None but the most observant would have noticed the chestnut stallion standing motionless between the tall oak trees, and even then found it even more difficult to see the masked figure in the tricorn hat astride the beast
Davey pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling the bitter north wind cutting its path across the high moor. Autumn leaves blowing in angry circles about his horses' feet, causing the big stallion to stamp its feet nervously. He leant down and patted the strong neck of his trusty mount.
"Hush boy, not long now. I'll soon have us galloping through the night."
He knew the Falmouth coach would pass by on the narrow lane below him within the hour. Word had it, the new Magistrate and his lady would be aboard, with their servant, and, of more interest to him, their purses and jewels. For Davey was a highwayman, he had plied his trade in these parts for two years.
He knew well enough that to be caught would mean the hangman's noose, but he was a careful man, never gossiping of his trade in the local taverns. Too many of his profession, he had seen swinging from a gibbet for doing that.
Then a prick of light caught his eye, a lantern's feeble glow showed in the distance. The Falmouth coach was approaching. Pulling back his cloak he checked the two flintlock pistols in his belt, handsome pieces, he had taken from a pompous army Colonel some year or more ago. The man had shown some resistance to parting with them, but a ball from Davey's own piece at his feet had soon persuaded him otherwise.
As the coachman rounded the bend he was confronted by the fallen branch across the narrow road. Cursing, he got down from the driving bench and took hold of it.
ΔΉ
"Can't shift the bugger, get down here, a give us a hand," He called to the coaching guard seated on the rear step of the coach.
Davey smiled to himself as he sat on his horse in the darkness. It had taken the strength of his mount to pull the branch into place, and he knew no one man would move it. Quietly, he urged the horse forward until he was between the coach and the sweating coachmen.
"Stand and deliver. Your money or your life!" Davey yelled, his two pistols drawn and cocked. One was pointing at the two coachmen, the other at the portly gentleman staring, wide-eyed out of the coach.
Eyeing the coachmen, he said, "I have no quarrel with you men, be off with you, or it's is a ball between the eyes for you both." The two men looked at each other, turned and fled.
Davey dismounted his horse, and striding to the coach, pulled open the door. He surveyed the scene with the practised eye one of his profession needed to survive. There were two women sitting huddled together on one side, and the portly man on the other. No weapons were visible, but he knew better than to trust to luck.
He placed the barrel of one pistol against the man's head and said. "Ladies, would you be as kind as to lift your skirts. Many a weapon has been known to nestle in such fine surroundings."
One of the women, obviously the maid, burst into tears.
The other woman turned to the maid, saying, "Hush, Mary! Don't distress yourself, I am sure this 'gentleman' means us no harm."
And without a moment's hesitation, she drew her skirts and petticoats up to her waist. Underneath, she was wearing white pantaloons, which extended to just above her ankles.
"Maybe you wish to check here as well," she said in a haughty voice, and opened her legs wide. In common with the design of the day, her underwear was open at the crotch, and Davey could see a hairy gash in the twinkling light of the coach lanterns.
