He jumped the last flight of steps and fumbled with the lock of his pistol.
“What’s the matter, Gibbons? Girl took your colours!” The voice came from one of the tables in the courtyard. Gibbons, his face furious, ignored the jibes and laughter and ran with Berry towards the stream.
“There’s going to be trouble.” Sharpe climbed from the bench. “I’m going.”
He threaded his way through the tables, Forrest and Hogan following him. He left the light of the courtyard and splashed through the stream; there was no sight of the girl or her pursuers, just the lights in the cork grove and the occasional silhouette of a man crossing in front of the flames. He paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the dark. Forrest caught up with him.
“Is there going to be trouble, Sharpe?”
“Not if I can help it, sir. But you saw him, he’s got a pistol.” There were shouts to the left, a commotion. “Come on!”
He outpaced the other two; he was running fast, keeping the silver track of the stream to his left, holding the rifle in his right hand.
“What’s going on? Who the hell’s that?” In the light of a fire he saw an angry private. The man looked surprised when he saw Sharpe and threw a hasty salute. “You after them two, sir?”
“Was a girl with them?”
“That way, sir.” He pointed downstream, away from the fires of the Battalion, out into the black grassland. Sharpe ran on, Forrest and Hogan now close behind. In front he heard a `view-halloo’, a scream, they had caught the girl. He ran faster, ignoring the rough ground, fearing the sound of a shot, his eyes adjusting to the night. They had not gone far. Suddenly he saw them, Berry standing with a bottle and watching Gibbons, who had forced the girl to her knees and was trying to force the bag out of her hands. Sharpe heard Gibbons shouting at Josefma. “Let go, you bitch!”
Sharpe kept running. Gibbons looked up, startled, and then Sharpe hit him full tilt. The Lieutenant was thrown backwards, the pistol flew from his hand and splashed into the stream, and Sharpe saw the bag fall from Josefina’s hand and spill bright gold onto the dark grass. Gibbons tried to struggle to his feet but Sharpe pushed him with the rifle butt. “Don’t move.” There was enough moonlight for the Lieutenant to see the look on Sharpe’s face, and he sank back onto his elbows. Sharpe turned to Berry. “What’s going on?”
Berry licked his fat lips and grinned foolishly. Sharpe stepped one pace closer and raised his voice. “What’s going on?”
“The girl ran away, sir. Came to get her back.” Berry’s natural drawl was accentuated by drink, and when he turned to see Forrest and Hogan arrive he staggered slightly.
“Is she all right?” Forrest asked.
Sharpe turned to look at Josefina. He realised, irrele-vantly, that it was the first time he had seen her not dressed in riding breeches, and his pulse quickened at the sight of her bare shoulders and the shadowed promise of the low-cut dress. Her head was down; at first he thought she was sobbing, but then he saw her desperately picking up the scattered gold coins. His mind registered that there was a small fortune on the ground, and then Forrest blocked his view as the Major knelt at the girl’s side.
“Are you all right?” Forrest’s voice was paternal, kindly.
The girl nodded, then shook her head, and Sharpe saw her shoulders heave as she seemed to sob. Her hands still scrabbled at the grass, at the gold pieces. The Major stood up. “What’s all this about?” He was trying to sound authoritative. No-one spoke.
Sharpe moved his rifle to his left hand, stepped close to Berry, took the bottle from him, and threw it into the stream.
“I say! Steady on!” Berry’s voice was slurred.
“What happened?”
“Just an argument. Nothing to worry about.” Berry blinked happily at Sharpe and flapped a hand genially around the small group. The Rifleman hit him, hard in the stomach, and Berry’s mouth gaped like a fish. He doubled over and retched onto the grass.