Gradually, it began to pick its way back toward him.

He had to do something. The longer he waited, the closer the horseman would come.

Far off, in the direction of the path, he could still see the flicker of Issur Frumkin’s lantern.

Slowly, the horse’s padding came to a stop. Avimelekh slid from his saddle, crouching low to the brush.

“Boy!” he called.

Now.

In one motion Yehuda Leib was up and flying, racing through the trees toward the lantern light, and he could hear Avimelekh cursing, fumbling to get back into the saddle, and Yehuda Leib was nearly to the path when the crash and thunder of pursuit rumbled out from the trees behind, and he was desperate, tears in his eyes as he tore across the brightened track, and he yelled to Issur to help him help him, and he was back into the brush and the black and running, and the horseman was with him, but suddenly he was running alone and there was stillness behind him and he slid and found himself beneath a branching bush and there he stayed.

This time Avimelekh remained mounted. The flickering lantern light seeped out around the edges of his broad silhouette.

“Come on, son,” he called, urging his mount into a measured walk. “You’re wasting my time.”

And the terror of it was that he was right. What could Yehuda Leib do? Hide in the brush forever? How long could he keep running back and forth across the path?

“I’m not letting you get away,” said the horseman.

“Yehuda Leib!” Issur’s voice split through the still night, and Avimelekh was startled, swiveling in his saddle.

Yehuda Leib saw, and almost without thinking, he took his opportunity, running, running, running toward the sound, and the horseman heard his feet, and he twisted back just as Yehuda Leib passed by the shoulder of his horse, and he reached down and grabbed, and Yehuda Leib felt long, ragged fingernails rake the back of his neck, and the man had him by the collar, and he twisted and he struggled and he pulled, and for a moment his feet were off the ground, but then he was away, he was going, and his neck was cold and bare, and he turned back to see the horseman charging out of the darkness with the red woolen scarf in his hand, and he turned to the light and Issur was standing in the back of the cart and there was something in his hand and—

With a sound like a ringing bell, Avimelekh fell hard from his saddle.

His horse charged on into the forest, never looking back.

Yehuda Leib stilled his legs.

There, in the back of the cart, was Issur Frumkin, holding one of the dented pots from beneath the tarpaulin.

He had hit the horseman.

He had hit him in the head.

Hard.

—