Free Larkrigg Fell by Freda Lightfoot

injury, or worse, predatory attack, there was the serious loss of profit to be considered. A good ewe was a valuable animal, no doubt about it. ‘I’d best finish this pen first,’ Andrew said. ‘If we’d gone electric we’d have been done by now.’
    ‘Don’t start on that caper, lad. I’m not in t’mood. Hand clipping were good enough for me father, and it’s good enough for me. We’ve allus managed well enough, even in the war.’
    ‘Labour was a lot cheaper then, Dad.’
    He sniffed. ‘We’ll talk about it to Father some time.’
    Which meant never. Andrew sighed but his own brown eyes, the mirror of Billy’s, warmed with affection. His father was not an unkind man. Many would call him soft in the head. He’d been known to make a wooden splint for many an injured creature’s leg that others would have put down without a second thought, or take it up to Ellen Martin, an old friend who lived high on the fell.
    Billy had brought up his only son single-handed, with much love. No doubt about that. But he was stubborn and set in his ways.  
    Yet stubbornness was essential in order to survive on these fells. A farmer needed to be tough, resolute, taciturn, and, despite their shortcomings, Andrew felt he lived with two of the best.
    ‘You’ll have to come round to it in the end,’ he warned. ‘If we don’t go forward, we go back. Losing this sheep proves my point. How have we the time to go and look for it when we still have half the flock to clip, with little extra help beyond our neighbour, old Tim here, and no guarantee the weather’ll hold? We’re not a museum piece, you know.’
    ‘Cut thee cackle. Thee won’t addle a living with talking. I know who’s fault it is that a yew has gone missing. It were them trippers leaving gates open everywhere. They should be banned from farm land. They’re a blight on humanity.’
    Andrew sighed. He could not deny that visitors created problems on a farm but they brought a good deal of money to the Lakes.
    He glanced up at the sky. It was a hot, dry day, not a sign of mist, perfect for the clipping. Wasting half of it hunting for a ewe that had probably got its foot caught in some rabbit hole was worse than a nuisance. Tomorrow could be wet, then they’d have to wait till the fleeces had dried off before they could start over again. Which would mean a longer delay before the wool could be sold and might well affect the price.
    ‘We’ll have to leave it and take the risk it’ll wait. The weather won’t.’
    But Billy wasn’t having it. ‘We’ll take a look round this evening, before it gets too dark.’
    They found the ewe that night by the light of his lantern. Half the flesh had been mauled from her body. She’d desperately struggled to escape and been dragged several feet, streaking the ground with her own blood. Well chewed, she had plainly taken some time to die.
    ‘Dogs,’ said Andrew.
    ‘Aye.’
    Both men stared grimly down at the dead animal. The sight always distressed Andrew, used as he was to the rigours of farming life. Sheep worrying had to be treated as infectious. Once a dog had tasted blood, perhaps from an already dead carcass, the lust for killing could rise and spread. By nature a pack animal, any rogue dog would readily recruit others. It made the killing easier.
    ‘When I catch it,’ Billy said, ‘Whoever it belongs to, it’ll wish it’d never been born.’
     
    It had been agreed that the twins would stay on for a while. Meg had welcomed the idea and after some transatlantic phone calls permission had been granted, along with a modest but useful sum to help finance the Larkrigg Hall project. They’d spent much of the last few days speculating about the respective owners of the bare buttocks, Tess considering various past boy friends, which had resulted in yet more hilarity. It was hard to put the young men from their minds and Sarah was anxious to return to the Hall to see if their unexpected guests were still there.
    When