Their journey to London was not a long one, but in the night, it was a treacherous one. A rolling fog covered the land, one couldn't see twenty feet ahead, but in the still, quiet night, sound carried for a mile. They began their trek in the early evening, the sun had yet to dip below the horizon. The passengers needed in London, could not wait for the next morning. The stage driver was the best to be found, his fee large, but his experience was priceless. He was accompanied by another man with a large rifle. The Rifleman had keen eyes and his ears were at attention, listening over the horses for oncoming riders; for the Highwaymen who prayed on the stages.
Long after the sun had set, not a sound had been heard over the consistent clip-clop of the horses. Their hooves hit the dirt road, broadcasting a message for nearly a mile of the nearing prey.
The sound alerting all the nearby predators to keep a good watch, to be ready, for the prize will soon be in their grasp.
The fog, like a blanket spreading it self out on the land, concealed all stars, the only light was from a lantern suspended above the stage driver. The passengers nervous, expecting to hear shots fired. The jumped at every bump in the road that the wheels struck. Clutching their baggage close, they prayed that the night would pass quickly.
The Highwayman, alerted to the approaching stage, was hidden by the road, and concealed by the fog, he was not yet able to discern the light from the quickly approaching lantern. Clutching his pistol, his only weapon, he planned to take all the that he desired from the stage. His family was at home, sitting by the fire.