The entire way back to the village, Hiram Bindlestiff cried and whined about how he was a wronged Halfling, and how Wump had been to blame for everything.
Next, he threatened to have his solicitors sue them all within an inch of their lives. And when that didn’t make his captors free him, he reverted to bribery, offering each of them piles of gold.
“You will be the richest Dwarves in the Northern Kingdom,” begged the smelting kingpin. “Think of it, Sheriff—no more spending nights fighting criminals in Fell’s Corner. Now you’ll be in a comfy feather bed with servants to attend your every need. You know you crave it!”
“Actually, I only wish for two things, Hiram. One of them is a tall, cold pint from Mr. Mungo’s taps. And the other is for you to shut the hell up. Sadly, I don’t think I’ll get either of them.”
Magpie had been sent ahead to find Nurse Pym and bring her to the gaol. Soon they were at the small, round building—one of the few freestanding structures in Thimble Down—and unwinding after a whirlwind of events. With Bindlestiff locked up in the back and Pym attending to Aramina’s wound, the remaining Dwarves returned to their burrow.
After an hour, the lawman decided to leave Gadget Pinkle in charge and set off for that mug of beer at the Hanging Stoat and something savory and warm for luncheon. In his own exhaustion, Bindlestiff was fast asleep in his cell, reducing Forgo’s worry even more. Inside the tavern, Mr. Mungo read Forgo’s expression and led him to a quiet table in the corner; in short order, Freda the barmaid had brought him a mug and a bowl a beef, sage, and potato stew, accompanied by a small jigger of honeygrass whiskey, on the house.
That Mungo is a prince among Halflings, thought Forgo has he tucked into his supper. It was the best meal he’d had in a month, and for the first in a long time, the lawman relaxed.
He left a few coins on the table and strolled back to the gaol, whistling a tune in the cold afternoon air.
“Hello, Gadget, I’m back!” he chirped as he entered the building. “Gadget, I’m here!” Something wasn’t right.
Forgo rushed back into the cells to find his deputy not only locked in, but also unconscious on the floor. Hastily grabbing a key, he picked up Gadget Pinkle as if he were a rag doll and plunked him on a cot.
“Wake up, boy! Can you hear me, lad!” Forgo even gave the young deputy a few quick slaps to awaken him.
“Oy, me head! What happened?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me, Gadget. I found you on the floor and our prisoner gone.”
The young deputy suddenly looked sheepish.
“Bindlestiff said he had sharp stomach pains and needed some water. So I brought him a ladle-full and he musta jumped me. Hit me with something hard—that pewter bowl, I guess. That’s all I remember.”
“Can you take yourself to Nurse Pym? She should look at your head.” Forgo was disappointed in the young fellow, but remembered how incompetent Bosco had been in his early days and what a brave hero he’d become. Even then, the memory of Bosco stung the Sheriff bitterly.
“No, I’m fine, Sheriff, I really am! Put me to work.”
“Fine, if you say so. Now go get me Dorro Fox Winderiver and tell him to meet me outside the Bumbling Badger. Dash as fast as you can, boy!”
* * *
“How bad is it?”
“Oh, about the usual.” Sheriff Forgo tightened his belt, looking at nothing in particular. “Yer basic disaster.”
“What happened?” Dorro was slowly catching his breath after the quick evening walk.
“Hiram Bindlestiff bopped Gadget on the head and escaped. Worse, I can’t find the Dwarves. They’re not in their burrow, nor at any tavern in the village.”
“You think they’re connected?”
“I think Crumble and his brothers—and Aramina—got wind of his escape and went out for a hunt. I’m fearing the worst.”
“But you warned them not to break Halfling law,” added the bookmaster.
“That was when he was in gaol,” growled the Sheriff. “Now that Bindlestiff is an escaped prisoner, I suppose he’s fair game. I don’t think they’ll adhere to the ‘bring ‘em back dead or alive’ adage, either. I’m pretty sure it’ll just be ‘dead, thank you very much.’”
“So where do we start?”
“Let’s swing around to the Hanging Stoat and loop around to the smeltery. But if they’ve taken Bindlestiff to the Great Wood, we have no chance of finding him.” The Sheriff looked irritated, as if he were about to throw in the towel on this particular career choice.
For the next several hours, Forgo and Dorro searched all over Thimble Down, in every tavern, down every lane, and all around the smeltery, including its roof. There was no sign of the Dwarves or Bindlestiff. Around two o’clock in the morning, they came back to the gaol, exhausted and grumpy. Forgo offered the bookmaster an extra cot in the back, but Dorro declined, preferring his own cot in the library’s rare book room, where he occasionally took naps.
Dorro was in deep slumber the next morning when he became aware of heavy pounding on the front door. He rousted himself and buttoned his vest while running to answer it.
“What’s the matter?” he cried, pulling open the heavy oak door. There, looking panicked, was none other than the deputy.
“Mr. D-d-d-dorro! Sheriff Forgo requests you meet him in front of the smeltery. Right now, if you please, sir!”
More than a few Thimble Downers smirked at the sight of the gangly deputy running down the frosty lane, while the bookmaster followed, still trying to button his vest and sleeves. The pair found the Sheriff, who appeared to be in conversation with a gentleman they did not know. As they drew closer, it became clear that there was something queer about this fellow. He did not move or react, despite Forgo’s obvious gestures. The true story was something altogether more sinister.
“Sheriff, what’s the matter?” gasped Dorro. “And who is this … Sweet King Borgo!”
The bookmaster covered his mouth to keep from being ill. However, Gadget lacked that particular self-control and was sick all over the lane.
“So you do recognize him, Winderiver, don’t you?” Forgo was clearly disgusted at his find. “It’s our friend Hiram Bindlestiff, dead as a doornail, as we figured.”
“What’s wrong with him? Why is he shining?”
“Our Dwarf friends left us a letter, most cunningly placed in Bindlestiff’s fingers, as if he were handing it to us. Shall I read it here, or do you need to go lie down? Gadget seems to be ahead of you.”
The two turned around to see Deputy Pinkle wan and passed out on the cold ground. “He may be a brilliant thief, but the lad has no stomach for gore. Anyway, let me proceed.”
* * *
And this is what the letter said:
“Good Day to ya, Sheriff! ‘Tis I, Crumble, the Northland Dwarf. I hope the dawn finds you well, at least better than our friend here. We have, as you can see, found our Mr. Bindlestiff and administered our own brand of law—we hope ya don’t mind, but felt obliged to finish the job.”
“You see, when we heard ol’ Bindler was on the run again, we knew it was our time to act. It didn’t take long to find him, cowering behind a few burrows in Fell’s Corner. Aramina has a knack for tracking game in the wild, and finding this porker was a cinch for her. She verily sniffed him right out, like truffles in the dirt! Ooo, but did he howl and whine at the sight of our bunch o’ mugs, all laughin’ and hollerin’.”
“We discussed it amongst ourselves and tried to come up with a fitting punishment for such an evil creature. Not only had Bindlestiff knowingly imported black stones to the South and imperiled yer folk’s health (something I did not know and still feel aggrieved about), but he encouraged Wump’s greediness, to the point where my brother decided to kill not only myself, but my boy Orli. Yet that is—or should I say was—Mr. Hiram Bindlestiff: a greedy business feller who cared little for those around him. Only for them’s that brought him gold, silver, and wealth of every kind.”
“Aramina, a-course, wanted to chop his fingers ‘n’ ears off, but we talked her out of it. We voted and decided that, according to Dwarf law, his punishment should be death, which was fine by us. But we do have some compassion, so recalling the disposition of my brother, we gave him many jiggers of your excellent honeygrass whiskey, all laced with sizable draughts of our belladonna juice. Ol’ Bindler was in excellent spirits, thinking we wuz all friends and this would blow over by morning. He simply fell asleep, never to awaken again. We checked his heart and breath, and knew Hiram Bindlestiff was a blight on this earth no more; he died a contented Halfling, dreaming happily of coins and stacks of silver bars.”
I” must credit my brothers Two-Toes, Flume, and Magpie for developing the next part of the plan. Considering how Bindlestiff made his fortune off the melting, purifying, and refining of metals, we decided to smelt the ol’ bugger himself!”
“So last night, in the wee hours, we lit up one of the furnaces in the closed forge and whipped up a vat of hot pyrite. When it was good ‘n’ hot, looking like liquid star-shine, we dipped the Bindler’s corpus in a few times until he was well covered. Then lickety-split, me brothers got him out, cooled it, and set him to a perfect standing posture.”
“And that, gentlemen is what you have in front of you—the life-like form of Mr. Bindlestiff, all expertly cast in pyrite. Or, as most folks call it, Fool’s Gold. We felt it quite the right material in which to cast this fine gent, considering his rank and personage and all that muckety-muck. Considering the care we took in dippin’ him, I’d say he’ll stay fine the way he is for a month or two; thence you can peel off the pyrite and dispose of the remains as ye see fit.”
“As for us Dwarves, we have since skedaddled from the fine burg of Thimble Down as fast as we could, owing to the fact that we just murdered a feller and didn’t feel like spending any more time larking about yer gaol. Most of us shall return to Gildenhall and resume digging, gathering, and smelting metals for the use of our brethren.”
“As for me, my life took a sudden twist earlier last night when Aramina—the aforementioned Malachite Molly—asked me to become her betrothed. While I am quite fond of the lass, at first I demurred, owing to the fact that she’s a fighter who lives in open country, while I’m a digger and a metalsmith of a sorts.
But Aramina said that she’d give up her fightin’ ways just to be with me, and would return to Gildenhall. Now, I know this lady and knew that would be a life of misery for her, yet was touched at her sacrifice. We discussed the matter more, and she offered up a fine notion.”
“‘Why not join our battalion, Crumbly?’ she said. ‘We’ve never had a blacksmith in our ranks and are forever fighting with dull swords and notched axes. Why, if you wuz with us, we could keep our weapons sharp and protect our lands from them goblins even better! We could even get you a homey wagon for yer tools, put some stout ponies up front to pull it, and a portable furnace on wheels bringin’ up the rear. And sometimes, you ‘n’ me can sneak into the wagon for a little smoochin’!”
“Why, Sheriff Forgo, that was an offer I could not turn down. Not only would I be with a grand lady, but I could see the countryside, practice my craft, and do my bit to protect the Wide Green Open from them horrible goblins, trolls, and worse. And after this bit of mischief, I feel it’s my time to give back and do the right thing.”
“And that’s where our story ends. I’m sure Orli will miss your Wyll something fierce, but I bet their paths with cross again, and perhaps the lad can come visit Gildenhall again. My brothers and I, along with my bride-to-be, wish you, Mr. Dorro, and the fine folks of Thimble Down the very best.”
To your Good Health,
Crumble, the Dwarf
* * *
Forgo looked at the bookmaster and folded up the note.
“Well, ain’t that something,” was all he said. He hoisted Gadget up off the ground, tucked him under his beefy arm, and started back towards gaol.
In his wake, Dorro stood shivering in the lane—alone and thoroughly confused.