* * * * * *

Now, the man, the—­er—­lord of creation, who had fired that shot—­in fact, all those shots that day—­was Pig Head, the back-to-the-lander from the South.  Pig Head argued that deer forests are farms lying idle.  And the laird had offered to rent him a farm at one-and-nothing-three the acre to disprove it.  Pig Head had taken the offer.  He disapproved of lairds as unrevolutionaries.  He hated red deer because they were too smart for him to kill wholesale, and he loathed golden eagles because they were the pride of the “hills.”  But he kept his opinions to himself, because he valued his neck.  The People of the Hills would have stretched it very much longer than his own long tongue if he hadn’t.  In his heart he also hated the “oppressed” People of the Hills for that they loved their laird, regarded deer-stalking as a religious rite, and—­wore kilts!

As a matter of fact, Pig Head’s farm never grew anything more than some clinging heather, a little cross-leaved heath, patches of furze, a clump of storm-bent Scotch firs or so, and rock—­mostly rock.

Pig Head had only been able to get what he thought was his own back upon that day by firing at the eagles, because the laird and the stalkers, the gillies, the keepers, and the People of the Hills, were away, all away, at a sheep-dog trial, or a clan meeting, or something.  After that he had to work in silence, and he did.

There are always people who will buy a golden eagle “British caught,” and those who don’t want live ones will take ’em dead, and have them stuffed.  They like to be able to set ’em up in the hall among other stuffed birds, and boast that they shot ’em.  Other people of it like decayed mind come and look at them, and offer money for them at sales out of jealousy.  That’s collecting.

Now, somewhere, somehow, sometime during his checkered career, Pig Head had heard, or read, of a way of catching golden eagles.  He proceeded.

Upon an unholy and cold shaly slope well up among the clouds, the mist, and the ptarmigan, Pig Head had hollowed him out a hollow, roomy enough for himself to crouch in.  He was the sort of man that crouched—­and “grouched.”  Over the top he put a nice big slab; the walls were of piled stones, and at one end was an aperture eight inches or so long by about one foot.  Being made of its surroundings, the hiding-place did not look at all suspicious—­from a bird’s point of view.

Finally, upon the morning after the unsuccessful shooting, and before it was light—­this was necessary, for there is no knowing how far the eyes of eagles can see—­Pig Head ensconced himself in this hiding-place.  It was perishing cold, and Pig Head, who did not smoke, and never drank whisky—­only gin—­was blue of nose and numb of hand.  A good plaid would have helped him, but he abhorred plaids.

* * * * * *

The dawn came up over the mountains, the mists sank down to the vales, and the dawn wind, lean and searching, went whispering over the hills.