A Mystery Of Errors

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There was nothing quite so invigorating to the senses, Smythe decided, as ending a long and dusty day by being robbed.

The mounted highwayman came plunging out of the thick underbrush at the side of the road like a specter rising from the mist as he reined in with one hand and drew his wheel-lock with the other. His black courser reared and neighed loudly as the masked man shouted out, “Stand and deliver!”

Even under such startling and intimidating circumstances, Smythe could not help an instinctual assessment of the brigand’s mount. A powerful and heavily muscled Hungarian with a proud carriage and admirable conformation, the courser pawed at the ground and pranced in place, responding to the knee pressure of its rider. The hooked head and bushy tail were characteristic of the breed, as was the long, thick mane that reached below the knees and would require a good deal of loving curry-combing to look so splendid and silky. A magnificent animal, thought Smythe, well-schooled and obviously well cared for. And the horse’s master had a sense of the dramatic, too, something else Smythe could not help appreciating, despite the pistol aimed squarely at his chest.

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