Wanted Dead (23 page)

“Alright, come on,” he said. And he urged his horse down from the firm ground into the edge of the marsh.

“There's only about an hour of daylight left,” said the Sergeant.

“That should give us enough time to find a place. We'll camp the night and see if anybody comes through tomorrow.”

“Bloody wonderful,” said the Sergeant.

The horses sank to their hocks, but the ground beneath the water seemed quite firm. Riley let his horse take its own time, guiding it gently along the path of broken lilies which appeared to be leading directly to a grove of trees some distance away. The Sergeant followed very closely behind him, Riley heard him mutter occasionally, but he didn't say anything aloud.

Riley suddenly realised that the rhythmic throb of sound that filled the air was no longer coming from the cicadas; it was from frogs. He could see them leaping among the lilies, disturbed by the horses hooves, yellowish brown frogs with white underbellies, small ones only an inch or two long, millions of frogs.

The noise was more penetrating than the cicadas and Riley found he could hardly hear the horses' hooves splashing in the water. Which meant he wouldn't be able to hear anybody approaching from the other side of the grove of trees to which they were heading. That
too, he told himself, was part of the calculated risk; but the calculations were becoming a little too wild.

A group of large, long legged white birds were feeding in the marsh not far to Riley's left. They had long fine bills and appeared to be searching for some delicacy. Probably frogs, he thought. They didn't even raise their heads as the horses plodded by.

There was one major flaw in his plan, Riley thought. Even if they managed to cut off one party of bushrangers in a stretch of swamp, there probably would be more at the camp. But they would take a long time to get through the swamp, even if, as seemed extremely improbable, they heard the sound of shots over the croaking of the frogs. There was a certain amount of chance in every action of this type, he reasoned, and all that was to be hoped was that Hatton was in any party they did happen to cut off. Riley saw himself riding into Goulburn with Hatton's body hung over a horse. Would Hatton have more than thirty holes in him, as Ben Hall had had? Riley didn't mind if he did.

They found the clump of trees was growing on almost dry ground. It was soft and they could see the tracks of the horses, but the party had split up and the hoofmarks were spread erratically through the trees. They looked very fresh. Riley stopped and tried to listen, but there was only the sound of the frogs. He turned and looked at the Sergeant, but the Sergeant had turned also and was looking back the way they had come. He apparently didn't see anything and he turned around. He caught Riley's eye and looked away quickly.

Riley hoped they would find the sort of territory he was looking for soon. He didn't want to penetrate too far into the swamp and he didn't want to get too near the bushrangers' camp. And he didn't want to
try the Sergeant's thin drawn co-operation much further either. Of course, he reflected, there was no reason why the particular relationship of scrub and water he wanted should exist in the marsh at all.

But it did. He found it as they emerged on the other side of the grove of trees.

The water lilies stretched out for about two hundred yards, and there ahead was another thick clump of trees. Riley could see the trail of the horses through the lilies leading directly to the trees. That apparently was the pattern of the paths through the marsh — a series of islands joined by strips of more or less firm ground below water level. There were a lot of reeds here and Riley guessed they were growing in treacherous ground. He saw how the trail they were following weaved carefully away from them. He wondered why the paths through the marsh had remained such a secret. It was perfectly simple to follow them. Or perhaps it was only possible for a stranger if he followed closely on the tracks of whoever had gone in first. Perhaps more simply, nobody had wanted to try to find the way in.

He went over to the Sergeant.

“This'll do,” he said. “You stay here. Make a camp over to one side in the trees. I'll go across to those trees over there.”

The Sergeant grunted.

“There's not much point in signalling each other. We'll see what we're after. If they come through, we'll wait until they reach the middle and I'll call on 'em to surrender. They won't, of course, and then we'll start shooting.”

“And how long are we supposed to wait around for this to happen?” the Sergeant said heavily.

“Well, through tomorrow at any rate,” said Riley.
“I'll come back tomorrow evening and we'll have a talk about it.”

“Yeah,” said the Sergeant. “We'll have a talk about it.”

“You'd better have one of these revolvers,” said Riley. “And some cartridges.”

“Yeah, alright.”

It would have been much more to the point if he'd sunken his prejudices and taken the rifle and revolvers that were offered him at Collingwood's station, thought Riley, but then he hadn't expected to be involved in a situation like this.

“We'd better not light fires.”

“Thanks,” said the Sergeant. “Thanks for that bit of advice.”

There would be no reconciliation between them, Riley realised, until they left this marsh, probably not even then. He had forfeited the Sergeant's respect. He wasn't sure that he hadn't forfeited his own. Why was he doing this anyway?

“I'll see you tomorrow then,” he said shortly, and sent his horse forward into the marsh. He had no doubts about the Sergeant. He would stay in the trees and he would shoot when required. He was much too anxious about his job not to do that. Riley felt a sense of guilt in having used such a lever to force the man to come with him. Not that he'd done it deliberately, but the effect was much the same as far as the Sergeant was concerned. A remarkably effective lever it was too, although that was not beyond understanding in a colony where an out of work trooper would not be exactly likely to find employment promptly.

Riley felt very alone and exposed as he moved out into the marsh. The sun was dropping low and the reeds cast long shadows over the water lilies. The
marsh seemed to be in a constant turmoil of small movement as the frogs leaped and swam in a widening pool around the horse. Now and then there were some deeper swirling movements and Riley thought of snakes. But it could have been eels, or even fish. Once he saw a strange creature on a tuft of grass rising out of the water. It seemed to consist of a slightly rounded shell from which four scrawny legs protruded. From the front, static and reptilian, emerged a long grey neck and a head of ancient, unemotional evil. Riley tried to move his horse away from it, but did not dare diverge from the defined path of disturbed lily. The horse took no notice of the creature which did not move, apart from sharply drawing in its head, then poking it out again cautiously.

About half way between the clumps of trees Riley rode up onto a wide patch of soggy, moss grown ground. It was another of the islands in the marsh except that it had no trees on it. About fifty yards in width, it was roughly where he would want the bushrangers to be when he opened fire on them, except that he didn't want them to be able to move around. Not that it would do them much good. They could dismount here and fire from behind their horses, but it would be only a matter of time before a man hidden in the trees picked them off. If they tried to ride off through the marsh they would be finished. A horse could never go at more than a walk through the lilies. It was a magnificent plan, Riley thought with satisfaction, if it ever reached that stage. And it could, it well could.

He rode off the high land into the water. About seventy yards now to the trees. He should have suggested the Sergeant keep his horse well out of the way. It might neigh if it heard other horses approaching. But then
the Sergeant hadn't been exactly receptive of advice. Anyway he'd almost certainly think of it himself. And then it didn't matter, come to that, because nothing could be heard over the din of the frogs. He wondered whether they had periods of silence like the cicadas. He wondered whether there was such a thing as a prolonged silence in the colony. Probably not. That was probably why all the colonials were half insane. That was probably what was wrong with him. He'd been driven off his head by incessant noise.

Riley turned and looked back to the trees he'd left behind and saw with an awful sense of wrongness in the scheme of things that the Sergeant was riding at full gallop across the marsh towards him.

The Sergeant was riding at full gallop across the marsh. Riley stared. It wasn't possible. But it was happening. And it was happening silently. The frogs drowned all noise of that wild ride. Riley could only see the violent splashes at the horse's hooves. The Sergeant was looking over his shoulder. Somebody was following him. Somebody had startled him out of the cover of the trees. And he was trying to gallop across the marsh to Riley.

Riley watched, suspended in fascination. The horse had to fall. It had to fall or flounder into the marsh off the path. No horse could gallop over that spongy surface for any distance. The Sergeant was aiming the revolver behind him. Perhaps he was firing, Riley couldn't hear. Why didn't the fool get off the horse and try to run? He was likely to kill himself when the horse fell.

The horse fell. Silently and predictably it went over over on its shoulders. The Sergeant came off heavily, over the head, on his back in the water. Still Riley could hear nothing. The lack of sound took the reality
from the scene. It was like watching a series of paintings; fluid tableaux of action. The horse, with a great flurry of water, scrambled to its feet and plunged out into the marsh. It went five yards then sank down to its belly and stayed there. It was as though somehow it had suddenly been driven into the ground.

The Sergeant was on his feet again. He was pointing his revolver back into the trees. Then the trooper turned and came blundering across the water lilies towards Riley.

Riley saw a man riding out of the trees, walking his horse carefully along the path, a revolver raised in one hand.

It was James Hatton. No-one else was that big. No-one else had that beard.

You poor, bloody fool, Riley, he thought bitterly, you poor, bloody fool of a would-be hero. You've killed that trooper as surely as if you shot him through the head yourself. You blundering fool.

Riley saw the Sergeant, inevitably he felt, stagger and quite slowly, fall to his knees. Then he lay down. But he wasn't dead. He was holding himself up on one elbow. Keeping his head clear of the water.

Riley, wondering why in the name of Heaven he hadn't done it before, urged his horse back through the marsh. There was no point in trying to gallop. No pointing even in dismounting and trying to wade. There was no way he could reach the trooper before Hatton.

The Sergeant was crawling now, crawling towards his horse. He'd drown if he went off the path. What the hell was he after?

Hatton was still shooting at him. Why didn't the Sergeant shoot back? He'd probably lost his revolver when he fell. That was why he was crawling to his horse. He was after his carbine.

Cursing himself Riley remembered the rifle in his own saddle holster. He yanked it out and tried to line the sights on Hatton. He couldn't do it. Not sitting on a moving horse. He fired anyway.

Then he slipped off the horse and knelt in the water. It was clammy around his thighs. The water on his skin made him feel strangely vulnerable to snakes. His hands were shaking. Why the hell were his hands shaking? He fired.

Hatton was off his horse. He'd shot him. He'd killed James Hatton. No he hadn't. Damn and blast it. The man had dismounted and was walking forward behind his horse. Then shoot the horse.

Fumbling badly Riley reloaded. The Sergeant had reached his own horse. But he wasn't doing anything. He was just lying across the saddle.

Riley lined his sights on Hatton's horse. Found the animal's chest in the V then brought up the foresight. Just have the top of the foresight in the bottom of the V. Squeeze the trigger, squeeze it slowly.

He fired. He missed. Then the rifle exploded in his hands. But it couldn't have. It wasn't even loaded. It had reared up and torn itself away from him. His hands were numb, shocked. Then he understood. A bullet had hit the rifle. Hatton had fired at him with a revolver and hit him for all practical purposes at more than eighty yards!

Don't stand there like a bloody fool. Where was the rifle? God it was gone. Sunk in the water lilies. But not far. He could find it. But he didn't have the time. He didn't have time to grope around in the mud while Hatton was advancing on the trooper. But the trooper was as good as dead. There was nothing he could do for him. All he could do was kill Hatton. But he
couldn't even do that if he floundered around on his hands and knees in the mud.

Riley threw himself back in the saddle. He forced the horse into a trot. It might fall but at least he was moving at a speed that would make it hard for Hatton to hit him. He had his two revolvers in his belt. But he didn't even bother pulling them out. He could never hit anything with them. Not at this range. Not moving.

Hatton was almost on top of the trooper now. He came out from behind his horse. He must have realised Riley wasn't shooting at him. He raised his revolver. He was going to shoot the Sergeant. Shoot him as he lay helpless across his bogged horse. No he wasn't. He'd put the pistol back in his belt. He leaned forward, stretching out towards the horse. He was taking something from it. The carbine. Well that would take him time. He was looking at it. Then he flung it away. Now he was after something else at the saddle. He stood up. A flash of silver ran from his hand. He'd taken the trooper's sword.

Riley pulled out a pistol and fired as he saw Hatton raise the sword. But the shot didn't even make the bushranger falter as he brought the sword down in a long, sweeping blow at the Sergeant. And he did it again. The Sergeant fell forward across the horse.