Wanted Dead (14 page)

Riley walked into the shanty.

The door slammed suddenly behind him and he knew before he turned round that he had been wrong . . . wrong, and incredibly foolish.

“Looking for me?” came the slow deep tones.

Slowly Riley turned. A fierce grin split Hatton's beard and Riley could see two perfect rows of huge white teeth.

Was this the way a man died, shot dead by this splendid looking bastard in a colonial shanty? At least Heaven send Hatton did use that revolver on him, God preserve him from any ghastly games with a rope.

Riley glanced around the shanty. It appeared to be empty apart from the two of them.

“Janey's not here if that's who you're looking for,” said Hatton.

Riley didn't answer.

Hatton raised the fingers of his left hand to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. There was an answering whistle from outside and in a moment the door opened and another man came in carrying a carbine. That would be the one who'd been posted in the scrub covering his arrival, thought Riley dispassionately. Odd how predictable it had all been, really. What a dreary, forlorn, stupid business. The newcomer shut the door after him. He was a short thick-set man with a heavy squint in one eye and a straggly ginger beard.

“Got 'im eh, Jim?” he said to Hatton.

“Got 'im,” said Hatton.

He kept grinning at Riley, savouring as much as possible the triumph of capture.

“Listen,” he said. “There's just one thing I want to know from you. It was Johnny Cabel told you about the plant up on the Ridge wasn't it?”

“Why do you ask?” said Riley.

“Just wouldn't like to think I'd hanged the wrong man,” said Hatton.

A little late to worry about that now, thought Riley, but he'd better tell Hatton the truth in case he decided somebody else was the informer and dealt with him accordingly. After all he couldn't harm John Cabel any more.

“Yes,” said Riley.

“Good,” said Hatton, “Just see if he has any guns on him, Dave.”

The squint eyed man approached Riley professionally and quickly found and took his two revolvers.

“Revolvers, eh?” said Hatton. “They starting to pay you traps a bit better now or did they give you blood money for poor old Mick Ramsden?”

Riley didn't answer. A deep lethargy had fallen on him. He didn't see any way out of this and he wanted it over quickly.

“Not a very talkative sort of cove are you?” said Hatton, laughing. “What do you think we ought to do, Dave?”

“Shoot him and get the hell out of here,” said Dave quickly.

“No, I don't think we'll do that,” said Hatton. “Shooting'd be very quick and easy wouldn't it?”

If they tried to hang him, thought Riley, he'd put up such a fight that they'd have to shoot him to keep him quiet.

“There might be others following him,” said Dave quietly.

“No, I don't think so,” said Hatton, “This is the man who works alone; this is the man who took on the whole lot of us on the Ridge all by himself.”

The fact that he'd been single handed that night obviously had particularly rankled with Hatton, thought Riley, but at least he apparently admitted to himself and to his gang that there hadn't been a body of troopers involved.

“That was a filthy business, trying to bury us all alive,” said Hatton, the grin snapping off his face.

Riley looked at him sourly.

“By God,” said Hatton, “that might be an idea. What do you say we bury him up to his neck next to an ant heap?”

“No, Jimmy,” said Dave, “let's get out of here. Shoot him and let's go.”

“I won't shoot the bugger,” said Hatton. “He'd have left us rotting under the ground up there until we suffocated or starved: I'm not going to let him out so quickly.”

“Well hang him then if you want to,” said Dave. “I'll go get a rope.”

“Hanging's too quick,” said Hatton.

“Well dammit, make up your mind,” said Dave peevishly. He seemed to be listening for something.

“I think I'll knock him about a bit for a start. Here hold this,” said Hatton, handing his revolver to Dave.

Riley watched the bearded giant walk towards him, saw the lips drawn back across the teeth, saw the fist slowly raised. Then a flash of red pain and he was reeling across the room, trying to suck the air back into his racked lungs.

“God what a reedy runt to have caused so much trouble,” said Hatton contemptuously.

Riley blinked at the pair of them and decided he would make a dive for the squint eyed one and try to take his revolver. He would get shot, but that would
put an end to this nonsense. How justified the sub-inspector had been in predicting that Riley would be the eighth special constable to die in the Goulburn district.

“I'll tell you what, bog trotter,” said Hatton, “I'll give you a chance. We'll have a fight you and me, here in this shanty. You knock me out and I'll let you go. If I knock you out I'll wake you up and I'll gouge your eyeballs out and then I'll hang you.” Hatton laughed loudly. “What do you say, want to try your luck?”

Riley ran his tongue around his lips. He couldn't speak yet.

“Come on, what do you say?” said Hatton: “Dave here'll see fair play, won't you, Dave?”

“Yes, yes all right,” said Dave, “But get on with it. We haven't got all night.”

“Well what do you say Irishman, want to put up a fight for your life?”

What did this maniac want, wondered Riley. Some sort of sport apparently, as a cat might want a live and defiant mouse rather than one supine and collapsed.

He nodded briefly. “All right.”

“Good,” roared Hatton, “Now then, Dave, you know the rules, we fight until one of us can't stand up. If it's me, let him go. If it's him—well I'll look after that.”

He walked slowly across the room to Riley who stood quite still, breathing deeply. Hatton was some three inches taller than he was, twice as broad and could probably give him four or five stone. It was hard to tell how old he was, but he probably wasn't much older than Riley himself, and he seemed to be
in iron condition. The outcome of this fight wasn't in doubt in anybody's mind, but if he could stay on his feet long enough something might happen. He might be able to snatch a revolver from Dave, or even make a break through the door.

Riley adopted a severely orthodox boxing pose, left arm and foot forward, right arm protecting his face and chest. As Hatton closed with him he flicked the left into the bearded face and caught with his right fist the heavy right handed blow Hatton threw at him. Then he was rolling on the ground in agony clutching at the searing burn of torn fibre in his groin where Hatton's heavy boot had sunk into the flesh.

Hatton stood over him and laughed.

“Can you get up?” he said, “Or can I start on your eyeballs now?”

Thank God, Hatton wanted his fun, thought Riley, as he dragged himself to his feet, or he could easily have finished him off then. But it didn't matter, he was coming in to do it now. Riley, still bending, felt rather than saw the boot rising from the floor towards his throat. He flopped to one side and the boot swung into the air so violently that Hatton almost fell over. Riley scrambled upright again and limped away backwards.

Hatton, grinning, followed him.

“Remember this?” he said, running a finger down the side of his face. The long scar was barely visible now. So he had been the rider on the path, thought Riley, no wonder he was enjoying this so much now.

Hatton made a sudden rush, both fists flailing low. Riley ducked, his head almost to the ground, swung away to one side striking out blindly with his right
fist. It hit Hatton somewhere about the kidneys and he heard the man grunt.

Riley backed away again, massaging his groin to try to clear the crippling pain. Hatton was strong, incredibly strong, but he was also dead slow. Which probably only meant it would take him longer to kill Riley . . . but it mightn't.

Hatton was urging Riley back into a corner. He was advancing on him with his arms spread wide open to prevent his slipping by on either side. Riley stood straight up and waited for him, warily watching his feet. When he was about five feet away Riley suddenly lunged forward and smashed his fist hard on Hatton's nose. The big man bellowed and reeled back, the crimson already seeping down into his moustache in twin stains.

Riley saw him turn a furtive glance towards Dave who was standing by the door, revolver in hand. He hadn't liked even this minor humiliation in front of his henchman. The sudden hope that he might win this fight died in Riley as he realised that in any case they would never let him go. Hatton would never let any man live to boast that he'd bested him in circumstances like this. Still, he might as well do what he could.

Hatton was coming towards him again, more warily now, his own arms held up in something of a boxing posture. Riley waited, his left arm extended, ready to lunge in, strike and away again.

Hatton came in, throwing punches hard and regularly. Riley blocked and hit back but Hatton's fists struck into his ribs again and again. He backed away but Hatton followed rapidly, punching all the time. Then suddenly the man dropped to the ground and
Riley thought for one wild moment he'd knocked him down, but then he felt the massive legs scissored around his own and he was falling sideways to the floor.

This was the end, he'd never get out of this now. Hatton had his legs around his body, his feet locked, and Riley could feel the muscles swelling as he applied pressure.

Riley tried to throw himself over onto Hatton's body to break the lock, but the vast legs held him motionless and he could feel his bones giving under their strength. He could see Hatton's dark face, straining and grinning at the same time. Well damn the bloody man, there was only one possibility. Gasping for breath, Riley raised both fists in the air and smashed them down with all his strength into Hatton's groin.

The bushranger howled and his legs convulsively opened. Riley sprang free and Hatton rolled over once and stood up, his bloodied face glaring at Riley now with vicious hatred.

How much of this would he take, wondered Riley, before he grabbed the revolver again and took complete control of the situation. Probably quite a lot; once committed to a contest like this he wouldn't lightly admit himself beaten.

Hatton rushed him again, and Riley staggered under two savage blows to the head. He felt his lips crush and could taste his own blood. Falling he punched hard into Hatton's stomach, and then he saw the knee coming up. He swayed to one side, grabbed Hatton's leg in both hands and heaved. Hatton went over violently on his back. Riley moved round to try to kick
him in the head, but the big arms were already poised, waiting.

Riley moved away and Hatton slowly stood up.

“Well,” he said, breathing very heavily and wiping the blood away from his moustache and beard, “putting up quite a battle aren't you, bog trotter?”

He stood glaring at Riley.

“You know when I've gouged your eyeballs out I think I'll cut your tongue out before I hang you.”

He probably would too, reflected Riley, who had a sudden vision of himself eyeless and tongueless, hanging from the rafter as John Cabel had done. No! He wouldn't. He'd kill this bloody bushranger with his bare hands first. Or make him kill him. He wouldn't be hanged. In fact damn and blast it all, he wouldn't die at all.

He walked suddenly towards Hatton, feinted at him with his right and kicked him full in the stomach. The big man bent double, like a snapped tree trunk, and Riley banged him on the back of his neck with his fist. Hatton's arms came out to grab him and Riley moved back and kicked him in the ear. Hatton almost went over, supporting himself on one hand and Riley went in again. He could see Hatton's swollen face was purple and he could hear the tremendous effort he was making to breathe. I've got him, thought Riley in exultation, I've got him, I'm going to knock him out. Hatton still had one hand on the ground, and Riley went round him cautiously then pulled his fist back and smashed it with all his force behind the bushranger's ear. At the same moment Hatton brought his right hand off the ground and swung it in a great sweeping blow which caught Riley full on the chest.
Both men sagged to the floor and sat down, their knees almost touching.

Just lift your foot and kick him, kick him in the face, Riley told himself as he stared at Hatton through a red haze, kick him in the face. But he couldn't move, he could hardly breathe, there was an unbearable roaring noise in his ears. He could see Hatton dimly now, the strong bearded face blotched and marred, and the eyes almost closed. The man was virtually unconscious. But so, Riley realised as he struggled to move, was he.

Slowly, terribly, infinitely slowly he pulled himself up onto his knees; then sagged forward again on to his hands. Detachedly he saw Hatton was trying to get up. He was getting up. He was on his knees. God damn you, Riley, stand up now or you'll never stand up again. But Hatton hadn't made it either. He was down on his hands too.

From a distance of three feet the two men, each on his hands and knees, stared balefully into each other's face.

Then, by unspoken consent, they backed away, slowly stood up, shaking their heads like old bulls who have fought too long and too hard. For the first time in some minutes Riley remembered the squint eyed bushranger. He looked round for him and saw him standing near the door, staring unbelievingly at the spectacle of his leader almost unable to stand. He had the revolver in his hand, but it was pointed toward the floor. As Riley watched, he took a tentative step towards Hatton.

“Eh, Jim,” he said, “will I put a stop to this?”

“Keep out of it,” grunted Hatton, “I'll finish this bastard off in a minute.”

He came stalking across to Riley again, and Riley saw that he swayed a little as he walked. Riley waited where he was. Hatton made a half hearted attempt to kick him, then they closed, smashing leadenly into each other, virtually taking turns to hit. Neither of them made any attempt at defence, they had no strength for that.