[Child of the 7th Age]

Sam rode at the head of a small band of hobbits, cantering up and down the lanes, then dismounting and carefully leading them on foot across the fields to try and pick up the trail of the intruders. The group trekked north and east of The Water in the general direction of Budge Ford. It was Frodo who unearthed their one and only clue.

Pushing his way through the mud and tangled roots of a small copse on a nearby hillock, Frodo stumbled upon a deserted burrow. He poked his upper body through the broken timbers of the door and kicked his foot against the lower part of the threshold to scatter the remnents of wood over to the side. The interior of the burrow was dark and dank. Yet he could clearly hear the sound of a hobbit child crying somewhere in the corner behind an old bed.

Frodo's heart pounded fiercely as he stepped inside, holding his weapon aloft above his head. The crying abruptly stopped, but he still heard muffled sounds issuing from the darkness, although it was impossible to see anything clearly. He called out fiercely to whoever or whatever was making the noise to come out, but there was no response.

Suddenly, everything broke loose at once. Frodo's cries brought Sam and the others racing in behind him. As they pressed forward, a large hooded and kneeling figure could be vaguely seen in the darkness. Near its outstretched hand was a sack which looked as if it contained some kind of living thing kicking and squirming inside.

Gamba, who'd been cautiously advancing at Maura's side, raced forward with nervousness and the impetuosity of youth. He raised his cudgel high and was about to bring it down with force on the kneeling figure, when he was abruptly halted by Maura's strong arm. Almost immediately, the hooded creature emerged from the shadows.

It turned out to be not a man, but two hobbits hiding side-by-side under a blanket. One was an older gaffer, with a lined face and white hair; the other a young lad apparently his grandson. They were both quaking with fear.

"Frodo? Frodo Baggins? Is that you?," the older one blurted out. "It's me, Dudo Greenhand. Please don't hurt us."

Frodo strained his eyes and saw before him the familiar figure of Dudo, a scruffy hobbit from Frog Morton who had made his living poaching game and helping himself to an occasional domesicated animal off of other folk's farms. At that moment, the bag came untied, and a fat suckling pig scampered off into the woods.

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, "Still up to your old tricks?"

"Aye, don't begrudge me. 'e was a runt that no one wanted. The sow had too many and the farmer was going to lay 'er down. I'll take good care of 'er." With that, he ordered his grandson to go out and retrieve the piglet. "Anyways, you'd show some mercy if you knew what we'd been through..."

"And just what was that?" Frodo countered.

"One of the big folk. A real bad 'un, by the look of it, came down by the Water. Almost scared us out of our wits. So we went and hid here. I was afraid 'is friends might come back to git us. He had this big, squirmin' sack, and he said 'e was collectin' bad boys. I figured my Tom fit that description all right."

"Where was he going? How long ago was this?" Sam quickly interrupted.

"He hightailed it out of 'ere almost two hours ago, and was goin' east as fast as you can go. He was alone, and I was scared he might send 'is buddies back."

Maura tried to pick up the trail of the departing bandit, but was unable to accomplish much of anything. Sam sighed and shook his head in frustration. Then the group made its weary way back towards the Inn and to the shirriff, and, most sadly of all, to speak with Fosco's mother and father and tell them the grim news they'd uncovered.

[ April 15, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]