half, he was re-living intensely and vividly the experiences of half a century before. At intervals throughout the afternoon he had been doing no less; but now it was with a difference. For whereas then he had been eagerly snatching at every scrap of the past that memory brought back to his mind, consciously and pleasurably building up the vanished scene, now he found the images of the past pouring in upon him unbidden-and unwelcome. Back once more on Bolter’s Tussock, on horseback, he positively did not want to be reminded of what had happened the last time he had been there. The experience had been altogether too violent and too unpleasant. It came back to him now in extraordinary detail.
It wasn’t a hunting day, he remembered, just an ordinary afternoon towards the end of the holidays. He had been out on some errand or another and was on his way home to Sallowcombe, taking a short cut across the Tussock, cantering casually along with loose rein and looser legs, thinking of nothing in particular. Certainly not thinking of where he was going-the pony knew that without being told-nor of how he was riding. And then, in a flash, it had happened. The pony’s smooth gait had been violently broken as he propped out his fore legs and stopped, for all the world as though he were refusing at a jump, sliding forward the last foot or two with his neck extended outwards and downwards for what seemed an immense distance. And the boy on his back had slid too, down that endless neck, almost to the ground. Somehow he had saved himself, somehow struggled back eventually into the saddle, but in recollection it seemed that he had hung suspended there for a long time, head downwards, his face within a foot or two of another face, blindly staring up at him from the heather. It was in this guise that Francis Pettigrew had encountered death for the first time.
It is usually inadvisable to think about one thing while doing another, unless the thing being done is so familiar that its performance is virtually automatic. Riding, to someone completely out of practice, is best treated as a full- time occupation. Pettigrew in a normal mood was perfectly familiar with these truisms, but his mood at this moment was anything but normal. The pony’s violent shy took him completely by surprise. It was only by the narrowest margin that he saved himself from going over its head. As he strove to recover himself he saw out of the corner of his eye what it was that had frightened it. He had time for a glimpse only, but it was enough. As in a nightmare, he realized that once more there was a dead man on Bolter’s Tussock. The next instant he was at grips with another emergency. History repeated itself remorselessly. The pony bolted.
CHAPTER V. A Check
Pettigrew was not seriously alarmed at first. He realized that the unpredictable creature between his legs was momentarily out of control, but it seemed impossible that a mere pony could so remain for long with the weight of a full-grown man on its back. He had only to keep his head-and his seat-and all would be well. He was soon undeceived. The pony’s first few strides carried it up a slight rise and nearly on to the road, which suddenly appeared from nowhere almost under its feet. Then for some inexplicable reason, instead of continuing forwards, it swerved away suddenly to the left, and plunged onwards across the Tussock, over the brow of the hill and down the other side. About halfway down a slope that grew progressively steeper every instant, Pettigrew experienced real fear. He knew that he could not stop the pony. With a sudden qualm at the pit of his stomach he realized that the pony could now almost certainly not stop itself. At this speed and on this declivity, a fall was inevitable. Leaning back in his saddle, hauling till his arms ached at the iron-mouthed brute, he had a sudden, swift recollection of a drawing by Leech, depicting just such a scene as he must present-an incompetent rider being run away with down a steep incline. He could even remember the wording of the legend beneath: Our friend Mr. Noddy has a day with the Brookside Harriers. With his usual prudence he gets a horse accustomed to the hills. The vision of Mr. Noddy vanished in a spasm of sheer terror as he felt his mount’s hind legs sink beneath him. They slid for a yard or two down the hillside, in a miniature avalanche of earth and stones, and then the pony seemed to crumple up altogether as the descent ended abruptly on a piece of hard and level ground.
In some extraordinary fashion Pettigrew had contrived to stay in the saddle up to the end, and in the saddle he remained while the pony scrambled back on to its feet. It was an open question which of the two was in the worse shape. Pettigrew was barely able to sit upright. His heart was thumping in the most alarming manner, and there was a strange roaring sound in his ears. The pony stood stock still, head down, its smoking sides heaving, the picture of exhaustion.
A humane man, Pettigrew reflected, would have dismounted at once, to give the animal a chance to recover. But he was not feeling in the least humane at the moment towards this beast, for a great many perfectly sound reasons. Besides, he had grave doubts whether in his present state, if he once got off its back, he would ever be able to get on again; and tired though he was of riding, the prospect of walking appealed to him now even less.
He looked around him. They were, he found, on a broad, level track, almost on the floor of the valley into which he had been looking from the heights above such a short time before. The roaring in his ears resolved itself into the sound of the stream, less than a hundred yards away. Straight ahead of him he could see what was evidently a ford. The track led directly to it and on the other side ran parallel to the stream until lost to sight in a wood-the same wood, he now realized, as that into which the deer and its pursuers had vanished not so long before. Then, quite suddenly, as he watched, the scene, already vaguely familiar, ceased to be anonymous. Place-names, long buried in some hidden recesses of his brain, sprang to life. The Ling Water, he told himself. And Martyrs Ford. Coney Wood, and-down the valley out of sight-Coneywood Mill, where he had seen his first stag killed.
It was a comfort to know exactly where he was, because it helped him to determine what he was going to do. Of one thing he was quite certain. He was not going to try to return the way which he had come, even supposing there was a practicable way back up the hill. He had taken the pony on to Bolter’s Tussock to look for its rider. It was only too plain that he had found him. After his recent experiences, it was easy to imagine how that unfortunate came to be lying where he was. It was only sheer luck-or the mercy of Heaven, according to how you looked at it- that had saved him from becoming this horrible pony’s second victim of the day. But the discovery had left him with a certain obligation. He could not, this time, simply ride away and say nothing. Besides, he would have to explain his possession of the pony to somebody, and the sooner the better. He decided to be on his way at once. But which way?
While he hesitated, the pony settled the matter for him by suddenly coming to life and walking stiffly but purposefully towards the ford. Pettigrew was content to let it go. In that direction lay civilization, as represented by Coneywood Mill, and there was always the chance of falling in with the hunt before then. It was taking him away from Sallowcombe but that couldn’t be helped. The problem of getting home must settle itself later on.
The pony walked halfway across the ford and put its nose down into the water. Remembering a cautionary chapter in Black Beauty, Pettigrew tried to restrain it, but he might have been pulling at the bed of the river for all the difference that his efforts made. The beast slaked its thirst thoroughly and then consented to splash its way to the other side.
Once on the path again, the indomitable animal broke into a trot. Pettigrew, almost too weary to rise in the stirrups, let it jog on for what seemed an interminable distance on a very rough surface under trees with very low- hanging boughs. Presently the track was joined by another, larger path which came down the hill through the woods on their right. Evidently this was the way that the body of the hunt had come, for the imprints of their hooves were everywhere. The pony seemed to notice it also, for it lengthened its stride, making a gait already uncomfortable almost insupportable. Clearly it was as anxious for the company of its kind as Pettigrew himself. He was thankful when rounding a bend, he saw a man on horseback just ahead of him, moving at walking pace in the same direction.
The pony consented to slow down as they approached and signalled their presence by bumping heavily into the stranger’s hindquarters. The rider looked round. He was evidently a native and not a visitor, which was all to the good. Pettigrew wasted no time in apologizing.
“I want your help,” he said crisply. “There’s a man been killed up on the moor, and I’m on his pony.”
“Eh?”
The man was evidently very deaf. He had also, Pettigrew now observed, an absolutely villainous face.
“Eh?”
It is not easy to shout when one is as pumped as Pettigrew was, but he did his best.
“There’s a man been killed,” he bellowed. “Killed!”
