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.
‘Hey, you!’
He gave a yelp of pain, clutching the spot on his pretty coat where blood was beginning to seep through the cloth.
‘You shot me!’ he exclaimed, as if he’d never heard of anything so scandalous in his life. After all, who could possibly consider doing something as crass as shooting a dangerous criminal in self-defence? ‘You shot me!’
‘Yes, and there are still plenty of spots without holes to aim for. So get up on your feet, will you? Chop, chop!’
I had never seen a man jump to his feet so fast, with the possible exception of Rikkard Ambrose when he smelled charities or creditors approaching. Jabbing my gun into his back and feeling quite fabulous about myself, I forced the man to climb onto the roof of the coach.
‘What now?’ he demanded.
I grinned.
‘Someone,’ I called down to the others who were still standing there gaping up at me. A few still hadn’t lowered their hands. ‘Throw me a bit of rope!’
Soon, the cursing highwayman was secured, with both arms tied to the luggage rack on top the carriage. Jumping down, I wiped my hands on my trousers—and only then noticed the looks of my fellow passengers. They were gazing at me as if I had sprouted horns and a spare set of muscular arms.
‘Um…and you’re sure you are a secretary?’ young Mr Phelps enquired.