Free A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm Page A

where he got it, I don’t know for I’m certain there’s been no Queen’s paychest come into the city for the last six months. Would Lowther have paid cash?”
    Dodd laughed at the idea and started to unbend a little. “How’s the farm?”
    “Mildred died.”
    His good humour promptly dried up again. “What was wrong with her?”
    Janet looked worried. “I had the knacker’s man take her and he didn’t know either. At least Shilling’s well enough. What’s this I hear about us getting raided?”
    “Was that from Young Hutchin?”
    “He said I might want to have some of my brothers to stay with me and a couple of men to go out to the summer pastures for a week or so, just in case. There’s a lot of broken men about, he said.”
    Mostly Hutchin’s relations, but it was kindly of the boy, Dodd thought, deciding to let him live. Henry found himself close to wishing Lowther had got the deputyship after all. A comfortable if unprofitable life was now all back to front and looked likely to get worse and for lack of rest and unaccustomed labour he was falling asleep where he sat.
    “At least we can afford to buy a new horse,” Janet said, after counting the money.
    “Now there’s a novel idea,” said Henry Dodd, blinking into his leather beaker. “ Buy a horse with money instead of me having to ride about the countryside at dead of night with your brothers…?”
    Janet grinned at him. “I’ll keep it to meself if you will.”
    Tuesday, 20th June, morning
    The inquest, such as it was, took half an hour. Scrope sat in his capacity as Warden at the courtroom in the town hall; Bangtail came forward, identified himself as Cuthbert Graham, known as Bangtail, identified the corpse as his second cousin by marriage George Graham, known as Sweetmilk, youngest son of John Graham of the Peartree. Dodd explained of his own knowing that the man had been shot in the back by person or persons unknown and Scrope adjourned the case to the next Warden’s Day.
    A black-haired ill-favoured man at the back of the court came forward to claim the body, and took a long hard stare at Dodd as he passed by. Dodd thought it was Francis Graham of Moat, one of Sweetmilk’s cousins, and his nearest available relative that wasn’t outlawed and at risk of arrest in England.
    By the time the clouds had cleared and the sun shone down for the first time in a week, Carey, Dodd and all six of his men were out on the road to Longtown ford where the Esk began spreading itself like a blowzy wife on the way to Rockcliffe Marsh and the Solway Firth.
    At the ford Carey stopped and looked around.
    “This is where you met Jock?”
    “Ay,” said Dodd, not relishing the moment, “they had us neatly.”
    Carey said nothing but chirruped to his horse, let him find his own way down into the water and splashed across and up the muddy bank. The rest of them followed. Unseasonable rain had washed away most of the traces, but there were still a few old prints in sheltered spots.
    When Dodd gestured wordlessly at Sweetmilk’s bushes Carey stopped, leaned on his crupper and looked all around him. A gust of wind nearly took his hat off, but he rammed it down again and slid from the saddle.
    “Tell me the tale, Sergeant.”
    Dodd told it and Carey followed his movements exactly, then beckoned for Bessie’s Andrew and Bangtail to follow him into the gorse. Bangtail rolled his eyeballs but obeyed: it was remarkable how gold could sweeten a man’s disposition. After a struggle with his worst nature, Sergeant Dodd also dismounted and followed them. The springy branch which had caught Bessie’s Andrew nearly took his cap off and he swore.
    “Wait a minute, Sergeant,” said Carey, examining the branch as if it was the first he’d ever seen. “No,” he said, disappointed. “Pity.”
    In the centre was a flattened place and some broken branches.
    “Tell me what you saw.”
    Bessie’s Andrew looked bewildered.
    “I saw a corpse, sir.”
    “Yes, but how