Wanted Dead (11 page)

“Why do you say that?” said the old man, who still had not changed his position.

The bushranger seemed to be treating old Cabel with some respect, thought Riley. Jane Cabel squirmed out of the crowd at the far end of the shanty and made her way to the bar. None of the bushrangers interfered with her. She stood in front of the bar in front of Hatton.

“Yes, why do you say that, James Hatton?” she said bravely enough, thought Riley. But she looked white and drawn. Perhaps she was sick.

“I'm sorry about this, Janey,” said Hatton, “but he had something to do with that business up at the cave.”

Riley saw for the first time that there was a livid, fresh scar, running from the bushranger's temple to his chin, cleaving a line through his beard. Had Riley done that with his sword? Had Hatton been the anonymous rider he'd struck down on Lightning Fork Ridge?

“He did not,” cried Jane Cabel: “Did you, Johnny?” She turned to her brother.

John Cabel shook his head.

“There, you see,” said Jane to Hatton, as though something had been proved.

Hatton motioned with his hand to one of his followers and the man went over and stood by the door leading out into the kitchen.

“Come out here, Johnny,” said Hatton, “I want to talk to you.”

“You can talk to him from there,” said the old man. Hatton hesitated. Riley wondered what it was that made him respect the shanty owner. It couldn't be his
sheer size. The man was enormous, but he was very old. And Hatton was armed.

“You set the traps on us, didn't you, Johnny?” said Hatton at last.

“No, Jim. I didn't. I swear I didn't.”

“Then where've you been the last month?”

“Just knockin' around, doin' a bit of work on me own.”

Hatton stared at the boy. He said nothing for a moment and then he turned to the crowd.

“We're going to have a trial here,” he announced: “We're going to try Johnny Cabel for treachery. If he's found guilty we're going to hang him.” There was a stir in the crowd and Riley became aware that the man standing next to him, a stout man, was very red in the face and was breathing heavily. Riley hoped he wasn't going to be sick.

“These men,” continued Hatton, gesturing with a revolver at his followers, “are going to be the jury. I'm going to be the judge. You—” he waved his revolver generally at the crowd—“you're the audience and can see fair play.”

The man had no sense of humour, thought Riley.

Hatton leaned back against the bar and let the barrels of his revolvers point to the ground.

“Now you all know, or you ought to know that Johnny Cabel here was one of us.” Riley took that to mean that Cabel had been a member of the gang. Why was the bushranger going through this pantomime, he wondered. It looked as though he was simply trying to justify himself in front of the old man, or the crowd, or both.

“And you all know what happened up on Lightning Fork Ridge. We were ambushed by a bunch of Traps.”

That was flattering, thought Riley.

“We drove the dingoes off, as we always will,” said Hatton, “but they killed Mick Ramsden.”

So that was the man's name. First the memory of having seen him by the fire, and now learning his name, Riley felt as though the man he had killed was being created in his memory. He shook his head to clear the thought away.

“Now we have reason to believe that Johnny Cabel, here, told those Traps where we were.”

“But he didn't,” cried Jane — “he didn't, he didn't.”

Hatton ignored her.

“Now we admit we could be wrong about that.”

You don't, you liar, thought Riley.

“And that's why we're holding this trial. We want to make sure.” A half-remembered quotation came to Riley's mind. “I beseech you in the bowels of Christ to admit you might be wrong.” Who said that? Oliver Cromwell wasn't it? Not exactly a tolerant man either. Riley wondered whether Cromwell had been prompted by a sentiment similar to Hatton's. He probably was. And the expression of his tolerance was likely to be much the same. Would they really hang the boy? And what was the old man thinking about all this? He was still leaning there motionless. There was something purely affected about that immobility.

“Now, Johnny,” said Hatton, turning to the boy who was now standing upright, not clinging to his father, but very close to him. “You say you didn't set the Traps on us?”

“No. I didn't,” said John, with just a touch of defiance.

“You didn't tell anybody where Lightning Fork
plant
was?”

“No I didn't, Jim. Honest, Jim I didn't. I don't know why you think I did.”

Hatton turned again to the crowd.

“Now you all heard that. Johnny here says he never set the Traps on, us, right?”

He turned again to John Cabel.

“Now when did you first hear about this business up on the Ridge?”

“Aw, I dunno, Jim. A week or two after it happened. Heard some fellers talking about it out at Rushton's shanty. Something in the papers about it they said.”

“That's right,” said Hatton, talking to the crowd at large again: “There was something in the papers about it. Lies they were. There was a whole bunch of troopers up there.”

Riley hadn't known he'd made the newspapers. He must look them up when he went back to Goulburn.

“Now,” said Hatton, “you all heard Johnny here say that the first he heard about that business was a week after it happened. Right?”

He turned back to John Cabel.

“Where's your pistol, Johnny?”

Riley saw at last what the bushranger was getting at. He watched Cabel's face but saw only blankness there. Of course the boy would have no way of anticipating what was in the bushranger's mind.

“I left it out in the bush,” said the boy. “Don't want to be seen carting a gun around. I been into Goulburn.”

Oh futile, futile lie, thought Riley. The boy would have done far better to have told part of the truth and say it had been taken from him by a man he'd
tried to hold up. But the boy didn't know what was coming.

“You all hear that?” Hatton asked the crowd: “He says he left his pistol out in the bush.” He turned again to Cabel: “When did you leave it out in the bush?”

“Ah I dunno, Jim, about a week ago I think.”

“A week ago, he says,” declared Hatton, “You're sure of that now are you, Johnny?”

“Aw, I think so. About a week ago, Jimmy.”

“Well it wasn't more than a fortnight ago, eh?”

“No, it wouldn't be more than a fortnight.” Surely the boy could see he was being led into something, thought Riley.

“All right then,” said Hatton, “Now you all heard that, now listen to this.”

Ceremoniously he pushed one of his revolvers into his belt and drew out a pistol.

“That's yours isn't it?” he said, holding it out to the boy.

“Aw, I dunno, Jim.”

“Well take it and have a look at it. Look at this.” With his revolver Hatton pointed to something on the butt of the pistol. Possibly even the boy's name or initials, thought Riley.

The boy didn't take the proffered weapon. He moved a little closer to his father.

“Yes, it's mine,” he said sullenly.

“So it's yours, eh?” said Hatton: “And do you know how I got it? I found it on the ridge the night the Traps set on us. This was what killed Mick Ramsden, Your pistol, Johnny. Your pistol.”

There was a murmur in the crowd and Riley realised that Hatton had in fact succeeded in creating
something of the atmosphere of a courtroom. Moreover there was something entirely theatrical about Hatton, although he obviously took himself deadly seriously.

“Well, what have you got to say about that, Johnny?”

“I don't know how it got there,” said the boy, slightly tearful now.

“But you were lying when you said you hid it in the bush weren't you?” said Hatton triumphantly.

The boy could still lie his way out of this, thought Riley, if he had his wits about him; but then he didn't seem particularly intelligent. Quite the reverse in fact. And there was something in his face that seemed to be determining his doom, something besides the abject fear. It was shame, Riley realised, the boy was genuinely ashamed of what he had done, and that shame would surely ruin him.

“You were lying, weren't you?” roared Hatton. Everybody was silent now, staring at the guilt stricken face of John Cabel. Even his sister was staring at him doubtfully.

“Not exactly, Jim,” said the boy at last, muttering so that Riley could hardly hear him. “Not exactly; you see a cove took it off me.”

“I'll say a cove took it off you — it was the cove who owned this, wasn't it?”

Hatton produced yet another pistol from his belt. Riley couldn't see it very clearly, but he guessed what it was.

“It was the cove who owned this, wasn't it?” repeated Hatton, “and you know what this is don't you: it's a Trap's pistol!” Hatton in some ways was not unlike
his sub-inspector thought Riley, except that Hatton was possibly more reasonable.

“All right, Jim,” said the boy miserably, “I'll tell you how it was. I held this cove up, or tried to, and he beat me up and took me gun. That's the way it was, Jim, honest it was.”

“Then why did you lie about it?” said Hatton.

There was an easy answer to that, thought Riley. He just had to say he'd been ashamed to admit his pistol had been taken from him. These men just might understand and believe that. They'd laugh at him, but they mightn't hang him. But the boy just stood silent, deep shame and guilt evident in the very slouch of his shoulders.

Riley looked at Jane Cabel. She seemed utterly bewildered.

“Johnny,” she said, “didn't . . .”

“Oh yes he did,” said Hatton: “I can tell you what happened. The Traps caught him and he bought his way out by splitting on us. That's happened. Did they promise you blood money as well if they shot me, Johnny?”

The boy just stood where he was, his face white, his eyes staring. The old man beside him was looking steadily at Hatton.

“Now then,” said Hatton, turning to his men: “That's the evidence, what's the verdict?”

His men, who didn't seem to have the same uninhibited sense of drama as Hatton, shuffled their feet and looked self-conscious.

“What's the verdict, I said?” repeated Hatton, loudly.

“Er, guilty, Jim,” said one of the bushrangers, looking at his feet.

“Guilty it is!” roared Hatton: “And now the sentence
…” He turned to John Cabel and pointed one of the revolvers at him. He's going to shoot him, thought Riley, he's going to shoot him dead in cold blood. If he'd had a revolver then he would have started shooting himself, he thought, five shots against seven men. The odds were he would have hit five of them at that range. And surely the crowd would join him then. But it wouldn't have been possible anyway, he was so tightly jammed into the corner he could not even raise his hands from his sides.

“The sentence,” Hatton continued: “Is that you be hanged by the neck until you're dead, and may God have mercy on your soul, because I'll have none on your body.”

Jane Cabel screamed and rushed at the bushranger.

“Don't, don't, don't,” she cried, beating at his chest, “Let him go, Jim, please let him go.”

Hatton pushed her away and one of his men took her outside.

“Get me a rope,” said Hatton, and another bushranger went out of the shanty. This couldn't really be going to happen, thought Riley, not before his very eyes.

He looked at the boy. He was standing quite still, but his hand was on his father's arm again. Tears were running down his face. The old man was still staring at Hatton. Suddenly Hatton reached across the bar, grabbed a handful of John Cabel's clothing, and hauled him over.

The boy yelped and tried to cling to his father; but the old man, and it was the first time that Riley had seen him move, twitched his arm and broke the boy's clutch.

At that final act of rejection the boy began to howl
like an animal, softly and mournfully. It was horrible. The boy would have fallen to the ground if Hatton hadn't been holding him.

Irresistibly Riley was reminded of his own treatment of the boy and he felt sick with shame, but then at least he hadn't meant it. This man, incredibly, did.

The man came back with the rope and without any orders from Hatton stood on a chair and dropped one end over a rafter. There was already a noose in the rope. Holding him with only one hand Hatton dragged John Cabel over under the rafter, dropped the noose over his neck and hauled on the rope.

The boy stood upright and clutched at the rope with his hands. Hatton knocked the boy's arms away with his fist.

When the boy could just take his weight on the tips of his toes, Hatton stopped hauling.

Just as I did—thought Riley—perhaps after all…

“I want John Cabel to hear this,” said Hatton. “and I want you all to hear it too. I play square with any man who plays square with me—but there's only one thing I've got for traps and traitors—and that's this . . .”

Hatton walked abruptly back towards the bar, hauling his rope after him. Riley caught one glimpse of John Cabel's face. Blood was running down his chin, his eyes were wide open and filled with bitter horror. Then Riley shut his eyes. Some women had been screaming, but they stopped. There was a sound like a moan from the crowd too, but then it stopped. Then there was almost silence. And then some horrible, unthinkable sounds. And after a while complete silence. It lasted a long time. And then a long gasp from fifty throats.

Riley opened his eyes.

John Cabel's body was revolving slowly in the air, his neck crooked, his feet a foot from the ground.

Hatton let the rope go and the body fell, the boots and the head making separate thumps on the board floor.