Wanted Dead (16 page)

Riley wasn't sure whether he was dreaming or not when he started to think about Jane Cabel. She must have left him and gone straight off to Hatton to tell him how Riley could be caught. A great judge of character, Dermot Riley, you're a great judge of character. But how had she recognised him anyway? Simply enough, really. Someone from the station might have been at the shanty, or someone from the Goulburn barracks; they knew who he was. Should have thought of that before. But it was strange that he had been so wrong about Janey. A pretty girl too. Oh, a great judge of character Dermot Riley, a great judge of character.

He sat up suddenly in the chair, aware that he had been briefly asleep. Collingwood was in the room and two men. They were talking.

“Well I can't make you of course,” Collingwood said, “but I think you're being completely unreasonable.”

“Can't see it, Mr. Collingwood,” said one of the men, a thick-set hairy man of about forty. “We're paid to look after sheep, not fight bushrangers.”

“Besides,” said the other man, a younger battered looking fellow, “we've got no quarrel with Jimmy Hatton. If he's out after your friend here——” gesturing at Riley—“well that's between the two of them. Got nothing to do with us.”

Collingwood ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

“Well what do you propose to do?” he said: “Just ride out into the night?”

“We'll go into Goulburn,” said the older man. “We'll tell the troopers you're expecting trouble if you like.”

“That'll be a great deal of help,” said Collingwood heavily: “They're likely to turn out for anybody on the tablelands who expects trouble.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Collingwood,” said the younger man, “but I'm a married man. I got to think of me family.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Collingwood impatiently.

“Anyhow, there's no point in trying to persuade you to stay if you don't want to.”

“We'll be back in the morning,” said the older man.

“Oh, I don't know that I'd bother about that,” said Collingwood coldly.

“You mean you're sacking us?” said the old man.

“Well that's not the way I would have put it,” said Collingwood. “I would have said you were walking out on me.”

“But there'll be no jobs for us tomorrow, is that it?” said the man belligerently.

“Since at this stage we don't even know whether there'll be a homestead here tomorrow there seems little point in discussing the matter further,” said Collingwood.

The younger man stepped forward a little.

“Now hold on,” he said. “I want to get this straight. Are you telling us that we either stay here and risk our skins to save your mate's neck here, or you sack us—is that it?”

“I see no necessity to discuss the matter further now,” said Collingwood. “If you're going I suggest you go.”

“All right,” said the younger man, “all right, Mr. Colling-bloody-wood, we'll go. But we won't go by ourselves. Come on, Jack.” The two men walked out of the room, a sense of injustice evident in the very set of their shoulders.

“Colling-bloody-wood,” murmured Riley. “Remarkable.”

“Colonials,” said Collingwood disparagingly. “Remarkable people.”

“I don't know that I altogether blame them,” said Riley. “It is after all none of their affair. It's none of yours really, if it comes to that.”

“Don't be so damned tolerant,” said Collingwood snappishly: “I'd better go and see what's going on out there.”

He came back five minutes later and slumped down in a chair opposite Riley.

“Well we've got four men left,” he said: “Our two friends raised the banner of unity and two of the others have gone off with them.”

“That hardly leaves enough to defend the homestead, does it?” asked Riley.

“Depends how many men Hatton brings, and whether or not anyone here gets hurt,” said Collingwood: “Anyhow, it's all we've got so we might as well make the best of it.”

The idea that the bushrangers were going to make an attack on the homestead had become an established fact in Collingwood's mind, Riley realised. He thought of pointing out that it wasn't necessarily the case, but decided that to do so would only increase Collingwood's irritability.

“You and I will have to keep moving round from room to room,” Collingwood said.” Do you feel up to that?”

“Surely,” said Riley, who didn't.

“We'll only have one man on each side of the house, but we should be able to give the impression that there's more. Anyhow, do you feel like coming for a walk around and I'll show you how I've got things set out?”

“Of course,” said Riley, draining his whisky and levering himself out of the chair. He found that provided he walked very slowly and leaned on anything handy to take the weight off his right leg he could make reasonable progress. His head had stopped aching he discovered, shaking it gently to make sure.

Collingwood led him on a tour of the house. The front rooms were held by a youth whose age Riley estimated at around sixteen. He was sitting next to the window clutching a vast revolving rifle.

“Be careful of the recoil on that thing,” said Collingwood. “Sure you wouldn't be happier with a revolver?”

“No. I like this, Mr. Collingwood,” said the youth. “Anyway I've got a revolver here as well.”

“All right. Don't forget to blow that lantern out as soon as anything happens. You don't want to be looking out that window with a light behind you.”

“No. I won't forget, Mr. Collingwood.”

“All right, Dave. Keep your head down.”

“Yes, Mr. Collingwood.”

Collingwood and Riley moved round to the western wing. “Good boy that Dave,” said Collingwood.

“Bit young for this sort of thing, isn't he?” said Riley.

“Do him good. Anyway, he likes it,” said Collingwood, who, Riley felt, was inclined to attribute to other people what he considered the proper sentiments.

The western wing was held by a competent looking middle aged station hand who already had his lantern out, and was standing by the window with a revolver in his hand.

“Like a drink, Bill?” Collingwood asked.

“Wouldn't mind, Mr. Collingwood.”

“I'll send Mrs. Andrews in with something.'

Riley peered out the window. He could see the black bulk of the men's quarters outside the home yard.

“Give a shout if you hear anything,” said Collingwood to the station hand, and to Riley: “Come and we'll have a word with Charlie.

They passed the kitchen on the way to the back rooms and Riley heard horses hooves moving on the stone floor. He supposed that was as good a place as any to keep horses in a house.

Charlie, charged with defending the rear of the building was a full blooded Chinaman, whom Riley recognised as the men's cook. He was armed with a shotgun
and had two revolvers laid out on a chair near the window. He seemed very sleepy and not particularly interested in the events of the night. He spoke politely enough in what to Riley, who had never seen a Chinaman before he came to Australia, was a quite incomprehensible accent.

A lean elderly man answering to the name of Andy was standing by the window of the room in the eastern wing which Riley used as a bedroom. He was inclined to disparage the whole idea of a raid.

“They'll never come now, Mr. Collingwood,” he said, “it's too close to dawn. They'll allow 'emselves more 'n a few hours to take this place.”

“You might be right, Andy,” said Collingwood, “but it won't hurt us to make sure. Have you got everything you want in here?”

“Everything except a drop o' rum.”

“Well I think that might be fixed. Don't forget to put that lantern out if any shooting starts.”

On their way back to the main living room, Riley and Collingwood passed Mrs. Andrews in the hall laying out rolls of bandages on a side-board. Several open boxes of ammunition were stacked in the centre of the hall where they could be most easily reached from any part of the house. Riley noticed that there were still plenty of weapons in the arms rack. Apart from a formidable deficiency of numbers, he thought, they were quite well equipped to withstand a siege. His sword, he observed was still on the peg where he'd hung it the first day he eame to the station. Riley wondered fleetingly whether he would ever use it again.

Collingwood sent Mrs. Andrews round with rum for the men and a cordial for the boy.

“He'd probably prefer rum,” he said, “but I don't
think I ought to encourage him. Well now, what next?”

All that was required, thought Riley, was bushrangers, and he was becoming increasingly convinced that there weren't going to be any. But then, he admitted to himself, his convictions were usually wrong, so he'd wait and see.

“You might as well try to have a nap,” said Collingwood, “I'll call you if anything happens. I'll just go for a wander round. By the way you'd better arm yourself hadn't you?”

“Eh?” Riley said.

“You'd better take a revolver from the rack hadn't you?”

“Oh yes, of course.” said Riley, who hadn't realised he was the only man on the premises not armed.

Collingwood grinned at him, the first real evidence of humanity he'd given for some time.

“I sometimes wonder whether this is altogether your line of country.”

“So do I,” said Riley, “So do I.”

Then, two loaded revolvers in his belt, he sank back into his chair and fell asleep while Collingwood prowled restlessly round the house.

The dogs were barking. Riley stirred in his chair. The dogs were barking. Riley sat upright suddenly. The dogs were actually barking. They were barking frantically.

Collingwood came running into the room.

“They're here,” he said excitedly: “Out behind the men's quarters, I think.” He went round the lanterns in the room, blowing them out.

Riley stood up slowly and shook his head.

Collingwood turned the last of the lanterns down, leaving only a faint glow of light.

How predictable these blasted bushrangers were, thought Riley, how predictable to anybody but himself. He took a couple of steps and found his leg was much stiffer than before, but not so painful.

“How many are there?” he asked stupidly.

“No idea,” said Collingwood, “but you can be sure there's a lot of them. They wouldn't try a thing like this without an army behind them.”

There was the sound of a shot from the back of the house, then an answering fusillade from outside. The dogs became frenzied. Collingwood drew back the curtains from one of the windows and peered out into the night. He had a revolver in his hand and he thrust it forward out the window, but didn't fire.

Riley went across and looked over his shoulder. The gardens looked very peaceful in the moonlight, the shrubs throwing long, very black shadows. The shooting had stopped now.

Riley saw a movement in one of the shadows thrown by the shrubs, or thought he did.

“Is there somebody behind that bush near the gate?” he whispered.

“Which one?”

“The tall one, near the fence.”

“Put a bullet into it,” said Collingwood.

Riley took out his revolver and fired. The sound was very loud and sharp in the room. The smell of powder hung vividly in the air. There was no movement in the shrub.

Collingwood fired two shots himself. Still nothing happened. Then a series of shots came from the other side of the house, outside, but very close.

“Come on,” said Collingwood and led the way out of the room.

Mrs. Andrews was sitting in a chair in the hall. She had a shaded lantern on the floor. She seemed quite calm, but didn't say anything as they went past. Riley took a handful of ammunition from one of the boxes and put it in his pocket.

The boy Dave was kneeling by the window, his rifle balanced on the still. He looked round as they came in.

“See anything Dave?” said Collingwood.

“No Mr. Collingwood. I think they're all round on the other side.” There was a dog just outside the window barking furiously.

“They're in the men's quarters,” said Collingwood, “almost certainly. Come on.”

The room held by Bill, the middle aged station hand, was already thick with smoke.

A shaft of moonlight through the window showed it hanging heavily in the air.

“A mob of them just came up from the back paddock,” said Bill, without preamble. “Six or seven I think and I reckon there must have been halfa dozen of them there already.”

There was a burst of gun fire from the men's quarters. Riley could hear the bullets thudding into the outer walls of the house. One came through the window and hit high up on the wall, bringing down a cloud of plaster.

Bill thrust his revolver out the window and fired five quick shots. There was another shot from outside and one of the dogs was hit. It howls rose high above the barking of the rest. Then it quietened down, suddenly.

Bill had reloaded his revolver and now he took up a rifle.

“They haven't got a hope of getting near the house on this side without being seen,” he said, “but God help us if they try to rush us.”

“We'd stop them,” said Collingwood. “Three of us can bring a lot of fire to bear.”

As if to illustrate his point he stood at the window and emptied both his revolvers at the men's quarters. A tremendous volley came in return and Riley could see the flashes of the guns from the shadows of the building. Several bullets came in the window this time and a water jug behind Riley shattered.

Collingwood was kneeling below the window, reloading. Riley, feeling rather diffident, and not at all anxious to expose himself, stood by the window and quickly emptied his revolvers. It seemed pointless to him. He knew how difficult he found it to hit anything he could actually see. This pouring of shots into the night seemed wasteful. But presumably it made the bushrangers keep their distance. He knelt down to reload and Bill took over the window with his rifle. Bill, Riley observed, knelt while he fired, and allowed no more than his eyes to appear above the window at one corner. Much more sensible than standing and exposing most of the body.