THE TWO riflemen crouched at the edge of the field. One, a dark-haired man with a scarred face and hard eyes, eased back the cock of his rifle, aimed, but then, after a few seconds, lowered it. "Too far away, " he whispered.

The second was taller than the first and, like his companion, wore the faded green jacket of the 95th Rifles, but instead of a Baker rifle, he carried a curious volley gun of seven barrels. "No good trying with this, " he whispered, hefting the huge gun, "only works at close range."

"If we get too close they'll run, " the first man said.

"Where can they run to? It's a field, for God's sake."

"So we just walk up and shoot him?"

"Unless you want to strangle the sod."

Major Richard Sharpe lowered his rifle's flint. "Come on, then, " he said, and the two men stood and walked gingerly towards the three bullocks. "You think they'll charge us, Pat?" Sharpe asked.

"They're gelded, sir! " Sergeant Major Patrick Harper offered. "Got about as much spark as three blind mice."

"They look dangerous to me, " Sharpe said. "They've got horns."

"But they're missing their other equipment, sir. They can't sing the low notes, if you follow me, " Harper said, then pointed to one of the bullocks.

"He's got some fat on him, sir. He'll roast just fine." The chosen bullock, unaware of its fate, watched the two men.

"I can't just shoot it! " Sharpe protested.

"It's Christmas dinner, sir, " Harper encouraged his commanding officer.

"Proper roast beef, plum pudding and wine. We've got the plums and we've got the wine, sir, so all we need is the beef and the suet."

"Where do you get suet?"

"Off the bullock, of course. It's sort of stacked around the kidneys, so it is, but you'd best shoot the poor beast first. It's kinder."