Wanted Dead (18 page)

Someone was shooting again. Behind him.

“Down Riley, down!” someone was yelling That's the way he used to speak to a dog he once had, he thought absurdly.

The flash of a gun near his face. He swiped at the flash with his sword. He missed. The sword swung down and struck something soft on the ground.

“Get down Riley you bloody fool!” More shots behind him. That was Collingwood. He suddenly saw what was wanted and fell to his hands and knees so that Collingwood could shoot over him.

Two hands closed round his throat and he felt himself being pulled to the floor. He dropped his sword and groped till he found a face. He couldn't breathe. There was a biting pain in his throat. He gouged at the face, seeking eyes with his finger nails. Teeth bit hard on his fingers. He wrenched them free.

There was a lot of shooting behind him, above him. He shoved himself forward butting his head savagely into the face of whoever was throttling him. The hands left his throat and he felt a body pulling away from under him. Someone kicked him hard in the chest.

There were more shots. Someone screamed.

Then suddenly it was quiet.

Someone was pulling him to his feet. It was Collingwood.

‘Quick,” he was saying, “back here. I've got to get that sideboard in the doorway.”

Riley stood up. He was surprised to find he could. He didn't seem hurt at all, although his leg was wet. He put a hand down. It came away sticky. He must have been shot. It couldn't be much.

Collingwood was struggling with a sideboard. Riley went to help him and together they shoved the heavy bulk into the doorway.

“That'll hold 'em,” said Collingwood. “God that was close.”

The shooting had stopped altogether now. Only one
dog was barking. The rest were probably dead, thought Riley.

“Dave's shot,” he said.

“Oh God, is he indeed?” said Collingwood, going into the room the boy was holding without waiting for an answer. Riley followed him. Dave was still lying against the wall with the rifle in his hands. “I'm all right,” he said.

Collingwood lit a lantern, shaded it with a floor rug, and knelt down to examine the boy. Riley stood by the window and looked out into the yard. It seemed quiet.

“I don't think it's too bad, Dave,” said Collingwood after a while: “I think it might have chipped one of your ribs, I don't think it touched your lungs. Can you breathe alright?”

‘Yeah,” said the boy, “Hurts a bit though.”

“That could be the ribs,” said Collingwood, “Just lie there boy. We'll get a doctor out to you in the morning.”

“Hadn't we better take him through into the hall?” said Riley.

“Good idea,” said Collingwood, “Mrs. Andrews can put a bandage on him. Give me a hand would you?” Riley and Collingwood picked up the protesting boy and carried him through into the hall. Mrs. Andrews clucked when she saw him and began tenderly taking off his shirt.

Riley went around to the arms rack and found himself two more revolvers. As an afterthought he took two more as well, loaded the lot and thrust them into his belt.

He found Collingwood standing over Mrs. Andrews
as she bandaged the boy. He had a bottle of rum in his hands.

“I think a drink all round, don't you?” he said.

“Mr. Collingwood,” said Dave.

“Yes, Dave?”

“Do you think I could have rum this time?”

Collingwood laughed. “I think so boy, just this once.”

Riley went around with him as he called on the defenders of the homestead and filled their glasses with rum.

“I suppose I could have left them with a bottle each.” Collingwood said, “but they'd all get drunk as lords and then where would we be?”

Where indeed, Riley thought.

He remembered his leg and looked at it in the dim light of the hallway. He'd been shot in the top of the thigh. The bullet had passed cleanly through. It wasn't bleeding much. It was a very shallow wound, just under the skin.

“What happened then?” he said to Collingwood: “Did they come in on your side too?”

“No. That was just a cover for the others. Just as well. We'd never have stopped them if they had.”

“They must be getting sick of this,” said Riley: “I know Dave and I killed two of them and I think I must have hurt some in the hall. Did you get any?'

“No. Don't think so. But I'd say there must be anything up to twenty men out there or there were.”

“I didn't think Hatton worked with a gang anything like that size,” said Riley.

“He has done. They say he had nearly thirty when he held up the Mail at Crookwell last year. A lot of them are part timers. He calls on them when be wants
them. That's probably why he took so long getting here tonight. Gathering his forces.”

“What's in it for them?”

“He's probably spun them some yarn. Or more likely they've been in robberies with him at some time or other and daren't refuse.”

“I feel that I'm more trouble than I'm worth,” said Riley reflectively.

“Nonsense,” said Collingwood briskly. “There's nothing lost so far.”

“What if that boy dies?” said Riley softly so that Dave wouldn't hear.

“He won't,” said Collingwood confidently. “Come on let's take another look around.”

Everything was so quiet now that it seemed the bushrangers might have left. But the one remaining dog was still straining on its lead and growling, and they could see the glow of the fire behind the men's quarters. It showed no signs of diminishing.

“How would it be,” said Riley, “If I slipped out and came up on the other side of them? If I made enough noise they might think I was a force of troopers.”

“Possible,” said Collingwood, “but not worth the risk. If we lost you we'd never hold the homestead.”

You wouldn't need to, Riley thought, but didn't say anything. He was feeling acutely aware of the fact that too many peoples' lives were being risked to protect him. Admittedly it had been at Collingwood's insistence, but still . . .

“You'd better take Dave's place in the front room,” said Collingwood: “I'll keep wandering about for a while. Keep on shooting at those shrubs. They know they can get close to the house that way now.”

Riley pulled a chair over by the window and sat where
he could look out over most of the home garden. He could see the body of a man Dave had shot, and further away, near the fence, a shadow that he thought was the man he had killed.

The whole business would be farcical, if it weren't so bloody, he thought. Somewhere out in that moonlight night was the tall, bearded deep voiced bushranger whom men knew as James Hatton, marshalling a body of men to attack the homestead for the express purpose of capturing or killing himself, Dermot Riley. And here was this body of men, willing to be killed, apparently, to satisfy the lust for revenge of James Hatton. Who were these people who would turn out at night to do bloody murder at the call of a man like Hatton?

A situation very akin to high farce, he thought. And he smiled as he lay his revolver barrel on the window sill so that it glinted in the moonlight, because, for himself, he had to admit that he rather liked it.

“Oh Paddy Malone,” he sang softly.

“Will you ever go home?”

“Twas the thief of an agent, that caused you to roam.”

And somewhere, somehow, sometime, he would again come face to face with James Hatton. Eventually one of them would kill the other, he knew as surely as he knew that one day, if he lived, he would leave this sunlit country and return to the mists and rain of his own cloud wrapped island. The two beliefs stemmed from the same type of intuition, except that one was borne of hatred and the other of regret. But he would meet Hatton again, possibly even this night, and one of them would die. Hatton he hoped.

Riley saw the shape of a man stealing very slowly, very close to the ground, along by the fence near the
gate to the homestead garden. He appeared to be carrying something.

Very calmly Riley raised his revolver, steadied it on his arm and lined the sights up on the slowly moving shadow.

“I am about to kill a man,” he thought, deliberately. He felt nothing except a certain cold amusement.

He fired. The man dropped and writhed. Riley fired again. The man lay still. That was all there was to it. A man could become very competent at this sort of thing, Riley thought, wonderingly, as he reloaded. A scattered volley in reply to his shots came from over by the men's quarters, but soon died away.

Collingwood came hurrying into the room. Riley told him what had happened.

“By God we'll discourage them at this rate,” said Collingwood: “What was he up to do you think?”

“I don't know. He was carrying something. He might have been going to try to set fire to the place. One man would have a much better chance than a bunch of them.”

“It'll be light in an hour,” said Collingwood, “if they're going to try anything else they'll try it soon.”

There was a sudden crackle of concentrated gun fire from the other side of the house. “Old Andy's side,” said Collingwood and ran out. Riley limped after him.

The room seemed to be full of flying bullets. They were coming through the window and smashing into the plaster wall. Andy lay dead on the floor. A shaft of moonlight fell on his face. He'd been hit in the head at least three times. The bandage he'd had on his face had been almost shot away.

There was a flare of light somewhere outside, but
the bullets rushing through the window were almost visible. It was impossilbe to look out. At least ten men must have been pouring a constant stream of shots into the room.

“Next room,” said Collingwood.

Bullets were coming in here too. But not many. Riley and Collingwood knelt at the window and peered out. A burning cart was being trundled across the yard towards the house. It was blazing fiercely. It looked as though it had been loaded with great heaps of flames. Somebody must be pushing it. There must be men at the shafts on the other side. But it was impossible to them through the flames.

Collingwood emptied a revolver at the cart and the stream of bullets from outside was immediately directed to their window.

“No good,” said Collingwood, crouching below the window. “We can't stop them from here. What the hell now?”

“Water,” said Riley. “We'll need water. Is there any in the house?”

“Not enough,” said Collingwood: “Kitchen tank. Not enough. I should have thought of that. God damn it.”

Riley dug his knuckles into his forehead in a desparate effort to think. The rush of the bullets above his head and their crashing into the wall behind him seemed to disorientate his mind. And the flickering increasing light in the room that meant the cart was getting closer. If it hit the house they were finished. It had to be stopped somehow. How far away was it? Fifty yards and moving fairly slowly. With a sudden access of clarity he told himself, almost calmly—when
the situation is impossible the only course is the outrageous.

“Don't shoot me,” he called to Collingwood, and scuttled out of the room on his hands and knees.

The front way would be best. He ran through the hall. Mrs. Andrews was holding Dave's hand. Damn it, he'd forgotten the front door was blocked. He turned into the living room and scrambled out a window. Keep low. Round to the side of the house. He had to get between the cart and the house. Nobody behind that blaze would be able to see him. As long as nobody shot him from the house. He was running along the verandah. Strange, his leg didn't hurt at all now. He tripped over something. It was the body of a dog. His revolvers! He pulled two out of his belt. They were loaded, weren't they? Yes, he hadn't fired them since he'd loaded them. There was the cart now. It seemed to be stuck. No. It was moving again. Down low, close in along the verandah. Get between the cart and the gun fire.

The air was full of bullets. Of course, they were shooting at the house. Keep low. Keep low, below the level of the windows. They can't see you.

Everything seemed to be happening terribly slowly. He was almost detached from himself, watching from a distance as he picked up one leg after the other, with such immense deliberation, with such ponderous effort. And yet he was moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life before. He knew he was. He must be.

There was a shot from just behind him. Dear God, don't let them shoot from the house. That would be too much, to be killed by his own people.

Now, out to the cart. Bend almost double. Run as you've never run before. What if his leg gave in? What
if be fell in the path of the cart and couldn't get up again? He wouldn't fall. He'd get there. The outrageous always worked. Remember how he'd cut back to the cave on Lightning Fork Ridge. Remember how he'd thrown himself at Hatton's feet as the bushranger moved in to kill him. When had that been? A month ago? A week ago? God! Only that same night, only a few hours ago.

His heart was bursting. It was taking so long to cover the ground. And yet it was only seconds since he'd left Collingwood. Only seconds. But he was only halfway to the cart. It was so light. Surely they could see him. But no. Remember they were behind the flames. They wouldn't be able to see past the flames.

Now he was almost there. What was he going to do? He'd had a plan, but what had it been? He could only remember that he had to reach the cart. Well, he'd reached it, dear God, and what now?

Riley ran in close to the cart, so close that the flames seared him. He saw a man pushing on one shaft and shot him as he ran. Shot him in the stomach because that was a target he couldn't miss. The man fell. The shaft of the cart dropped to the ground and the cart lurched to one side. There was the other man, gaping at him, holding the shaft with one hand, his face all lit and ruddy in the firelight. He was trying to pull out a revolver. Riley shot him in the body and again in the head. He saw the man's face shatter and he fell over backwards as though somebody had hit him hard and suddenly with a hammer.