The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

but always the same rhythmic, remorseless thud! thud! thud! thud!

On, and ever on, climbing steep uplands, plunging down precipitous slopes, past brawling brooks and silent pools all red and gold with sunset, past oak and ash and thorn on and on, with ever those thudding footfalls close behind. And, as we ran, it seemed to me that our feet beat out a kind of cadence—his heavy shoes, and my lighter ones.

Thud! thud pad thud pad! until they would suddenly become confused, and mingle with each other.

One moment it seemed that I almost loved the fellow, and the next that I bitterly hated him. Whether I had gained or not, I could not tell; to look back was to lose ground.

The woods were close now, so close that I fancied I heard the voice of their myriad leaves calling to me—encouraging me. But my breath was panting thick and short, my stride was less sure, my wrists were raw and bleeding, and the ceaseless jingle of my chain maddened me.

Thud!—thud!—untiring, persistent—thud!—thud!—the pulse at my temples throbbed in time with it, my breath panted to it. And surely it was nearer, more distinct—yes, he had gained on me in the last half-mile—but how much? I cast a look over my shoulder; it was but a glance, yet I saw that he had lessened the distance between us by half. His face shone with sweat—his mouth was a line—his nostrils broad and expanded—his eyes staring and shot with blood, but he ran on with the same long easy stride that was slowly but surely wearing me down.

We were descending a long, grassy slope, and I stumbled, more than once, and rolled in my course, but on came those remorseless footfalls—thud!—thud!—thud!—thud!—strong and sure as ever. He was nearing me fast—he was close upon me—closer—within reach of me. I could hear his whistling breaths, and then, all at once, I was down on hands and knees; he tried to avoid me —failed, and, shooting high over me, thudded down upon the grass.

For a moment he lay still, then, with a groan, he rolled over, and propping himself on his arm, thrust a hand into his bosom; but I hurled myself upon him, and, after a brief struggle, twisted the pistol from his grasp, whereupon he groaned again.

“Hurt?” I panted.

“Arm broke, I think,” he growled, and forthwith burst out into a torrent of curses.

“Does it—hurt—so much?” I panted.

“Ah! but it—ain’t that,” he panted back; “it’s me—a-lettin’ of you—work off—a mouldy—old trick on me—like—that there—”

“It was my only chance,” said I, sitting down beside him to regain my wind.

“To think,” he growled, “o’ me bein’ took in by a—”

“But you are a great runner!” said I.

“A great fool, you mean, to be took in by a—”

“You have a long walk back, and your arm will be painful—”

“And serve me right for bein’ took in by—”

“If you will lend me your neckerchief, I think I can make your arm more comfortable,” said I. He ceased cursing to stare at me, slowly and awkwardly unwound the article in question, and passed it to me. Thereupon, having located the fracture, I contrived a rough splint with a piece of wood lying near; which done, he thanked me, in a burst of profanity, and rose.

“I’ve see worse coves nor you!” said he, “and one good turn desarvin’ another—lie snug all day, and travel by night, and keep to the byroads—this ain’t no common case, there’ll be a thousand pound on your ‘ead afore the week’s out—so look spry, my cove!” saying which, he nodded, turned upon his heel, and strode away, cursing to himself.

Now, presently, as I went, I heard the merry ring and clink of hammer and anvil, and, guided by the sound, came to a tumbledown smithy where was a man busily at work, with a shock-headed boy at the bellows. At sight of me, the smith set down his hammer and stared openmouthed, as did also the shock-headed boy.

“How long would it take you to file off these shackles?” I inquired, holding out my hands.

“To—to file ‘em off?”

“Yes.”

“Why, that—that depends—”

“Then do it—as soon as you can.” Upon this, the man turned his back to me and began rummaging among his tools, with his head very near that of the shock-headed boy, until, having found a file suitable to the purpose, he set to work upon my handcuffs. But he progressed so slowly, for one reason and another, that I began to grow impatient; moreover, noticing that the shock-headed boy had disappeared, I bade him desist.

“A cold chisel and hammer will be quickest,” said I; “come, cut me off this chain—here, close up to the rivets.” And, when he had done this, I took his file, and thrusting it beneath my coat, set off, running my hardest, leaving him to stare after me, with his eyes and mouth wider than ever.

The sun was down when I reached the woods, and here, in the kind shadows, I stayed awhile to rest, and rid myself of my handcuffs; but, when I felt for the file to do so—it was gone.

CHAPTER XLVI

HOW I CAME TO LONDON

Justly to narrate all that befell me during my flight and journey to London, would fill many pages, and therefore, as this book of mine is already of a magnitude far beyond my first expectations, I shall hurry on to the end of my story.

Acting upon the advice of the saturnine Jeremy, I lay hidden by day, and traveled by night, avoiding the highway. But in so doing I became so often involved in the maze of cross-roads, bylanes, cow-paths, and cart-tracks, that twice the dawn found me as completely lost as though I had been set down in the midst of the Sahara. I thus wasted much time, and wandered many miles out of my way; wherefore, to put an end to these futile ramblings, I set my face westward, hoping to strike the highroad somewhere between Tonbridge and Sevenoaks; determined rather to run the extra chance of capture than follow haphazard these tortuous and interminable byways.

It was, then, upon the third night since my escape that, faint and spent with hunger, I saw before me the welcome sight of a finger-post, and hurrying forward, eager to learn my whereabouts, came full upon a man who sat beneath the finger-post, with a hunch of bread and meat upon his knee, which he was eating by means of a clasp-knife.

Now I had tasted nothing save two apples all day, and but little the day before—thus, at sight of this appetizing food, my hunger grew, and increased to a violent desire before which prudence vanished and caution flew away. Therefore I approached the man, with my eyes upon his bread and meat.

But, as I drew nearer, my attention was attracted by something white that was nailed up against the finger-post, and I stopped dead, with my eyes riveted by a word printed in great black capitals, and stood oblivious alike of the man who had stopped eating to stare at me, and the bread and meat that he had set down upon the grass; for what I saw was this:

G. R. MURDER L500------REWARD WHEREAS, PETER SMITH, blacksmith, late of SISSINGHURST, in the county of Kent, suspected of the crime of WILFUL MURDER, did upon the Tenth of August last, make his escape from his gaolers, upon the Tonbridge road, somewhere between SISSINGHURST and PEMBRY; the above REWARD, namely, FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS, will be paid to such person, or persons who shall give such INFORMATION as shall lead to the ARREST, and APPREHENSION of the aforesaid PETER SMITH. In the furtherance of which, is hereunto added a just and close description of the same—VIZ.—He is six foot tall, and a sizable ROGUE. His hair, black, his eyes dark and piercing. Clad, when last seen, in a worn velveteen jacket, kneebreeches buckled at the knees, gray worsted stockings, and patched shoes. The coat TORN at the RIGHT shoulder. Upon his wrists, a pair of steel HANDCUFFS. Last seen in the vicinity of PEMBRY.

While I yet stared at this, I was conscious that the man had risen, and now stood at my elbow; also, that in one hand his carried a short, heavy stick. He stood very still, and with bent head, apparently absorbed in the printed words before him, but more than once I saw his eyes gleam in the shadow of his hat-brim, as they turned to scan me furtively up and down. Yet he did not speak or move, and there was something threatening, I thought, in his immobility. Wherefore I, in turn, watched him narrowly from the corner of my eye, and thus it chanced that our glances met.

“You seem thoughtful?” said I.

“Ah!—I be that.”

“And what might you be thinking?”

“Why—since you ax me, I was thinkin’ as your eye was mighty sharp and piercin’.”

“Ah!” said I; “and what more?”

“That your coat was tore at the shoulder.”

“So it is,” I nodded; “well?”

“You likewise wears buckled breeches, and gray worsted stockings.”

“You are a very observant man!” said I.

“Though, to be sure,” said he, shaking his head, “I don’t see no ‘andcuffs.”

“That is because they are hidden under my sleeves.”

“A-h-h!” said he, and I saw the stick quiver in his grip.

“As I said before, you are a very observant man!” said I, watching the stick.

“Well, I’ve got eyes, and can see as much as most folk,” he retorted, and here the stick quivered again.

“Yes,” I nodded; “you also possess legs, and can probably walk fast?”

“Ah!—and run, too, if need be,” he added significantly.

“Then suppose you start.”

“Start where?”

“Anywhere, so long as you do start.”

“Not wi’out you, my buck! I’ve took a powerful fancy to you, and that there five hundred pounds”—here his left hand shot out and grasped my collar—“so s’posin’ you come along o’ me. And no tricks, mind—no tricks, or—ah!—would ye?” The heavy stick whirled up, but, quick as he, I had caught his wrist, and now presented my pistol full in his face.

“Drop that stick!” said I, pressing the muzzle of the weapon lightly against his forehead as I spoke. At the touch of the cold steel his body suddenly stiffened and grew rigid, his eyes opened in a horrified stare, and the stick clattered down on the road.

“Talking of fancies,” I pursued, “I have a great