the man who had usurped his father’s place as Head Forester, and who had roughly turned his mother out in the snow. But never a word said he for good or bad, and would have passed on his way, had not this man, clearing his throat with a huge gulp, bellowed out: “By my troth, here is a pretty little archer! Where go you, my lad, with that tupenny bow and toy arrows? Belike he would shoot at Nottingham Fair! Ho! Ho!”
A roar of laughter greeted this sally. Rob flushed, for he was mightily proud of his shooting.
“My bow is as good as yours,” he retorted, “and my shafts will carry as straight and as far. So I’ll not take lessons of any of ye.”
They laughed again loudly at this, and the leader said with frown:
“Show us some of your skill, and if you can hit the mark here’s twenty silver pennies for you. But if you hit it not you are in for a sound drubbing for your pertness.”
“Pick your own target,” quoth Rob in a fine rage. “I’ll lay my head against that purse that I can hit it.”
“It shall be as you say,” retorted the Forester angrily, “your head for your sauciness that you hit not my target.”
Now at a little rise in the wood a herd of deer came grazing by, distant full fivescore yards. They were King’s deer, but at that distance seemed safe from any harm. The Head Forester pointed to them.
“If your young arm could speed a shaft for half that distance, I’d shoot with you.”
“Done!” cried Rob. “My head against twenty pennies I’ll cause yon fine fellow in the lead of them to breathe his last.”
And without more ado he tried the string of his long bow, placed a shaft thereon, and drew it to his ear. A moment, and the quivering string sang death as the shaft whistled across the glade. Another moment and the leader of the herd leaped high in his tracks and fell prone, dyeing the sward with his heart’s blood.
A murmur of amazement swept through the Foresters, and then a growl of rage. He that had wagered was angriest of all.
“Know you what you have done, rash youth?” he said. “You have killed a King’s deer, and by the laws of King Harry your head remains forfeit. Talk not to me of pennies but get ye gone straight, and let me not look upon your face again.”
Rob’s blood boiled within him, and he uttered a rash speech. “I have looked upon your face once too often already, my fine Forester. ’Tis you who wear my father’s shoes.”
And with this he turned upon his heel and strode away.
The Forester heard his parting thrust with an oath. Red with rage he seized his bow, strung an arrow, and without warning launched it full af’ Rob. Well was it for the latter that the Forester’s foot turned on a twig at the critical instant, for as it was the arrow whizzed by his ear so close as to take a stray strand of his hair with it. Rob turned upon his assailant, now twoscore yards away.
“Ha!” said he. “You shoot not so straight as I, for all your bravado. Take this from the tupenny bow!”
Straight flew his answering shaft. The Head Forester gave one cry, then fell face downward and lay still. His life had avenged Rob’s father, but the son was outlawed. Forward he ran through the forest, before the band could gather their scattered wits—still forward into the great greenwood. The swaying trees seemed to open their arms to the wanderer, and to welcome him home.
Toward the close of the same day, Rob paused hungry and weary at the cottage of a poor widow who dwelt upon the outskirts of the forest. Now this widow had often greeted him kindly in his boyhood days, giving him to eat and drink. So he boldly entered her door. The old dame was right glad to see him, and baked him cakes in the ashes, and had him rest and tell her his story. Then she shook her head.
“ ’Tis an evil wind that blows through Sherwood,” she said. “The poor are despoiled and the rich ride over their bodies. My three sons have been outlawed for shooting King’s deer to keep us from starving, and now hide in the wood. And they tell me that twoscore of as good men as ever drew bow are in hiding with them.”
“Where are they, good mother?” cried Rob. “By my faith, I will join them.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the old woman at first. But when she saw that there was no other way, she said: “My sons will visit me to-night. Stay you here and see them if you must.”
So Rob stayed willingly to see the widow’s sons that night, for they were men after his own heart. And when they found that his mood was with them, they made him swear an oath of fealty, and told him the haunt of the band—a place he knew right well. Finally one of them said:
“But the band lacks a leader—one who can use his head as well as his hand. So we have agreed that he who has skill enough to go to Nottingham, an outlaw, and win the prize at archery, shall be our chief.”
Rob sprang to his feet. “Said in good time!” cried he, “for I had started to that self-same Fair, and all the Foresters, and all the Sheriff’s men in Christendom shall not stand between me and the center of their target!”
And though he was but barely grown he stood so straight and his eye flashed with such fire that the three brothers seized his hand and shouted:
“A Lockesley! a Lockesley! if you win the golden arrow you shall be chief of outlaws in Sherwood Forest!”
So Rob fell to planning how he could disguise himself to go to Nottingham town; for he knew that the Foresters had even then set a price on his head in the market-place.
It was even as Rob had surmised. The Sheriff of Nottingham posted a reward of two hundred pounds for the capture, dead or alive, of one Robert Fitzooth, outlaw. And the crowds thronging the streets upon that busy Fair day often paused to read the notice and talk together about the death of the Head Forester.
But what with wrestling bouts and bouts with quarter-staves, and wandering minstrels, there came up so many other things to talk about, that the reward was forgotten for the nonce, and only the Foresters and Sheriff’s men watched the gates with diligence, the Sheriff indeed spurring them to effort by offers of largess. His hatred of the father had descended to the son.
The great event of the day came in the afternoon. It was the archer’s contest for the golden arrow, and twenty men stepped forth to shoot. Among them was a beggar-man, a sorry looking fellow with leggings of different colors, and brown scratched face and hands. Over a tawny shock of hair he had a hood drawn, much like that of a monk. Slowly he limped to his place in the line, while the mob shouted in derision. But the contest was open to all comers, so no man said him nay.
Side by side with Rob—for it was he—stood a muscular fellow of swarthy visage and with one eye hid by a green bandage. Him also the crowd jeered, but he passed them by with indifference while he tried his bow with practiced hand.
A great crowd had assembled in the amphitheater enclosing the lists. All the gentry and populace of the surrounding country were gathered there in eager expectancy. The central box contained the lean but pompous Sheriff, his bejeweled wife, and their daughter, a supercilious young woman enough, who, it was openly hinted, was hoping to receive the golden arrow from the victor and thus be crowned queen of the day.
Next to the Sheriff’s box was one occupied by the fat Bishop of Hereford; while in the
