THE SCARECROW RIDES (31 page)

Jimmie Bone turned his horse and rode in a circle back towards the
dyke, which he leapt in style. He was now separated from Merry by the
water, but upon the same meadow as the others.

He now rode towards them with his horse pistol presented.

Now although the last thing Charlotte wanted was to lose her
precious pearls, it was not fear for their safety that now clutched at
her heart, but for the danger towards which Dr. Syn was walking. He
certainly looked old and very forlorn, as he limped slowly across the
rough grass to meet the highwayman, who reined in his horse and waited.

“No nearer, reverend sir,” warned Mr. Bone. “I should be loath to
break my vow against a churchman. Besides, I've no wish to shoot an
unarmed man, parson or no.”

Dr. Syn stopped and blinked through his glasses at the black mask.
“I have always heard it said of you, Mr. Bone,” he replied in a
quavering voice, “that as robbers go, you have at least something
honourable about you. I do not exactly agree with your mode of life.
Naturally, my profession forbids me to go so far, but I have always
been pleased to hear you praised for a certain sporting dare-deviltry
which every Englishman admires. And just as you have an aversion to rob
or ill-treat me because of my black cloth, so have I an aversion to
killing you sitting there so magnificently on that fine animal. Whether
you get Miss Cobtree's pearls remains to be seen, but it is quite
certain that you will have to fight me first.”

Mr. Bone laughed. “Do you mean a duel, reverend sir? Is it possible
that you carry a piece of artillery in one of those long pockets?”

Dr. Syn shook his head, blinked through his spectacles and continued
nervously. “No, no. I do not carry a pistol. Though, strange as it may
seem to you, I know a good deal about them, and was at one time
accounted a reasonable performer. I take it now, Mr. Bone, that the
pistol you are presenting at my head at the moment is made more to
intimidate than to give an exhibition of accurate shooting.”

“It shoots straight enough, though,” replied Mr. Bone, “as you might
find to your cost did you attempt to cross me too far.”

“Might find, eh?” repeated Dr. Syn. “So you allow that there is room
for doubt. I take it that you would not feel too secure in using such a
weapon for a duel?”

“Since you are so insistent—well, no. I should use one of these in
that case.” And Mr. Bone drew from his sash a very fine duelling
pistol.

“Ah, that's a weapon,” exclaimed Dr. Syn. “That only demands a sense
of direction and a steady squeeze on the trigger. Are you an infallible
shot, Mr. Bone?”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I can hit a mark nine times out of
ten.”

“A mark may be large or small,” replied the vicar, shaking his head
in disbelief.

“Make it large enough to see and I'll hit it,” said the highwayman.

“I will,” answered Dr. Syn. “Now, it is a virtue of mine, and of my
capacious coat pockets, that I never stir abroad without a good piece
of chalk, a length of pack thread and a good sharp knife. Whenever I
see a good stick or a pliable twig, I think of my young rascals in the
parish who are for ever crying out for whips, cudgels or fishing rods.
My knife”—he fumbled in his side pocket and produced it—“is, as you
see, a good one. It is strong, it is sharp, and what is
so
important, it is admirably balanced. It is a knife to throw, Mr. Bone,
and like your pistol, shall I boast of it that nine times out of ten it
hits the mark. I am beholden to a dreadful rascal for the instruction,
a Chinaman Mr. Bone, and it has amused me to keep in practice a hobby
that has on several occasions saved my life. Now, before we begin to
settle this business concerning Miss Cobtree's pearls, I will lay you a
guinea against the one you have appropriated from poor Merry there,
that I will throw more accurately than you can shoot. Don't be alarmed,
I beg. The crack of a pistol will excite no comment on Romney Marsh. A
rabbit, or a water-rat—why the boys will shoot at them, you know.
Besides, look around you. As far as the eye can see there is not a
human being stirring but ourselves. You would have ample time on that
delightful horse to make good your escape. Here's the chalk. I make a
mark on this old gate post. So. Now, Mr. Bone, make good your boast.”

Mr. Bone chuckled beneath his mask. “You're a queer cove, ain't you?
Well, I'll win your guinea and then take the lady's pearls.”

He thrust the cumbersome horse pistol into the holster and leapt to
the ground. “And what distance must we set for this stake, Mr. Parson?”

“You see the chalk mark. It is not large, I admit. Make it whatever
you please and take the first shot.”

The highwayman looked at the parson suspiciously. But the sight of
so much blinking senility disarmed suspicion. Mr. Bone was a big man,
tall, broad and athletic. One blow from his great fist would catapult
the frail parson across the dyke. He walked back some yards from the
post, followed by his black horse, who in turn was followed by the
black-garbed parson.

“I think that far would be accounted a good shot, eh?” asked the
highwayman.

“Just as you like,” replied the parson. “The light is good, with the
sun behind us.”

The highwayman muttered something to his horse, who obediently knelt
down. Mr. Bone also crouched on one knee and steadied his pistol upon
the saddle.

“Here you,” he called to Merry. “Get on that mound there and keep a
sharp look out. I have no mind to be taken through this folly.”

Merry walked to the mound in question, but he was more interested in
the fate of his guinea, and he looked for danger behind the
highwayman's back, so that he could watch the shooting.

After a considerable time taken in shuffling himself into a position
of comfort, Jimmie Bone took long and deliberate aim. Slowly he
squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot rang out and he got up from
his knees.

“I think I have driven in the very centre of your chalkmark,” he
chuckled.

“I think you have gone so wide that you have missed the mark
entirely,” chuckled the parson. “Aye, post and all.”

“I tell you I can see a mark in the centre of the cross,” exclaimed
the marksman.

“I think you'll find that is just a mark in the wood. I fear you've
gone wide. You shall have nine more shots to hit it if you wish to make
good your word. Nine out of ten, you said.”

“I'll find the bullet in the post first, before I waste more
powder,” snapped Mr. Bone, stepping over the prostrate horse and
walking to the post.

However, he found that the parson was right in that the centre of
the cross was a piece of faulty wood that had not taken the chalk. He
began to run his hand slowly down the post, stopping his finger upon
every mark in the hope of discovering the passage of his bullet. It
annoyed him to fail in front of this parson and the pretty girl.

Charlotte, meanwhile, was watching Dr. Syn and saw what the
highwayman had got his back to. Syn's left hand drew the horse pistol
from the holster and with a sudden jerking swing flung the knife with
full force.

With an oath the highwayman sprang aside, only to find his movement
arrested by his coat, for as his hand had lingered on the thick post,
the flying knife was driven right through the stuff buckrammed slack of
his broad laced cuff.

“I found your sleeve a more tempting mark, Mr. Bone,” said Dr. Syn,
advancing to the impaled highwayman with the horse pistol levelled.

“Here's your guinea,” cried the baffled highwayman, “or do you mean
to try for the hundred guineas the authorities have put upon my
capture?” He tossed the guinea towards the parson, who caught it and
threw it to Merry.

“Oh dear, no, Mr. Bone. I only wished to point out that when you
levelled this inaccurate piece of artillery at my head, I was not taken
at such a disadvantage as you thought. Indeed, I should very much
dislike you to flatter yourself upon that point.”

“That pistol's accurate enough with luck,” grumbled Jimmie Bone, “so
unless you're out to kill me, keep your finger off the trigger.”

“Have no fear, Mr. Bone,” replied Dr. Syn. “I am well used to
pistols, and really could not have missed that post after such
preparations. I congratulate you, though, upon the admirable way you
have trained your horse. However, we must now deal with Miss Cobtree's
pearls, which as I said, you will have to fight to get. Keep your hand
away from that knife, Mr. Bone, for a moment. Come across the water,
Mr. Merry. You will act for Mr. Bone, no doubt, while Miss Cobtree will
act for me. This shall be all in order, Mr. Bone. A fair fight. And I
assure you the pearls are worth the fighting for. Several thousands of
pounds they would fetch in the London market. But when I tell you that
they were given to Miss Cobtree for her birthday to-day, perhaps your
sense of fairness will make you withdraw your threat and ride away in
peace.”

“Miss Cobtree, eh?” repeated Mr. Bone. “She'd be the daughter of
Cobtree the magistrate, and ain't he the cove what has put a hundred
guineas round my neck? It seems to me then not unfair for me to take
several thousand guineas from his daughter's neck.”

“As you please, Mr. Bone, and always supposing you can make good
your word, which I am at liberty to doubt after the failure of your
former boast. Mr. Merry, you will pluck out my knife there, while I
help Miss Cobtree to dismount.”

He backed towards the horses, still keeping the highwayman covered
with the pistol, while Merry splashed his way across the dyke to get
the knife.

Charlotte leaned from her horse with one arm about the vicar's
shoulder, and as he lifted her to the ground she whispered: “Why not
send him packing? You have the pistol and I the pearls.”

“Because I have the wish to show you that you have not given your
love to a weakling, my dear.”

She was about to speak in answer when Merry, who had pulled out the
knife from the post and thereby released Mr. Bone's cuff, suddenly
sprang at the highwayman with the knife raised.

With a savage curse Mr. Bone ducked, caught Merry with one arm round
the waist and with the other hand twisted the wrist till the knife
dropped. He then drew back, and with a sledge-hammer blow knocked Merry
backwards into the water.

“That was just, Mr. Bone. He deserved it for his treachery,” said
Dr. Syn.

“Aye, he was tempted by that hundred pounds alive or dead that old
Cobtree has put up. Well, he ain't earned it yet, I think. And now
what, Master Parson?”

“You have a good punch, I see, which I shall do well to avoid,”
chuckled Dr. Syn. “I remember now that you were something of a
heavyweight before you took to the road. You knocked out the Camberwell
Smasher at Tunbridge Fair, if I recollect.”

“That's it, and my advice to you is not to tempt me to deal with you
as I dealt with him,” laughed Mr. Bone. “I'd rather have them pearls
without a fight and ride off peaceful.”

“Possibly, but oh no,” laughed the doctor. “At least, I shall be
very surprised if you do ride off with the pearls. But I'll take off my
glasses and my coat. I should suggest you take off your riding coat.”

“I'll keep it on,” replied the highwayman. “When I have finished
with you, and let us hope the damage done will not affect your
preaching, I shall take the pearls and ride away before you raise the
alarm.”

“Oh, but there is to be no alarm, I assure you,” corrected the
parson. “This is a friendly bout, I hope, and I wish you would not
boast so of the pearls.” Dr. Syn folded his coat and laid it tidily on
the grass. “Well, if you will not remove your coat, at least take off
your mask. It gives me so much to aim at.”

“Do you really mean that we are to fight with fists?” asked the
amazed highwayman, seeing that the parson was calmly rolling up his
shirt-sleeves, and opening and shutting his hands as he blinked at
them.

“But, my dear Mr. Bone, you see I have got ready. We will fight to a
finish. A knock-out and with fists. The usual ten to be counted.
Slowly, my dear Charlotte.”

“Well, it is not my habit to linger too long in one spot,” said the
highwayman. “True, there's no one visible at the moment likely to cause
me trouble, but away yonder towards Dymchurch, there's a clump of trees
behind which one cannot see, and I've been warned that the Dragoons are
out. So come along, my gallant game-cock and let us hope your preaching
will be better than your fighting.”

“Oh, I hope it is,” replied Dr. Syn devoutly, taking a few steps
forward and then awaiting attack in a somewhat awkward attitude of
defence.

“It will be no disgrace to say you've been worsted by Gentleman
James,” laughed Bone, advancing.

“You are sure you would not prefer to remove your mask?” asked the
waiting parson timidly.

“I only removes it amongst relations, and they are all dead. I have
no wish to give away a description of my beauty.”

“Oh, but your heavy boots and spurs,” pleaded Dr. Syn.

“Used to 'em. I notice you keep on your buckled shoes. I likes
fighting shod, like you.”

Mr. Bone suddenly rushed. Dr. Syn stood his ground, and though
Charlotte was terrified at the tornado attack of the great highwayman,
she was surprised to see him stagger back with his hand on his jaw. Dr.
Syn had apparently parried the sledgehammer blows, and struck once, but
the stroke got home. It enraged the highwayman, for he leapt forward
again and clinched. Dr. Syn seemed mildly surprised at this form of
attack. His arms were tied by the great bulk of his antagonist. He
seemed to have no space in which to hit. For the moment it seemed that
Mr. Bone had got it all his own way, and wishing to finish the comedy
and pay the parson back with interest for the lucky blow on his chin,
he tried to hold the parson with his left arm while withdrawing his
right for a smash-out blow.