When Peter and Davy ran, Will ran after them. He did not stop to think. He knew only that he could not stand by like an idle lackey while Mack took on Roger Ruffneck. Without a sword he was swift and agile. He had Mack’s pistol securely tucked inside his belt. The desire for revenge pulsed through his veins.
Will’s mind was working as fast as his legs. What would he do if he caught Davy and Peter? The odds were against him in a fight. He would demand their purses, and if they had twenty-five crowns between them he would take the money and let them go. If they tried to overcome him he would fire the pistol. What if he happened to kill one of them? His dreams would die at the end of a hangman’s rope. He decided he would only threaten to use the pistol.
Keeping Peter and Davy in his sight, Will dashed through the maze of streets, dodging chickens and small children. Slowly he gained ground. He was close enough to smell the cloying French perfume that trailed Davy like a cloud. He could see the dandy’s boots coming apart, the heels flapping.
“Just take them off,” Will heard Peter shout.
“Nay, these cost me ten shillings!” said Davy, mincing along on his toes.
Will saw the crash coming. But Davy was looking over his shoulder at Will while the handcart piled with straw and dung creaked its way toward him. By the time he turned around again, the cart was upon him and he ran headlong into it. The carter lost control and tipped his load and Davy into the street. With a loud crack the cart broke into pieces.
Will supposed it was a sort of thieves’ honor that made Peter stop running when Davy fell. Or it was dumb surprise. Will soon caught up with them, halting just short of the malodorous mess.
Davy crawled out of the slime and shouted at the carter, “You rank and crusty dung dealer! I’ll sue you for ruining my clothes.”
“The devil take you! I’ll sue you for breaking my cart.” The enraged carter began to beat him with a shovel.
Peter pushed the carter, who growled and turned on him. Will heard the crack of a bone breaking. Peter howled and grabbed his twisted left arm with his right. The carter swung around again and hit Davy in the head. He was a powerful fellow with arms as big around as hams. Will knew he should act and stop the mayhem. He put his hand on the pistol.
The blast stunned even Will. The carter dropped his shovel and fell backward onto his buttocks.
“You killed him!” said Peter.
Will stared at his hand holding the smoking pistol. The carter didn’t appear to be bleeding. About three feet away was a blackened, bowl-shaped hole in the street. Will’s relief was immense but momentary. He was holding three miscreants at bay with an empty pistol.
“Hold, all of you. I’ll shoot the next man who moves!” he said.
Fortunately his foes were in no state to run away. A whimpering Peter cradled his broken arm, and muck-covered Davy his sore head. Will hastily sprinkled fresh powder into the pistol.
“Who are you?” demanded the carter.
“I am a notorious bandit in these parts. These villains know me well,” said Will. He carefully waved the pistol at Davy and Peter. “I trusted you and you shook me down. Now you will taste my vengeance.”
“It was not me that robbed you,” lied Peter. “See, my arm is broken.”
“Stow it, Peter. Your brain is broken. And you, Will Shankspeer, are a white-livered bumpkin. Ha!”
Will thought he was behaving quite boldly and Davy’s accusation made him furious. “You ingrate!” he said. “I saved you both from that dunghill madman. You owe your lives to me. For twenty-five crowns I’ll spare you. Empty your pockets and your purses.”
“You go first,” murmured Davy.
Moving only his eyes, Peter glanced toward the black hole in the street. “No, you. He said he would shoot the first one of us who moves. I am afeard of pistols.”
Neither of them stirred. Will knew that if a constable arrived he would be the one arrested, for he was brandishing the pistol. Davy smirked, for he knew it too. The carter was getting restless.
“Yield every penny to me. Now! Or you shall not live to regret it,” said Will.
Uttering yelps of pain, Peter struggled with his good arm to reach his opposite pocket and managed to throw his purse at Will’s feet. Davy dropped his in the mire.
Will picked them up, emptied them, and quickly tallied the coins. His heart sank. The total was less than five crowns. He pocketed the coins and threw down the empty purses. “You are still twenty crowns short.”
Peter held his arm and looked at the ground. Davy shrugged.
At once Will knew where they kept their money.
“Take off your shoes and give them to me.”
Peter removed his shoes and shoved them toward Will with his bare foot. Davy reluctantly stepped out of his boots. The satin was soiled, the heels hanging useless. Will shook the boots, peered inside, then tossed them away. He examined Peter’s shoes, wrinkling his nose at their rancid odor.
Nothing.
He flung the shoes down in disgust. What a disappointing ending to the scene of his revenge!
“Can I have my boots back?” said Davy. “They cost me ten shillings.”
Will picked up Davy’s boots and Peter’s shoes and tucked them under his arm. He would let the foul thieves walk home on bare feet.
“Aren’t you going to shoot us now?” said Davy with a sneer.
Will considered his pistol. He did not trust the thing. He put in in his belt, making sure the barrel was pointed away from his body.
“I gladly would, but I purpose to get my twenty crowns from you yet,” he said, turning to leave and finding his way blocked.
“My cart is broken.” The carter had resumed his grip on the deadly shovel.
“’Tis not my fault, sirrah,” said Will. “Let me pass.”
The carter stood his ground like a brick wall. The sight of the money had made him bold.
“’Twas that knave’s doing and he owes me.” The carter nodded his head toward Davy without taking his eyes from Will. “But you took his money. So now you owe me.”
Will could not argue with his logic. But he was not about to relinquish his hard-won five crowns. “Then sue me, varlet,” he said, slipping to the side in order to escape.
The carter was quicker than Will expected. He grabbed Will by the jerkin and hoisted him off the ground. His hot breath, fouler than the stench of his dung, assaulted Will’s nose. He imagined himself lying in the street with dogs gnawing his limbs. His fingers found the coins in his pocket and he dropped them to the ground. They fell into the powder-blackened hole.
The moment his feet touched the ground, Will ran. Penniless again, he clutched two shoes and a pair of boots with broken heels.