A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm

opinion. By the end of his explanation, Carey had begun to look worried. He peered over his shoulder at the miserable pale sun where it was struggling against the clouds and squinted at the western horizon. For a moment it almost seemed to Dodd that he was listening. Far away came the peewits of green plover disturbed by the reivers. Carey urged his tired horse to a fast canter up a slight knoll, stood in his stirrups, looked all around, and came trotting back cheerfully again.
    “Let’s have them then,” he said.
    “Now sir?”
    “Yes, Sergeant.” He stood in his stirrups again. “Gentlemen,” he said at large to the men, “we’re taking back the cattle. With God’s help, we have friends on the other side of the Grahams who will come and join the fun.” He didn’t mention the possibility that the Grahams might have friends too.
    There was the clatter and creak of harness as men tightened the straps on their helmets, loosened their swords, gripped their lances. None except Carey had firearms but Carey’s were a beautiful pair of dags with a Tower gunsmith’s mark on them, ready shotted and wound.
    “Nineteen of us?” said Dodd.
    “Twenty,” said Carey quietly, letting his horse back and snort nervously as he took one gun in each hand. Bloody show-off, thought Dodd, I hope the recoil breaks his wrist.
    “There’s twenty-five of them at least from their trail,” Red Sandy said reasonably, “and ten others and the Elliots unaccounted for…We could likely come to some arrangement…”
    Carey’s eyes narrowed. “Now we come to it,” he said, “do I have grey hair? Is my face red? Do I look like Richard Lowther to you?”
    “No sir, but…”
    “Which is it to be? Do I shout come on, or do I shout go on and shoot the first coward who hesitates?”
    Red Sandy flushed. “’Tis only business…”
    “No, it’s theft.” Carey’s lip curled. “Christ, I knew you were dishonest and I knew you were sloppy. God as my witness, I never thought you were scared…”
    Red Sandy darkened to ruby. He backed his horse into the group of men, put his lance in rest.
    “All right,” said Carey, taking a deep breath, “Let’s have the bastards.” He spurred his horse to the gallop. Dodd thought of Lowther’s gratitude and then decided he didn’t care and kicked his hobby till it ran and caught up to Carey in a shower of mud. There were horsemen on the Longtownmoor.
    “Elliots?” he yelled, pointing at them.
    Carey laughed. “Who knows?” he shouted back.
    They had been spotted. Carey put a gun under his arm, winded his own horn three times, dropped it and took the gun again. The strange horsemen shimmered and shifted down the slope in the distance. The raiders put a shot in among the cattle to scatter them and bent low over their horses’ necks as they rode hard for Liddesdale. They seemed to think the other group were their friends the Elliots. In the last few seconds Dodd saw the Grahams suddenly haul their horses up short. At that moment, Dodd, Carey and the men were amongst them. Carey shot one Graham in the face, misfired with his other dag from the wet. Ducking a lance, he thrust his guns back in the saddle case and drew his sword which was the long slender article that Dodd had seen him draw on Lowther. He wielded it more with his forearm than his shoulder. Unexpectedly, he managed to run at least one man through under the arm with it: the blade flickered in and out again like a needle. Dodd with his broadsword was mournfully and methodically cutting and kicking his way through the press of men, and Archie Give-it-Them successfully ran a Graham through the thigh with his lance, which broke off.
    By which time Thomas Carleton and a number of Musgraves and Fenwicks had surrounded the mêlée and when the Elliots came swarming out of the valley a few seconds later, the reivers had all either run or surrendered, except for the three of them that were dead and one badly wounded. Seeing the situation,