Wanted Dead (3 page)

“I suppose you're a bloody trap
2
are you?” he muttered.

“You just keep quiet my boy,” said Riley. “You've done quite enough talking for today.”

In fact Riley felt a certain affection for the unprepossessing youth, partly because he hadn't shot Riley and partly because, after all, this was Riley's first bushranger. A small one, no doubt, but a bushranger nonetheless.

I never thought you'd get this far in your profession, Dermot, my boy, he told himself.

He kept the pistol pointed at the youth's stomach and wondered what on earth he was going to do with him. He could take him back to Goulburn, but that would mean coming into contact again with the sub-inspector well before it was absolutely necessary. He could shoot him on the spot, but that seemed unduly harsh and in any case it was unlikely that he could hit him even at that range.

But then it would be an absolute anti-climax, after this singular victory, just to let him go.

A kookaburra landed on the branch of a tree some twenty feet away and began its insane cackle, audible even above the blare of the cicadas.

Riley raised the pistol and aimed at it. He didn't particularly want to kill the kookaburra, but then he didn't think it likely he would. He was mainly curious to see whether or not the pistol would have fired if the youth had pulled the trigger.

 

It went off with an immense explosion and the youth's horse went galloping wildly down the road, its reins flying. Riley's own horse went on unperturbedly
cropping the grass. The kookaburra didn't stir or falter in its song.

Riley took out his own pistol. He'd forgotten to load it that morning, but the youth didn't know that.

“Well now,” said Riley to the youth who was staring up at him in that diffident and ingratiating manner in which one looks at a lunatic. “Well now, it was just as well you didn't pull that trigger, wasn't it?”

That was a fool of a thing to do, thought Riley. He could reasonably have taken the youth's horse as spoils of war if he hadn't scared it away. There was no hope of ever catching up with it on his own mount.

An empty pistol in either hand, Riley stood considering the youth, aware that he would soon have to make up his mind what to do with him. He couldn't stand there posturing all day.

Uneasily a thought began to stir in the recesses of his mind. He caught a glimpse of it and suppressed it hurriedly. But it came back, niggling away at him, tempting him, refusing not to be recognised. Riley had heard about the bushrangers'
telegraph
system whereby they paid, or frightened, a number of people in a district to relay messages of the movements of the police, or of gold shipments or other booty.

One of the methods in which this information was relayed was to leave messages at the bushrangers
plants
. These were caches of food, guns, ammunition, and sometimes even horses, which the bushrangers placed strategically over the countryside along their escape routes. The main hope of any ambitious trooper was to locate one of these escape routes, or even one of the
plants
and wait there until the bushranger eventually turned up. Of necessity quite a few of the bushrangers'
plants
were known, but only to the people
they used as
telegrams
, and these were notoriously reluctant to talk to the police.

But this abject youth now sitting on the grass before him, thought Riley, might well be such a
telegram
. He might even be a minor member of one of the gangs.

And what is that to you, Dermot Riley? Give him a kick in the backside and ride away out of here; you don't want to know where any bushrangers are. But then it
would
be rather stimulating to report back to the sub-inspector that he had found a bushrangers'
plant
and that a force of well trained troopers might well make a capture, if they were patient.

But who the hell wanted to be stimulated by the sub-inspector?

Riley scratched his chin through his beard with the muzzle of one of the pistols. He saw the flare of hope in the youth's eyes, but ignored it.

In any case, he reasoned with himself, it wouldn't hurt to have the information, if it were available. He needn't make any use of it.

He looked at the youth a moment longer wondering about the best method of questioning him, then went across to his packhorse which was grazing a few feet away.

The youth made as though to scramble to his feet, but Riley waved the pistols at him and said: “Ah, Ah!” The youth relaxed again.

Riley took a length of tent rope from his gear, fashioned a rough noose in one end and dropped it over the youth's head.

“Up you get,” said Riley, giving a light jerk on the rope.

The youth rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Just walk over under that tree,” he said.

“Why?” said the youth.

“Never you mind, just do as you're told.” Riley noticed the sword near his foot, and he put his own pistol back in its holster, stuck the other one in his belt, picked up the sword and gave the youth a slight dig in the buttocks with the point.

“Go on,” he said. “Over under that tree.”

The youth walked docilely ahead at the end of the rope.

“What are you going to do?” he said, worriedly, twisting his head around to look at Riley.

“I'm going to hang you,” said Riley.

The youth stopped, turned, and stared at Riley in incredulous horror.

“But, but you can't!”

“Oh yes, I can,” said Riley, digging him in the belly with the sword. “Get along with you now.”

In the shade of the tree Riley reached up and tossed the end of the rope over a branch about eight feet from the ground.

He drew the rope tight and the youth, who was still staring at him disbelievingly, caught the noose in his hands just as it tightened on his neck.

“You . . . you can't hang me,” he said.

“Can't I?” said Riley, “Do you know who I am?”

“No . . . no I don't.”

“They call me James Hatton, Jimmy the Hangman to me friends, I believe.”

“But it's not true,” blurted the youth. “You're not Jimmy the Hangman.”

“We'll see,” said Riley, and hauled experimentally on the rope.

The youth gurgled horribly and clawed at the noose with his fingers.

“This isn't going to be a very efficient hanging, I'm afraid,” said Riley. “I could dig something up with a horse I suppose, but you're only a little fellow so I'm just going to pull on this end until I get your feet off the ground, then let you strangle.”

The youth's eyes had begun to glaze and his tongue was lolling out, although Riley had as yet put no great pressure on the noose.

“But if you take too long to die I'll tie this end to the packhorse and let him drag your head off,” said Riley.

“Or,” he said thoughtfully, raising the sword and laying the edge against the youth's throat, just above the clutching fingers on the noose. “I could saw into your throat with this, but it's pretty blunt.”

The youth's eyes were bulging and his tongue was working convulsively around the outside of his mouth.

“Don't dribble so much,” Riley said distastefully, drawing away a step. He waited a few seconds and then said: “Did you want to say any prayers? Be quick if you do.”

He drew a little tighter on the rope and stood there with an air of slight reverence.

The youth made a feeble attempt to kick him which Riley discouraged by sawing the sword briskly across his throat. In fact it would take a week to break through the skin with this particular implement, thought Riley, although he had to admit it had come in surprisingly handy so far.

“Finished?” he asked.

The youth groaned.

“Well let's get on with it,” said Riley, and then as though struck by an afterthought. “By the way, you know Jimmy the Hangman don't you?”

The youth shook his head. Then, as though he thought knowledge of Jimmy the Hangman might afford some protection, he nodded vigorously, then he changed his mind and shook his head again.

“I know you know him, or you wouldn't have known I wasn't him,” said Riley, wondering whether so involved a sentence would be comprehensible to the youth in his present condition.

“Now I'll tell you what. You tell me where I can find him and I'll let you go.”

“I don't know,” blubbered the youth.

Riley hauled on the rope. The youth was standing on the tips of his toes now, his hands still clawing ineffectually at the noose around his neck.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” said Riley, “it'll only take you longer to die that way.”

He waited for a full half minute.

“I haven't got much more time to waste,” he said. “Tell me where I might be able to find the Hangman and I'll let you go, otherwise I'm going to pull till your toes clear the ground.”

“I swear to God I don't know,” groaned the youth.

“Just tell me where I might find him. You know where his
plants
are don't you?”

He jerked on the rope. “Don't you?”

“Let me down,” screamed the youth, “let me down for a minute and I'll talk to you.”

“Don't you attempt to make bargains with me, young man,” said Riley severely, giving another haul on the rope, but relaxing it again slightly because the youth's face suddenly went a vivid purple. “Just make up your mind whether you prefer to die or tell me what I want to know. It's all the same to me. Come on now. Where are Jimmy's
plants?”

“I only know where one is. Only one.”

“Well, where is it then? and I'll think about letting you go.”

“Jimmy'd kill me if I told you,” said the boy, who was so far gone in fear that he didn't notice that Riley had almost completely relaxed the pressure on the rope.

“I'll kill you if you don't,” said Riley, reasonably, poking the point of the sword into the youth's throat, close up under his chin-bone.

“On the ridge above Lightning Fork,” gasped the youth. “There's a cave there, that's one of his
plants
. It's the only one I know; I swear to God it is.”

“And where exactly is this Lightning Fork?” asked Riley.

“About ten miles north along this road,” said the youth, speaking nervously, but eagerly now, aware at last that he was no longer actually in the process of being hanged.

“And how do I recognise this Lightning Fork?” asked Riley.

“Why . . . it's where the Lightning Fork shanty is,” said the youth, as though this was something everybody should know.

“And the ridge?”

“Well, there's only the one ridge, Mister,” said the youth, in the same tone of voice.

“Sure you're telling me the truth,” said Riley. “Because you're coming with me while I check and if you've been wasting my time I'll kill you.”

“It's the truth, Mister, honest to God it is. I'll come with you, sure. It's the truth all right.”

Riley studied the terrified, tear wet face and decided that it almost certainly was the truth.

He let go the end of the rope and the youth fell sobbing to the ground.

Riley delicately slipped the noose over his head and began to coil the rope.

“All right, my boy,” he said, “you can run along: but I'd give up bushranging if I were you; I don't think you're cut out for it.”

The youth sank his head into the grass and sobbed.

Riley stood over him feeling a little ashamed of himself. He bent down and put a hand on the youth's shoulder: “Come on now,” he said: “I didn't really hurt you, you know.”

The youth's shoulders heaved and he pushed petulantly at the air with one hand. Riley was uncomfortably reminded of a fight he had once had at school, when his opponent, a big husky boy, had unaccountably crumpled and behaved much like this. And that had been long ago, far away, in a different, kinder land than this.

Riley slipped the sword back into its scabbard, climbed onto his horse, hauled its head up with the reins, plucked at the lead rope to enliven the pack-horse and rode away along the road.

When Riley last saw the young bushranger he was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

1
Immigrant.

2
Trooper.

THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY no need to go anywhere near the supposed cave above Lightning Fork, Riley told himself as his little cavalcade moved along the road so slowly as to barely raise the dust. Absolutely no need at all. All that was required was that
he should manage to survive as best he could in the bush until such time as he could go back to Goulburn and claim his month's wages. After that he should be able to manage quite comfortably, almost indefinitely. Or at least until the police force tired of paying him. Eventually, please God, something would turn up which would enable him to go back to Ireland . . . away from this slightly absurd, raw, new country. He only needed a couple of thousand pounds. A couple of thousand pounds would straighten out everything at home. Perhaps he should have gone gold prospecting instead of hunting, or rather avoiding, bushrangers. But then he knew less about gold prospecting than he knew about police work.

Anyhow, going near this plant above Lightning Fork couldn't possibly do anything to further his fortunes. Still it would be interesting to check on the youth's story by seeing whether there was a shanty at Lightning Fork, or whether there was a Lightning Fork at all. He could have a late breakfast cum lunch there and perhaps buy some birdshot. Which reminded him he might as well load his weapons in case he met any more bushrangers who couldn't be avoided.

This was obviously Lightning Fork, because the road split in two to make an island of a patch of scrub surrounding two huge boulders which the road builders had apparently thought it better to by-pass rather than remove, and in the centre of the island, growing up between the two boulders so that it looked as though it emerged from the solid rock, was the trunk of a vast gum, charred and split by a bolt of lightning.