Wanted Dead (7 page)

“It's not being hurt that I'm afraid of,” said Jane and again there was a laugh.

“All right, Jane,” said Hatton, resignedly and Riley gathered that his approaches to Jane were something of a standing joke between them. “But if you get into trouble on the way back you'll be sorry.”

“Much more likely to get into trouble if you're with me,” said Jane pertly. Again the laughter.

“No you don't, James Hatton,” cried the girl, “I'm off.”

She appeared in the firelight, scrambling up onto
the ledge of rock. She turned round and slapped at someone behind her, then, laughing, stood upright on the rock, skipped a couple of paces to the left and jumped into Riley's chest.

She screamed, loudly and shrilly.

Riley stood up, knocking her over in a flurry of petticoats, and sprinted up the rock slope towards the path.

There was shouting behind him, and the girl still screaming. “Shoot that bastard,” someone yelled. There was no shot. Riley stumbled and fell, scrambled up and ran on.

“Who is it?” “Shoot him!”

Then the shots. Loud crashing reports behind him and bullets cracking at the rocks around him.

Then the loud, regular bark of a revolving rifle. Bullets filling the night. But wilder now. Something struck his heel as though somebody had hit it with a hammer. He was limping, but he wasn't hurt. The heel of his boot had gone.

Footsteps thudding on the rocks behind him. Get off the path? Not yet. Keep running. Distance was the thing. Then the darkness of the scrub. He stumbled and fell again. Damn these pistols, and the awkward heavy sword. He'd kill himself at this rate. He dragged the pistols out of his belt. Which one had the birdshot? Damn it who cared? Someone was close behind him now. The shooting had stopped. They were afraid of hitting the man who was close to him.

“Stop you bastard!” A shot. He didn't hear the bullet. Another shot. Still no bullet. When was the next? It didn't come. The man's pistol was empty. Run. Keep running hard. Down into the scrub? Not
yet. He might fall and then he'd be done. The bloody man was gaining on him.

Riley stopped in the path, turned, and fired at the black bulk of the man rushing toward him. The man kept coming. Riley fired with the other pistol. The man screamed and seemed to fall to his knees. Riley ran again along the path.

Now there were more footsteps. The others had gained on him because he'd stopped. Now they were shooting again. But surely they couldn't see him. They must be shooting along the path. Then get off the path.

He veered down the slope, stumbling and thrashing his arms, making for the belt of scrub that ran along below the rock line.

More shots. Near him again. They knew he was off the path. They must be shooting at the noise he was making. Slower, quietly. But you can't move quietly in the scrub. Then keep still. Stay where you are. More shots. What happened when a bullet hit you? If it killed you was there one flash of knowledge first, or did you just die? Keep still. Where were his pistols? They were gone. He must have dropped them. He wouldn't have had time to reload them anyway.

Voices. Boots on rock. They were coming down the slope. They knew he was here. But they couldn't. Not exactly. Keep still. Keep still.

Something was hurting his back. Good God, the sword! Thank God, he had something at any rate. But don't pull it out now. Keep still. They were closer. Another shot. The bullet was very near. They were coming right towards him. No good, they'll step on you. Bolt!

The crashing of the scrub as he ran brought the bullets. They couldn't be using the bullets he'd tampered
with in the cave. They must have brought more with them. You can't keep running. They'll hear you all the time. You can't stop. They'll follow the noise to where it stopped.

God, but this stinking bush would be a rotten place to die in.

Get up a tree. There weren't any trees big enough. Get back onto the rock. They can't hear you so well there. But they're up there. They're all along the ridge. God how many of them were there?

Suddenly he was running clear on a strip of rock. Now he could hear clearly the bushes crashing behind him. Hell they were close. But they couldn't see him. What was that light? The fire. He was below the cave again.

Riley stood still, forcing his lungs to breathe slowly, so that he could hear. They were below him now. And behind. And God damn it, in front! There were men all round him. Of course, they knew this bush backwards. They were rounding him up like a chicken. Oh for a gun! To be able to fight. He remembered the sword and pulled it out.

Quietly Riley, quietly, if you're going to die, do it gracefully. There was another shot. But it was very wild. And several more. They were firing at something else. A wallaby in the scrub perhaps. Then they didn't know where he was, not exactly. But they must know they were all around him.

All right then, back up to the cave. Bending low he scrambled quickly up towards the glow of the fire. He knew what he intended to do, but not whether he could do it. If he could start a fuse alight, and then get up to the path before the explosion; they'd all surely come back to the cave and he could get out
along the path, down the western side of the slope. Not the way he'd come.

Just a chance but better than blundering around in the dark until he ran into somebody. Almost in the circle of firelight now. Go around it. Keep low so you won't be outlined. Now across, over to the rock ledge.

No-one here; right, matches.

Oh God, that bloody girl! He'd forgotten her. There she was, just above him. Now if he went past her she'd scream and he'd be done.

Well damn the silly bitch, he thought ruthlessly, it's her risk. He struck the match and lit both fuses. Up across the rock now. The girl had heard him. She was looking uncertainly at him.

“Listen,” he said urgently: “I've mined that cave and it's going to blow up. Get out of here.”

He saw her mouth open to scream, so he slapped her face hard. The fuse must be almost down to the powder.

He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her after him. Surely she must scream now. She screamed.

Oh, God! What a mess.

The cave blew up. A sudden harsh glare of light and a dull loud crump. Then darkness, darker than before. Bits of stone flying around.

The girl was screaming.

Riley let her go and scrambled to the top of the ridge, then on to the path. There was shouting below him. And once the sound and flash of a gun. He couldn't tell where the cave was now. The explosion must have blown the fire out.

Run. Run down the path. But stay on the path. Remember the cliff at the end of the ridge.

The girl was still screaming. “Here he is! Here he
is!” she was screaming. That wasn't strictly accurate. He wasn't there. Not now.

What the hell was that? Hoofbeats. There was a horse galloping down the path. Surely no-one would be fool enough to gallop down here at night?

But someone was. Damn, but they must know this place well. All right, well he couldn't run from a horse. And he wasn't going back into the scrub again.

All right.

Riley crouched in the path with the sword hilt resting on the ground, the point upright. The horse was coming very fast—very sure footed in the darkness. Very close now. There was some movement ahead. The movement became a massive rush of blackness and the hoofbeats became enormously loud.

Riley leaped to his feet and yelled. The horse shied, reared, slithered almost over on its back. Someone cursed. A pistol fired. Riley moved alongside the horse's head and slashed at the rider with his sword. A hand grabbed the sword and Riley wrenched it clear and struck again.

“No!” someone said loudly, very close.

The hand grabbed the sword again. Riley pulled and the rider came with the sword, falling heavily off the horse. Riley now had the bridle in his left hand. The horse was plunging. The man on the ground was trying to get up. Riley hit him again with the sword, on the head, anywhere.

Then he scrambled onto the horse, but couldn't get into the saddle. It didn't matter, he was clinging on and the horse was away down the path. God send it kept to the path, he couldn't turn its head. God send it didn't just keep going over the cliff.

He could pull himself into the saddle if he let go
his sword. But he didn't want to let go the sword. Careful he didn't let it get between the horse legs.

Riley got a grip on the pommel and hauled himself into the saddle. He lay down low over the horse's neck and gathered in the reins. But he didn't try to slow the horse. It seemed to know where it was going and he was quite willing to go with it. There were possibly more horsemen following. But he could hear nothing except the clatter of his own mount's hooves and the rush of air past his head.

The horse swerved violently and then they were charging down the slope. So the horse was following the path. Not galloping over the cliff. Good.

Riley screwed his head round to look behind him. He saw a couple of flashes that could have been rifle fire, but no bullets came near. No danger from that. The greatest danger was that the horse would fall. And that danger was very great.

Again and again the beast stumbled, but with a scrambling clatter on the rocky path regained its stride. They were down in the scrub now and bushes on either side of the path whipped at his face. The horse's neck was warm and sweating. The smell was comforting. Riley kept his eyes shut and his head right down on the horse's neck. He daren't pull rein yet, not till the slope ended. Probably the horse wanted to slow down now as much as he wanted it to; but it couldn't. It wasn't so much galloping down the slope as falling in one long barely controlled tumble. Soon it would either reach the level ground or it would crash.

He still didn't have his feet in the stirrups and he didn't want them there now. This wild plunge down the path surely could end only one way and Riley
wanted his feet clear. This sword was a bloody nuisance now. But hang on to it. You might still need it.

Then suddenly the horse was galloping across level ground. Riley sat up and reined in savagely. Reluctantly, its head unwillingly coming back, prancing and shying, the horse slowed to a trot, and then a walk; then it stopped, its sides heaving; the breath running loud through its nostrils.

Riley listened. There were no horses coming. He thought he could hear men shouting in the distance but the night was heavily overladen with the sounds of insects and he wasn't sure.

He relaxed the reins and the horse trotted forward again, purposefully. Presumably this clearing was part of the path, and the path should lead somewhere. Probably into another nest of bushrangers. But he couldn't go back. And he had no intention of leaving the horse and taking to the bush again. He'd never be able to find his own camp at night anyway. In fact he doubted whether he'd ever dare go back there again. Probably his best course was to try to get onto the road and ride to Goulburn and call out a force of troopers. Which, of course, was what he should have done in the first place, he thought ruefully.

The scrub closed round the cleaning again, but the horse trotted surely forward and a path opened before them. Riley allowed the horse to take him where it would, only stopping every now and then to listen for the sounds of pursuit. There were none.

He had no idea how long he rode, blindly through the night, but dawn was breaking when he emerged from the bush onto a road. It was a comparatively well made road, and if he travelled south, it would almost certainly lead to Goulburn.

But on second thoughts Riley wasn't at all sure he wanted to go to Goulburn. He could with some truth report that he'd shot one bushranger and badly mauled another with a sword, but somehow he doubted that would impress the sub-inspector against the fact that he'd abandoned all his gear in the bush. Of course it would probably be there when he went back, when he dared go back. But what could he do in the meantime? He had no rations, no weapons. Even the little money he owned was stowed amongst his gear.

As the day grew brighter he tried to examine himself. His clothes seemed to be substantially torn to shreds. The heel was missing from one boot. His hands were badly scratched and so, he gathered, was his face. On the credit side he had a much better horse than when he started life as a special constable. This was a splendid beast, a huge bay of obviously fine breeding.

All right, so if he didn't go back to Goulburn, what did he do? He had no idea where he was. And even if he did, nothing would induce him to go back to his own camp until he was quite sure there wasn't a bushranger within ten miles of the ridge. He might be able to throw himself on the charity of some squatter, if he saw a homestead, but he hadn't heard that squatters were particularly charitable people.

Damn it Dermot Riley, why did you ever leave home? Come to that, he knew very well.

An insane cackle burst out of the bush on either side of the road and was taken up among the trees ahead of him. And those wretched things didn't make life any easier for him. Still, he thought wryly, it would all make a good story to tell sometime. He hadn't really come out of it all that badly.

The cries of the kookaburras must have cloaked the sound of the hoofbeats because Riley, without any warning, rode round a bend and found he was within a hundred yards of four troopers, cantering down the road towards him.

That at least solved the problem of what he was going to do. They would be bound to question him. But why on earth were they pulling their guns out? Certainly he still had his sword in one hand, but he couldn't have looked all that dangerous.

Eight hours later he was in the Goulburn Gaol charged with being in possession of a stolen horse, to wit Cicero, the finest race horse in the district, missing these three months from the property of Mr. C. Collingwood, grazier of Goulburn.

“THAT ALL SOUNDS VERY unlikely,” said the sub-inspector, almost genially Riley observed with surprise.