Wanted Dead (6 page)

A sudden clanking sound made him stop, and then he realised that he could hear voices. They seemed to
be coming from his right, on the other side of the ridge. Very slowly, picking his way carefully over the rock, he walked to the top of the ridge, and found himself on the path.

The fire was about a hundred yards away on his right, down the slope, where the cave ought to be. Then he realised he could see the jutting rock outlined against the glow of the fire. The voices sounded louder now but he couldn't make out what they were saying. It was disconcerting to hear that they seemed to come from five or six different throats. He hadn't exactly calculated on battling an army.

All right, Dermot Riley, he told himself. You're here now, and what are you going to do? Well probably the first thing was to make absolutely sure he was stalking a party of bushrangers. It would hardly further his career if he entombed a party of perfectly innocent travellers in the cave. But that entailed going very much closer to the cave, and that possibly entailed being shot dead. But then he would have to go right up to the cave if he wanted to set his fuses. Pity he hadn't thought of that before he started all this nonsense.

He went down on his hands and knees again and crawled down the ridge away from the path and began to make his way towards the cave. Provided he didn't make any undue noise, he reflected, there was probably very little chance that he would be detected. Any sentries posted would certainly be on the path between the cave and the road. In any case it didn't seem that the bushrangers, or the inhabitants of the cave anyway, feared any attack or they wouldn't have had that fire going so obviously. Unless of course they
felt that their numbers made them invulnerable. They probably did at that.

Riley's hand went down on some prickly growth and he chewed his lower lip in vexation as he wagged the hand in the air to ease the pain. Please God, he prayed, don't let me put my hand on a snake, because if I do I'll yell, and God help me then.

He settled down behind a rock about eighty feet from the cave and twenty feet below it. He had no intention of going any closer until he was reasonably satisfied that all the men he was stalking had gone to sleep. Cautiously raising his head above the level of the rock, he tried to catch what they were saying.

Only the odd word floated across to him, but one man with a deep voice seemed to be leading the conversation. Riley could see three men sitting around the fire and there appeared to be more inside, to whom the others occasionally spoke.

The deep voice was coming from a very big man who was sitting on his haunches on the opposite side of the fire from Riley. He had a vast black beard which spread out in a great fan across his chest.

They all seemed to be talking very quietly, as men do in the bush, and the few words Riley could catch were disconnected.

“. . . on the plain country . . .”

“. . . couldn't hit . . .”

“. . . depends . . . on the hobbles, but . . .”

None of which was much use to Riley, but then he wasn't going any closer, not for the moment anyway.

But suddenly the big man stood up and said loudly and impatiently: “What the hell does it matter, we swing if they catch us anyway: A couple more won't hurt.”

Well that was certainly prima facie evidence that this was a bushrangers' nest, thought Riley with satisfaction. Not that he'd had any doubt anyhow.

The big man said a few words Riley didn't catch, but then raising his voice angrily, he said: “If he does I'll damn well hang him myself,” and stalked out of the firelight.

My God, thought Riley, that was Jimmy the Hangman himself, almost certainly. Of course, he remembered the police description: six foot three, heavily built, large dark beard, it was the Hangman all right.

Well now, wouldn't it be sport to bring in Jimmy the Hangman in his first weeks as a special constable? And wasn't there an enormous reward on the man's head? Did troopers get paid rewards? He'd better check on that, and, if not, resign before he brought Hatton in. What would the reward be? Quite possibly one or two thousand pounds.

And would you take blood money, Dermot Riley? he asked himself accusingly.

My colonial oath, he replied to himself, employing a phrase he'd heard often since his arrival in Australia.

Well now, Dermot Riley, it seems the only obstacle between you and fame, wealth and glory is to see whether or not you can in fact bring these rascals to heel. Why wouldn't they go to bed and let him get on with it?

Riley guessed he'd been behind the rock for more than an hour before he saw the Hangman and his two companions throw sand on the fire. From the noises that followed he assumed that they were crawling into the cave. God send they all went in, he prayed, because there was no way of telling now that the fire was out. Moreover it was going to be hard
for him to find the rock overhanging the cave in the darkness. He'd better get moving soon or he'd lose all sense of its location.

But then similarly he'd better wait where he was for at least half an hour if he wanted his proposed victims to be asleep before he assaulted them.

There was nothing more for him to see, so he made himself as comfortable as he could behind his rock and contented himself with listening. He was gratified some twenty minutes later to hear the unmistakable sound of someone snoring very loudly. Surely everybody else in the cave must be asleep or they'd throw a bag over the head of anybody who snored as loudly as that.

His pistols became a problem again because he had to advance to the cave on his hands and knees. He could take the caps out, but then they would take time to reload, and he mightn't have time. Gingerly he slid them into his belt. No matter how he arranged them they seemed to point into his lower abdomen. He could put them in upside down, but then they'd point at his chest. Ah well, leave them as they were.

He checked in his ammunition belt for his fuses and matches and then began his approach to the cave. There was little scrub about and he was moving over almost bare rock. Provided he went very slowly, he didn't seem to make any noise at all. The trouble was he wasn't at all sure of his direction, within twenty feet or so. All he had to go by was the snoring and he couldn't locate that exactly.

Once his foot dislodged a small stone and it rolled across the rock with what seemed to Riley an appalling clatter. The night remained quiet apart from the constant chirrup and squeak of insects and the snoring.
A little later he heard a horse stamp and snort, but it was the peaceful relaxed sound of a horse settled down for the night. Riley wondered where the bushrangers had left their horses. The sound had seemed to come from some distance away, so there was little chance of his blundering in among them. He should have thought of that before. Horses would panic if a man crept up to them on his hands and knees at night.

He seemed to have been crawling forward for an hour, although it couldn't have been more than ten minutes, when he realised he could see the glow of embers from the fire. It was directly in his line of approach and it occurred to him that he'd been unconsciously heading for it all the time. That would have brought him right to the mouth of the cave and he didn't want to go there. He wanted to reach the point where he'd left the gunpowder overflowing from the crack in the rock, protected by the bark. Veering slightly to the right, up the slope, Riley crawled forward. He was breathing very heavily now, and, it seemed, very noisily. He tried to regulate his breathing into deep regular breaths, but found it almost impossible not to pant slightly.

Sweat was pouring down his arms and legs, but his body seemed to be dry. A sense of unreality began to settle on him and he was glad of the snoring because that gave strength in his mind to the idea that he was advancing on a party of armed and dangerous men.

Then, quite suddenly, he was against the jutting rock and had found the crack and the bark covering over the gunpowder. He leaned against the rock and tried to breathe quietly. Not that anybody in the cave
would be likely to hear him over those thunderous snores, he thought, he hoped.

What would the Goulburn sub-inspector think of him now, he wondered. Probably that he was behaving in a singularly inefficient and dangerous manner. So he was too. Why? God alone knew. Anyhow, for Heaven's sake this was no time to be wondering why he was doing what he was doing. The idea was to do it.

He took out his fuses and wriggled them deep into the gunpowder. He wished he'd thought of bringing something to pack them in with. Earth would do, but he wasn't going to go scraping around in the dark for earth.

Another problem occurred to him. Once he lit the fuses he would have to get out of there suddenly. But if he made any noise some of the men might come out of the cave before the charge went off. As he remembered it the access from the cave to the path above was fairly smooth rock. The best plan would be to walk quickly up there and run down the path as quietly as he could. And God send there were no sentries. He didn't think there were.

In theory the blast should drop the slab of rock forward, blocking the cave, imprisoning the bushrangers inside. If anybody happened to be directly under it they would be squashed, but so much the worse for them. They must have realised bushranging was a dangerous trade before they went into it.

But then supposing the charge wasn't effective and the rock didn't close off the cave? Well then he would just keep going up the path and lose himself in the darkness.

All right, every contingency covered, strike the match, light the fuse, and start moving. He took out
his matches, breathed a vague and slightly absurd prayer for the general success of his action and . . .

Somebody walked quietly and swiftly across the rock not three feet from his face. Riley, kneeling, a match in one hand and the matchbox in the other, stayed exactly as he was, holding his breath, his heart thumping so hard it seemed something must give.

“Wake up down there, it's me!”

God in Heaven, it was a woman's voice.

He could see her skirts now, outlined against the stars and then she leaped lightly off the rock, breaking her fall by pivoting on one hand. Riley saw the hand, dully white on the rock, and then it disappeared.

The snoring in the cave broke and there was a confused murmur of voices.

“It's only me,” said the woman, “Jane.”

Now was the time, Riley thought quickly. Now was possibly the only time; light the fuses and run before the men came out of the cave. But dammit all, he couldn't blow a woman to kingdom come, and that's where she'd go if he lit those fuses. What the hell was she doing here anyway? Riley huddled against the rock.

He could hear somebody crawling out of the cave.

“Janey, is it? What are you doing up here this time of night, girl?”

“I wanted to see Johnny. Is Johnny here?”

A sudden flare of yellow light and the sound of tinder crackling. Somebody was stirring up the embers of the fire. The light fell on Riley's face and he could see the black outline of the man's head and shoulders. The man seemed to be bald.

“No, haven't seen Johnny for a while, week or more maybe.”

“Has anybody seen him?” the woman sounded
worried. Riley had heard that voice before somewhere or something like it.

“Anybody seen Johnny Cabel lately?” the man asked in a slightly louder voice.

There were a few negative grunts from inside the cave. More men seemed to be coming out now.

“Keep your distance Jimmy Hatton,” said the girl suddenly. “I've only come here to see Johnny.” Well that was something, thought Riley. There was no doubt that Jimmy the Hangman was here. Much good may it do me, he thought bitterly.

“That's all right Jane, glad to see you for any reason.” That was the singularly deep voice of Hatton himself.

“As long as it's only to look,” said the girl, a little coyly, thought Riley. She probably was no better than she ought to be. And who was this Johnny? Her bushranger lover, he supposed.

The vast bulk of Hatton moved into Riley's range of vision and he could see the firelight glowing through the great fuzz of whiskers that flowed down on either side of the bushranger's face. Then he turned slightly and Riley could see his profile. He had a rather noble face, strong straight nose, deep set eyes, and a wide generous mouth. And this was Jimmy the Hangman, thought Riley.

“Well if you see him, tell him to come will you,” said the girl. “Dad's worried about him.”

Something in the way she said
Dad
caught at Riley's memory and then she too appeared at the extreme edge of the circle of light from the fire. It was the girl who'd served him in the shanty.

Then who was Johnny? Dad hadn't looked the type to worry about the prolonged absence of his
daughter's lover. Perhaps it was her brother. Perhaps it was even that youth who'd tried to hold him up that second day out from Goulburn? Of course it was. That was why she'd seemed familiar to him when he first saw her, probably. And that was probably why no-one had seen him lately. He'd have been terrified of the Hangman finding out that he'd told Riley of the
plant
.

“You don't think the traps would have got him?” the girl was asking anxiously.

“No,” said Hatton. “We'd have heard about it if they had. He's probably off somewhere with a girl. He'll turn up.” Hatton had disappeared behind the ledge of rock now but his voice had a penetrating quality that made Riley shiver. It seemed that the man was speaking only two feet away.

“All right, well I'll be getting back,” said the girl. There was a chorus of protest from the bushrangers.

“I'll walk back with you, Janey,” said Hatton.

“Oh no you won't,” said Jane quickly, and there was a burst of laughter.

“Come on Janey,” said Hatton, “you know I've never hurt a woman yet.”