It was a hard gallop to Kingsgate, and Smith rode directly to the Hargreaves’ house.
“He shot my son!” Mrs Hargreaves said as Smith pushed open the door and strode inside. “Bowlt shot my boy!”
“I know,” Smith said. “How is Job?”
“He’ll live,” Mrs Hargreaves said. “Job’s a strong boy, but he’s hurt.”
“Where is he?”
“In there!” Mrs Hargreaves jerked a stubby thumb to an open door.
Job Hargreaves lay in a bed, white-faced and with a bloody bandage over his chest and left arm.
“What happened?” Smith asked.
“We were travelling on the Appleby Road,” Job said, “three miles after the Birch Ford, where the road dips into a hollow.”
“I know the place,” Smith said.
“Three men came from the front and three from behind,” Job said, “with Lightning Bowlt in charge and a woman, or a slightly mad
