"That's him, Da, that's the bastard who attacked me," and he raised his shotgun waist high.
Rory knocked it to one side and it discharged into the ground. "Try not to play the fool as usual, little brother," he said in Gaelic.
Dillon, an Irish speaker, had no difficulty in understanding, especially when Hector said, "He doesn't look much to me," and swung a punch.
Dillon ducked, avoiding it, but his foot slipped and he fell into the shallows. He scrambled up and the old man raised his shotgun. "Not now, my brave wee man," he said in English. "You'll get your chance. Slow and easy. Walk on."
As Dillon moved forward, Fergus said, "Wait till I've done with you," and swung the butt of his shotgun. Dillon avoided it easily and Fergus went down on one knee.
Rory lifted him by the scruff of his neck. "Will you listen or must I kick your arse?" he demanded in Gaelic and pushed him ahead.
"God help him but he never will learn that one," Dillon told him in Irish. "Some men stay children all their lives."
Rory's mouth went slack with astonishment. "By God, Da, did you hear that, the strangest Gaelic I ever heard."
"That's because it's Irish, the language of kings," Dillon said. "But close enough that we can understand each other," and he walked on ahead of them.
There was smoke beyond the trees, the sound of children's voices, so they were not taking him to Morgan and he realized he had made something of a miscalculation. They moved down into a hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old with canvas tilts and patched many times, far removed from the romantic idea of a caravan. There was an air of poverty to everything from the shabby clothes worn by the women who squatted by the fire drinking tea to the bare feet of the children who played in the grass beside several bony horses.
Fergus gave Dillon a push that sent him staggering forward and the women scattered. The children paused in their play and came to watch. Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees, and took out a pipe. Fergus and Rory stood slightly behind Dillon.
"An attack on one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Dillon, or whatever your name is. The great pity you weren't knowing that." He stuffed tobacco into his pipe. "Rory." Rory moved fast, pulling Dillon's arms behind him, and the old man said, "Enjoy yourself, Fergus."
Fergus moved in fast and punched Dillon in the stomach right and left handed. Dillon made no move except to tense his muscles, and Fergus drove a fist into his ribs on the right side. "Now for that pretty face of yours," he said. "Hold his head up, Rory."
In taking a handful of Dillon's hair, Rory had to release one of his arms. Dillon flicked a foot forward catching Fergus in the crutch, half-turned delivering a reverse elbow strike to the edge of Rory's jaw. The big man released him, staggering back, and Dillon ran for it and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out a foot.
He rolled desperately as they all kicked at him, even the children, and then there was the drumming of horses, and a voice called, "Stop that, damn you!" and a shotgun was fired.
The women and children broke and ran and Dillon got up to find Murdoch on horseback, a shotgun braced against his thigh. Behind him Carl Morgan and Asta rode down into the hollow. Dillon was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the wagons.
"Stay there, you silly bastard," Rory hissed in Gaelic, then glanced at Dillon in alarm, realizing he had heard.
Carl Morgan urged his mount down into the hollow. The hooves of his horse scattered the fire, and he pulled on the right rein so that the animal turned, its hind quarters catching Hector Munro a blow that sent him staggering.
He reined in. "Tell them who I am," he ordered.
"This is Mr. Carl Morgan, new tenant of Loch Dhu Castle," Murdoch said, "and your employer."
"Is that so?" Hector Munro said.
"So bare your head, you mannerless dog," Murdoch told him, leaned down from his horse, and plucked the old man's bonnet from his head and threw it down.
Rory took a step forward and Dillon said in Irish, "Easy boy, there's a time and a place for everything."
Rory turned, frowning, and his father said, "The man Dillon was fishing in the loch, we were only doing our duty."
"Don't lie to me, Munro," Murdoch told him. "Mr. Dillon is nephew to Brigadier Ferguson, tenant at Ardmurchan Lodge, and don't tell me you didn't know that. You scoundrels know everything that goes on in the district before it bloody well happens."
"Enough of this," Morgan said and looked down at Munro. "You wish to continue to work for the estate?"
"Why yes, sir," the old man said.
"Then you know how to behave in future."
"Yes, sir." Munro picked up his bonnet and put it on.
"And now that son of yours, Fergus. He assaulted my daughter. I want him."
"And we have not seen him, sir, as I told Mr. Murdoch. If he gave offense to the young lady I'm sorry, but the great one for wandering is Fergus."
"Away for days sometimes," Rory said. "Who could be knowing where he might be?" He glanced at Dillon briefly, but Dillon said nothing.
Morgan said, "I can wait. We'll go now, Mr. Dillon."
"I'll be fine," Dillon said. "I want to get my fishing tackle. I can walk back." He moved to Asta's stirrup and looked up at her.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Just fine," Dillon said. "I do this kind of thing most mornings, it gives me an appetite for lunch."
Morgan said, "I'll be in touch, Dillon. Come on, Asta," and he cantered away.
Dillon turned to look down into the hollow at the Munros. Fergus crawled out from under the wagon and Dillon called in Irish. "So there you are, you little rascal. I'd take care if I were you."
He went down to the shore and retrieved his rod and fishing basket. As he turned to go, Rory Munro moved out of the trees. "Now why would you do a thing like that for Fergus, and you and he bad friends?" he asked in Gaelic.
"True, but then I dislike Morgan even more. Mind you, the girl is different. If Fergus touches her again I'll break both his arms."
Rory laughed. "Oh, the hard one are you, small man?"
"You could always try me," Dillon told him.
Rory stared at him, frowning, and then a slow smile appeared. "And perhaps that time will come," he said, turned, and walked back into the trees.
Dillon drank tea by the fire at Ardmurchan Lodge while he detailed the events of the morning to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein.
"So the plot thickens," Ferguson said.
"Lucky for you that Morgan turned up when he did," Hannah said. "You might have been a hospital case by now."
"Yes, a useful coincidence," Ferguson said.
"And you know how much I believe in those," Dillon told him.
Hannah frowned. "You think Morgan was behind the whole thing?"
"I'm not sure about that, but I believe he expected it. That's why he turned up."
"Very possibly." Ferguson nodded. "Which raises the question of how he knew you were going to go fishing this morning."
"I know, life's just one big mystery," Dillon said. "What happens now?"
"Lunch, dear boy, I thought we might venture into Ardmurchan Village and sample the delights of the local pub. They must offer food of some sort."
"Pub grub, Brigadier, you?" Hannah Bernstein said.
"And you, Chief Inspector, although I hardly expect it will be kosher."
"I'll find out," she said. "I think that chap Angus is working in the garden." She opened the French windows and went out, returning a few moments later. "He says the Campbell Arms does do food. Shepherd's pie, things like that."
"Real food," Ferguson said. "How wonderful. Let's get going then."
Morgan was standing on the terrace at the top of the steps with Asta when Murdoch joined them. "I've just had a phone call from Angus. Our friends are going to the Campbell Arms for lunch."
"Really?" Morgan said.
"It could lead to an interesting situation. The day after tomorrow is the local fair and Highland Games. There are tinkers around, horse traders, and so on. The Munros will probably be there."