by Pete Prown
* * *
Forgo clasped his arm around Dorro and led him off into the celebrations, followed by Minty, Bog, and Dowdy, all of them quaffing their beers.
“I’m sorry, Winderiver, but it was the good end to a potentially bad situation.”
“It’s your fault, Sheriff, for egging me on! I have no coordination in the axe-throwing arts and you shouldn’t have coerced me.”
Dorro was growing more irked by the minute, but it only made Forgo smile more broadly.
“You underestimate yourself, Winderiver. Here, let’s shoot a few arrows. That, you must be good at.”
“I must admit, I did have a certain proclivity for archery as a lad. Granted, I haven’t shot a bow for many years, but I did have, shall I say, a certain gift for the endeavor,” noted Dorro with typically false modesty.
“Here then, take this trio of red-feathered bolts and sink them into the corn-goblins by the tree line,” croaked Forgo. “If you can strike even one of them orkus figures, I’ll pay for Mungo’s damn beer barrel myself! And if you miss, yer arrows will sail into the woods and, at worse, pinch the tail of a squirrel or two!”
That only made Minty, Bog, and Dowdy Cray squawk louder.
Still stinging from his earlier embarrassment, Dorro grabbed the bow from Forgo’s hands and fit it with a red-feathered arrow. He pulled back, squinted his eyes, and released the string.
Ppffffft!
The arrow missed the goblin and buried its head in the soil some ten feet beyond. This only made his comrades giggle louder and offer snide jokes.
“You sure showed that tuft of grass a lesson, Mr. Dorro!” guffawed tiny Minty Pinter, the traveling tinker. The bookmaster ignored him.
He fitted another and let it fly. Thwock!
“Ah-hah, I hit it!” cried Dorro. “Pay up, Forgo.”
“Not so fast, my friend. I said you had to hit a goblin—you merely put the arrow into the wooden post holding it up.”
Dorro growled, knowing Forgo was right and cursing the unfairness of it all. He knitted his eyebrows together and pulled back the last red-feathered arrow.
Fly, now—fly into the beast! he thought as he loosed the final bolt.
Sadly, it was not to be, as this last arrow sailed wide of the mark and flew deep into the trees of the Great Wood. By this time, Forgo and his mates were howling with mirth, while Dorro threw down his bow in disgust and stomped off into the crowd.
Behind him, Dowdy Cray shouted, “Oh dear, Mr. Dorro, I think you just killed a goblin-chipmunk. Maybe two!”