It was a dark and stormy night.
I was wandering the moors with my old dog Smokey who enjoyed chasing rabits and generally enjoying bounding in and out of the the fog like a loony ghost.
There was lighting flickering all round the horizon. I was counting each flash and trying to guess how far away each was by the number I had counted when the booming thunder startled Smokey back out of the fog to be at my side. Such a brave hound.
We were nearing Dead Man’s Peak, which was always the turning point in our walks. The wind-blasted gallows-tree would soon be in sight. As we approached. A great fork of lightning illuminated the tree.
Silhouetted there I saw two men. In the instant of the flash I saw something raised then another flash. This was no lightening although the double-barrelled boom mingled with the thunder clap. In the reddening after-glow I saw the other fall and halted stock still.
Smokey whimpered to my side as we both crouched to silence. I could hear a voice growl “And that’s fer tha maid behin’ tha baaaaarrrrrrr”.
Smokey pressed in close and let out a small whine before I could get a hand on his muzzle.
From the peak i heard a click and another boom accompanied by a flash that surely must have revealed me and the hound. Pellets whistled into the grass to the right hissing and clacking. I was sure the next round would find us so I pressed down flat, hard and to the right, rolling the dog tight beneath me under my cloak. We held our breaths.
“Stand up and le’me see ya” the voice grinded. I kept very still. Smokey seemed to get the drift and held himself rigid.
This was a bind indeed. I knew the asailant would search the hill for us, we dare not move for fear of discovery, and when he found us at last, it would be the end for sure.
I needed a tool, some kind of weapon or method to even the odds and, at least grant me a few more breaths. My hand started searching the ground for a rock, a stick. Anything.
My questing fingers found something round and rod-like. An old brass pipe. At only a foot in length and not very hefty it would not afford an effective missile so I had to think hard.
In my desparation, my plan was this - I would tie my white handkerchief on this pathetic stick and stand to waive it shouting “I surrender”. Hopefully this ruse would distract the villain long enough to get close enough to get a grip on his fiendish neck.
I fumbled my hankerchief free and silently tied it. Then stood up.
I only had time to shout “I …” when the flash and boom hit my senses. The half-raised surrender flag took the full brunt of the blast and spun me round. In my fright my sphincter tightened nearly as hard as my hand. I felt the poor flag crush beneath my grip as I rolled down the hill.
Alive still. Smokey had got the better part of valour and was scuttling away bravely down the hill abandonning me and my tatterd strategy.
The villain pumped 3 shots after Smokey as he escaped, leaving me to divine my next move.
All I had left was an old brass pipe full of holes and trailing shreds of cloth with one end crushed still beneath my gripping hand. What could I do?
I examined my palfry weapon to see if there was, at least, a sharpened edge, but all I found was a collection of neat little holes where the shot-pellets had done thier work. There was nothing left for me to do.
Quickly I stood and puffed the tube. For sure the notes rang true and I started up the Silver Spear (which I’d never played before, let alone on a tube-with-holes-in-it)!
At this the assailant drew forth with double-death aimed at my scone shouting “no no No! you got it all wrong! the roll is on the up beat you fool! Le’me show you how it’s done!” He dropped his aim and whipped-out a Feadog.
Jim and I still go to sessions. I never asked who that was on the moor and Smokey still howls whenever he hears the Silver Spear.
