comment. “We can gang faster now, and God kens we’ve nae time to lose.”
As Lamancha lay panting at last on the top of the ridge he looked down into the highest of the lesser corries, tucked right under the black cliffs of Sgurr Dearg. It was a little corrie, very steep, and threaded by a burn which after the rain was white like a snow-drift. Vast tumbled masses of stone, ancient rockfalls from the mountain, lay thick as the cottages in a hamlet. At first sight the place seemed to be without deer. Lamancha, scanning it with his glass, could detect no living thing among the debris.
Wattie was calling fiercely on his Maker.
“God, it’s the auld hero,” he muttered, his eyes glued to his telescope.
At last
