Free Gently North-West by Alan Hunter Page B

a series of ragged, quick-fire shots had echoed up.
    He stared at Brenda. ‘Bring the glasses,’ he said, and moved quickly across the track. Beneath, at a distance of perhaps half a mile, he spotted a house standing in a wide clearing. In front of the house were a group of men. A man was running across the clearing. Then the man fell, and shots sounded again – six, accompanied by a faint whiff of smoke.
    He grabbed the glasses from Brenda and focused them on the house. There were eight, ten men, dressed in a grey battledress and armed with rifles. As he watched another man began to run, apparently following some obstacle course, to throw himself down, his rifle smoking, the sound of shots dragging behind it.
    ‘My God,’ Brenda gulped. ‘So there aren’t any guerrillas up the glens!’
    ‘Here – look,’ Gently said. ‘It’s just possible they’re military or police.’
    Brenda took the glasses and looked. ‘Military or police my foot,’ she said. ‘This is Popski’s Private Army doing their Operation Gorseprick. And another thing – this is Glen Knockie – and one of those aliases was Knockman. George, we’ve stumbled into a wasp’s nest. You’d better get us mobile quick.’
    A sharp, metallic rap sounded behind them, making them jerk round suddenly. Beside the Sceptre stood a man in grey battledress. He had a rifle. He was pointing it.

CHAPTER SIX
    Will ye no wait for Tammie Laurie,
    Laird o’ a’ our scaur an’ fell?
    Later Border Minstrelsy
, ed. McWheeble
    A N’ HAVE YE a guid view for your keekin’ – or will you gang down a bit closer?’
    He was a young man, not more than eighteen, a head shorter than Gently, but stockily built. He wore a slouch bonnet over his carroty hair and a cartridge belt about his middle; he had a broad, freckled, squash-nosed face with a wide mouth and sharp hazel eyes. On the sleeve of his tunic was sewn a stripe and above it appeared the letter K. On his bonnet, securing the band, was pinned a badge: it was the silver dirk of the S.N.A.G.
    He stood with a sort of careless alertness, his right hand curled about the rifle’s trigger-guard. Where he’d come from was a mystery, because only the open braeside stretched behind him.
    ‘Suppose you stop pointing that gun at us,’ Gently said. ‘We don’t want an accident to happen, do we?’
    ‘You needna fear that,’ the youngster said scornfully. ‘When this gun gangs aff it isna an accident. But get on wi’ your spying’ – it’s whit ye’re here for – an’ there’s plenty to spy at down at the house. Put thae bonnie glasses to your een an’ see what’s stirrin’ up Glen Knockie.’
    ‘You’re mistaken,’ Gently said. ‘We didn’t come here to spy. We’re simply tourists who’ve had a mishap and need some help with our car.’
    ‘Simply tourists, the man says!’
    ‘Have you reason to think otherwise? Naturally, when we heard the shots down there we looked to see what was going on.’
    The youngster cocked his head to one side. ‘An’ I’ll be for believin’ that, won’t I?’ he said. ‘I’m jist a puir, innocent, up-the-glen laddie who’ll take in whitever an English cratur’ tells me.’
    ‘It happens to be the truth,’ Gently said.
    ‘Oh ay. Ye canna move on this road for tourists. They’re aye slippin’ their cars in that hole and pullin’ out glasses to watch the house. But dinna waste yer lees on me, man – we kent fine ye were comin’. The laird is fresh back frae London wi’ a note o’ yer capers in his pooch. So what have ye to say to me now?’
    Gently shook his head. ‘You’ve beat me,’ he said. ‘I’ll just repeat that I want a tow – and that you’re handling that gun in a dangerous manner.’
    ‘Ay – he admits it!’ the lad said triumphantly. ‘I catchit him in the act – an’ he admits it. So he’ll jist about turn, himsel’ an’ the leddy, an’ shankit down to the house.’
    ‘Have you any vehicles down there?’ Gently