The Killing Man by Andrew Wareham

Author:Andrew Wareham [Wareham, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B07CQP3NH4
Publisher: The Electronic Book Company
Published: 2018-04-26T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

The Killing Man

Sam worked steadily at the little pit, cutting coals for five or six hours every day and then spending another hour shifting rock to build small pillars in the hope of holding up the tunnel he was making. The coal seam sloped slightly downwards along the side of the moor, and back below the top, two and three hundred feet of rock above it. He gained the impression that it was a wide, flat sheet, thinning out a little towards its edges; he followed the thickest part, the easiest to cut.

Tom came every day, took a full chaldron down to town and, presumably, sold it there.

Josie rode up most days, sitting in the sun, if it shone, and talking about very little, making it clear that she was happy in his company. Sam was pleased to welcome her, was happier still when she left – there was far too much of a chance of trouble, he thought. He would be glad to meet her in her parent’s house but did not like the potential for anger in what amounted to clandestine contact with a maiden of the upper classes. He had never met her father, thought that he must do so, and soon.

Autumn turned into an early winter; Sam wondered whether he was to continue on the moors, or if it might be wiser to close down the pit for the coldest months. The decision was made for him on a bitterly freezing night in November.

The frost had set in early on a clear evening, moon almost full and Sam sat over his fire, surprisingly warm and comfortable. He had managed to extend his fireplace and build a solid stone backing that reflected the heat into his little room. He had stacked rocks on the outside to make a dogleg entrance with heather tied to a hurdle as a roof, still without a door but at least dry and keeping the warm air inside. The great drawback to his bothy was that the very rough little privy he had cobbled up was some fifty yards distant, well downhill of the stream and his water supply. The need was upon him and he wrapped his heavy overcoat about him and stirred from the fire, picking up the pistols which he always kept loaded and close to hand. He much doubted that he would ever need the hand guns, but if he did, then he would want them instantly – they would be of no use at a distance or sat empty.

There were owls hooting and screeching, a little more noise than usual. He made his way down the track he had created, eased himself and then turned to come back, watchful, scanning the moorside, picking up faint movement from the corner of his eye. He stepped thirty yards cautiously, into the cover of a clump of thick brambles, dropped to one knee and looked out over the moor, quartering the hillside slowly, watching the track down to Leek particularly.

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