Chapter 4. The Game's Afoot

One of the ponies in Ferdi's string would stand under saddle. Starfire was not that pony.

In the days of the Troubles, long before Starfire's time, Ferdi would ride his steady Dapple into ruffian territory, dismount, and leave the mare to stand in a thicket, her dappled brown coat hiding her well in the leaves and shadows, while he crept forward to hear the Men as they talked, sitting round a small campfire, laying plans for the benefit of the Tooks. Perhaps "benefit" was not the proper word. In any event, Dapple, when she had a saddle on, would stand patiently until Ferdi returned to lead her quietly away, with the Men no wiser, unless he had the necessity to mount and gallop off through the woods, his taunting laughter floating back to his overlarge, clumsy, crashing pursuers.

Ah, those were the days.

On this night, however, he was riding a fiery stallion, not a gentle mare.

Ferdi stiffened as a chorus of barking broke out around them. Starfire reared up suddenly, reared and plunged, striking out in every direction. Ferdi missed the stirrups and grabbed too late at the saddle, and next thing he knew the ground rose up to knock the breath out of him.

Stunned, he curled himself into a ball where he lay, arms protecting his head, expecting to hear Starfire's whistle of defiance turn to shrieks as the pack of dogs tore at him and the battle began in earnest, but no, instead he heard rapid hoofbeats pounding against the gravelled road, fading rapidly, along with the excited baying of the pursuing dogs.

Lovely.

Ferdi had a nightmare memory of another encounter with stray dogs that had not turned out so well, for him or for the pony. It had been a near thing, but at that time Starfire had come plunging onto the scene and trampled the attacking dogs under his slashing hoofs. It seemed that he'd saved Ferdi from dogs once again, this time by leading them away.

Rounding up strays was the business of the Shirriffs, and he muttered under his breath about the efficiency of the local hobbit. Stray dogs were a nuisance and a danger, for in a pack they'd abandon training and any friendliness they might have towards hobbits.

On the other hand, the strong cheese in the saddlebags had made Ferdi wrinkle his nose. What must it be, to a dog's more sensitive faculty? It was no wonder the pack had been drawn to follow them, and then to pursue the fleeing stallion. Ferdi's luck had held, it seemed; no dogs remained to menace him.

The rain began to bucket down, feeling almost like hail in its pounding force.

Ferdi pulled himself together and groaned to his feet. He'd have to trudge along until he came to a farm, beg or borrow a pony, and set off after Starfire. He'd no doubt that pony would run all the way back to the Great Smials, given half a chance, whether or not the dogs pursued him all the way. That pony was not one to let the grass grow under his feet, and he knew his way home, and that his manger would be filled with oats when he got there.

In fact, without Ferdi's weight to cumber him, likely the pony would arrive well before the dawning. The stablehands might even be awake yet, returning from the festivities to greet Starfire on his arrival. Pippin would get his breakfast ham, all right. But would he eat it? Likely he'd be out in the predawn darkness, leading a search party in the pounding, cold rain, and catch his death.

Such a thing could not be borne.

He forced himself into a run, moving along the road in his pony's wake at his best speed, his cloak flying behind him. He'd be soaked to the skin in no time at all, but what did it matter? He had to get back to the Great Smials just as soon after Starfire as was hobbitly possible.

He didn't know how far he'd run when he thought he saw a glimmer of light ahead, for the miles seemed to stretch on before him forever. He only hoped he hadn't got turned around in the fall. Wouldn't it be just the thing to be running northwards?

But no, Starfire had bolted in this direction, and the pony's instinct would have called him homewards.

He was wet to the skin, as he'd anticipated, and splashing through cold puddles now, and he imagined that his breath was smoking in the cold air, if he could but see it. But he put his head down and ran with all he had in him, and the light crawled slowly closer.At last he saw it, a cottage a little way off the road, of the sort a shepherd might inhabit when he was in from the field. Indeed there was a stone sheepfold to one side, Ferdi passed it as he jogged up the lane, outlined in the light shining from the cottage window, but the fold was empty of woolly life. Was the shepherd out, then, somewhere in the surrounding hills?

But someone was at home in the little cottage, surely. No one would leave a lamp in the window, burning bright, and nobody at home.

He reached the door and bent over, panting, then raised a fist to pound on the door.

He was greeted by the sound of barking, and a heavy body slammed against the sturdy wood. Of course a shepherd would have dogs, to mind the sheep. But if the sheep were out, surely the dogs would be out as well.

This did not sound like a sheepdog. The sheepdogs Ferdi knew were rather more silent in their manner, quietly menacing, crouching and running and staring the sheep into submission.

This sounded rather more like a large, fierce dog, of the sort Ferdi'd heard about in stories told by Pippin and Merry, of Farmer Maggot and his fields of mushrooms and marauding Brandybucks and their visiting cousins.

And this dog was on the inside of the door that Ferdi had been hoping would open to welcome him into warmth and light.

Just lovely.