Simon Foster came back from drawing the stout oaken bars across the gate. “They’re riding up the gap,” he said. “I could hear their horses slipping all ways, master, as if the roads had teazed ’em; but they’re riding varry near. We haven’t a year and a day to waste in talk, though Shackleton fancies we have. Besides,” he added grimly, “the gate’s barred, and they’ll be here before you could open it and ride through.”
“What’s to be done with my horse, supposing I did stay?” asked Shackleton. Like a true farmer, he was not to be hurried, and his first thought was always for his live-stock.
Simon Foster snatched the bridle from his hand, went across to the stables, and was back again before Shackleton had recovered from his surprise.
“That is horse-stealing, Simon, or summat like it,” grumbled the farmer.
“No,” answered Simon, “it’s horse-keeping. We need you, Ben. The master spoke a true word there.”
“And what’s all the moil about? I relish a square fight as well as another; it’s a bit of a holiday, like, fro’ farming peevish lands; but I like to know just what I’m fighting for. Stands to plain reason I do.”
“For the honour of the Royds,” said Rupert, with sharp appeal.
“Well, then, you have me, master. Just tell me what I’ve to do; I’m slow i’ my wits, but quick wi’ my hands, and always was; and I learned young to fire a musket.”
“It’s a varry good habit to learn,” growled Simon Foster, “’specially when a body learns it young.” And then again he turned his head sharply. “They’ve come, I reckon, master,” he said, with stolid satisfaction.
Goldstein’s men had ridden the last mile of their journey in evil temper. The track was rough, full of steep hills and sharp, dangerous corners that rendered it difficult enough in a dry season; in this weather, and in the snowy, muddled light, it seemed impassable to horsemen used only to flat country. They were hungry, moreover, and wet to the skin, and their only achievement so far was to lose the first fugitive they had pursued since Derby town was left behind. Goldstein himself was thankful for one thing only—that this lonely track had no byways opening out on either hand. The road, twist as it would, kept to its single line, showing them no choice of route in a country unknown and difficult.