Part 4 (1/2)
”In the challs.” [Cattle sheds.]
”Take you this gun and give him the other, and you're to fire on anyone who tries to force the stable gate. They're loaded, the pair of 'em, with buckshot. Now, this fellow,”--he reached down a third gun--”is loaded blank, and here's another with a bullet in him. I'll take these out to the front.”
”But, master, 'tis a hanging matter!”
”And I'll hang, and so shall you, before e'er a one o' these scoundrels sets foot in Steens. Go you off quick and tell Joseph, if there's trouble, to let slip the tether of the shorthorn bull.”
Roger crammed a powder-flask into one pocket with a handful of wadding, a bag of bullets into another, took his two guns, and went forth into the courtlage, in time to see a purple-faced man in an ill-fitting Dalmahoy wig climb off his horse and advance to the gate, with half a dozen retainers behind him.
He tried the latch, and, finding it locked, began to shake the gate by the bars.
”Hullo!” said Roger. ”And who may you be, making so bold?”
”Is your name Roger Stephen?” the purple-faced man demanded.
”I asked you a question first. Drop shaking my gate and answer it, or else take yourself off.”
”And I order you to open at once, sir! I'm the Under-Sheriff of Cornwall, and I've come with a writ of ejectment. You've defied the law long enough, Master Stephen; you've brought me far; and, if you've ever heard the name of William Sanderc.o.c.k, you know he's one to stand no nonsense.”
”I never heard tell of you,” said Roger, appearing to search his memory; ”but speaking off-hand and at first sight, I should say you was either half-drunk or tolerably unlucky in your face.” And indeed the Under-Sheriff had set out from Truro at dawn and imbibed much brandy on the road.
”Open the gate!” he foamed.
Roger stepped back and chose his gun. ”You'd best lead him away quiet,”
he advised the men in the road. ”You won't? Then I'll give the fool till I count three. One--two--three.” And he let off his gun full in the Under-Sheriff's face.
The poor man staggered back, clapped his hand to his jaw, and howled; for the discharge was close enough to scorch his face and singe his wig.
Also one eyebrow was burnt, and before he knew if he still retained his sight, his horse had plunged free and was galloping down the road with the whole posse in pursuit, and only too glad of the excuse for running.
”Turn loose the bull!” shouted Roger, swinging round towards the house.
The Under-Sheriff found his legs, and bolted for dear life after his horse.
X.
Travellers in the Great Sahara report many marvels, but none so mysterious and inexplicable as its power of carrying rumour. The desert (say they) is one vast echoing gossip-shop, and a man cannot be killed in the dawn at Mabruk but his death will be whispered before night at Bel Abbas or Amara, and perhaps bruited before the next sun rises on the sea-coast or beside the sh.o.r.es of Lake Chad.
We need not wonder, therefore, that within a few hours the whole of West Cornwall knew how Roger Stephen had defied the Under-Sheriff and fired upon him. Indeed, it is likely enough that in the whole of West Cornwall, at the moment, Roger Stephen was the man least aware of the meaning of the Under-Sheriff's visit and least alive to its consequences. Ever since his father's death that desolate county had been humming with his fame: his wrongs had been discussed at every hearthside, and his probable action.
There were cottages so far away as St. Ives where the dispute over Steens had been followed intently through each step in the legal proceedings and the issue of each step speculated on, while in Steens itself the master sat inert and blind to all but the righteousness of his cause--thanks in part to Malachi, but in part also to his own taciturn habit. Men did not gossip with him; they watched him. He was even ignorant that Mrs. Stephen had been pelted with mud in the streets of Penzance, and forced to pack and take refuge in Plymouth.
Next morning Malachi brought word of another small body of men on the road, advancing this time from the direction of h.e.l.leston. Three of them (he added) carried guns.
Roger made his dispositions precisely as before, save that he now loaded each of his guns with ball, and again met his visitors at the gate.
”Don't fire, that's a dear man!” cried a voice through the bars; and Roger wondered; for it belonged to a young yeoman from St. Keverne, and its tone was friendly.
”Hey, Trevarthen? What brings you here?” he demanded.
”Goodwill to help ye, if you're not above taking it. You've been served like a dog, Stephen; but we'll stand by you, though we go to Launceston jail for it. Open the gate, like a good man.”