Wanted Dead (19 page)

The cart. Tip the cart over so nobody else could push it to the house. Riley grabbed one of the shafts and heaved. The crackle of the flames was fantastically loud. It wasn't the flames. It was gunfire. Bullets were
thick around him. They were hitting the cart and the ground around his feet. One hit the shaft between his hands. Riley heaved and the cart tilted. He got a shoulder under the shaft and heaved again. One wheel was well off the ground. One more heave would do it. There was something moving in the cart. There were barrels in the cart. Small barrels. God, it was gunpowder! How long before it went off? Time enough to tip the cart, surely. The barrels weren't burning. Riley heaved again and the cart went over.

He dived around the cart again. Get between the flames and the men with guns. He was running back to the house. But his feet took so long to reach the ground. He had to wait until they landed before he could move them again. God, don't let anyone shoot from the house. But he was on the verandah. It had been as quick as that. He made a long dive for the nearest window and went in head first. He hit the floor and heard the bullets smacking into the wall beyond him. He lay there, breathing so hard each breath was almost a scream. But he'd done it. He'd done it.

The room suddenly filled with light. There was a long hissing boom from outside. The gunpowder had gone up It hadn't exploded because it hadn't been compressed. It had just burned out suddenly. In the glare he saw Collingwood standing in the doorway, grinning at him.

“You're not hurt, Riley, tell me you're not hurt, man!”

Grateful words, but he couldn't speak, not yet. He could hardly breathe. Whisky, that was what he wanted, whisky. But how to tell Collingwood, he couldn't speak.

Slowly his breath came back and he crawled out of
the room. Leaning on the older man he went into the hallway, grabbed a bottle of whisky, pulled out the cork and drank long and deeply, as though it was water.

Nothing had happened for almost an hour. The dog outside was quiet now. The moon had gone but there was a pre-dawn glow over the countryside. Nothing moved.

Collingwood thrust his head out the living room window.

“I wouldn't do that,” said Riley.

“I think it's all over,” said Collingwood: “I think they've gone.”

He came back into the room and turned up the lantern.

“I wish you wouldn't do that,” said Riley, whose chair was in line with the window and who was too tired to move.”

Collingwood laughed. “They've gone. They would have shot me then if they hadn't. The dog's quiet. They've gone.”

Collingwood looked as though he'd just had a refreshing night's sleep, thought Riley. The man's eyes were bright, his cheeks glowed above the fringe of neatly shaped beard. Riley ran a hand over his own stubble-covered face. He might look and feel better if he hadn't started this wretched shaving nonsense. The sky was shot now with the lances of dawn and Riley realised he could see a long way across the paddocks.

“I'm going to take a look around outside.” said Collingwood.

“Not yet.” said Riley. “Wait for a while.”

“No. I'm sure they've gone. Don't you worry, sir there and rest.” Collingwood said, making for the door.

“Wait on! Wait on,” said Riley resignedly, and heaved himself out of the chair. His whole body felt like one massive ache and his right leg was so stiff he could barely bend it.

They went out through the hall where Mrs. Andrews was fast asleep in her chair, still holding the hand of Dave, who semed to be asleep too. Riley looked worriedly at the boy's white, strained face.

Collingwood went on ahead and warned the station hand and the Chinaman, then he and Riley went quietly out through the back door and stood on the verandah. Riley half expected to hear the crack of a rifle, but he was too tired to care much. The sun had slipped a red rim over the horizon now, and it was quite light. Some kookaburras in a clump of trees just outside the home garden set up their spasmodic clatter. A dog, some sort of half-bred coursing hound, was straining at its lead, whimpering with pleasure, trying to reach Collingwood. Another dog of the same type lay dead beside it.

Collingwood slipped the leash from the dog's collar and it bounded delightedly around them for a moment then loped off towards the men's quarters. Riley and Collingwood watched it silently. It disappeared behind the building, then came out on the other side, its nose to the ground, its tail lashing.

“It's all right,” said Collingwood. “There's no-one there.” The dog found the body of a man near the home garden fence and began sniffing at it cautiously. Collingwood whistled it and it came back obediently. He tied it to the verandah again.

The two men walked slowly across the dew-wet grass towards the men's quarters.

The body the dog had found lay just inside the home garden fence. It lay on its face, one hand still
holding the torch which was now a charred stick. Most of the hair on the man's head had been burned away.

Riley looked morosely down on the body. The fact that it was lying in the wet grass seemed to make it particularly dead. The man had been quite young. Riley had no inclination to turn the body over. He led Collingwood away towards the men's quarters. They found the remains of the fire and the ground all round the building was littered with spent cartridge cases.

At the back of the building a man was sitting leaning against the wall. The front of his shirt was heavily stained with blood. He looked as though he were asleep, his head nodding down on to his chest. But he had to be dead. He was a short, fat, bearded man, and he looked very relaxed sitting against the shed in the dawn light.

Riley walked up to the body and saw a wide cut in the front of the shirt which seemed to be the source of most of the blood. This must have been the man he stabbed in the hall. He must have dragged himself back here then quietly bled to death while the battle went on without him.

My God, thought Riley, how many men did I kill last night? He found the killings rested very lightly on his mind. It was reasonable that they should, but it was surprising just the same.

“We'll have to get all these bodies into Goulburn some time today,” said Collingwood.

That was going to be a remarkable entrance, thought Riley, envisaging himself driving a dray loaded with corpses. He was feeling lightheaded now.

The men's quarters had not been broken into. They were bullet-scarred, but hadn't been damaged at all
otherwise, except where the wall had been scorched by the fire.

They walked back towards the front of the house. All the white wooden walls were marked with black splotches where bullets had hit. Around the windows the splotches ran together to form great black scars. Collingwood waved to the station hand who was standing at the window with a rifle in his hand. He pointed downwards to two dogs lying under the window.

“One's still breathing,” he called. “Will I shoot him?”

“Yes,” shouted Collingwood.

The shot sounded very thin and sharp. The dog didn't move.

There were two more dead dogs on the front verandah. One was lying with its head on its paws, its eyes open, staring towards the body of a man lying doubled up near the verandah.

“That's the one young Dave shot,” said Riley. It was the body of a big, bearded man, and Riley thought for one moment it was Hatton. But it wasn't. A revolver was lying near the man's head. A few yards away they found an axe. It had blood on the handle.

There was another body near the gate to the homestead garden. It was doubled over a small barrel of tar. One side of its face was turned up to the sky, and one eye stared blindly into the morning sun. He had been a young man, too, no more than twenty-five. An ill-fed, stupid face.

“He must have been going to try to light that tar and throw it at the house,” said Riley.

“Yes,” said Collingwood, who seemed finally subdued at this concrete evidence of the slaughter that had taken place in the night.

Riley had expected to find another body here. He'd
shot a man behind a shrub and shot him again as he crawled away. He'd seen him fall and lie still. But there was no other body.

They went round to the other side of the house where a great patch of grass had been seared black by the burning gunpowder. The cart had burned to ashes. There was only one body here, the man he'd shot twice. The other man, shot in the stomach, must have crawled away, or been dragged away. But he must have been alive—they wouldn't have bothered taking away a body. Riley thought of a man with a bullet in his stomach out in the scrub in a bushrangers' camp. He wouldn't live long, poor devil; people rarely did live long with stomach wounds, even with the best of care. Riley wished he'd killed him outright. He didn't mind killing men who were trying to kill him, but he recoiled from the thought of a man he'd shot dying slowly, in pain, taking days to die perhaps.

A few crows were flapping around above the lower paddocks, blacker than ever against the flaming morning sky. Their cries were harsh and ominous.

“We'd better get these bodies into a shed,” said Collingwood.

“Yes,” said Riley. He kicked morosely at a trail of black ants weaving across the ground.

“I'll get Bill to take Dave into a doctor straight away,” said Collingwood. He was speaking abstractedly, as though his mind was on other things. They stood in silence few moments longer, then on a mutual impulse turned and began walking back to the house.

“What about old Andy,” said Riley, “did he have any family?”

“A sister, I think,” said Collingwood. “She lives in Goulburn. I'll go and see her this afternoon.'

They walked on in silence a few more yards. “A bad business,” said Collingwood, “a bad business.”

“Yes,” said Riley, wondering whether on the scale of infinite values Andy could be said to have died for him. Probably not. He hadn't thought the bushrangers would come. He had been wrong about that. So had Riley.

“I must get some more dogs while we're in Goulburn,” said Collingwood.

“Yes,” said Riley.

THE MAGISTRATE'S FACE was very red and he mopped at his brow with a large handkerchief. He spoke very quietly, so quietly that the sombre ticking of the vast clock hung high on the wall of the courtroom could be heard punctuating his voice.

“It is then the verdict of this court,” he said, “that James Henderson, John Crew, Sydney Mounsey, David Prior and Brian Davies were shot dead while committing a felony at the Brinda station on the night of November the 16th, this year, and that therefore the shooting of these men fall into the category of justifiable homicide.

“Inasmuch as two of the deceased, James Henderson and John Crew, were proclaimed outlaws, I propose to recommend to the Reward board that the rewards offered for the capture dead or alive of these men be distributed amongst the defenders of the Brinda homestead on that night and among the relatives and dependents of those who were killed in the defence of the homestead.”

He paused and mopped at his face. The clock ticked
loudly. Riley could hear the heavy breathing of the spectators in the gallery of the courtroom. One man cleared his throat and several others immediately did the same. They sounded like people in church during a pause in the sermon.

“It is further the verdict of this court,” the magistrate continued softly, “that Andrew Hickey and David Simpson were murdered at Brinda homestead on that same evening by one James Hatton, proclaimed outlaw, and by other persons unknown; Andrew Hickey by being shot dead and David Simpson by having wounds inflicted from which he died.”

Riley had a sudden vision of the boy Dave lying white and silent, his hand in Mrs. Andrews. 'From having wounds inflicted from which he died,' seemed a slender epitaph.

“It only remains for me,” said the magistrate with no alteration in the volume or expression of his voice, “to express my own admiration and the admiration of the community at large for the courage and determination of the men who, at Brinda homestead, defied and inflicted such heavy losses on the members of the Hatton gang. I must particularly express my admiration for the deeds of the special constable Dermot Riley, who by his valiant disregard of self appears to have been largely responsible for preventing the outlaws overwhelming the homestead.”

Someone was sobbing loudly at the back of the court. If I had never come to Australia, thought Riley, Dave and Andy would be alive now. Or would they? Were things as complete as life and death contingent upon chance to such an extent? Would Dave and Andy have died anyway? If not by a bullet, by disease, by a horse's hoof, by any one of the thousand possible
accidents that beset the path of any man. Was he, Dermot Riley, simply one of several alternative links in a chain of events that would have inevitably sent Dave and Andy into eternity? Anyhow it was not a problem he was likely to solve in a hurry.

“Something must also be said,” went on the magistrate, “of the devotion and loyalty of the employees of the station who resisted—in the case of two of them, resisted to death—the attack on the property of their employer.”

What of the four men who had left before the attack started, wondered Riley. Were they ashamed now that they were not included in this accolade? Probably not. They were probably glad they were not in the company of Dave and Andy, already mouldering in their graves in the hot soil of the Goulburn cemetery. And he wasn't sure that their point of view was unreasonable. He wasn't sure that it mightn't have been better if they all, Collingwood himself, Dave, Andy and the others, had evacuated the homestead as soon as they thought there was a chance they might be attacked. Many people would then have been alive who were now dead. Or would they? That was the same point as before. Why bother with it? The dead were dead!

“If all the people of this colony,” said the magistrate,” reacted to the bushrangers with the same bravery and constancy as these people of Brinda station, the scourge of outlawry which wracks the colony would vanish overnight.”