Winter Wonderland by Elizabeth; Mansfield Page A

deserted stretch of road between Barton Mills and Thetford, they all heard the clip-clop of other horses rapidly coming up from behind them. These sounds were followed by shouts, and the carriage rocked to an abrupt stop. Before they had time to interpret these signs, the door near Woodley was pulled open, and they found themselves staring into the black barrel of an ominously long pistol. Mr. Woodley started. The lady gasped. Barnaby let his newspaper drift to the floor.
    A head appeared in the doorway, the eyes covered with a black mask. “Hands over yer heads, gents! And the lady, too. Quick now!” The voice had a low, frightening rasp.
    All three did as they were told, but Barnaby was more irritated than frightened. “A damned highwayman !” he exclaimed in disgust. “Just what I needed.”

Five
    They stepped down from the carriage into an icy wind and a swirl of light snowflakes. The masked footpad, a large, broadly built fellow as tall as Barnaby, looked from one to the other and chose Mr. Woodley to fleece first. Without a word, and keeping one eye and the barrel of his gun aimed at the other two, he efficiently set about removing Mr. Woodley’s valuables: his watch, chain and fobs, and his purse.
    Barnaby used the time to look about. They were standing in a rutted roadway edged on both sides by woodland. There was no sign of human habitation. He noted that the highwayman was not alone, for two horses were tethered to a nearby tree. A quick glance toward the front of the coach revealed a second felon, also masked, but much shorter and slighter than his confederate. He was aiming a pistol at the coachman, who was hesitating to climb down from the box. “Move yer arse down ’ere,” the footpad ordered. “I don’t ’ave all day.”
    The coachman’s arm made a swift movement downward. Barnaby saw his hand grasp the trace of the horse on the left and break it loose, thus unhooking the harness. Before the footpad realized what he was up to, the coachman had leaped to the horse’s back, dug his heels into the horse’s side and was galloping off, the harness dragging behind him. The horse on the right whinnied wildly, reared up, broke from his already-loosened trace and quickly followed. The footpad cursed, aimed his gun and fired, but the rider and both horses were already disappearing into the distance. The whole incident had taken but a few seconds.
    The second highwayman cursed again, very loudly. The stir had drawn the eyes of the others, who were grouped at the side of the carriage. “Damn you, Japhet,” the first highwayman shouted. “Whyn’t ye watch—?”
    But he got no further, for Barnaby had taken immediate advantage of his distraction and leaped forward, grasping the arm holding the gun. The tall highwayman dropped the gun, but not before a shot exploded into the air, causing the lady to scream. Barnaby and the highwayman toppled to the ground, rolling back and forth, first one on top and then the other. Barnaby was getting the better of the fight when the second highwayman, having reloaded, ran over and aimed his pistol at Barnaby’s head. “Let ’im go or ye’re a dead man,” he said coldly.
    Barnaby let go. Both men got to their feet. The highwayman retrieved his pistol and turned to his cohort. “It’s all yer fault, ye blasted looby,” he snarled as he reloaded. “Ye couldn’ even ’andle the coachman.”
    â€œYou ain’t doin’ so bloody well yerself,” the one named Japhet retorted. “Seems t’ me like you also lost one.”
    It was quite true. One of the three passengers was gone. During the melee, Augustus Woodley had managed to steal off. “Howsomever, old chubb,” the taller footpad bragged, “I nimmed ’is goods afore ’e ran.” And he waved Woodley’s watch in the other fellow’s face.
    â€œDamn it, woman,”