Wanted Dead (24 page)

“You bloody swine,” sobbed Riley, “you bloody swine.” But he didn't know whether he meant himself or Hatton.

Hatton was back on his horse, riding towards Riley, riding at a trot. His revolver was in his hand, raised. Riley heard a bullet rushing past his head. It must have been very close. He wouldn't have heard it otherwise. Hatton was alone. That was one good thing. Although he might have more men back in the trees. No. He wouldn't have. They would have come out after
him by now. Or they would have started shooting. Another bullet went past him. He might as well shoot. He might be lucky. But it would be better to keep his revolvers loaded until they closed. But just one shot. Just one shot, like a man buying just one card in a card game. He pulled out a revolver and fired, not bothering to try to aim. Nothing happened. Better not fire again. Not at this range. Hatton had stopped. He was sitting on his horse doing something with his hands. He was reloading his revolver. Try a shot at him now? Get off the horse and try a shot? Not with the revolver. God if only he had the rifle still. But then Hatton wouldn't have stopped if he'd had the rifle. Try another shot? No use. Keep the revolvers loaded. How many cartridges did he have in the chambers? Five in one and three in the other. Hatton would have ten. He was sure to have two revolvers. Possibly more.

Riley reined the horse in. Better reload. No point in hurrying now. The Sergeant was dead. All that was going to happen was that he and Hatton were going to meet and fight in the marsh. It didn't matter where in the marsh. He reloaded quickly and resumed the steady trot towards Hatton.

Another bullet passed him. That meant he had ten shots and Hatton had nine, probably. He must count the bullets. In a quick rush at the end extra bullets in the chambers of a revolver could mean victory. But Hatton would realise that. Riley was dimly aware of a sense of satisfaction that there was no alternative to his moving in to fight with Hatton. He wanted to anyway, but he couldn't do anything else. Flight the other way would only mean eventually running into the bushrangers' camp. He couldn't move in any other direction than along the track of trampled water lilies. He had to go to Hatton. And one of them would die.
One of them must die. He had known it would come to this; he didn't know how he had known, but he had. He hadn't known it would be here, in this green wet world of croaking frogs.

God but he was sorry about the trooper. Dead on the water lilies, never again to see the wife and three children in Goulburn.

Hatton had stopped firing now. He was probably waiting for the range to close to certainty. Riley quite clearly saw his own body lying face downwards in the water lilies. Don't think of that. Don't think of anything. Just ride forward and then shoot and pray to God Almighty that you're luckier than you deserve.

Riley felt a change in his horse's gait and looked down to see that he was riding over moss. The island between the clumps of trees. Hatton must be nearly at the other side of it. He was. Only fifty yards away now.

Riley kicked his heels into horse's ribs and sent it charging forward at a gallop. His main hope—his only hope—lay in getting in close and relying on chance rather than skill. Move in close and shoot fast. He lay down low over the horse's neck, his revolver held out level with the animal's head. It didn't matter if it shied when he fired. The more it moved about the better. He heard a bullet thud into the horse's flesh, but it didn't seem to hurt it. He was forty yards away now. Thirty. Twenty. Hatton had ridden onto the firmer ground, had reined in and was waiting for him. Aiming carefully from his horse. Ten yards. His horse's hooves were thudding wetly on the moss. Strange. He could hear them clearly. He fired and kept on firing, fired five times while his horse galloped over ten yards. And he missed every time.

He wheeled round as the water lilies swept in towards
him. Hatton was still in the one place, his revolver held out in a straight and level arm. Riley thrust his empty revolver back into his belt and pulled out the other one. He was almost on Hatton now. Cannon into him. Knock him down. He dragged his horse's head over, but Hatton spurred to one side and Riley galloped past, getting off two shots almost in the bushranger's face. Hatton had fired at him too. He didn't know how many times. He thought he'd felt the powder burn his face. But he couldn't have. He hadn't been that close. He was at the other end of the island now. And Hatton was still in the same place, reloading.

How many cartridges were in his own revolver? He didn't know. Charge down now and try to get Hatton while he was reloading. No. His own revolvers might be empty.

He reined in and began to reload. Immediately Hatton raised his revolver and fired. The bullet chopped a neat hole in Riley's horse's right ear. The horse reared wildly. Riley brought it down and then he saw that Hatton was galloping at him. Riley raised his revolver, aimed it over his horse's head and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked home on an empty chamber. But he had cartridges in that revolver. At least two. Damn it! He'd moved them round when he began to reload.

He sent the horse into a gallop, straight at Hatton. His best chance was to keep moving. Even Hatton riding a galloping horse couldn't hope to hit a man on a galloping horse. Riley went down over his horse's neck again and began pulling the trigger of his revolver. It clicked on an empty chamber once more then fired two shots.

Hatton went past in a blur but Riley saw the flash
of white teeth in the mass of beard. The man was grinning, or snarling.

Hatton must have fired at him, but he'd heard nothing, no rush of bullets, no sound of firing, nothing. The frogs had started again. Had they ever stopped?

Riley reined in. Hatton had stopped about forty yards away and was reloading. Was this another trap? It didn't matter if it was. He had to reload now anyway.

Riley was pleased to find his movements were deft and calm as he slipped the cartridges into the chambers. His hands had stopped trembling now. There was blood running down his horse's shoulder. God help him if his horse was killed, or went lame.

A bullet thudded into his saddle and his horse shied nervously.

Riley kept a short rein but tickled his horse's ribs with his heels, making it dance spasmodically. Hatton was aiming carefully, sitting still on his horse. Let him shoot. His chances of hitting a moving target weren't high. Let him shoot and count the bullets. That was two. Ride in towards him, gallop, now turn and go back. Three bullets. Four. God but the man was good. Eventually a bullet would hit him. How many had hit the horse now? Hatton fired again. Five bullets. That meant he had only one loaded revolver Probably.

Riley wheeled round and charged at Hatton again, firing as he went. Hatton was firing back at him, emptying his second revolver. The hammer of Riley's revolver was hitting empty chambers. He tried to thrust it back into his belt, cursed when it slipped and fell to the ground, clawed out his second revolver and fired, once, twice. Keep some bullets, keep some and hope to sweet God that Hatton runs out. Hatton was moving now. Galloping towards him. He wouldn't do that
if he had cartridges left. Riley reined in, so suddenly his horse went back on its haunches. He held his revolver out, waiting for the barrel to fall level with Hatton. It took so long, so long for a rearing horse's hooves to reach the ground. But there was Hatton, feet away, moving, but surely to God he couldn't miss. Quickly he pulled the trigger, again and again, almost weeping at the time it took just to pull his finger back a quarter of an inch, feeling the throb of the weapon in his hand as he fired, pouring the bullets at the rushing mass of horse and man sweeping past him.

He was at the edge of the water lilies again. Hatton had halted and was reloading. He still hadn't hit the bloody man. They looked across at each other, tacitly observing a minor truce.

This was the way it was going to be, thought Riley, a series of charges across the island, firing at each other until finally one bullet struck home. And he only had one revolver now. Better make his charge before Hatton had time to load both of his.

Riley kicked at his horse, and went careering towards Hatton again, terribly aware that the odds were heavily against him. Hatton was much more skilful than he, and now he was twice as well armed. He was waiting there, sitting on his horse, levelling his revolver. Riley drummed his heels into the horses ribs, faster, you bloody animal, faster. This time he heard the whistling crack of a bullet cleave past his ear. Damn it to dear Heaven one had to hit him soon. He had his own pistol levelled, but didn't fire. He seesawed the reins, forcing the horse to swerve violently from side to side. Careful you'll pull it over on its neck. Damn it, this was suicide, there must be another way.

There was.

He thought of it and started to do it in the one
moment, as his horse carried him down upon Hatton. He switched his revolver to his left hand and began shooting, letting go of the reins. He still hadn't reached Hatton. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly, with such awful clarity.

He snatched his sword from its scabbard, gave it one half whirl around his head and lashed at Hatton. He felt the sword bit at something and then he was past. He wheeled. Hatton was riding away from him. His revolver must be empty. Had he hurt him?

Riley fired once after the retreating bushranger, then his revolver was empty.

Something was wrong about Hatton. His movements were strange. He stopped his horse now and was fumbling with something. He must be reloading, but there was something peculiar about him.

Riley's own revolver was reloaded now, and he began to walk the horse across the island, keeping his sword in his right hand, the revolver in his left with the reins.

He saw a revolver on the ground. He could use that. It wasn't his own. It must be Hatton's. He must have knocked it from his hand with the sword. But he daren't get off the horse to get it. It would take too long. But Hatton still had his back to him. What the hell was happening?

Then he saw a human thumb and a finger, obscenely detached from a hand, lying on the damp ground.

Riley reined in his horse and stared in disbelief at the grisly morsels of flesh. So that was what was wrong with Hatton. Riley had chopped half his hand off.

He looked across at Hatton again. The man was facing him now, waiting, a revolver held in his right hand. He was cradling his left hand on the saddle.

With a hand shattered like that Hatton would not possibly be able to load a revolver. If that revolver he had in his hand was empty, or when he had fired the cartridges that were in it, he would be finished.

Riley raised his revolver and fired a shot, not even bothering to try to aim, simply trying to tempt Hatton into firing. The bushranger sat motionless on his horse. Riley slipped another cartridge into the empty chamber.

He was feeling strangely cautious now. The knowledge that Hatton must soon be helpless made him nervous of last minute, accidental defeat.

He thought of calling on Hatton to surrender, but abandoned the idea as foolish. Why should the man surrender? He'd only be hanged. His best chance lay in keeping the game going until some of his gang showed up. And Riley's best chance was in finishing it quickly for the same reason.

He gave a yell to bolster his own courage as much as anything and urged his horse into a gallop. Hatton immediately began to gallop towards him. His revolver was empty. He wouldn't have moved otherwise. Riley fired his revolver quickly, then raised his sword. He saw Hatton wrench his horse's head and veer away to the left. Riley galloped past, his sword swinging harmless in the air.

But now, he thought, with elation, it was just a matter of time. He would reload and quietly stalk the bushranger, stalk him to his death.

He swung round and saw that Hatton had dismounted on the other side of the island. He picked something off the ground and leaped back into the saddle.

The other revolver. Riley cursed himself for his idiocy, but it wasn't; Hatton had a sword in his hand. The trooper's sword. He must have carried it with him and then dropped it when Riley first charged him.

And now Hatton was charging, galloping furiously across the island with the sword above his head.

Riley fumbled with the cartridges. It was awkward with the sword in his hand, but he had to keep it there. He had two in the chambers. No time for more. He raised the revolver. He shouldn't fire yet. But he didn't know whether there was a cartridge or empty chamber in the breech. He pulled the trigger. Empty. Again. It fired. He had one more shot and Hatton was almost on him. He fired, then ducked and swung his horse to one side. He heard the bushranger shouting and heard the sword whistle through the air. Viciously he pulled his horse's head round. Hatton had turned too. He was only feet away. Moving in with the sword swinging.

Riley still had his sword in his left hand. He raised it above his head and caught Hatton's blade as it came down. The steel rang loud and Riley felt his arm tingle as the shock went through the guard.

Hatton pulled his sword back and swung it around at Riley's chest. Riley dropped his arm and caught the blade on his guard. He tried to thrust the point at Hatton's throat but Hatton bore down on his own blade and the two men sat their horses, leaning their weight against their swords, glaring into each other's faces. Hatton's teeth were still bared. He was snarling. Riley glimpsed the mangled left hand. Hatton had wrapped his reins around his wrist.

Simultaneously both men pulled away. Riley slipped his sword into his right hand. He wanted to load his revolver, but Hatton would never give him time for that.

Hatton levelled his sword like a lance and came charging at Riley.

It was all happening so slowly, Riley thought, and knocked Hatton's blade aside with his own sword. It
was all happening so slowly, but his own movements were slow, too. If only his body would work as fast as his brain.