Wanted Dead (25 page)

Hatton's horse cannoned into his and Hatton struck at his head with the hilt of the sword. Riley ducked and tried to stab Hatton in the chest, but there wasn't room. He couldn't pull his sword back far enough.

The two horses broke away and Hatton gave a backhanded swipe which missed.

Riley waited, his sword thrust out level with his shoulder. Hatton moved his horse in, warily, his sword held above his head. He swiped downwards at Riley's blade and Riley moved it to one side, swung it round over his horse's head and cracked Hatton across the neck with the blunt edge. The bushranger grunted and moved back. Riley cursed the fact that he'd hit him with the blunt edge. He'd have taken half his head off if he had hit him with the sharpened blade. But the blow should have knocked him off his horse. The man wasn't even stunned. He was like a bull.

But this was the moment to take the fight to him if ever there was one.

Riley urged his horse over, holding his sword backhanded above his horse's head so that he could swipe with the sharp edge of the blade.

Hatton struck out at Riley's horse, trying to stab it in the eyes. Riley knocked his sword down, then moved past him, lashing out at the back of the man's neck as he went.

Something brilliantly hot hit him across the bridge of the nose.

Blinded, he kicked his horse into a gallop. Hatton's sword had caught him across the face. He couldn't see. Where the hell did the marsh begin? He pulled on
the reins, and swung around. His eyes began to clear. Hatton was coming at him.

Riley thrust his sword forward and made his horse charge towards Hatton. But it was no use. He couldn't see. The horses collided. Something unbearably hard hit him across the head. Hatton's face was almost in his. He actually felt the man's breath. What was happening? The horses were going down. They were falling. There was Hatton below him, falling towards the ground. But Riley's mind was leaving him. Even as he fell he was slipping away into blackness. Was this death? He could see Hatton's throat, white under his beard. The man seemed to be upside down. Riley was taking a long time to fall. He tried to stab at Hatton's throat.

Then there was just black, unendurable blackness, swamping him and then nothing.

He became conscious quickly, without confusion. There was no fear. If he was not dead something must have happened. What had happened? He sat up.

The two horses were standing side by side a few yards away.

Hatton lay beside him. Riley's sword clean through his throat.

Riley stood up tentatively. He felt nothing, no elation, no satisfaction. Hatton was dead. But it was more of an accident than anything else.

Riley felt his nose and his head. There were large lumps, but no cuts. He wasn't badly hurt.

He looked at Hatton. The man's eyes were open, and his white teeth were still showing. He looked handsome and generous in death. The sword looked improbable thrust through his throat and into the soft ground
beneath him. With his arms outspread he looked like some magnificent specimen of insect pinned to a board.

Riley tried to work out what happened. He remembered trying to stab Hatton as they fell. But that had been a feeble business. He must have just caught him with the point and then thrust it on through by the dead weight of his own unconscious, falling body.

This corpse was worth one thousand pounds. The thought was shocking, and yet unbearably attractive. One thousand pounds clear could mean an end to this barbaric colony . . . an end to the sub-inspector and an end to his own inexplicable temptations towards violence. How did he know it was one thousand pounds? The Sergeant had told him. God in Heaven, the Sergeant, the poor dead instrument of Riley's actions.

He looked across the marsh. The Sergeant was sitting in the saddle of his bogged horse, waving at Riley.

“Course I wasn't bloody well dead,” said the Sergeant, when Riley had got him across to the island and was trying to clean mud from two deep cuts across the back of his neck and shoulders, “Course I wasn't dead, but I wasn't going to let Hatton know that.”

“But you were shot,” said Riley. “Where did he get you?”

“In the bloody backside. Dropped me like an ox.”

“Well for God's sake let me clean it up.”

“Be damned. Let's get out of here before any more of his mob turns up.”

“But are you alright?”

“Course I'm not bloody well all right, but I'll be a damn sight worse if we stay here.”

Queasily Riley pulled his sword from Hatton's throat and wiped it on the moss. He led Hatton's horse over
and hoisted the heavy limp body on to it It took him a long time.

“Cut the bloody head off,” the Sergeant said, “That's all we want.” But that was too macabre for Riley.

He wondered foolishly about the finger and thumb lying on the moss. He didn't like leaving part of a human body abandoned like that. But there was nothing else he could do. He thought of throwing it out into the marsh, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it.

There was no hope of hauling the Sergeant's horse out of the marsh. Riley shot it. Then he helped the Sergeant onto his own horse and, taking the reins of Hatton's horse led the way out of the swamp. He hated wading in the tangled water-lilies; but he didn't see any snakes.

They made their way back to Goulburn along the route they had come, but they were slower now because Riley had to walk all the way.

Each night he did his best to dress the Sergeant's wounds, but they were beginning to fester. They had a lot of trouble with Hatton's body. Riley had to get it off the horse each night and on again in the mornings.

He insisted on leaving it, wrapped in a blanket, some distance from their camp each night.

“Be careful with that bloody thing,” the Sergeant grumbled. “It's worth a thousand pounds to us.”

Riley rode back into Goulburn two weeks later for the inquest. He was still happy, still singing. He rode into the barracks and met the Sergeant, hobbling with a walking stick, but looking even glummer than that warranted.

“Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?” said Riley.

“About the reward.”

“What about the reward?” Riley felt a deep, hollow fear.

“We don't get it.”

“What do you mean we don't get it?” Riley was aware that his voice was much higher pitched than usual.

“Well, we don't get much of it.”

“What do you mean, man, for Heaven's sake speak plainly.”

“Mad Mick's fixed it, the bastard.”

“What do you mean he fixed it?” This was unthinkable, this couldn't be true.

“We were acting under orders, on information received,” the Sergeant said dully. “We weren't what he calls primarily responsible for the action.”

“Then who the bloody hell was?”

“Jane Cabel. She gets three quarters of it. Every bloody penny of seven hundred and fifty pounds.”

“And the rest?” said Riley, knowing what the answer would be.

“You and me split that,” said the Sergeant: “After they deduct what's owing on our gear.”

The sun was hot. The dust hung heavily in the barracks yard Riley could hear the cicadas blaring in the trees as his mind despairingly tried to deduct what he owed the Government from £125.

“Mad Mick said he wants to see you as soon as you show up.”