No Holds Barred by Lyndon Stacey

and this time Taz did growl protectively.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ Daniel said with doubtful veracity. ‘I can manage, thanks.’
    With the aid of the bench, he made it to his knees and from there to his feet, where he stood swaying gently with one hand on the wall.
    â€˜Did you see another man around?’ he asked, straining to see into the darkness. ‘Round the side there?’
    â€˜Reckon I did. Took this offen ’im,’ the man said, holding up what looked like a swathe of material.
    The net.
    Even as recognition dawned, Taz backed away with a frenzy of barking, and the man prudently tossed the mesh to one side.
    â€˜Reckon he’s learned his lesson,’ he observed. ‘Won’t get caught like that again.’
    â€˜I hope not. And thank you. Let’s go in.’ Daniel moved stiffly towards the door, the wet cinders squidging between his bare toes, but when he looked back, the man in the hat hadn’t moved.
    â€˜Won’t you come inside? Until the rain stops, at least.’ In spite of the warmth of the night, Daniel had started to shiver violently and he longed to get inside and dry off.
    â€˜Reckon I don’t mind the rain,’ the man said, but he followed Daniel as far as the doorway nevertheless, where the light fell on gaunt, weathered features and brown eyes in the shade of the hat brim. He could have been anything from fifty to seventy years old, and was no more than five foot six tall, wearing a long stockman’s coat that reached to ankles encased in worn leather walking boots.
    Daniel’s practised eye noted the coat’s suspiciously bulging inner pockets – poachers’ pockets, and never more aptly named, he suspected. He was almost certain he was looking at the locally famous Woodsmoke, of whom Jenny had spoken.
    â€˜I can do coffee,’ he offered. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t anything stronger.’
    The wizened face split into a grin that would have had any self-respecting dentist recoiling in horror, and he patted his breast. ‘I allus come prepared,’ he said.
    Daniel stood back and beckoned him through to the kitchen, and after a moment’s hesitation, Woodsmoke stepped inside.
    â€˜Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on and then change these jeans  . . .’ Daniel’s voice trailed away as a small, grey, lurchery face peered through the front opening of the poacher’s long coat at knee level. ‘Hello, little one.’
    â€˜Thass Gypsy,’ Woodsmoke said with no hint of apology. ‘She goes everywhere.’ Carefully arranging the heavy pockets of his coat to each side, he sat himself on one of the wooden chairs and the whippet-sized bitch crept out and curled up on his feet.
    Minutes later, when Daniel came back downstairs in clean jeans and a T-shirt, his hair towelled dry, the kitchen bore an aroma like a bonfire on an autumn day – an earthy mixture of leaf mould and smoke. Woodsmoke had made two mugs of coffee, and a flat-sided, green glass bottle stood on the table between them.
    â€˜Didn’t put it in yourn, lessen you was one of them teetotallers.’ His tone and the curl of his lip left Daniel in no doubt as to his opinion of such people.
    Daniel shook his head, thanked him and, without peering too closely at the bottle, the label of which had long since disintegrated, tipped a couple of glugs into his coffee. The resulting brew made its way down his throat with a comforting burn, and for the first time since waking to hear the stones against his window, Daniel began to relax. He wished he could give Taz something similar but he guessed it was all in a night’s work for the dog, who had followed him upstairs and back down, and now lay on the floor half under the table, busily washing his front paws. He and Gypsy were studiously ignoring one another.
    â€˜Reckon you need to get some ice on that.’ Woodsmoke gestured at Daniel’s