Tales from the Tent by Jess Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

estate, spending any free
time he had wandering through its vast expanse of moorland with Harry and his faithful gun dogs. Harry always believed those dogs were the only companionship a man needed, and so never found nor
looked for the comfort the fairer sex offered.
    And that’s how it was from that day until three months ago, when suddenly his friend of over forty years lost his life. No one knew what had really happened, reports in the papers stated
that the lorry driver had fallen asleep. It was just another fatal accident on a winding moorland road. The fierce gale and driving rain may have contributed to it.
    It didn’t matter to Harry how or what had happened, his best friend was lost to him forever. Never again to discuss the grouse, the deer and the high-flying flocks of wild geese over a
‘guid auld malt’.
    Greg’s son had no intention of running the estate. Money and what it could acquire were all that motivated him! Those precious acres of land that his Father tended so lovingly were sold to
whatever land developer offered the highest price.
    However, exceptions were made for some of the land to accommodate the employed. Greg’s will saw to it that they were given lifelong tenancy of their homes. But whenever the old laird had
mentioned the details of this plan to Harry the old gamey used to say, ‘well now, man, I’ll be long dead before yourself, you being a well-heeled gent an all,’ So the old friends
never got round to arranging such things. When Greg brought up the subject, Harry refused to discuss it.
    So here he was in that dreadful position of being homeless, but what troubled him more than anything were his ten-year-old gun dogs. Those faithful companions who had never lived a day without
being in eyesight of their master. More heart wrenching was the fact that they were a gift to him after age took his last pair—a token of friendship from Greg. ‘For yourself lad, to
take you through the next ten years,’ Harry remembered him saying when he handed over the six-month-old spaniels, one black and white, the other brown and dirty white.
    He quickly thanked Mrs Brown for her kindness then excused himself and was gone; two dogs at his heels. ‘Only one thing to do,’ he thought, ‘my lassies would pine without me. I
have no choice, every keeper worth a spit of knowledge knows dogs without their master would be useless, better dead.’ A shiver ran from bunnet to boot as he walked back to his wee cottage
with the heaviest heart. In minutes, pack slung over his shoulder holding a few morsels of food, gun clenched in a tight fist, he set off for a mist-shrouded moor, dogs running in excited
circles.
    Within the hour a quiet stretch of heather-covered peat ground spread before him. ‘Let’s see the best o’ ye, lassies,’ he said, pointing his gun towards the heavens.
Darting excitedly back and forth, with yelps and barks, the spaniels routed a fine specimen of a grouse. Up, up it flew. Harry hadn’t lost his sharp eye to age. It fell like a stone, then
another one fell, feathers falling like gentle snowflakes upon the purpled ground. The girls soon stood before him, proudly depositing the fallen prey at his feet.
    ‘Well done, my beauties, now you shall feast at the rich man’s table.’
    The bewildered animals lay resting as Harry, instead of tying the fowl, plucked and gutted the newly-killed birds. He then built a fire and proceeded to cook the grouse, saying all the time,
‘A feast for my ladies, my lovely ladies!’
    It may have been a dog’s instinct, who can tell, but after feasting on the prepared meal Harry’s lassies become subdued, quiet as if they knew what fate waited them at their
master’s hand. High upon the windswept moor he walked them; hour upon hour passed before he sat each one down and said, ‘you know I must do this my dear, dear friends, the choice has
been taken from me,’
    A strange eeriness crept upon the moor in the coming dusk. Silence