Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“I’ve suffered from all of them in my time,” Crowe said, faintly but distinctly. “Can’t say I enjoyed ’em much, but they were mainly self-inflicted. This time it wasn’t my fault.”

“Father!"

Eyes still closed, he reached up and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. “I rolled when I hit the ground. Technique was taught to me by a rodeo rider in Albuquerque. If a body relaxes all its muscles and rolls up like a porcupine, it can probably survive a fall worse than that.” He glanced at Sherlock, “I can see that you found out the same thing yourself He paused, closing his eyes momentarily and breathing slowly. “What happened to the coach?”

“They got away,” Sherlock said angrily. “With Matty.”

“An’ the man who stayed behind an’ shot me?”

“Alive but unconscious. We can take him back and question him, I suppose.”

“Yep,” Crowe said darkly, “I s’pose we can.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I can tie him up,” he said. “Then we can sling him over my horse. If you’re all right to ride, Virginia can ride Sandia and I’ll walk.”

“We need to move fast,” Virginia said. For some reason she was blushing, and she wouldn’t look at Sherlock. “Walking would take too long. You can ride behind me.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Crowe said, chuckling. “The ideas are good, but what are you goin’ to use to tie the man up?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. They didn’t have any ropes with them. He could use the reins from his horse, he supposed, but how would they make sure that it stayed with them when they rode off? Could he make some bindings from the reeds on the river bank? Too wet, and it would take too long. “My belt,” he said finally. “I can tie his hands behind his back with my belt.”

Crowe nodded. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Or you can use the twine in my pocket.” He glanced up at Sherlock. “There’s some things a man should always travel with — a knife, wax matches an’ a ball of twine. There ain’t much you can’t do with a combination of knife, matches an’ twine.”

Sherlock took the twine from Crowe and tentatively walked back down the road to where Gilfillan still lay. It was nearly dark by now, and for a terrifying moment Sherlock couldn’t locate the man in the shadows, but eventually he found where he was lying. He tied the man’s hands, wrist crossed over wrist, then left him and walked back to where his horse was cropping grass by the side of the road as if this kind of thing happened every day. Leading the horse back, he left it beside Gilfillan and bent down, trying to work out how to get the man up and on to the horse. Eventually he managed to manoeuvre the American to his knees, still unconscious, then slipped himself underneath the man as he slumped forward, taking the weight on to his upper back. He straightened, pushing with his knees and feeling his muscles protesting as he stood, head bowed forward, Gilfillan’s body balanced precariously across his shoulders. For a moment he panicked, unsure how he was going to get it on to his horse, but by that time Amyus Crowe was standing upright and Virginia could come across to help him. Between the two of them, they got Gilfillan slumped across the saddle of Sherlock’s uncomplaining horse. To stop him sliding off, Sherlock tied Gilfillan’s wrists to the stirrup on one side and his ankles to the stirrup on the other. Finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“I been meanin’ to ask,” Virginia said from beside him, “what did you end up callin’ your own horse?”

“I haven’t given it a name,” Sherlock replied.

She seemed surprised. “Why not?”

“Couldn’t see the point. Horses don’t know they have names.”

“Sandia knows her name.”

“No, she knows the sound of your voice. I doubt she understands words.”

“For a kid who knows so much,” she said critically, “you sure don’t know very much.”

The four of them made a sorry-looking bunch as they cantered back to Amyus Crowe’s cottage — Crowe slumped forward on his horse, Virginia on Sandia with Sherlock pressed close behind her and his own horse bringing up the rear with Gilfillan lying across it. The journey back seemed to take forever. Tiredness weighed Sherlock down like a heavy blanket. His scratches itched, and all he wanted to do was to roll into bed and sleep for as many hours as he could possibly cram in.

It was well and truly night when they arrived back, and Mycroft was standing in the doorway.

“Sherlock!" he called, “I was—" He stopped. His voice, it seemed to Sherlock, was higher pitched than normal. He seemed to be struggling with some great emotion.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said tiredly. “We’re fine. I mean, Mr Crowe has been shot, we have a prisoner and we didn’t get Matty back, but we’re all still alive.”

“I had no way of knowing what had happened,” Mycroft said as Sherlock slipped off Sandia’s back. “There were several courses of action open to me, but I was not sure which one was best.”

“Shouldn’t you have caught your train by now?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “If necessary, I can find a comfortable hotel for the night.”

“But won’t your superiors be annoyed when you don’t turn up to work tomorrow?”

Mycroft frowned, as if the concept of a “superior” was a curious concept. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out. “I suppose so.” He brightened. “Although what is happening here may well have a direct impact on international relations, and so does fall within my ambit. If necessary, however, I can always charter a special train to take me back to London overnight.”

Sherlock gazed at him, wide-eyed. “You can do that?”

“I have never had to, so far, but I believe my Terms of Reference do permit me the occasional indulgence, yes. Now, tell me everything.”

While he and Virginia helped Amyus Crowe off his horse and the four of them went inside, leaving the American unconscious and strapped to Sherlock’s horse, he told his brother the events of the night since they had left the cottage earlier. Virginia filled in some details that he had missed, and when he was talking about the fight with the American he felt Virginia’s hand resting on his arm in concern. Mycroft too winced at how close Sherlock had come to death on several occasions.

“It is not clear what the best course of action is,” Mycroft said eventually, when they were all settled in chairs with drinks in front of them. “Until your prisoner wakes up, we seem to have made use of every bit of information we have. Time and resources are not on our side.”

“I could wake him up,” Crowe said quietly. And then have a quiet word with him. Civilized, like.”

“Forceful questioning is not an option,” Mycroft said warningly. “The man may be a villain in at least two countries, but he has the right to be treated in a civilized manner until he is actually convicted of a crime, and even then he is not something that can be treated roughly at the behest of anyone in authority. As one of the oldest and one of the youngest civilized countries, Britain and America have an obligation to set an example to the rest of the world. If we act barbarically then we have no right to stop anyone else from acting barbarically and the world will slide into anarchy’

“Even if politeness leads to the injury or death of someone we should be protectin”?” Crowe asked.

“Even then,” Mycroft said. “We must maintain the moral high ground, no matter what tempts us down into the valleys of iniquity.”

“I have an idea,” Sherlock said, surprising himself. It was true, something was rolling around in his mind like a marble in a tin tray, but he hadn’t quite figured out the full implications of it yet.