Chapter 50. I pass beneath the sign of The Prancing Pony 

When we reach the inn, my Ranger-guide dismounts. His horse and I need no lead rein or rope to follow him under the archway leading to the courtyard and the stables beyond, where a Hobbit greets us when my guide pushes the large door aside to let us enter. I remember this fellow, for he fed me the most delicious meal and made sure I had a full water bucket. He also brushed my ill-kempt coat, gently but thoroughly, before fitting a harness on me so that Our Big Man and my Hobbits could load me with all the baggage I could manage to carry at that time.

I carried a much heavier load when we left that marvellous Valley that is no longer my destination; at least, the Valley is no longer my destination at this particular time. I do not know what the future holds, of course. But then, I was able to carry a heavier load when we left the Valley again because my Hobbits and I had rested and eaten well for an extended period – more days than I could count – before setting out again with the entire Company.

Though I am leaner than I was on the day that my Sam and I left Bree together, following the Master, I am made of hard-earned muscle and sinew now. Appearances can be deceiving; I believe I could carry as much or more than I did before, if need be. Still, my ill-fed appearance might win me another hearty meal... I prick my ears forward and try to look friendly and obliging.

He recognises me, as well; he plants his fists on his hips, and his greeting holds more indignation than welcome. 'Here now – Bill? Is that you? What have those Shire-hobbits been doing with you, I'd like to know!'

Turning to my Ranger-guide, he demands, 'Where did you find him, if I might be so bold as to ask, Master?'

'We found him wandering in the Chetwood a few days ago,' my Ranger-guide replies. 'Those Shire-hobbits were nowhere to be seen; in the end, I decided to bring him back here, for surely they will think to seek him here eventually, when they return to the area.'

The stable hobbit steps forward and rubs gently at my forehead. 'So you gave them the slip, did you? Naughty lad... but I can't say as I blame you, going off into the Wilderlands with a dirty Ranger of all people!'

And then he blushes and stammers an apology for my companion. 'B-beg your pardon, Master, but I didn't mean any—'

'None taken,' my guide says, and as if to reassure the unfortunate fellow, he pushes back his hood and stands bare-headed, no longer presenting a picture of steely eyes glinting from under the darkness of his hood but revealing a human face and even a slight smile on his lips, if you take my meaning. 'If you would do me the courtesy of fetching your master for me...'

'He's in the middle of supper preparations,' the stable worker objects, but then seems to wilt under the Ranger's gaze and ducks his head, changing what he was in the midst of saying to a mumbled, 'I'll fetch him straightaway.'

Rather pointedly, he pulls the stable door across the opening, murmuring about "keeping the warm in and the cold out" as he shuts us in. And then we are alone. I hear the soft snores of sleeping horses and munching noises coming from several stalls, and I lift my nose at the inviting fragrances of hay and straw and wholesome grain and widen my nostrils to take in the good smells. 

These stables that were empty the last time I was here seem less than half-full now. And here I was under the impression that The Prancing Pony did a bustling business, and that the stables were at times so full of travellers that the stable hobbit sometimes had trouble finding room for all the horses and ponies. O' course, I should imagine that fewer travellers are on the Road in the dead o' winter and needing accommodation along the way... Not to mention the dark things in the woods, and robbers, and wolves howling outside the fences.

Even as I am breathing deeply and wondering when my turn will come, my guide's horse whuffles a chuckle which his Rider echoes. We continue to wait, and as if to pass the time, my guide combs his fingers through my long forelock and says, 'Dirty Rangers are not to be trusted, as you probably know. At least, they are not to be trusted by anyone with ill intent...'

He has no ill intent and means no harm, I protest, blowing softly. And he treated me very well – and kindly – when last we met.

'Fair enough,' my guide says. His horse nudges him in the middle of his back, and as of long habit he reaches up to rub the jaw that now thrusts itself over his shoulder. 'It is a good thing for me that there are only the two of you,' he mock-grumbles. 'I have only the two hands, as it were.'

Two hands is enough, his horse blows quietly. But then he lifts his head away so that he may toss it freely, and he stomps an irritated hoof – though it seems to me that he is careful not to hazard his Rider's booted feet. Where is that slowcoach of an innkeeper? You might as well take a stall at this rate!

'I have no doubt you would enjoy a good meal and deep bed of straw before we set about our arduous task,' the Ranger answers aloud.

'What's this—what's this? Two stalls wanted? And a room for yourself, sir?' says a breathless voice from behind the door. A stout, red-faced Man thrusts the door aside just wide enough to admit himself and the stable hobbit and bustles into the stable entryway, wiping his hands on his apron; the Hobbit pulls the door to once more but remains silent this time. Doubtless he finds it easier to rebuke a Ranger than the innkeeper who employs him.

'One stall, Butterbur, and your finest treatment for this far-traveller,' my Ranger-guide says. He pulls a jingling bag from under his cloak and tosses it at the short fat Man – who catches it neatly, belying his preoccupied air.

His eyes are sharper than they look, as well, for he looks from me to my guide, and then his head snaps back to gaze at me again, and he says, 'Wait! But I know this sorry-looking clothes-rail... he was Ferny's, and—'

'Was being the important word,' my guide says. 'And don't you let me hear of you allowing Ferny to claim him again!'

'I won't!' the innkeeper says, and is that a fierce note in his voice? 'I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that scoundrel! ...even though this little fellow is as shaggy as one. A dog, I mean. And so Mister – er – Underhill and his party are back, are they? I must go and prepare their rooms!'

'They are not back, not quite yet,' my Ranger-guide contradicts. 'But it is my understanding that they will pass through Bree on their return journey,' (I can only hope he is as confident as he sounds), 'and they will be grateful to you if they find the pony in good condition when they arrive.'

'Bob will see to him,' the innkeeper says. 

The stable hobbit steps forward. 'A good bran mash to start, I think, sir, along with a thorough grooming!' He looks me from head to toe. 'He's been a-travelling, that's for certain. I'll be sure to pick out his hoofs, but they don't appear to need any trimming...'

'Very well, very well!' the innkeeper interrupts, throwing up his hands. 'I've got to get back to the fish I'm frying! I've no time for talking. But I can stir up a plate o' something or other for you if you're hungry,' he says, almost as an afterthought, tucking the purse away in his apron pocket.

'No need,' my Ranger-guide says, holding up a staying hand. 'I'll just be on my way.' With a nod to me, he pulls his hood over his head again, then leads his horse to the door and pushes it open wide enough for the two of them to exit the stables. The innkeeper hurries to join the exodus.

Even as the Ranger turns back to close the door behind his horse, the stable hobbit is already on the spot, tugging at the heavy door. 'It's best to keep the warm in and the cold out,' he says cheerfully in farewell. 'But you've got other fish to fry, no doubt!'

My last sight of my Ranger-guide is the Man's nod as he touches his fingers to his forehead, a salute, perhaps, or sign of accord.

And then the door is shut and he is gone. I wonder if we will meet again? Perhaps he will be the one to guide my Hobbits homewards.

I think they would find him a reliable, likeable fellow, for all his grim outward appearance.

***