To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (49 page)

Patrick eventually made his way back to Norris who leant by the front door, puffing on a cigar.

‘Satisfied?’ Norris asked.

Patrick was at a loss for words. His initial rage to strike out had dissipated with his growing concern for Catherine.

‘I would ask you to leave my house, if you please,’ Norris stated. ‘If you do happen to bump into your wife, please tell her I have returned.’

Patrick swung on Norris and with one hand
gripped him by the throat, causing Norris to step back in fear at the killing rage that had exploded in the emerald green eyes. ‘Believe me,’ Patrick snarled, ‘if you ever go near my wife again, I will kill you.’ Patrick released his grip and turned to walk away.

Norris massaged his throat as Patrick opened the front door then pulled it behind him. The Englishman cursed himself for his stupid provocation. He should have remembered that Patrick Duffy was a man who lived his life killing others in the name of the Crown.

Sean O’Donohue had planned to simply knock on the door and when it was opened commence firing at both men inside. He would rely on the element of surprise, which had in the past worked well for him. But before he could act, the door opened and Patrick stepped out. At the appearance of the armed peat digger, Patrick instinctively reached for the revolver in the pocket of his coat.

Even as Sean brought up his own pistol to fire, Patrick had his gun out and pointed at the Irishman. Both men stood a mere ten paces apart, their pistols aimed and levelled. An instinct to survive made both pause before pulling the trigger.

‘I didn’t come to kill you,’ Sean lied through dry lips. ‘So you can step aside and let me finish a job that I doubt you really wish to stop me doing.’

‘Kill Norris?’ Patrick asked calmly.

Sean nodded. He was sweating despite the cold and drizzle, but Duffy appeared so deadly calm – almost
amused by the situation – while it was completely unnerving to the young Irish assassin, who now realised just how dangerous this man was. ‘I know that Norris stole your wife,’ Sean said with just a little difficulty as he imagined Patrick’s finger squeezing the trigger.

‘But to let you pass,’ Patrick said quietly, ‘would be aiding in a murder.’

‘You aren’t the police,’ Sean snapped. ‘So why should you care what happens to this bastard who deals arms to anyone with the money?’

‘You’re right, I don’t care about Norris,’ Patrick said. ‘But you have put me in a very difficult position. There will be an inquiry into his death and, as I have been here, I will be suspected. On those grounds alone I cannot let you pass although I admit I would be the first to shout you a round of drinks at O’Riley’s pub for killing the man. But right now is a bit inconvenient for me. So I suggest that we put down our weapons and go on our separate ways.’

Sean attempted to lick his lips, strangely dry in the drizzling rain. He could feel the pressure mounting in the confrontation and fully knew that in an exchange of gunfire at such close range he might be killed or wounded. Sean had a strong sense of survival and knew only too well that the Australian facing him had the edge with his years of handling weapons.

Very carefully, Sean began to lower his pistol and as he did he realised with horror that Patrick had fired. The lead bullet took Sean in the chest and he crumpled to the wet gravel drive.

Patrick did not lower his gun as he walked towards the fallen man. ‘You can go to your Maker in the knowledge that what you set out to do will be finished,’ he said gently, squatting beside Sean. ‘And they will raise their glasses to you down at O’Riley’s when the news is announced of your success.’

Sean closed his eyes and with a last breath went to his death, mumbling a prayer for his soul. Then Patrick picked up Sean’s pistol and broke it open to ensure that the chambers were primed.

Inside, Norris heard the shot and fear gripped him. He had been warned before he left England that his life might be in danger from Irish rebels targeting English landlords and now he bitterly regretted not heeding the advice of the police. Remembering the loaded shotgun in the library, he shook off his fear and rushed to the room where he found the lethal, double-barrelled weapon. Quickly, he snapped it open to ensure both barrels were charged. Then he heard the front door open. Norris slipped behind the desk to wait in the dark. No matter who came through the door he would open up with both barrels and the concentrated blast at close range would pepper any man with a hail of deadly lead shot.

Cautiously, Patrick searched each room. He was once again the man who had hunted his Bedouin enemies in the deserts of the Sudan. But this time his enemy was the man who had taken the most precious woman in his life and Patrick no longer recognised the rule of law. He had not believed Sean O’Donohue when he said that Patrick was safe from
him. Patrick was a soldier and knew well that the Irishman would have hunted him down after he killed Norris. Killing the peat digger had been a preemptive act of self-defence.

The library was where he suspected that he would find Norris, because he knew from past visits with old Fitzgerald himself that it had a gun cabinet. In the dark Patrick made his way to the room and stood beside the open door, waiting with the patience of the hunter for his prey.

Norris knew that his adversary was just outside the door. He had heard the slow but careful footsteps in the hallway. Then they had stopped. The waiting game lasted for several minutes as the tension mounted.

It was Brett Norris who broke. ‘Whoever you are, I must warn you that I am armed and that you should leave immediately,’ he called in a voice on the verge of cracking.

But there was no answer – just a terrible silence. Norris could no longer stand it. He fired blindly at the open door as if the shot might frighten off whoever was just outside.

Patrick felt the impact of the shot slamming into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. A shotgun, he thought. And only one barrel discharged. Norris still had another shot left.

Patrick made his move and hurled himself inside the room, flattening on the floor. He felt the second load of shot fill the air above his head. Norris had missed and the discharge lit the room like a strike of lightning. Patrick came to his feet, noting from
where the muzzle blast had originated. The Irish rebel’s pistol emptied into the space behind the desk and he heard Norris cry out.

Then silence.

Patrick lit a match. It flared, and he saw Norris sprawled on his back. Two of the bullets had found their mark, one taking the man in the head. The match flickered and Patrick turned his back on the room. He had murdered a man in cold blood but felt no remorse for his action. In the past he had killed many of the Queen’s faceless enemies and the grateful government had rewarded him with medals and promotion. But killing Norris was personal. Nothing and no-one was a greater threat to the happiness of his family than Norris. For a fleeting moment Patrick thought about his grandmother’s reputation for ruthlessness when it came to keeping her family together. He had no doubt that if Lady Enid had been in the same situation – and given the same opportunity – she too would have killed Brett Norris. Maybe he was more like his mother’s side than his father’s, he thought as he stepped from the manor into the drizzle of the night.

Patrick dropped the pistol he had used to kill Norris beside the dead Irish rebel. Now it was time to return to the village and report that he had stumbled across the killing of a prominent English industrialist but had been fortunate enough to kill the assassin. In the interests of a clean investigation he would surrender his pistol and an autopsy would confirm from which pistols the bullets had come. Sean’s pistol was a different calibre to Patrick’s and
this alone would tell the story. Patrick doubted that he would be questioned at length on the matter even if it was known that he had a motive to kill Norris. Some would have considered it a matter of honour anyway.

‘Patrick.’

Slowly, Patrick turned to face the voice that came out of the dark. A sick feeling welled up in his stomach. Had there been a witness to all that had occurred?

‘Marty, what are you doing here?’ Patrick asked as he focused on the shadowy shape of the former priest.

‘I delivered Norris to his death,’ Martin answered. ‘But I never imagined that it would be at your hands. I think your system of British justice would call it murder.’

Martin came forward and even in the dark Patrick could make out his coachman’s garb.

‘Why is it that you did not stop me from killing your comrade?’ Patrick asked as Martin gazed down at the body of Sean between them.

‘I gave him last rites after you went inside the house,’ Martin said sadly, ignoring his cousin’s question. ‘I still believe that we have a soul despite my excommunication and I was taught that it lingers for a short time after death. If that is so, then I might have done some good for the poor, misguided lad.’

‘Did you witness me killing him?’ Patrick asked.

Martin nodded. ‘It was either you or him, Patrick. But I never expected to see you here in this place at this time.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Patrick asked.

‘Nothing. Just disappear from the county until the investigation into the killings runs its course. Maybe go to Dublin.’

‘Nothing else?’

Martin looked up at Patrick and the Australian could make out an expression of inconsolable sadness.

‘May God forgive us both,’ Martin said. ‘For we have damned ourselves forever in what we have both done.’

‘I thought killing Norris was what you had planned to do anyway,’ Patrick said in a puzzled voice. ‘So why do you say that I am condemned?’

‘Because my motives were at least in the right cause,’ Martin answered. ‘Yours were motivated by human weakness. For that you are damned.’

‘You still talk like a priest – or a Druid maybe,’ Patrick said with a slight edge of anger in his voice. ‘Strange for one who betrayed the oath of his office.’

‘This is not the time or place to debate philosophical matters,’ Martin cautioned. ‘I think that you should be reporting the matter to the constabulary before any suspicion falls on you.’

‘And if I need a witness to corroborate what I tell them?’ Patrick asked defiantly. ‘Would you step forward?’

‘I might give my life for you,’ Martin answered. ‘But I won’t condone your mortal sin.’

‘Then that is it,’ Patrick sighed. ‘It might be that we will meet again.’

Martin held out his hand and Patrick took it. ‘In the next life,’ Martin said in parting. ‘After we have done our penance for our sins.’

Martin waited until Patrick was swallowed by the night. He did not take the coach back to the village as he and Sean had originally planned. Instead, he set out to seek a safe house a few miles away until he could make his way to Dublin.

Patrick trudged along the lane to the village where he woke the local constable and reported the matter. As he predicted, no suspicion fell on him. In fact, he was lauded as a hero by the local military commander for his action in killing the Fenian rebel.

Before the news of how he had killed one of their favourite sons could reach the patrons of O’Riley’s, Patrick was gone. He left the village with some reluctance, knowing whatever Catherine’s reasons for disappearing, he could only wait for her to contact him. It was time to return to England and make arrangements to sail to Sydney and his family.

FIFTY-ONE

T
he whirling, dust-filled draught of air twisted across the dry plains to taper out into the azure sky. Wallarie paused in his hunt to see which way the dust devil would go. It posed no threat. He continued to scan the sparse brigalow scrub for his prey: a great red kangaroo. But when he turned his attention back to the big marsupial, it was gone.

Wallarie cursed his eyesight. Time had blurred the world around him and he knew that alone he could not survive as his ancestors had done for countless generations. Muttering swear words in the English he had learned from his white brother, Tom Duffy, so long ago, he tramped back to his campsite with little else than a slow moving lizard he had clubbed in his hunt for food. But at least he knew they were coming, he thought. The woman
he had waited so long to meet would be here soon with the others.

Helen was pleased to once again meet Patrick’s legendary and, some would say, colourful aunt.

‘It is good to see you again, Mrs Tracy,’ Helen said as they stood on the verandah of the sprawling main house of the Balaclava station, set like an oasis on the dry plains. ‘It has been a while since we last spoke.’

Beside Kate stood a young and handsome man she introduced as her son, Matthew. Helen was impressed by both his manner and his bearing. She had also heard much about his exploits in South Africa and was finally meeting the boy who had broken Fenella’s heart. But being impressed by his physical appearance did not take away her sense of loyalty to her niece.

After organising the stabling of their horse and buggy Karl soon joined them. He removed his floppy hat and dusted it against the side of his trousers.

With formalities over Kate ushered her visitors inside to meet the station manager and his wife, a couple in their late middle age who looked as if they had been born to the arid lands. The manager’s wife escorted Helen and Karl to their quarters, a simple room with two single beds and a weather-beaten wardrobe in the corner. The beds sagged and a posy of withering wildflowers sat forlornly in an empty jar beside the beds on a crude bedside table. But the room was clean.

At six all gathered in the dining room to share a roasted haunch of Balaclava beef served with station-grown vegetables. Wine was also served from a precious supply kept for special occasions. With the station manager at the head of the table, his wife to one side and Kate on the other, the ramifications on trade following the newly formed Commonwealth of Australia were discussed, along with news from the war in South Africa and the price of cattle. Anything and everything was spoken of except why they had gathered at Balaclava, as if any mention of the subject of Wallarie might cause the curse to manifest itself in the room.