He formulated his conclusions as if it were an ordinary business deal,
and rather to his surprise was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled
together the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring bulges in
its pockets which were his pistol and cartridges. He reflected that
it must be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say,
three yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range.
Mr. McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way to be
rid of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.

He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked down on the Garple glen.
There were the lights of Dalquharter--or rather a single light, for
the inhabitants went early to bed. His intention was to seek quarters
with Mrs. Morran, when his eye caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor
a little to the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around which
Dougal's warriors bivouacked. The notion came to him to go there
instead, and hear the news of the day before entering the cottage.
So he crossed the bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and scrambled
through the broom and heather in what he took to be the right direction.

The moon had gone down, and the quest was not easy. Dickson had come
to the conclusion that he was on the wrong road, when he was summoned
by a voice which seemed to arise out of the ground.

"Who goes there?"

"What's that you say?"

"Who goes there?" The point of a pole was held firmly against his chest.

"I'm Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal's."