H: LIKE A HALE HALBARAD

Near Archet in the Bree-lands, sometime near the end of the Third Age--

The tall and unkempt figure, in his worn leathers, bent down to knock upon the door of the smial.

It was opened by a hobbit of late middle-years, his round face at first wary. “Ah, Strider,” he said, his expression clearing.

“Mr. Mugwort!” the Man responded politely. “I have come to check on my kinsman.”

“He’s feeling a sight better than he was when you left him here, Strider. Mind your head!” he said, as he led the way through a low passageway to the left of the front hall.

Nearly bent double, Strider followed slowly. The hobbit opened a small round door to a chamber, and gestured within. “Rover!” he called. “Strider’s here.”

Another Man, a few years older than Strider, and clad in leather trousers and a much mended shirt sat cross-legged on the floor, next to a pallet of blankets. He appeared to be doing some mending to a worn grey cloak. Looking over at the other Man, who had almost to crawl to come through the door, he smiled. “Have you come then, to liberate me from this confinement?”

“Say rather ‘convalescence’ and you will be nearer the mark. An infected wolf bite is nothing to speak lightly of. Take off that shirt.”

The other Man loosened the lacing at his throat, and then pulled the shirt over his head, only a little stiffly. There was a linen bandage bound about the upper part of his left arm.

With a deft touch, Strider removed the bandaging, and looked at the pink scar that was revealed. He smiled, and made a small satisfied noise, and then took a pouch from his side. He took from it another pouch of waxed linen, and from it removed a remarkably beautiful pair of steel forceps, and tiny snips. “Time for the stitches to come out,” he said.

Mr. Mugwort stood in the doorway, and watched, his brown eyes wide, as the Ranger gently removed the stitches from the other Man’s arm. It was a surprise to see how gentle-like Strider’s touch was--sure and deft.
After a few minutes, Strider nodded, satisfied. “Well, Halbarad, I think that I can say that you are hale and ready to move on.”

“I’m thankful, then.” He moved to put his shirt back on, and Strider backed out of the small room to wait for him.

He turned to look at the hobbit. “I have brought something for you, for your kind care of my kinsman during his injury and illness. If you will accompany me back outside?”

“Well, now, Strider, I didn’t do naught thinking of no reward,” Mr. Mugwort said, but he followed all the same, curious as to what the Man was talking about.

Man and hobbit came out the front door to the smial, and Strider pointed next to the door, where a brace of coneys and a fat pheasant lay, clearly freshly killed.

“I hope, Mr. Mugwort, that this will be of some use to you and your family?”

The hobbit’s face lit up. Roast pheasant were a treat not often come by, though coney were common enough. He grinned. “The missus will be right pleased with this! Mightn’t you and Rover stay to supper and have some of it with us?”

At that point Halbarad came out of the smial, his cloak over his arm, and a pack across his back. He looked at Strider, a question in his eyes. But Strider shook his head. “No, I am afraid that we must be on our way, Mr. Mugwort.”

Halbarad bent down, and shook the hobbit’s hand. “You have been an excellent host, Mr. Mugwort! And give my fond farewells to your wife--I shall miss her cooking in the wilds!”

“You take care, Rover. Don’t come by no more wolf-bites, now! And any time you’re around, stop in to say hello and have a bit to eat with us.”

“Thank you!”

Mr. Mugwort stood and watched the two Big Folk walk away. There was them that said Rangers was no better than vagabonds, lazy folk who couldn’t be bothered with doing a job of work, but would rather live like animals in the Wild. One time, he might’ve agreed with that, but no more. These Men was good folks, polite and well-spoken. Sometimes he thought that mayhap there was more to them than there looked.

Ah, well. It’d be awhile afore he saw them again. His face brightened and he picked up the coneys and the pheasant, to take them to his wife.