DARTMOOR LEGACY

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 61, Issue 184, 19 May 1941, Page 7

DARTMOOR LEGACY

By T. C. BRIDGES.

CHAPTER I. A SHOT ON THE MOOR.

Bob Hamlyn was wakened by a scratching on his bedclothes. He sat up to find Judy, his terrier, standing on her hind legs beside him. He got up at once. Judy was a wise b|d lady,' and never disturbed him without reason.

It was very dark in his small, lovjrroofed bedroom and he quickly lit a candle and thrust his feet into a pair of slippers. Judy was at the door and, the moment he opened it, ran down the narrow stairs. It might be, he thought, that she merely wanted to go for a run but, when he opened the front door, pile walked out, whined significantly and waited for him. He stopped only long enough to get a stick and a torch, then followed her.

“Someone after the chickens, eh, old girl?” he asked but, instead of going toward the chicken house, Judy led the way to the garden gate and, when he opened it, down the rough cart road which led to the river bridge in, the valley. The night was cloudy and threatened rain, but there was a moon behind the clouds so it was not quite dark. There was no wind, it was quite warm, and the only sound Bob could hear was the soft murmur of the Strane among its boulders.

He was puzzled. There was nothing whatever in the little farm house, where he lived alone, which could attract thieves. All he could think of was that fish poachers might be at work in his stretch of the river. Judy, he realised, was following a trail) so it was evident that someone had been near the house. Yet the last thing that poachers would do would be to risk waking him. His few neighbours on Dartmoor, did a "hit oj poaching, knew that he kept the cleverest dog on the moor. Sudenly Judy swerved off the road and, still keeping her nose close to the ground, began to work across the newtake, the rough pasture, to the left. At the far side she went nimbly over the dry-stone wall and led Bob through the rough heather beyond. Bob was more puzzled than ever. There was nothing in this direction except the old Bittifer tin mine which lay just inside his eastern boundary. Yet this, seemed to bo the point for which Judy was making. The* mine had ceased working 80 years ago, the timbering in its. galleries had long rotted and Bob himself had never risked going inside it. “Judy!’’ he called in a low voice. Judy stopped obediently, but did not come back. She. was waiting for her master to come to her. "With her head cocked and one paw raised, she said plainly that she was still on the job. Bob stood quite still. Dimly, in front of him, he could see the great mound of red earth and rock, spoil from the mine. In all these years nothing had grown upon it. He could also just perceive the almost roofless ruin of the mine-house. The stillness was broken, by a faint click. Bob knew what that was. A small stone had rolled down the spoil heap. ISO someone was there. He shrugged. A tramp taking shelter in the mine-house. Poor devil, he wasn’t worth bothering about. Still, Bob felt he would like to be sure. “Hulloa!” he called.

The answer was prompt. A spit of red fire cut the gloom, and the vicious crack of an automatic splashed echoes across the valley. The bullet, hit the ground within a yard of Judy. In one act Bob sprang forward, caught up the dog, flung himself flat and rolled under shelter of a handy boulder. He was

Adventure and Love in the Caribbean Sea.

(Copyright).

rather frightened at first. Then furiously angry. That anyone should have the infernal cheek to shoot at him in this unprovoked fashion on his own ground filled him with fierce resentment.

There' was no more firing. There was no sound at rll. Bob’s first furv evaporated. For Judy’s sake as well as his own the only thing, to do was to get out tff range. You cannot face an automatic with a walking stick.

Presently he started to crawl away. The heather gave some cover, but ho felt that his light coloured pyjamas made him horrifily conspicuous. Then suddenly down came the rain and, under coyer of the pelting shower, Bpb sprang up and ran for the house, Judy qt his heels. He changed, lit the oil stove, and made 1 some tea, then went back to bed. But it was a long time before he slept. He'was up early and, taking his gun, went straight to the mine. If there had been any footprints, the rain had washed,them away.- He looked into the adit, the low-roofed tunnel which ran into the hillside. The floor was liquid mud through ! which drainage water trickled. No use going in. Bob turned back. He was walking rip the river bank when a familiar voice hailed him from the far side. It was Ezra Gaunter,'the elderly water bailiff.

“Up early bajnb ’ee, Mr Hamlyn? Maybe you be hunting that there lag as did a bunk last evening.”

“A prisoner escaped 1” exclaimed Bob. “First I’d heard of it. And that explains it.’’ Ezra came close to his side of the river. ’ “What do it explain, mister? You don’ tell mo as ’ee’ve seed un?” Ezra ypas excited. There is a standing reward of five pounds for the recapture of a prisoner escaped from Dartmoor. “I didn’t see him, but near killed me,” Bob answered, and told Ezra what had happened. “Shot at ’eo, did he?” Ezra looked seared. “Where from did he get the pistol?” he asked. “You’ll know when they catch him,” Bob replied. “Reckon I’ll get along and tell Constable French,” said Gaunter and was off. Bob went back to his house to cook and eat a solitary breakfast. Then he started his day’s work, which happened to be digging potatoes; Aif hour later or so two warders arrived and questioned him; They told him that the convict’s name was Condon, that he was a member of a race gang and was serving seven years iox stabbing another man, that he was a troublesome chap, and, if he had got hold of a pistol, it would be a job to take him. The£ went to the mine house, but found no more than Bob had found. Ho gave them cider, and they promised to let him know if and when the man was caught. Later in the afternoon Gaunter turned up. “They got un,” be announced, “found un dead and drowned in Darv down by Bellamy’s. Looked like he’d been trying to cross and fell in. They didn’t find no pistol but likely her’s at the bottom.” Gaunter too, had some cider and went off refreshed. That night Bob slept, undisturbed. The weather was fine and he was busy for some days lifting his potatoes. It had been a Monday night when he had been shot at; on the following Thursday the postman paid a visit to Bar Tor Farm and handed Bob a letter. A letter, was event to Bob Hamlyn. He had hardly any relations, while friends are apt to forget a man who toils for a bare living on a lonely Dartpioor farm. The postmark was London and, as soon as the postman had gone, Bob opened and read the letter. It was brief and businesslike. The writer, who signed himself Franklyn Dene, made him an offer of two thousand pounds for Bar Tor Farm. (To Be Continued).