Sharpe's Christmas

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THE TWO riflemen crouched at the edge of the field. One, a dark-haired man with a scarred face and hard eyes, eased back the cock of his rifle, aimed, but then, after a few seconds, lowered it. "Too far away, " he whispered.

The second was taller than the first and, like his companion, wore the faded green jacket of the 95th Rifles, but instead of a Baker rifle, he carried a curious volley gun of seven barrels. "No good trying with this, " he whispered, hefting the huge gun, "only works at close range."

"If we get too close they'll run, " the first man said.

"Where can they run to? It's a field, for God's sake."

"So we just walk up and shoot him?"

"Unless you want to strangle the sod."

Major Richard Sharpe lowered his rifle's flint. "Come on, then, " he said, and the two men stood and walked gingerly towards the three bullocks. "You think they'll charge us, Pat?" Sharpe asked.

"They're gelded, sir! " Sergeant Major Patrick Harper offered. "Got about as much spark as three blind mice."

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