The Second-Best Archer in the Forest
Comedy short - Not everyone was impressed by Robin Hood.
“Match. Match!” Dale shouted, holding his hand out, one foot on a feed sack outside the granary.
“Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I think I just spotted Robin Hood entering the tavern.” The squire pulled a match from a small satchel attached to his belt. He attempted to spark it against the post beside him. The match skipped twice.
“Just give me that, you buffoon.” Dale yanked the match from the squire’s hand, spun him by the shoulder, and struck it cleanly against the back of his tunic. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a long puff, and watched the smoke drift. Then he nocked an arrow, read the wind, and sent it clear over the tavern roof and into the forest.
“Spotted Robin Hood,” Dale said, mocking the squire’s voice. “Yeah, you and half the village. Oh, Robin Hood. He’s such a charmer. You know, I was the first to wear poulaines with tights. And I’ve got the real pointy ones too, you could pick a lock with these shoes.”
“I can recall you trying, sir.”
Dale spat a stream of tobacco into the watering trough beside him. A horse tied to the post gave him an awkward eye.
“Robin Hood starts wearing them, hands out a few coins and trinkets to the local dullards and now everyone’s lining up at the tannery to get a pair.”
The squire squinted as a group entered the tavern. “That had to have been Robin Hood. Friar Tuck just went inside.”
Dale ignored him. “I’m the better archer. That’s well known. I could plink a corn kernel set on a fence post with a quart of beer in my belly and the sniffles.” He set another arrow, took aim at a wagon wheel in the center of the square, and fired. It flew flat, missed the spokes, and landed in the dirt. “Damn! Mosquito deflected it.”
“Assuredly, sir,” the squire said. “If we were going to hatch this plan, I’d say our window is getting shorter. Might I suggest we move over to the tavern?”
They slipped around the side of the building toward the back. A mass of cheers rang out from inside. Glasses clinking, stringed instruments picking up.
As they crept, Dale whispered, “You hear that? Likely paying the tosspot’s bar tabs. Takes from the rich and gives to the poor, my hindquarters.”
“Does he really pay bar bills?” the squire asked.
“Quiet. This is it.”
They reached the back of the tavern where a horse stood tied to a post. “Of course his horse is white. How typical. Let’s get this beast loose. See how he fares without it.”
“Do you think you can untie the knot, sir? I think it’s a clove hitch.”
Dale looked at him. “Does Little John have bad breath?”
“I can’t say. He’s so tall, I doubt breath can carry that far.”
“Just shut up and keep watch.”
Dale struggled with the knot. Yanking and fumbling. He began to sweat. A roar went up from inside, then voices spilled toward the front door.
“I think now is a good time, sir,” the squire said.
Dale pulled his knife and cut the rope. “Move,” he said to the horse. The horse stood. Dale waved and clapped his hands. “Shoo you oaf.” The horse blinked.
“Go on,” the squire whispered. “Shoo. Shoo.”
The horse sneezed in Dale’s face.
“Hey!” a voice called from the side of the tavern. “What are you two doing?”
They both panicked and took off. Dale’s extra pointy shoes caught a root, and he crashed into the squire. They hit the ground together. Dale’s bow snapped under him.
He looked down. “You’re paying for that.”
Consider subscribing. Dale wouldn’t.
See you soon,
—Ricky C.