Travelling Rifleman

"Leave a window open? Me? Not bloody likely," Cotton said. "If it's that Peggy, I'll..." If she were older, he'd take his belt to her, ignoring her mother like that.

He got to the room where the open window was and opened the door, pausing in horror on the threshold. "That better not be Peggy or I will take me belt to her," he said, taking in the state of the room. It didn't look like the work of a young child. "Maggie, you check nothin's missin'. I'm goin' after whoever it was who done it - he won't have got far."

"It won't be Peggy!" Maggie said anxiously. "She's always careful with things, Gabe. Besides, she can't reach this high," she added, peering into a cabinet with its door left open. She could not remember everything that had been stored inside, nor the contents of the other drawers and cabinets. Nothing valuable, as far as she could recall. Just the captain's old papers and books.

He paused "All right, so it ain't Peggy. Didn't think it was, not when I seen this mess. Only, will you make proper sure there ain't nothin' bin taken while I go an' have a scout around? If I'm quick, I might be able to catch him yet." He'd certainly be able to track whoever it was - hard-won skills didn't get lost that easily, after all.

She nodded and then called after him. "But take Robert with you, in case he's dangerous. Or take Joe!"

Jenny arrived and looked at the mess, staring with surprise for a moment before she started helping Maggie tidy it up.

Robert? If there was likely to be any trouble, Robert would be no use. "Joe, come an' give me a hand here, would you?" he said. "If you've finished your food, I mean."

For some reason, the whole thing reminded him of that night, years and years ago, when he'd invited a couple of Riflemen from the 95th over to his fire and then he'd gone chasing after Maggie. She'd been all upset over something totally insignificant that had reminded her of her lost sweetheart who she'd travelled out to Spain with. And she'd run off, upset and crying, and he'd gone after her, abandoning the two young Riflemen.

"I make a terr'ble bad host," he muttered, leading the way outside.

Under the closer inspection, some of the more obvious lost items were finally discovered as being such. Paper had also been taken in, while much of it lay on the floor. But there were a few small things that carried a greater value, each. Something that would have kept the beggar of the street, if ever he managed to sell them.

It was clear that the man had been in a hurry. Perhaps the slamming of the windows had chased it away, the fear being that somebody would've come rushing up the stairs to see what it was. A few chickens below, were missing as well, while the rest would probably not lay any eggs for a week or so, what with how scared they have been.

The path that cut past the low bush, had slowly begun to be less obvious. Fewer branches were left disturbed, and the ground that was harder and left less to no imprint, was chosen ,albeit still in a hurry. The thief must have wanted to play it safe and distance himself as much from the house as he could manage. Perhaps he had thought that hounds would be let to his trail.

Hearing his name called provided a handy sort of distraction. Newbury left his unfinished meal on the nearest clear surface and headed outside after Cotton.

"What's doin'?"

"Someone's turned one of the rooms over - reckon he might still be around," Cotton said. "Maggie's checkin' to see if anythin' was took." There were a few scattered feathers lying on the ground and there didn't seem to be as many chickens as there should be, either.

It was important to cover one's tracks. Be it by the use of the small creek nearby, or solely by choosing the best, and hardest terrain so that footprints would not be seen and left behind. Had he not been as hungry, he might've thought to wait for the night. But then, he reasoned, everybody would be expecting a thief at night. Nobody, during the day.

The spoils in the feathered shape of chickens flapped loosely at his side, the dead animals still warm. If they had been creatures of quieter nature, he might have been able to keep them alive. But when their clucking could alert the owners of the estate, their future was sealed.

His feet splashed into the creek, cold water running rather fast and soaking the tattered trousers quickly, where it touched. He pressed on.

Maggie was just fastening the window when she noticed something from her high viewpoint. Feathers, snagged against her precious rose bushes. There were no blooms now, just leaves and thorns, but if that thief had dared to damage her roses...! "Gabe!" she called, leaning out and pointing. "There's feathers over there. Should you take the dogs?"

Ah. Well. Newbury glanced back briefly upon hearing the call from somewhere above, then gave his full attention onto the trail that lay before them. He was still swift enough on his feet, despite the occasional short-lived weakness in his knee.

"If you got dogs, can't hurt to fetch 'em," he said to Cotton. "I'll see where this blackguard's gone."

"The dogs?" He shrugged. "No, they can't hurt. Only I know what you'm like, 'member, Joe?" He was torn. Risk leaving Newbury on his own and get even one of Vickery's dogs, or stick with him like glue and...

"Wait there. Won't be long," he said, his mind made up. Not that he had any hope of Newbury actually waiting, not now, when he'd been out of the Army for two years - three. Or was it more? He couldn't remember now.

He turned back to collect one of Vickery's foxhounds.

"There!" Maggie called, leaning out and pointing. What was taking them so long? "He's going that way, hurry!"

Wait. Right. Newbury stopped a couple of paces along and tried not to frown. It was only sensible, though - and it wasn't like this trail was going anywhere. That didn't mean he had to like it, which he certainly didn't.

Maggie's second hail stirred him moving again. The dogs would just have to catch up. If he moved quickly enough, he could get onto the thief's heels in short order. So off Newbury went, keeping his stride brisk but controlled.

He was safe now. Fairly concealed, had gone up the stream, had then moved up the bank. He was no longer running. When all of this was sold, he could afford himself good meals for a while. He smiled and looked at the chickens. In the meanwhile, these would do perfectly. He slowed, and listened. Perhaps nobody even noticed the loss and the terror of their birds. Those noble rich folk could be so blind sometimes. Which was only fortunate. Too alert and a poor man would not be able to earn his living! But then there was a sound carried on the wind. He wasn't sure of its origin.

He leaned against one of the trees, so that he was hidden from view, and stood facing the opposite direction from the estate. He waited. He slid the matted, dirty and worn bag, which might once have been white, but now was anything but, of his shoulder and stuffed the dead birds inside. The sooner they were out of sight, the better. This done, he could continue at a leisurely pace. Even as he began to move again, his attention was wholeheartedly on the sounds that would come from the direction of the estate.

"C'mon, you," Cotton said, trying to calm the dog that was jumping up at him in excitement at going out. "All right, then, let's see what you can find." The dog cast about for a scent and picked something up, heading towards where Cotton could see Newbury with his head down following the intruder's tracks.

There was only one dog trotting along behind him. Well, it wasn't as though they needed more than one. Newbury glanced back and lifted an arm to wave to Cotton. It shouldn't take them long to catch the sloppy little thief now.

The thief pressed on. No feathers were lost on his path any longer. The chickens were stored away safely, and the other stolen goods were carried in such a manner that they made no sound. There wasn't any of that shouting that usually accompanied a hunt, and so he was more and more convinced that the shout was not meant for him, or for the men who would have been after him.

But he didn't know yet, that somebody was following him. He paused again. Turned, and rested against one of the slightly crooked trees. If only the forest would shut up, while he scanned for any sounds announcing a presence of the human inhabitants.

Cotton acknowledged Newbury's wave. They'd soon be up with the thief, whoever he was, especially with Buttons on the trail. He was half-running himself to keep up with the dog, amazed at how quickly he'd lost the ability to run for more than a few hundred yards without getting short of air. "Here, he'll sort him out," he said. "Find him, boy, go on!"

The dog nosed about for a bit, seeming confused and Cotton frowned. his face cleared. "Clever bastard's prob'ly gone in the stream," he said.

"Gotten smart about leavin' a trail too." Newbury held up a chicken feather. "Here, dog. Find this scent, would you?"

"Prob'ly an old swaddy like us," Cotton said. "There's 'nough of 'em about, after all. Army don't want folks who've marched their way acrost Spain an' back, not now."

The dog sniffed at the feather, wagging its tail, and cast about for the scent before giving tongue.

"Good dog, Buttons is. Wish we'd had one like him in Spain." The dog seemed to have found the scent again and Cotton shrugged. "Across the stream, then, looks like."

Across the stream. Great. Newbury shrugged and tried not to think about the discomfort of walking in wet shoes.

"Whoever he is," he said, "he wants a good thumpin'."

"He does that." Cotton sighed. "C'mon, Joe, you've bin wet-foot afore, an' in worse weather'n this." He didn't particularly want to go wading either, but it was that or admit he'd been defeated by a bit of water less than four feet across. The dog looked up at him in delight, tongue lolling plainly enjoying the game.

He could hear the voices now, distinct and far too close than they were suppose to be. He did not recognise their owners, though he should've done so. But he did register the threat and he heard the barking of a dog. This made him suddenly break of into careless run. A branch ahead was heard snapping as he ducked pushed past. If only he had been in a better state. If only!

He slipped his hand to his side, got that small blade out of it. If the dog attacked, it would be the last thing it would have tried to do!

The noise of a branch breaking, somewhere ahead of them, put all concern about wet feet from Newbury's head. He splashed through the stream, fully intent on catching whoever this slippery little thief was.

"Just ahead, here," he called back over his shoulder. It never occurred to him that Cotton might have difficulty keeping up. The dog loped past him and quickly went out of sight beyond a close-packed stand of trees. A sudden yelp came shortly after the animal's disappearance.