Wanted Dead (15 page)

Hatton's blows had stopped hurting Riley. Each time one landed now there was just a new area of numbness. One of his eyes was closed and there seemed to be a lot of blood in the other one. Dimly he knew that Hatton could take this much longer than he could. He knew he was hitting Hatton, by the jarring in his own arms, but he didn't know where. He couldn't stand up much longer like this.

He fell back, knuckling at his eyes to try to clear them of blood. He bumped into something. His back was against the wall.

Hatton paused and looked at him. Riley saw him gathering himself and knew he was going to charge in with one immense finishing effort.

He was coming, trundling almost at a run, his arms already swinging. No hope of surviving this. Can't go back. Do something different, do the unexpected; the last desperate gamble.

Riley dived headfirst at Hatton's feet, rolling himself into a ball as he went.

Hatton tripped over him and fell full length. Riley leaped up and jumped onto Hatton's back. He kicked him in the back of the head so that his face smashed into the floor. Hatton rolled over. Riley kicked him under the chin, twice. Hatton groped out with one feeble arm and Riley kicked him on the elbow. Then, he smashed the heel of his boot into his face. Hatton
lay back, quite slowly. Riley kicked him in the head. He stood back and raised his boot again. If he kicked him enough he would kill him.

“That's all,” the squint eyed bushranger, revolver ready, was walking towards him. “That's enough. Get away from him.'

And this was it. Now he was shot simply and quickly dead. But play the thing out for what it was worth.

“All right,” he said, breathing heavily: “I think the bargain was that I could go now.”

Limping so much he almost fell each time he took a step, Riley moved across to the doorway. He expected the bullet in his back any moment, but he didn't much care. His mind had only strength enough for one concern, and that was forcing his body to stay upright until he reached that door. If he were shot that put an end to the matter, but until then he would concentrate all his being on just reaching that door. Something seemed wrong deep inside him. He felt as though he had a cold iron bar set somewhere in his bowels and his body, from the waist down, seemed to be a jellied mass of pain.

He couldn't see the squint eyed bushranger. But he knew he was standing over Hatton, puzzledly looking after Riley, wondering whether to shoot. If Hatton recovered before he reached the door he would be dead, Riley knew. It didn't matter. Even if they called on him to stop he wouldn't. They could shoot him. There was a chance this way. And if this failed there was nothing else he could do. But he must stay on his feet. If he fell down now he'd never be able to get up again.

Suddenly he was at the door.

Painfully he stretched out a hand and raised the latch. This was the moment. The shot would come now if it were going to come at all. Slowly the door swung open and Riley limped out into the night.

God, he'd forgotten-his horse was a hundred yards away. Hatton would come to long before he reached it at this rate.

He broke into a shambling run. The pain washed all over him but soon he became used to it. It was only pain. Once he fell over, but was back on his feet before he realised he couldn't do it. His horse snorted and started as he reeled up to it and he had a bad moment with the reins in his trembling hands. There was the carbine in the saddle holster. Dimly it occurred to him that he could go back and try to shoot both bushrangers. He would have a reasonable chance. But a much more reasonable chance of falling unconscious before he reached the shanty. A point he proved by fainting in the saddle as the horse cantered off down the road.

He realised later that he couldn't have been conscious for more than half that ride, and when he finally dismounted outside the homeyard at Collingwood's station, he sagged to the ground and passed out again.

“DON'T BOTHER TRYING TO tell me what happened,” Collingwood was saying. “Just tell me whether you think anybody's following you.”

Riley felt the firm texture underneath his hand and knew he was lying on the carpet in Collingwood's living room. There was a cushion under his head.
Collingwood was giving him whisky. The woman who did the cooking was hovering anxiously.

“I don't know,” he said, “I don't think so. I'll be all right in a minute.” In fact as long as he didn't try to move, he didn't feel all that badly. He was aware, more than anything else, of being very glad to be alive.

He sat up.

“I'm all right,” he said. He stood up. Then he sat down again, abruptly, on the floor.

“Leg's stiffening,” he said explanatorily.

“We'd better get you to bed,” said Collingwood, grabbing him under the arm pits.

“No! Not at all,” said Riley. “Just give me a hand into that chair.” Collingwood and the woman lugged him into the chair.

Riley took a deep drink of the whisky. He felt much better.

The housekeeper went off to get him some food, and Riley told Collingwood more or less what had happened.

“My God,” said Collingwood at the end. “You're a lucky man.”

“Yes. I suppose I am really. A fool though; I should never have walked into that.”

“Mm,” said Collingwood non-committally, but implying that he agreed. Which was rather hard, Riley thought vaguely. After all Collingwood, directly and indirectly, had been substantially the organising force behind the whole affair.

“Anyhow,” Collingwood said, “I'd say we're almost certain to see more of Mr. Hatton tonight.' '

“What, out here?”

“Depends how badly you hurt him; but he's going to hate you like hell now. You've done the worst
thing you can do to a man like that—you've made a fool of him.”

Riley thought about that for a moment. It seemed to him that Hatton had previously disliked him sufficiently to execute him, so any added disfavour he may have incurred wasn't all that important.

“I must say,” said Collingwood, chuckling, “I wish I'd been there.”

Perhaps, some time, a long time from now, thought Riley, he would be able to look on that night in the light of a stimulating adventure. But just now it was too close, and death had seemed too real a possibility. He was beginning to think he wasn't cut out to be a special constable. But then he had never really thought he was.

“I'd better get the men up,” said Collingwood. “Would you like to go to bed for a while. I'll wake you up when the excitement starts—if it starts.”

“No. I'll be all right,” said Riley, “but how likely do you think it is they'll turn up here tonight?”

“Can't be sure, of course,” said Collingwood cheerfully, “but I'd say quite likely. You see Janey will have told 'em you were riding one of my horses. They won't know you're here of course, but they'll think it's possible and they'll be thinking it's about time they had another try for Cicero anyway. I'd say there was a very reasonable chance we might see some sport here tonight. Jimmy Hatton will be very anxious to see you dead.”

“All right,” said Riley resignedly leaning back in the chair, “You go and wake some men up. I'm sorry about this incidentally. I wouldn't have come back here if I'd thought they'd follow me.”

“Rubbish.” said Collingwood. “they'd have come
here anyway. Besides I don't mind. In fact I rather like this sort of thing occasionally. Sure you wouldn't like to lie down for a while?”

“Quite sure thanks.”

Collingwood went off to rouse his men. Riley put his whisky down on the arm of the chair and tentatively stood up. His head was aching badly, but otherwise he seemed much better. He tried walking and found that he limped very heavily on his right leg. He sat down again as the housekeeper came in with some mutton chops.

“Now this is the way I've worked things out,” said Collingwood, spreading a rough drawing of the house on the table in front of Riley: “We've got eight men and yourself and me. I'm putting a man in each room on the outside of the house. That gives us two men on each side. Each of them has a rifle and a revolver and plenty of ammunition, and I'm setting up a reserve of guns and ammunition in the hall where anybody can get at it. What do you think of that?”

“Seems admirable,” Riley said, smiling at the eager face of his host. There was a sudden commotion and clatter at the rear of the house.

“Don't worry, they're just bringing in the horses,” said Collingwood.

“Horses?” said Riley.

“Just Cicero and Barnstorm,” said Collingwood: “They're the only blood stock I have on the place at the moment. We've turned the rest loose in the lower paddock. Hatton won't worry about them. That's one thing you can be sure of in this country; if your horse is not absolutely the best no bushranger will touch it.”

“I see,” said Riley, wondering just where the horses were to be stabled.

“This of course leaves the men's quarters completely undefended,” said Collingwood, bending to his plan again. “But there's nothing we can do about that. Hatton will probably realise that at once and make that the base for his attack—which won't do us any harm because there's a hundred yards of clear ground between us and there.”

“What did they do last time they were here? said Riley.

“Last time, they just surrounded the house and kept firing,” said Collingwood. “But that was different. They were only interested in keeping us inside while they got off with the horses. This time they'll be attacking the house to get at you.”

“Of course,” said Riley uncomfortably.

“In fact,” said Collingwood,” our great danger, if they realise it, are these.” He pointed to a number of shaded areas on his plan. “Those are the shrubs in the house garden. If they've got the common sense to work up behind those they can get very close to the house—which will give them a chance to set fire to it—which is what I presume they'll try to do.”

It struck Riley that what Collingwood was doing was deducing what he would do if he were in Hatton's place. Which was quite a reasonable point of view, although it argued a peculiarly violent trait in Collingwood himself.

“Of course they won't necessarily come,” he put in mildly.

“No. No. I realise that,” said Collingwood impatiently, “but it won't hurt to be prepared.”

“But there is this,” persisted Riley, “if they do, it
mightn't be a bad scheme for me to let them see me then take off for Goulburn. If you lent me a decent horse it's not likely they'd catch me, and it might save a lot of trouble.”

“Well of course you can do that if you like,” said Collingwood, a little haughtily, “but I wouldn't advise it.”

“Just as you like,” said Riley soothingly, “it's just that this isn't exactly in line with your original plan of leading them here, I mean you haven't had time to prepare for them properly.”

“Oh we'll make out.” And with a wave of his hand, Collingwood dismissed any further theoretical objections.

“Now as far as these shrubs are concerned,” he said, pointing to his plan again. “I suggest that you and I make it our business to put a few bullets through each of them every five minutes or so, whether we can see anybody or not . . . what do you think?”

“All right. It'll use up a lot of ammunition.

“Oh we have any amount of ammunition,” said Collingwood.

“Then it's an excellent idea.”

“Now I've had the dogs tied up all around the verandahs. They'll bark the place down as soon as anyone comes within a mile, and they'll be useful for the close work as well.”

Riley nodded intelligently. He was feeling very tired, and this battle of Collingwood's seemed a very remote affair.

“We've plenty of water and food in the house, although I don't imagine they'll lay siege for long. We've got about four hours to dawn, but there's a good moon which is to our advantage. On the whole
I think that's about the best we can do. What do you think?”

Riley did his best to think. He felt he should make some intelligent comment on the whole affairs. But then he knew very little about defending homesteads from bushrangers; he doubted that there would be any necessity to anyway, and he was feeling exhausted.

He nodded silently.

Collingwood was standing over him expectantly.

“I think you've worked things out very nicely,” Riley said at last.

“Nothing you want to add to it?” said Collingwood.

Riley thought again, desperately.

“Have you made any provision for dealing with the wounded, if we have any?” he said on an inspiration.

“Good man,” said Collingwood, as though he'd come up with something brilliant. “I'll see to that. I'll set out some bandages for Mrs. Andrews.” He strode out of the room, and Riley thankfully sank back into his chair.

“Dermot Riley, Dermot Riley,” he murmured, “You're a long way from home.” All of this dramatic activity, all the violence he'd seen and taken part in the past few weeks seemed to him to be in some way quite apart from himself. He was not of this land nor of these people. No matter how deeply he became involved, as on the Lightning Fork Ridge, or in the shanty that night, he was still, essentially a spectactor. And when the time came, as seemed very likely, that this land or these people finally killed him, he would die, in a sense, as a spectator, half accidentally involved in an affair that was none of his business.

Yet curiously he had a deepening conviction that his destiny was linked with James Hatton; that there
was between himself and this man whom he scarcely knew a widening area of antipathy that would have to be resolved. James Hatton, he knew, hated him, and with reason; whereas he, through a series of involuntary mental, or emotional process, had come to regard Hatton as the embodiment of everything that was loathsome about Colonial life. And so he was too, if it came to that. But what he disliked about him most was the theatrical quality he brought to all his actions; the sickening, boring flamboyance of the man, that led him to hang people, and hold mock trials and force Riley to fight for his life. That was the most unlovely aspect of Hatton, Riley thought, as sleep began to weave strange and comforting shapes in his brain. His public assertion as virtues of what were childish, vicious, perverted vices. And he was so damned good looking too. That was unforgiveable . . . the great, blundering bag of loathsome matter.