Free The Highwayman's Footsteps by Nicola Morgan Page B

narrow staircase led upwards. On the table in front of me, a tankard and plate held the remains of…
    No! I heard the sounds outside, moments before I understood what they were. How could I have been so foolish? I crashed the lantern onto the table, flung open the door and ran outside.
    The lantern sent its orange glow pooling across the snowy yard.
    The boy was there, one hand on the horse’s saddle, the other steadying a stirrup as he placed his foot in it. I hurled myself towards him, yelling, “No!” and grasped him from behind. His musket was slung over his shoulder and he had no time to take it in his hands before I had pulled him away from the horse. The animal reared in fright and I grabbed the reins as I kicked out at the boy, catching him on his shin with a loud crack. Uttering a cry of fury or fear or pain, he fell, grabbing my foot as he did so, his musket falling in the snow. With a surprising strength, he pulled my foot towards him and I too fell to the ground, letting go of the horse’s reins.
    The boy leapt onto my chest and sat there heavily, his left hand pushing my forehead down, the right hand reaching for his belt to draw his pistol. My arms were pinioned by his legs but with the mighty effort of someone in mortal danger, I wrenched one arm free. I gripped his wrist as hard as I could, trying to hurt him, trying to force him to do anything other than get that pistol. I could hardly breathe and already black spots of dizziness swam across my vision. Fury, terror, anger, desperation, all of these rose up inside me. This boy would not overcome me! He could not!

Chapter Eighteen
    I t was the sound of Bess’s horse galloping away in fright that gave me the strength I needed. With my free arm, I grasped the hand which held my head, dragged the wrist towards me and sank my teeth into the flesh below his thumb. The boy screamed and pulled both hands away, the half-dislodged pistol falling from his belt. Taking advantage of his pain, I whipped around, twisting my body underneath his, onto my side and then onto my front, and thrust myself upwards onto all fours, hurling him violently backwards. His head hit the stony earth where the snow had been swept away by our fight and for a moment he lay stunned.
    Only for a moment. With a snarl of fury, almost like a wild animal, he scrambled to his feet. Seeing that he was about to attack me again, I snatched the pistol from where it lay, twisting my body round again, so that although I lay on my back, I had the pistol firmly in my hands. Pointing directly at him.
    By then, I had faced death often enough. It would not overcome me now and I knew that if I had to fire a shot then I would do so without hesitation. I would kill him if I wished. It was a good feeling. A feeling of power.
    I wanted him to come at me. With a sudden, horrible urge, I wished him to come at me and then I would shoot him. He had tried to kill me! He would have stolen Bess’s horse. He was a deserter from His Majesty’s army. I would do my country a service if I shot him, would I not? I was exhausted, frightened, angry, and I held a gun in my hand.
    I cocked it with my thumb. I was ready. Come at me! I challenge you! The words were silent in my head, but I willed them to reach him. Come on! Deserter! Coward!
    But he stood there. He did not move at all. I could see his wide eyes staring, frightened. And exhausted, as I was myself. How could I shoot him?
    But if I did not, I would not be safe. Bess would not be safe. And she would lose the horse, which it was my duty to save.
    I tensed my finger on the trigger. It softened and prepared to spring beneath my touch. Still he stood there. His chest rose and fell, his breath smoky in the cold dark air.
    I did not know if he had another pistol in his belt. I could see nothing beneath his red coat but that meant little. If he so much as moved one hand a fraction towards his belt – if he perchance seemed as though he were