The Gallant (55 page)

“What’s it to be?” he inquired sullenly. “There ain’t no whiskey. Will you take a slug o’ rum, McFee, or beer?”

McFee cursed him, but without venom, and he and Marty Low took their tankards of rum over to a table on the far side of the room, where a glowing fire was evidence of Nelly’s industry, if not that of her husband. His back to the blaze, Slugger stood steaming in his damp clothes. “Bloody rain!”

he said. “Never let up all day. I’m soaked to the skin. Bring the bottle over here, Dingo-one slug ain’t going to save me from gettin’

pneumonia. Certainly not one slug o’ bleedin’

rum. What did you do with the whiskey, you old rogue? Drink the lot, while I wasn’t here?”

“It ran out,” Dingo told him uncompromisingly.

“I’ll go into town an’ get some more when the weather’s better. Never known a wet season like it, an’ that’s a fact.” He brought the rum bottle over and lingered, wiping the table with a stained cloth. Glancing from one to the other of the newly returned men with inquisitive dark eyes, he asked in a more ingratiating tone, “You have a good time in Urquhart Falls, the two of you?”

“It was all right,” McFee answered shortly.

He poured himself a lavish tot and swallowed it at a gulp. He waited until Dingo was on his way back to the bar and then said, lowering his voice, “We ran into a friend o’ yours, Michael. Woman that keeps a good eatin’ house-Martha Higgins. Your name

William Stuart Long

cropped up, “cause there’s wanted posters about you plastered all round town. They must want you bad.

How much was they offerin”, Marty?”

“One “undred an” fifty pounds,” Marty Low supplied. He sounded awed. “I reckon they want you real bad, Michael. They-was Lily came in bearing a tray, and as she set plates of cold meat and cheese in front of the newly returned men, Michael motioned to both of them to say no more. When the girl had gone, he asked, an edge to his voice, “You didn’t tell Martha Higgins where I was, did you?”

They shook their heads. “We ain’t daft, Michael,” McFee protested. “Anyways, we was actin’ like we was diggers, an’ all we did was hint as we’d run across you at the diggings. But Mrs. Higgins give us a note for you, just in case we was to see you again. You got that note, Marty?”

Marty, his mouth full, nodded and, after some fumbling in the pockets of his moleskins, produced a crumpled sheet of coarse paper and passed it across the table. “Here

it

is, Michael.”

Michael thanked him. The note was

misspelled and written in an oddly childish hand: Dear Michael, me and Tommy hope your alrite and that you’ll soon make a good strike. I done like you said and written to claim the reward for seeing you.

I sent it to the Melbourne Herald asking them to send it on cos I weren’t sure ow to get it to Hobart. They ain’t paid me no reward yet but that don’t matter, so long as they tell you what it is to your advantage, Michael.

I think these diggers are alrite. I didn’t tell them nothing you can trust me. But they said as they might run into you, so I thought I’d risk given them this.

You better stay away from Urquhart Falls.

Theres a big reward posted for you an Mr.

Brownlow-him that uster be a policeman an owns the gaming rooms and the bank-he says as he’ll give an extra fifty pounds to it and he’s bin calling on folks to form a posse, case you and this Lawless Gang come inter town.

Tommy sends his love and so do I. Don’t act reckless, Michael. We will be glad to see you but not till its safe. Martha Higgins, Mrs.

“What’s she said?” McFee inquired, putting down his knife and fork with a satisfied sigh.

“We didn’t read her note, o’ course.”

“She says Urquhart Falls is a place

to stay away from, Slugger,” Michael answered dryly. “But you’ve got a different idea about that, haven’t you?”

Slugger McFee bared his very white teeth in a pleased grin. “You cotton on fast, don’t you?

Billy said you had brains.” He poured himself another tot of rum and passed the bottle hospitably across the table to Michael. “Have a drink an’ I’ll tell you what we found out in Urquhart Falls. They got whiskey there, plenty of it, in the gamin’ rooms an’ the taverns.

An’ girls. An actin’ troupe, dancin’ an’

singin’ an’ spoutin’ poetry. It was good, but the games ate crooked. The same feller owns the lot comfeller called Brownlow. Used to be a police inspector till he got hisself shot up at the Eureka. Owns the bank, too, Michael.” He paused, eyeing Michael

expectantly over the rim of his tankard.

Michael’s expression did not change. “Are you suggesting we should hold up the bank?”

Tich Knight came in, accompanied by the white-haired man known as Chalky

White, and for their benefit McFee repeated what he had just said. Then, his gaze once more on Michael, he added, “It’d be a pushover, that bank. Easy as takin’ the milk out o’ a blind man’s cup o’ tea-honest. For a start, there’s no vault-that’s not been built yet. Just a safe I could crack with me eyes shut an’ some piled-up metal deed boxes. They’re kept at the back, in full view from the counter.”

He explained the bank’s layout, calling on Marty Low to confirm what he was saying.

“And,” he finished triumphantly, “the town’s stuffed with diggers. They’ve come in out o’ the wet, an’ they’re waitin’ till the weather lets up an’

the escorts start again. Meantime they’ve lodged their gold in the bank. And Brownlow’s mean-William Stuart Long

he only employs two cashiers an’ a roustabout.

Does the managin’ hisself.”

“What about troopers?” White asked.

“There ain’t above half a dozen, are there, Marty?”

“No,” Marty confirmed. “That’s all there is.

Brownlow was tryin’ to get a posse together when we was in town-to search for you, Michael!” He smiled. “The folks weren’t keen. Too wet an’

cold, they reckoned. I doubt if he gathered more’n ten-mostly layabouts and diggers that hadn’t done no good. They just went along for the reward, and they didn’t find anything. I heard they paid a call on poor old Davie McMunn at the

Travellers’ Rest and beat him up, trying to get him to describe us.” He laughed, pushing his plate away and reaching for the rum bottle. “Accordin’

to what one of the diggers told me, all Davie could tell “em was that we was all ten feet tall!

Even Tich! An” we looked like diggers to him.”

“See, Michael?” Slugger McFee challenged.

“I see,” Michael returned. “Well, let’s talk it over. Go and find Ginger and Boomer, will you, Tich? If we do what Slugger suggests, they’ll have to be in on it.”

They talked far into the night. With Martha Higgins’s warning in mind, Michael was at best lukewarm concerning the proposed raid, but the others liked the idea and were impressed by McFee’s detailed description of the bank premises. The loud-voiced Boomer O’Malley in particular was enthusiastic.

“Sure an’ why not?” he asserted,

grinning hugely. “The feller Brownlow, by all accounts, is a rogue. And a bloody trooper officer before he lit on Urquhart Falls, wasn’t he? Chased poor honest diggers for their license fees at Ballarat, so he did, and now he’s cheating them in his crooked gaming house! I say we relieve the swine of his ill-gotten gains. Soon as the rain stops, let’s be on our way.”

“Why wait for the rain to stop?” the redheaded Ginger Masters demanded. “They’ll start the escorts again when it stops, and they’re hard to hold up-harder than a bank with two cashiers and no vault. If we’re going, let’s go! I’ve had my fill of soft living.”

“We’ll take a vote on it, boys,” Michael said. “First-shall we go for the bank at Urquhart Falls?” The vote, he saw, was

unanimous. “All right, that’s agreed. Now, do we wait for the weather to let up or set off right away?”

The shouts of “Right away!” came from all except Tich, and he, seeing that the vote was against him, finally nodded his head.

“All right, I’m in. And you, Michael?”

Michael gave his assent, hiding his

reluctance.

“We’ll sleep on it and get down to planning it tomorrow morning. And we’ll leave tomorrow night.”

Lily came to his bed and they slept, locked in each other’s arms, to make love once again when the coming of dawn awakened them. Theirs was an oddly tender lovemaking, and when it was over and theyddlay back, side by side, Michael realized that Lily was weeping, harsh sobs wracking her slender body and her face hidden from him, buried in the pillows. But, plead with her as he might, she would give him no reason for her distress, her sobs redoubling when he attempted to press her for an explanation.

“I’m afraid, that’s all,” she whispered.

“Afraid, my sweet? Afraid for me or for yourself?”

“For you, Michael.” Her muffled voice was choked with sobs. “I-I wish you wouldn’t go to Urquhart Falls. I can’t tell you why. I-I’m just so afraid for you.”

“I have to go,” Michael told her gently. He threw off the bedclothes and crossed to the window, to see that the rain had ceased. A good omen or a bad one?

he wondered. Not that it mattered; not that it could change the decision the others had taken. He dressed quickly and went to the stables, leaving Lily, still sobbing, in the bedroom.

Tich came out of one of the stalls at the sound of his footsteps, his thin face puckered in a frown.

“The hoss an’ buggy’s gone,” he said, “if you was thinkin’ of usin’ it. Dingo took “em. Gone to get whiskey, Nelly says. D’you reckon he has?”

Dingo had made an early start, Michael thought.

But McFee had given him a hard time the previous evening because the whiskey had run out, and … in any event, he had not planned on using the buggy on their raid. He shrugged.

“I suppose he has, Tich. Well, let’s get on with choosing the

William Stuart Long

horses, shall we? The gray gelding needs a couple of shoes … let’s hope Dingo gets back in time to see to it. And we’ll need two packhorses-quiet animals that we can leave tethered on the edge of town. And a spare, in case any of ours is injured.”

“Aye,” Tich agreed, chewing at a straw in the corner of his mouth. “I got ‘em picked out. But the ones Slugger an” Marty come in on yesterday won’t be no good-tuckered out, they are, the pair of “em, and the bay’s lame. Must have ridden ‘em hard, the stupid clowns. That’ll leave us short, Michael.”

Tich Knight had once been a hunt whipper-in with a famous English pack, Michael recalled, and horses, rather than people, were the love of his life. He laid a hand consolingly on the little man’s shoulder.

“Do the best you can,” he advised. “And then come in to help with the planning. It will have to be a fast raid, and I want to make sure our timing’s right.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Tich answered. “My job’s the hosses, like it always is. I’ll put the shoes on the gray, Michael. But-was He hesitated, his frown returning. “I wish we wasn’t goin” right away. I got a feelin’ in my guts “bout this-didn’t sleep much last night for thinkin” what could go wrong. Still-was He shrugged.

“I expect it’s just my foolishness, or I’m gettin’ old. Forget it, Michael.”

But he could not quite forget it, Michael realized, as the day wore on. Lily and Tich had both shared the same doubts, it seemed, and he began to experience them himself. The planning, however, went well enough; Slugger and Marty made a sketch of the bank and the streets to the front and rear, and they all discussed and agreed on their tactics with little dissent, eating as they talked. Dingo had not returned by the time they were ready to leave the Magpie, but Nelly, who had plied them with food all day, took his accustomed place behind the bar and made an acid joke of his continued absence, as she served drinks with a lavish hand.

“Can’t keep sober for long, Dingo can’t, if I ain’t around to keep the old reprobate in check I’ll wager he’s sleepin’ it off somewhere along the road-you’ll likely see “im on the way. But don’t worry, ‘e’ll get a piece o” my mind when “e shows up back ‘ere, you can be sure o” that! An’ there is a couple o’ tots o’

whiskey left in the bottle, Mr. McFee, so you might as well “ave ‘em, to speed you on your way. An” what for you, Mr. Wexford? Must “ave one for the road, sir.”

Michael shook his head. Despite Nelly’s blandishments, they were all reasonably sober, he thought, though only he and Tich were completely so.

He had made his farewell to Lily in the privacy of their bedroom, and she had stayed there, still in a mood of black depression, still vainly begging him not to go on the raid.

Poor little Lily! Conscious of a regret he could not voice, he thrust the thought of her from his mind and gestured to the door.

“It’s time, boys-diet’s get mounted.”

They trooped out after him, their earlier laughter fading. The rain had held off all day, and a three-quarter moon gave them fitful light as they set off down the steep hill road, a well-mounted cavalcade, each man with a pistol in his belt and a rifle holstered behind his saddle.

Unexpectedly, Tich broke the silence with a resounding “Tally-ho!” The sound echoed back to them from the rocky peak behind the inn, and they grinned at each other and spurred their horses recklessly down the hill, laughing and joking again like schoolboys out on some boyish spree.

Was this, Michael asked himself, the freedom he had longed for and risked so much to attain? Well, perhaps it was. It was futile and foolish to think of Kilclare or to wonder what might have been, had fate not dealt him so cruel a blow so many wasted years before.

From the lighted upper window of the inn, a small, dark figure that was Lily waved him on his way, but Michael did not turn his head and did not see the wave. By the time the small cavalcade reached level ground, he was laughing with the rest, the imminent, heady prospect of danger setting his pulses racing and obliterating his doubts.

Boomer O’Malley started to sing, his deep baritone voice waking the echoes as Tich’s tally-ho had done. It was an Irish rebel song, Michael recognized, and he took it up, memory stirring again.

William Stuart Long

“We trust in God above us, And we dearly love the green. Oh, to die it is far better Than be cursed as we have been!”