Swift Runs The Heart (8 page)

“It's certainly closer than my first assumption,” he said, “and Black Jack is unlikely to recognise you like this. A bar girl would never choose such a dress. Though I have to say even such an appallingly-cut outfit does little to disguise that lovely figure of yours,” he added, teasingly as he saw the telltale blush on her cheeks.

He hadn't really answered her question, not in any way that satisfied the small but insistent voice deep in the centre of her heart, but she had lost her nerve.

“We better get going,” she said gruffly, keeping her head ducked and refusing to speculate whether that knowing smile was on his face. It didn't seem to worry him. He merely held her back while he cautiously checked the street outside. It was too early for anyone to be about, and silently they let themselves out the front door. Even so, Bas kept close to the shadows cast by the shop frontages. The bright flares of the previous evening were long extinguished and a gloom had settled on the town in the scarce light of a nearly-new moon.

The street was empty except for the coach readying for departure a few doors up. The driver was checking the traces and horses' hooves and just as they neared a pair of men arrived carrying a small chest. Geraldine watched curiously. This was not the regular gold shipment, but she had no doubt the small chest did contain gold. The two men wore long greatcoats, but there was a definite bulge on each hip. She guessed that underneath the coats would be found the uniform and weapons of a mounted trooper, including the sword they wore when on escort duty. She had seen enough of such men in Dunedin since the first gold strike in Otago to be very familiar with the formidable members of the mounted police force called in to keep order and secure the gold shipments in the turmoil of the rushes.

Presumably the safe in the local bank was overfull and the excess was being shipped discreetly out with the passengers on Cobb and Co.'s regular coach run. The settling of one of the troopers up by the driver's seat and the second inside the coach confirmed her guess. There were only two other passengers waiting to alight; a young man dressed like one who had made some fortune and was now on his way home and an older man who kept touching his waistband. Probably some kind of trader or bank official. Did the man realise how obvious he was when he checked what had to be a money belt?

Bas paused in the shadow of a store, awaiting the coach's departure she supposed, before they moved. There was no way to pass by it by without attracting attention. Then Bas made his move. Why? The driver was still completing his final check on the luggage. Surely he could have waited a few minutes more? For a space, she thought of staying where she was. It was only fear of being left behind that drove her to follow him.

Bas seemed not to notice her hesitation, taking her by the arm to steer her past the pile of boxes stacked outside the next doorway.

Then suddenly his arm clamped down on hers. Before she knew what she was about, he had steered her into the open street and right up to the coach door.

“Here's your last passenger, Joe.”

“Is that you, Bas?” the man said. “Was wondering where you had got to.”

Geraldine tried to swing around, scarcely able to believe what was happening, but Bas kept a tight hold on her, tossing her bag up to the driver and then hustling her into the coach.

“One day you'll thank me, sweetheart,” he said. Then she was pushed down on a seat, the door was shut behind her and the coach had moved off before she could so much as catch her breath.

She tried to sit up, just as the coach gave a mighty lurch forward, throwing her back into her seat. The driver had kicked the horses to a gallop. No doubt bribed to by Mr Bas Deverill, she fumed. She struggled up again, getting her head out the window of the bouncing coach enough for a backwards glance. A lone figure stood in the street, staring after her. One arm began to lift in farewell, but then she saw him thrust it down, ramming both hands into his pockets as he stood there, legs braced, watching her leave.

Another bump and she was flung back into her seat. When she finally managed to struggle up again, the couch had passed the last of the tent shanties and rounded a corner. If he had been still there, she could not see. The one street of Dunstan town was gone from sight.

She slumped back. She had lost her dreams, her hopes of independence, and something else she dared not put into words. Something – or someone.

Her fellow travellers were quiet. The young man and the trader sat opposite, leaning back into each seat corner and already slipping back into sleep. The trooper sat beside her, eyes scanning the countryside out the window, but he was as silent as the two sleepers. She shut her eyes. Sleep was an impossibility, but mouthing polite nothings to complete strangers was beyond bearable right now.

How long she sat, a prey to despair such as she had never given way to before, she could not say. Why this feeling of utter defeat, she knew not. She had lost her mother, then her father and home in all but name after his second marriage, yet always some part of her had refused to lie down. It had made her life with Aunt Shonagh difficult, but that she had expected. Both aunt and niece possessed a stubborn and independent core. It was the only thing they shared, and at least gave a sense of belonging that had buoyed Geraldine through the wearying days in that oppressive household. Now, she seemed to have nothing to hold to. Bas had cast her adrift and she did not know now where to turn for hope. He had won.

The words blasted a shock through her. Her eyes snapped open and she glared out at the passing flats. Bas had won? What an idea. There was nothing personal in the man's actions. He had merely done what seemed most sensible and convenient to him. She was a magnet for trouble in the town so he had put her on a coach, no doubt telling himself that it was in her best interests and she needed to leave for her own safety. Well, she had not given him the right to make such decisions and he would soon find out what she thought of such cavalier action.

Or maybe not, she amended. Even brief acquaintance told her that Bas Deverill would do exactly as he saw fit, whatever she might think. No, if she returned to the goldfields, she must avoid any contact at all with the bright-eyed Englishman.

If? No -
when
she returned to the Dunstan. That was a solemn vow.

She sat forward and looked out the window in earnest. The sun was not yet up, but already the long summer day was making its arrival known. Light filtered over the flat plains and etched shadows onto the hillside. The track ran across flat land here and the horses quickly picked up speed. Her first impulse had been to jump out, but one look at the swiftly passing ground told her that she would only injure herself and bring down a welter of unwanted questions when the coach turned back for her. She tried to remember the track ahead from her journey up from the coast. There was a small stream to be forded, where they must slow, then no more stops till the ferry across the Manuherikia, an hour or more distant. They would have to stop there. It would be a simple matter to then say she had changed her mind, collect her luggage and meld into the drifting hordes of miners. For the first time in days, a very pleased smile lifted her face and heart.

In the meantime, there was time to shut her eyes before they reached their stop. The long, sleepless night caught up with her and she lay back against the hard squab. She was not alone. Only the vigilant eyes of the trooper kept watch in the silent coach.

An abrupt, lurching shudder woke her. Then an unmistakeable sound from outside. Gunfire! She had always been able to wake quickly and now sat up and swiftly looked about. At the door, the guard was lifting his carbine and seeking outside for targets. A thud, then a splash. The black shape of a body falling past the window. Round and tall. Joe, the driver. Then more splashing. He was still alive. Without thought, she thrust the door open and clambered out to look for the man. It was still only half light and she kept close to the shadows cast by the vehicle.

They were in the middle of the ford she had remembered earlier. The reason for the sudden stop was soon obvious. One of the front wheels was buried deep in a hole. The coach was stuck fast. Then she saw Joe. A large, dark shape, head-down in the water beside her. A leg flailed weakly, then stopped. She thrust towards him, ignoring her soaking skirts, and tugged at his body to pull him over and lift his head from the water. Even in the gloom she could see the fresh blood welling from his shoulder.

There were frightening pings and splashes in the water around her. They were being shot at still. She could not stay here. Desperately, she tugged at the unconscious man, towing him back to the safety of the coach. The water was only a couple of feet deep and not sufficient to help float a big man. She strained to tug him over the rocks but all she could manage was to get him to the door before her strength gave way. Then a hand reached down. The young man had woken and realised what was going on.

“His shoulder's hit,” she whispered. “Can you get him under the arms?”

“Just a minute. I'm coming down.”

He slithered into the water beside her. Between them, they levered the heavy body of the driver onto the floor of the coach. Bullets slammed into the water beside them and into the body of the coach. Both climbed quickly inside as answering shots rang out from the guard crouched against the far seat and from the roof. So the other guard was still alive, but for how long? She could only hope the baggage would give the man some protection.

She ripped a strip of flannel from her petticoat, screwing it up and wadding it down on the driver's shoulder to stop the bleeding. Another strip tied it down but still she could feel the warm dampness of continued bleeding.

“Stop firing. You can't hold them off. Let them have the gold. It's not worth our lives,” called the young man.

A hardened veteran of the goldfields, the trooper looked at him briefly then continued firing. “You think they will let us live afterwards?” he said, without taking his eyes off their attackers.

“Why not?”

“It's light enough to see their faces, that's why. You think they want witnesses left behind?”

The young man gulped, then reached for his satchel on the seat. He pulled out a pistol and began firing out the opposite window. The trooper glanced over, gave a short nod of approval, then returned to his vigil.

“And you?” said Geraldine to the older merchant. “What do you intend to do?” But the man said nothing, quivering into his corner in terror. She shot him a look of disgust, then bent again to her patient.

“Pass me your sword,” she whispered to the trooper. “I need it to cut off his jacket,” she added, as he did not respond.

The man kept looking out the window, eyes seeking shapes in the growing light and firing the occasional shot. “Help yourself,” he said. She reached over, pulled back his coat and slid the well-honed blade from its sheath. The trooper kept firing, intent on their defence. She ripped the thick cloth of the driver's coat and shirt, baring the shoulder to allow her to loosen the strips she had tied there earlier. Now uncovered, she could see where the bullet had entered by the dark welling coming from the entrance wound. There was nothing she could do here to remove the bullet,; she could only hope to stop the bleeding. She repositioned the wadding squarely over the wound, then retied the flannel strips tightly over it, tugging the ends round his back to anchor the bandage firmly down. Thankfully he was still unconscious, but his breathing was harsh as she hauled him round and she was relieved to hear it settle once she finished.

She sat back, keeping her head low, and looked up. The older man was huddled on the only piece of floor left. On either side of her, the two others kept up their firing. One of the trooper's arms hung uselessly at his side. He had his weapon tucked awkwardly under one leg while he reloaded with his other hand and mouth.

“Pass it here,” she urged quietly. He looked startled, but she reached for the weapon and bullets and swiftly reloaded. He nodded acceptance and after that would pass it swiftly to her as he alternated between carbine and pistol.

Still the fusillade continued from the outside. There had been silence from the roof of the coach for some time.

“There's only one round left,” she said finally, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

“That's it for me.” said the young man at the same time.

“Surely someone must have heard all the firing and come to investigate?” asked Geraldine.

“Sorry Ma'am, but not likely,” replied the trooper. “Setting off gunshots is pretty common round these parts, especially if someone's been celebrating a big strike. Pass back my sword. No offence, but I doubt you are skilled at its use in close quarters.” There was a hint of a brave chuckle in his voice and Geraldine smiled gratefully at him. All hope was not lost yet. He fired his last bullets and then tossed his carbine over to the young man. “Here, this will swing a fair wallop against them. You take my pistol, Ma'am. Hold it by the barrel and hit any attackers with the butt.”

She did not even think to argue, ripping off yet another strip of cloth from her damp petticoats to wrap around the hot barrel of the pistol. A fierce swell of determination thrust up through her.

Some time later, the noise outside stopped. The bandits had realised they were out of ammunition. Then came a shout.

“You, in the coach. Come on out peaceable-like and we'll let you be. We only want the gold.”

“Take it then, and get out of here,” called back the trooper.

He kicked the door open, pushing out the small chest that had been thrust up against it. It splashed into the creek. He quickly slammed the door shut again and crouched down.

There was nothing for a while, then sure enough, the sound of hooves splashing in the water. Geraldine did not dare to look up to see what was happening. Then she heard a different splashing close-up and the grunting of men just outside the door; the robbers dismounting then lifting the heavy chest to horseback. Now surely they would leave. She crouched, tensely still. Some more splashing. A horse by the sounds of it, walking away from them. But more than one had come into the ford, and now she heard them moving. They were surrounding the coach. There were men on horses all around them.