Hunting for Silence

06. A Lady's Hero

Your money or your life...

It told me that maybe I had been spending a bit too much time in the company of Mr Rikkard Ambrose that I actually had to think for a moment about which to pick.

Finally, I decided: neither. But before I could grab the arm of the bandit and slam it against the wall, a horrific scream pierced my ear drums and I instinctively clapped my hands over my ears. Bloody hell! That Emilia Harse had a set of lungs on her!

'Stop screaming!' came a slightly panicked voice from outside. Whoever was trying to rob us, didn't seem exactly to be an expert. 'Don't move! Hands above your head! Get out of the coach!'

I raised a hand. 'Um...which first? Don't move, or get out of the coach?'

'Shut up! Get out of the coach, now!'

The ladies immediately jumped to their feet—just what I had been hoping for. Behind their voluminous skirts, I could safely duck down, pull the revolver out of my pocket and conceal it in my sleeve. Thank God I had opted for the handy, purse-sized model.

'Out!' the highwayman demanded. 'Move!'

Of course. Happy to oblige.

The doors swung open, and we all climbed out into the cool night, the ladies wailing and pleading all the while for the bandit to have mercy, and the salesman pleading not to be deprived of his precious sample case. I, on the other hand, was keeping silent. My eyes were sweeping over the mounted figure with the gun. He truly was the real deal. Dark clothes, a fashionable hat, a black cloth tied in front of his face—a real, honest-to-God highwayman.

'Raise your hands, all of you!'

Mr Phelps raised his hands.

Miss Harse raised her hands.

I raised my hand—the one with the gun in it. I aimed.

Bam!

Beside me, Miss Harse screamed again. But this time, she wasn't the only one. Bellowing like a skewered donkey, the highwayman clutched his shoulder and slid off his horse. He hit the ground with a dull thud. Instantly, I rushed forward, kicked away his weapon and aimed the barrel of my gun between his eyes.

'Don't move, you lowlife scum! One twitch, and I'll bow your head off!'

I'd always been dying to say that. The heroes in Western adventure novels you could buy on the street corner for a few pennies always said that when they had bested the villain. All I was missing was a sheriff's star on my chest.

'Ladies and gentlemen?' I glanced at my fellow passengers, who were all still standing with their arms in the air and their mouths wide open. 'Would one of you be so kind as to fetch the miscreant's weapon?'

Nobody moved.

'Get the gun! Now!'

Mr Phelps staggered forward and bent to retrieve the weapon with two fingers.

'It helps if you put the safety back on,' I advised.

He yelped, dropped the gun, and when it didn't go off, bent to pick it up again and carefully put the safety in place.

I cocked my head at him. 'Let me guess—you're not a gun expert.'

'Never touched one in my life! This is a civilised country, Mr Linton. Who needs to be armed in this day and age?'

'We,' I pointed out.

'Oh. Um...I suppose that's right.'

Turning back to the highwayman, I gave him a friendly kick in the ribs.