Fair Blows the Wind

by Louis L'Amour

  We had lately crossed a wild and broken moor not too far from the sea. It was there that I directed my steps. Once, when I had begun to climb, I looked back.

  Parties of riders could be seen sweeping along the lanes. I kept from sight and plodded on. Soon they would come this way, and I must find a place to hide.

  Wandering the lanes as we did, we usually paid small mind to where we were, and I only knew that somewhere off to the west lay the sea. We were in the Lake Country or near it, and as once I had fled to the sea and escaped, it was in my mind to do so again. Soon I reached the cover of an oak wood and then a deep ravine where I climbed carefully over some mossy rocks, using my cane to good effect. Clambering out of the ravine, I crossed over a grassy place and entered a clump of yew that covered a knoll. There, under shelter of the woods, I paused to consider my course.

  Undoubtedly when the lads who attacked us had set the countryside upon us, they had told some tale of violence or theft. Many parties of horsemen and others would be scouring the country in search of us, and were we found it would go hard. For no explanation would suffice against the accusation of one of their own.

  The place I had now reached was on a steep mountainside and the yew was thick. No horseman would ride down this slope, and I doubted that any of the ruffians who attacked us would. Such folk were not apt to go where the traveling was hard. So it might be best to remain where I was for the time and not chance the moors or grassland above until darkness fell. What I feared most was dogs. If they brought dogs to search for us, we would be found. At least, I would be.

  It was late afternoon and if the next hour or two were passed in safety, I might yet go free.

  Below me the land lay wide under the mouth of the ravine. Here and there were clumps of yew, then patches of oak, and below a checkerboard of fields and pastures. A lovely, peaceful land, but not for me. I was again in flight….Would there never be a place to rest? Never a place where I could stop and serve? Where I could do something of worth without forever living in fear?

  It came to me then that I must be away from England if I wished to be free. And yet I had grown to love this land and many of its people.

  Why must London forever hold out a beckoning finger? What awaited me there, if anything? Had not many warned me against the hazards of that city?

  Slowly the shadows gathered behind me while the valley below still lay bathed in sunlight. Here and there I could see distant troops of horsemen wending their homeward way. Had they found my friends?

  The haycocks now…how had Kory known of them? Were there many such, scattered about in unused fields or ancient pastures, places of which the gypsies knew, and to which they could resort in time of need? No doubt, I decided, there were.

  At last I arose. If I were to choose my way, I must be going now, before all was darkness. Slowly, I walked through the yew and emerged upon the hillside. My muscles were stiff from sitting on the damp earth and I was tired from the running and climbing, but I knew I must get on.

  Over the rim of the hill I mounted, and out into the angry red of a vanished sun. Streaks of scarlet and gold-laced clouds lay in the west and the heather moor lay about me. I stood alone upon it as if in a world newly born from the primeval darkness, or sinking again into that from which it came.

  And then they were coming at me.

  There were four of them, walking their horses toward me, led by the same big young man who had led them below. “See?” he was saying. “Did I not know where to come? Did I not tell you?”

  The others divided, and slowly they surrounded me. My sword-cane was in my hand. They knew it only as a stick, so let them learn if they would. At least one of them would die before I was killed.

  No use for me to run. On their fleet horses, on this almost level mountain top, I would be an easy prey. Could I kill all four?

  “We have him now, and we shall have some sport of him.”

  “Why not take him below,” one asked, “and let the law have him?”

  “Don’t be a child!” the big one scoffed. “We will have him. The law can have what we leave of him.”

  The youngest might have been no older than my fourteen years, but the others were two to four years older. At least two of them were larger than I, and at least one was stronger. All were armed with sticks, at least two had daggers, and the large one a sword. If I escaped the circle and ducked back over the edge where they were not likely to try and bring the horses, I might evade them for a time or until those came who would take me to prison. For vagabonds had no rights that anyone recognized.

  To allow them to have their way and torture me was unthinkable, and during the more than two years I had been dodging, evading, and hiding from the law, my mind had grown quick with stratagems.

  Their method was obvious. They would move in upon me, ringing me with their horses and themselves, and at any move I should make to escape, a horse would be put before me. I was trapped, and they knew it. Deliberately, I put my sword-cane in my belt and spread my arms as if surrendering.

  The big one laughed. “See? He is a coward as well! He will not fight! Well, we will see.”

  He thrust at me with his stick and I dodged. He was too strong, much too strong. The others began to do likewise, and there was one who was astride a splendid sorrel gelding, a handsome horse, long-bodied and long-legged.

  He thrust at me, almost got me, then thrust again. A stick caught my ribs and ripped my shirt, tearing a thin scratch along my ribs. I felt the sting of it, but dodged again, caught a short but ringing blow on my skull, and then the lad on the sorrel leaned far forward, thrusting at me.

  It was the moment for which I had waited. Instantly, I grasped the stick and jerked…hard.

  He was too far forward and off balance, and my jerk took him from the saddle. He fell, crying out, and as he hit the earth I ducked under a blow, grasped the pommel, and swung myself to the empty saddle.

  Once again my horsemanship stood me in good stead, and the horse beneath me was quite the best of the lot. The big lad rode as good a horse, perhaps, but outweighed me by fifty or sixty pounds. I hit the saddle, clapped my heels to the horse’s ribs, and took the sorrel away on a dead run.

  I had the start of them. Knowing what I planned to do gave me that start and my mount had three good jumps before they realized, and another before they straightened out to run. And I fled into the open land beyond, toward the still-distant sea.

  They came after me. Their angry shouts rang in my ears and I heard the pound of hooves behind me, but the sorrel was a fine horse and it loved to run. A glance back showed me I now led them by at least five lengths and was gaining. They rode wildly, heedlessly, thoughtless of their mounts. I eased my speed a little for I knew not how far I must go and I chose the better ground. Hence despite easing the speed I held my lead, and darkness was close upon us. Once the dark came, I should have a chance.

  Glancing back again, I saw that one of them had fallen out of the race, for what reason I knew not. Lack of will, perhaps, for it had been easily seen that he who led them drove them as well. Two only pursued me now, and one of those was falling back.

  On into the gathering dark I raced, straight toward the place where the sun had set, and now only one horse was pursuing. Suddenly, I know not what devil possessed me, I slowed my pace and swung my horse around to face him. He came thundering on, realizing too late that I had stopped, and as he pulled up hastily, I slapped heels to my sorrel and charged him. My mount hit his at the shoulder as he was reining in and his horse staggered and went down.

  He was quick, oh, so very quick! He leaped from the saddle as his horse fell, and sprang at me. I reined my horse away and thrust at him with the sword-cane, the blade still sheathed. It grazed the side of his head and staggered him and I pivoted the horse and came at him again. He lunged at me but I swung the horse away and drove my heel into the big la
d’s shoulder.

  It was a wrong move, for his hand grasped my leg and the next I knew I was sprawling on the earth and he was standing over me.

  “Hah!” he said. “Now we shall see!”

  Having wrestled much, I did not try to escape but threw my weight against his legs. It might as well have been against the side of a barn, for he gave not an inch but stooped to grab me. Catching his sleeve, I jerked hard and he fell forward. I was the more agile and was out from under him and on my feet.

  He came up swiftly but I struck him hard in the face as he rose. It slowed him not at all, yet I hit him again before he was up, then leaped for my sword-cane.

  He saw me pick it up and drew his sword.

  We faced each other on the moors in the half-light. Already the stars were out, yet we had been in the darkness and each could see plainly enough.

  From the sheath I drew my blade. It was a small blade, as such sword-cane blades are apt to be, shorter by inches than the usual sword. He had the reach of me, anyway, by several inches.

  He whipped his blade this way and that as if to show me he knew what he was about. I simply waited, trusting to my new skill to equal the reach he had. That I was good with a blade I well knew. It had been obvious that in our last few weeks I had been forcing Kory to his limit, so I stepped forward willingly enough.

  High on the western moors of England, then, we fought by starlight, and within a matter of minutes I knew I had met my master.

  It was not to be believed. Kory was good. All had said he was the best, and I was now as good, yet no sooner had we begun than I realized that this tall youth had skill beyond belief. Nor could I claim it was the length of his blade or his superior reach, for he was simply better.

  “Hah!” he exclaimed. “So you have fenced? What are you then? Who are you?”

  “It does not matter,” I said.

  “No,” he agreed, “for when I have had my exercise I shall kill you. I shall spit you like a goose.”

  He handled himself with consummate skill. He was casual with me, not careless, for he could see I was better than most. He handled my best with indifference, and I knew that unless I could think of some trick, some means of subtlety, I would be dead within minutes.

  He was toying with me. Once he merely pricked my chest when he might have killed me with a thrust. He simply smiled tauntingly and said, “Next time!”

  Back, back…I fought carefully, sweat pouring down my cheeks, a cold sweat, for death was very near. How could he be so great when I had learned so much? It was unreal. Yet even though death was near and I hated the man, I marveled at his skill. Despite his great strength he had the delicate touch of the master, and a strength in his wrist and fingers I could scarcely believe.

  Suddenly I sensed a change in his blade, that most sensitive antenna reaching out to touch me. I sensed a change and knew. Now he would kill me. Now I would die.

  Was my life all for nothing, then? My hopes gone? My dreams blasted? All my struggles for nothing? All the hopes of my father that I might found a family and let our blood march on down the centuries to come? Was this to be the end, here on this dark moor by starlight?

  The ground slanted downward behind me. I found myself on a slight slope, which gave him the greater height, the greater advantage. What was happening? Where was I? There was no chance to look to right or left now, it was parry and thrust, and then suddenly I felt rather than saw a vast gulf opening behind me. His blade was up, poised for a thrust, and I threw myself back and down, falling backward, hoping to strike the turf and roll, to get away, to escape by any means.

  I fell, an impossible distance. My shoulders hit the ground with a thump, and I lost my grip on the sword-cane and it fell from me. I rolled over and tumbled, head over heels into a black, misty void. I tried to catch myself but there was nothing on which to lay hold and the slope was impossibly steep. I was falling, into what awful depth I knew not, but over and over I tumbled until suddenly I was brought up with a sickening thud upon some rocks.

  How far had I fallen? Perhaps not more than ten or a dozen feet in that first sheer fall, but I must have tumbled down the rest of the slope, sliding, falling, tumbling again for several hundred feet.

  A moment I lay still, surrounded by darkness and fog. Then, slowly, I rolled over and tried to push myself up, only to gasp with shock at my torn hands.

  I rolled to my knees and stood up. No bones were broken that I could feel. Yet I hurt in every part of my body and my hands were bloody, my face as well.

  I must escape…I must somehow get away. There was bound to be a way down and they would come for me. Dumbly, hurt and shamed that I had been so thoroughly beaten, I stumbled away into the mist. I could see nothing but the fog. There was heather around; I knew that because I brushed against it. I was on a moorland or something like. On and on I plodded, stupid with pain and weariness, knowing only that help—if any there was to be—lay far from here. I must get away before the morning light came again.

  I tripped and sprawled my length. For a moment I lay, as I was wishing only to stay there, even to die there, but something within me urged me up and on.

  Time and again I fell, time and again I got up. Often I lay still for minutes, but always something drove me on. Finally, as day was breaking I came upon a copse choked with brush. Crawling into it, I lay still, more dead than alive. Yet the last thought with me as I lay there was: How could I have lost? How could he have been so much superior?

  A long time I slept, muttering in my half-sleep, crying out as some sore place touched the earth, until at last the cold dawn came and with it awakening.

  Cold and wet. There had been the mist, and then the dew, perhaps. I shivered and tried to sit up. My muscles were stiff and heavy, my head was hard to hold up, my eyesight blurred as I stared about. Only the copse, the brush, the fallen leaves, a few broken branches. Groaning, I crawled out and stood cautiously up.

  Nothing was about…I was alone. Alone on a vast, wide, unknown land. Yet there was a smell in it of the sea, a smell from the westward.

  From among the broken branches I found one that would do for a staff, and I started on. All the morning through I walked. Clouds gathered. The sky was a sullen gray. Rain began to fall. On I went, staggering a little at times, but pushing on.

  To where? To a destiny somewhere, a destiny I must fulfill. At last I came to a stream and on its banks I sat down. After resting, I bathed my face, and bathed my bloody, gravel-torn hands. They were a fearful sight, and my face, too, from what I could see of it. Yet gingerly, I washed that, too.

  Then I drank, and I drank again.

  Refreshed, I looked around. A few trees bordered the stream, nothing else. At last, fearfully hungry, I got to my feet. Stooping to pick up my staff, I almost fell again.

  I started downstream. For some inexplicable reason I was heading for the sea. What awaited me there I did not know, except that to me it symbolized escape. At the sea began all things—and ended all things, perhaps. In which direction was I pointed? To another beginning, or to an end? I had no way of knowing. Nevertheless, I continued, because it was in me to go on, to persevere; so it was, and so my whole life long it would be.

  The stream wound onward, sometimes through low hills, sometimes higher ones, occasionally on the flat, but steadily it ran down slope, and somewhere ahead was the sea.

  Suddenly, a voice. “You, there! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  It took my eyes a moment to focus, for I’d taken a bad rap on the skull and they functioned not at all well. It was a man, a man in a cart.

  “It would seem so,” I said. “I had a fall.”

  “Come along then,” he said. “Climb in and I shall take you where we can look— My faith, but you’re bloody! Was it only a fall, then?”

  “Only a fall,” I said. “And a little hunger.”

  CHAPT
ER 11

  HE GAVE ME a long, careful look. “You are but a lad,” he said gently. “Have you no home, then?”

  “I have none. What I once had is gone and will not be again until I make it of myself.”

  “Where are you from?”

  The question was not one I wished to answer, so I simply said I had been going toward the sea and had a bad fall in the darkness and the fog. When I described what I could of the place, he nodded and suggested, “Near Hardnose Pass, I have no doubt. There is a rough, wild country yon.”

  The pony plodded steadily on. “My cottage is but a little way along,” the driver said, “and you can stay the night if you are so minded. We can have a look at those hands, for they are in fearful shape.”

  On and on we went, interminably, it seemed to me. I dozed, awoke, and dozed again. I was awakened by his pulling into the yard of a thatched cottage, a well-built place with stables about and some other animals.

  A man came from the stable. “Ben? See to the pony. I will speak with you later.”

  Staggering with weariness as I was, I hesitated. To stop here might be to be trapped, although I had come a goodly distance. “I have far to go,” I said, “and must be getting on, although I am obliged for the ride you have given me.”

  “What is it? Are you pursued, then?”

  “It may be that I am,” I said, “although they be scoundrels who would pursue me. Yet I have no friends, and they have many.”

  “You have a friend in me,” he said. “Come in, lad.”

  It was warm and pleasant within, a fire on the hearth and a table set with trenchers for our eating. A woman stood looking at us. Her hair was fair with a tinge of red to it and her cheeks were flushed from the fire. “I heard your voices, and there’s a-plenty for both.”