The Horse Thief (24 page)

‘Come and sit down, love. There's something you need to know.'

Fred shuffled his feet then thought better of it and sped off out across the courtyard without a backward glance.

‘I don't want to sit down.' She held her hands out to the stove searching for warmth, unable to meet Peggy's prying eyes.

‘Then I'll make a pot of tea.'

‘I'm not sure I want tea, either.' She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten, and the prospect of even tea made her stomach turn. How long since she'd been in Sydney? When she still believed the only battle she fought was acceptance for the man she'd absurdly thought she loved.

‘Yes, you do.' Peggy pulled one of the chairs closer to the range. ‘Sit here and put your feet up. It'll warm the cockles of your heart.'

‘Peggy, just tell me. What was Fred talking about? It's Jim, isn't it?'

‘It's Jim. Your father called in the constabulary. They took him away last night, to the Maitland lock-up.'

‘Whatever for?' Her voice cracked. ‘What has he done—you don't go to gaol for using an assumed name. Half of Australia would be behind bars if that was the case.'

‘It's a bit more than that, love. Here.'

The cup rattled in the saucer as she took it. She put it down on the top of the range and picked up the cup alone, holding it close and letting the fragrant steam warm her cold face.

Peggy cleared her throat.

‘Come on, Peggy. Spit it out.'

‘Your father's had him taken into custody for horse thieving.'

‘Horse theft!' How could he do that? The only thing Jim had stolen was her heart, not any of the horses. ‘When? When did this happen?'

‘Last night. Your father locked himself in that library of his and the next thing anyone knew he'd got that jumped-up pompous old fool Tom Bludge from the village with him. They talked for a while then he sent him off. We didn't know nothing until Constable Coxcomb turned up with his band of merry men.'

‘Why didn't someone tell me?' All the while she'd languished in her bedroom like a grieving maiden and slept the night away. ‘Where was Violet?'

‘It was Violet what found out.'

India slammed down the teacup. Papa must have planned this from the outset. She cast her mind back to their trip from Sydney. When had he had the opportunity? She pushed open the door.

‘And where do you think you're going?'

‘I'm going to talk to Papa and find out what he thinks he's doing. He can't have someone arrested because he doesn't like his name. Jim hasn't committed theft. I'd stake my life on it.'

‘Just you wait a minute and do a bit of thinking. First and foremost it's too early. Your father's still abed and the last thing you want to do is go waking him, and besides, I'm not sure there's much you can do about it.'

‘Jim's innocent.' No matter how wrong she'd been about Jim, he didn't deserve this. He might not have told the truth about who he was or why he'd come to Helligen, but theft? She was more guilty of gullibility than he was of thieving. Why had she encouraged him? Why had she let him into their lives? ‘It's my fault.'

‘Not really. He didn't have to answer the advertisement, didn't have to take the job. Didn't have to bring Goodfellow back here, for that matter. He walked straight into a trap if you ask me. Didn't think about the consequences.' Peggy shot her a look, enough to say Jim wasn't the only one who hadn't thought of the consequences. ‘His father stole Goodfellow, no ifs or buts about that, and now he owns the animal.'

‘He's no horse thief. His father perhaps, but not Jim.'

‘And it's a hanging offence.'

‘Peggy, this is impossible. I have to talk to Papa. Explain that it was entirely my fault. I shouldn't have been so foolish as to place that advertisement in the newspaper.'
Or to fall in love with the man
. She wasn't about to admit that to Peggy, or anyone else.

Twenty-Six

The imposing gates of Maitland Gaol threw a shadow that penetrated even the depths of the prison cart. Jim craned his head and peered through the narrow slit in the canvas, flexing his cramped muscles and aching shoulders. Massive sandstone walls towered above him. He shrugged, trying to ease the deadening ache in his body. At what point in time had he crossed the line from dutiful son to horse thief? When he first heard Kilhampton's accusation he had expected to laugh it off. He was no thief. Goodfellow belonged to his father.
Your father is dead
, the voice in his head reminded him. And he had inherited Goodfellow.

The truth sat like a solid stone in his belly. No matter what accusations Kilhampton made he couldn't think of his father as a thief. But … there were no ‘buts' in the law. He knew that well enough. As unpalatable as it may be to admit, his father had stolen the animal. In the face of the law it was irrefutable and he'd walked straight into the trap by delivering Goodfellow to Helligen. Gaining from stolen goods? He'd heard the muttered conversation between Kilhampton and the bloody constable.

The cart ground to a halt and the back door flew open. Jim blinked against the hovering lamplight.

‘Down you get and no funny business.'

He shuffled along the timber seat and launched himself onto the hard-packed dirt, staggering as he landed. The heavy chains destroyed any sense of natural balance he may once have had. Out of the cart the full impact of the towering sandstone walls hit. Caught like a rat in a trap. There would be no escape. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping his hair into his eyes and cutting through his shirt.

‘Foul bloody night. We're not hanging around. All yours.' The constable pushed him at the turnkey with a sniff and disappeared into the darkness. The cart rattled back towards the gates and they clanged shut.

A jab in his kidneys propelled him across the courtyard to a massive door, padlocked and bolted. The turnkey swung a heavy chain up from his waist and inserted a key into the lock. He turned it with a clunk then drew back the bolt and released the door. A sound far louder than the screeching wind assaulted his ears and the hairs on his neck quivered. The shouts of men, defiant whistling, and women. Women's voices. Singing. The cries of children. A hell on earth.

Led through another doorway and into a corridor lined with solid timber doors, Jim gritted his teeth and fought back the desire to pull away from the sour-smelling gaoler. They passed at least a dozen more tightly sealed doors with small barred windows before the turnkey jabbed him again. Taking it to mean they had arrived at their destination Jim stopped. The tunnel of the dark corridor stretched ahead and behind him. The clamouring noise shot through with the howling whistle of the wind drummed inside his head.

The key twisted in the padlock and the door swung open with a metallic grind. Plunged into an eerie gloom, he was trapped in a tiny space between the putrid gaoler and a barred gate. He waited, hands hanging by his sides, the metal of the cuffs cutting into his wrists while the door behind him was locked once more. In front of him was another door of iron bars and through it a damp, dank smell wafted, a mixture of festering humanity and bodily fluids.

The turnkey fumbled with another lock and the barred gate swung open. A final shove and he toppled onto the ground. He crawled around in time to catch the turnkey disappearing then stilled. Alone in the darkness. The fetid air coated his tongue. Below the constant whistle of the wind and the muted noises of the prison, the rasp of shallow breathing sounded. Not the regular breath of sleeping men but a tense silence, as if something held its breath and waited in the shadows.

A sudden longing for the fresh clean air of the bush swept him. Another door clanged shut. His eyes adjusted to the darkness; a pale slant of moonlight shone through the two barred windows high above his head, throwing a pattern of bars across the dirt floor. He turned, scouring the recesses of the cell. Huddled mounds became visible. He eased down onto his haunches in the centre of the cell, filling the only space that guaranteed he wouldn't sprawl across one of the blanketed bundles. Four mounded shapes, one propped in each corner, with heads resting on knees, arms pulled tight around their legs as though they were gargoyle cornerstones, part of the solid walls.

His chains rattled as he eased the blanket around his shoulders and hunched down with his legs crossed, listening to the rasping gasps, picking out the individual breathing patterns. He measured the size of the cell. No more than three paces by four. Above him iron girders reinforcing the ceiling ran the length of the cell.

A long slow exhalation and a movement. From one shrouded bundle a face appeared, eyes dark as Hades; cheekbones bleached white by the moonlight above a bushy beard. ‘You're in the way. Back against the wall.'

The sound took him by surprise. He twisted around. Back against the wall, where?

‘There something the matter with you?'

He shook his head and pushed onto his knees, shuffled across the floor useless as a baby with the weight of the chains, until he reached the wall beside his hollow-eyed companion.

‘Sort the links out. It'll give you enough play to sit. You'll get used to it soon enough.'

He shot a glance across the cell at the man lounging against the opposite wall and took heed of his words.

‘What've they got you for?'

‘Horse thieving,' Jim muttered. He fiddled with the rusty chains until he could turn and take a closer look at his cellmate. A long beard covered the lower half of his blackened face and his straggling hair hung almost to his shoulders. ‘You?' He received no response. How long would this last? The turnkey hadn't taken his name, hadn't recorded his arrival. What about sentencing, facing a court? ‘So what happens next?'

‘Either you prove your innocence or you'll be committed to stand trial at the next quarter sessions. If you're lucky you'll get bail or they'll keep you here in the interim.'

Proving his innocence was a long shot. There was no escaping the fact his father had stolen Goodfellow, no matter which way he looked at it. By virtue of his father's death he now owned Goodfellow. What in God's name had possessed him to take him back to Helligen? If he hadn't done that the worst thing Kilhampton could have done was kick him off the property. ‘That's a long shot.'

‘Guilty or not? No point in sitting around waiting to see what happens. You need someone to speak for you.'

‘No, I didn't do it, but I'm responsible. It's a long story.' A long story that still made little or no sense. It had spiralled out of all control and he was being sucked down into the vortex of the past, made to pay for events that had occurred when he was no more than a child.

‘You're going to have a lot of time on your hands to sort your story out. Magistrate ain't due for another two weeks. Is the animal branded? Local?'

Jim nodded. ‘Stud stock, local, branded.'

‘You're history. Ten years at best. More if you've crossed someone with any clout.'

Oh yes, Kilhampton had clout. He had no doubt about that. And contacts.

‘Count your blessings. They did away with the death penalty for horse thieving a few years ago. Not for the likes of me. Or them.' He indicated to the other three corners of the room with a wave of his hand. Who were these men? Why were they here? Bushy hadn't given away any details, no names, and no crimes. They all looked as though they could handle themselves and none of them appeared intimidated by their incarceration or their plight. No longer huddled shadows beneath the blankets the men stared back at him, their pale faces clearly visible now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

‘What are we going to do about him?' The bloke in the far corner tilted his head and all but spat the words at Jim.

‘Bloody lousy timing.'

‘Piss weak.'

The phrases batted backwards and forwards, the underlying tension tighter than the chains around his wrists. He shuffled further back against the wall and attempted to pull his arms from under the blanket.

Bushy's hand snaked out and tweaked the blanket free.

‘You're not chained?'

There was a general rustle and three other pairs of hands lifted and turned. None sported the iron bracelets that chafed his skin. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

The man closest to Bushy heaved his stubby body vertical then lumbered three paces across the room until his shadow loomed across Jim's body. With his face almost pressed into the man's festering crutch he craned his head back. The meaty hands above him brandished a weapon. His heart rate kicked up. A heavy chisel. The scars of cuffs were clearly visible on the man's brawny wrists.

‘Well?'

He was a sitting duck. Was the bloke threatening him or offering to remove his chains?

He took a punt and held his arms up. What had he to lose? These men had worked out a way to do without their cursed irons and he wanted the same.

‘Not so fast. What do you reckon, boys?'

‘We got two choices. Leave 'im trussed or take the risk.'

‘Keep him tied. He can't interfere then.'

Interfere? What would he interfere in?

The third man uncoiled himself, long and sinewy with bunched and corded muscles, not an ounce of fat. ‘Or offer him a chance?' A chance? A chance at what?

‘Too much risk. Who the hell is he?'

‘James, James Cobb.' He clamped his lips closed. What was the matter with him? Helligen manners had rubbed off on him. This was no civilised meeting; he'd answered no advertisement though it was where it had landed him.

‘No names.' Bushy turned to him, and then nodded up at the two men. ‘Give him a go. He's got no bloody chance. Horse thief'll go down for ten at least.'

‘Pfft.' A globule of spit flew through the air and landed with a soft thud on the dirt in the centre of the cell. The fourth man threw back his blanket revealing a pile of worn and rusted implements at his feet, a small bow saw and several cold chisels. ‘Keep bloody talking and we'll be out of time.'