Wanted Dead (22 page)

“Well no-one seems to know exactly what happened after that, but eventually it seems all these coves get up around Ben's camp, with Billy Dargin up front, and poor old Ben still sleepin' like the dead.

“It gets to be about dawn and these coves are still waiting around Ben's camp—why they didn't shoot him, or why Billy didn't shoot him I don't know. I suppose because they couldn't be sure it was Ben. It's hard to tell with a cove all wrapped up in a blanket on the ground. And it was May so I suppose he had his head wrapped up too.

“Anyhow eventually Ben wakes up and crawls out of his blankets and he's fully dressed with God knows how many revolvers in his belt.

“So someone shoots him. Gawd alone know who it was. Billy reckons it was him, but every other trooper in the mob said it was him.

“Old Ben staggers around for a bit, he was probably dead on his feet, but they reckoned he tried to pull out his revolvers. So Billy shoots him again — most of 'em agree it was Billy shot him second. So over Ben goes and the whole bloody mob rushes up and shoots him.

“You know he had thirty holes in him when they brought him into Forbes.”

Riley had a vision of the triumphant procession moving into the township, the bushranger's shattered body hanging over a packhorse and the crowd lining the streets.

“Things quietened down a bit round here after they got Ben,” said the Sergeant, “ 'cause they got Gilbert and Dunn not long after. Then this fellow Hatton turned up and it all started over again.

“Funny thing that though, old Billy Dargin workin' for Ben and then ending up the cove that got him killed, even if he didn't kill him himself.”

This reflection on the complexity of life seemed to provide the Sergeant with ample matter for contemplation, for he kept silent until they finally emerged onto the road, as he had predicted they would.

“Don't like this now,” said the Sergeant. “If they're expecting us they might lay up for us between here and the shanty.”

“Why not on the track?”

“No. That's only one of half a dozen ways onto this road.”

“Well what do we do?” said Riley, looking down the length of dusty road, which began to dance in the distance in the shimmering heat.

“Could cut off into the bush,” said the Sergeant, “get up onto the ridge. That'd take us almost to the shanty and we could have a good look at it before we went near it.”

“Why not?”

“Hard going. Lot safer though.”

“Then let's be safe by all means,” said Riley, leading the way off the road into the scrub.

They had to lead the horses most of the way, weaving through trees and scrub, scrambling around outcrops of rock. Even on the top of the ridge the undergrowth was very dense. After two hours of it the horses' hides were streaked dark with sweat. Riley's own clothes were wet through, but the Sergeant, still in full uniform, seemed unperturbed.

About two miles along the crest of the ridge he paused.

“That's the marsh down there.”

Riley looked down through a gap in the trees into a vast valley which seemed to cleave the slopes and run clear down through the foothills into the distant plains beyond. The bottom of the valley was very wide and flat. It was heavily overgrown with trees, but they were broken by many clear patches, patches of curiously vivid green.

“It looks easy enough to get through,” Riley said.

“Don't you believe it. Most of the green you can see is water lily. Horse'd sink to its belly in it.”

“And you really think Hatton has a
plant
in there?”

“I'm damn sure of it. He's been seen going in half a dozen times.”

“How'd he find the path?”

“One of the locals told 'im I suppose. Plenty of people round here'd know the way in, or the ways
in. There's probably half a dozen of 'em. But they'd never tell a trooper.

“Can't blame 'em,” added the Sergeant tolerantly. “More 'n their life's worth if Hatton found out.”

“No-one's ever tried to follow him in?” said Riley.

“What'd be the use? You couldn't take a troop in there. If you did they'd have to go slowly in single file one man could pick 'em off easily.”

Riley looked thoughtfully down into the lush and treacherous valley, aware of an irrepressible spurt of excitement.

“The tracks are very narrow, are they?” he said.

“Well they must be,” said the Sergeant. “Stands to reason. They aren't tracks exactly, they're just runs of solid ground, lot of it's under water. You go a foot or so either side and you'd sink.”

“It's not quicksand is it? I mean a man could get out if he fell in?”

“A man could get out all right, but a horse couldn't. Not by itself.”

“But a man would find it hard to walk through?”

“Bloody near impossible. He'd be swimming half the time, or wading through mud. Unless he found the track. The water lily 'd stop you too. You get all tangled up in that—you can't move through it.”

“But listen,” said Riley excitedly. “If there's anybody in there it must be possible to find some sort of tracks, at the edge of the marsh anyway; not the paths, just racks showing where horses went in?”

“I daresay,” said the Sergeant suspiciously.

“And they'd be moving in an out. They wouldn't just stay there?”

“Yeah?” The Sergeant wa definitely on his guard now.

Riley stopped talking and looked down into the
valley, mocking himself for the rising excitement he could feel — aware of an idea welling within him which he knew he would have to follow to completion, and, somewhere more remotely knowing a half ashamed twinge of lust for the smell of burned powder fired in anger.

“You realise,” he said flatly, “that two men—under cover in the swamp—could slaughter any number of men trying to get through it.”

“Here don't be bloody silly,” said the Sergeant in alarm, “I thought you were a sensible sort of cove.”

Riley smiled. He'd thought that about himself, once.

“Let's go down and have a look around,” he said.

“What. Round the marsh?” The sergeant's voice had risen sharply.

Riley nodded.

“Don't be bloody silly,” said the Sergeant, almost imploringly now.

“Look,” said Riley, with an earnestness he didn't feel. “You look at it. It's just a chance, but supposing you found where they went in. I guarantee you could trace that track for half a mile or so, even if you had to wade all the way to do it—but you say it's not quicksand so why not? All right, so you trace out a section of the path—you set up at one point and I set up at another a hundred yards away, along the track. We could have perfect cover—up a tree even if you like. We wait until they get between us and we've got 'em. They can't move fast, they can't get past us. They can't go off the track. We wouldn't even have a fight—they'd have to surrender.”

The Sergeant was looking at him as though he had suddenly gone insane. Perhaps he had.

“But how long are you gonna wait in the bloody marsh?” he almost howled.

“Just a few days,” said Riley cajolingly. He couldn't rid his mind of a vision of James Hatton riding slowly through the marsh, picking his way, with Riley's rifle sights lined up on his great shaggy head—“Just a few days. We could make ourselves perfectly comfortable.”

That was going a bit far, he thought, but it needn't be all that bad. They could set up a watching system, taking it in turns to guard the approaches.

“Have you ever camped in a marsh,” said the Sergeant.

“No,” said Riley, in fairness. “No, I haven't.”

“The bloody mosquitoes 'd kill you. They'd carry you away, you and your bloody horse and your gear as well,” said the Sergeant, moved to eloquence by his consternation. “And what are you going to do if they come through at night?”

“They wouldn't come through at night,” said Riley, “no-one would try to move through that sort of country in the dark.

But the Sergeant was not disposed to reasonable argument.

“No,” he said, “Come on. Let's go and poke our noses into that shanty. That's bloody dangerous enough without mucking about in bloody marshes.” He started off along the ridge “I thought you were a sensible sort of cove,” he added aggrievedly.

“There's a lot of reward money involved,” said Riley.

“You're not dead long enough to spend it,” said the Sergeant obscurely, and while Riley was trying to fathom that out he saw a long, thin stream of smoke reaching up into the sky from the depth of the marshes.

“Look at that,” he said.

“Bloody remarkable,” said the Sergeant bitterly. “bloody remarkable.” He stopped hauling at his horse's head.

“Look son,” he said heavily. “I don't know what you think, but I don't think Janey Cabel's a nice reliable sort of girl. If she put Mad Mick up to sending someone out here it's because bloody Hatton wanted her to and he's waiting for that silly bloody someone to shove his silly bloody head into a noose. And I mean a noose.”

“I couldn't agree with you more. It's a trap, an obvious trap. But don't you see, there's no trap in that marsh. That's the last place he'd expect to find anybody.”

“And it's the last bloody place he'll find me,” said the Sergeant, starting off again.

Riley watched him go, aware that the Sergeant's was the more sane attitude—that there was very little impulse for a near middle-aged man with three children to come on this slightly absurd venture. In fact he couldn't understand why there was any impulse for him to go himself, but there was, an irresistible impulse.

“Well listen,” he called, “I'm going down. I'll meet you somewhere in a couple of days. Where abouts?”

The Sergeant stopped. Turned. Looked heavily at Riley then down at the marsh. Slowly he brought his horse's head round and came back to Riley.

“All right,” he said, unemotionally. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”

It wasn't until an hour later when they were almost at the bottom of the slope running into the valley, that Riley realised the Sergeant had probably changed his mind because he was afraid Riley would report his failure to co-operate.

Riley almost said something about it, but didn't. What was there to say? The Sergeant was morosely silent.

The tracks into the marsh were easy enough to find. The hoof marks of half a dozen horses were plain in the boggy ground at the bottom of the slope. About twenty yards further in was a disturbed area where it seemed a horse might have floundered off the hidden path.

“That smoke's about two miles in there,” said Riley. “What's the nearest way to the road from here?”

“Straight back behind us,” said the Sergeant.

“Then it's probable that they've come off the road, gone in here and made their way through to where that fire is.”

The Sergeant grunted.

“If we can get in there about half a mile we'd be right,” Riley said. “What we want is two patches of scrub with about a hundred yards or so of clear marsh in between.”

The Sergeant grunted again.

Riley looked at the mass of water lilies stretching out to the first clump of trees. They were so thick it seemed possible to walk on them, an almost continuous carpet of wide flat pads.

The Sergeant spoke voluntarily for the first time in half an hour. “Well if we're going in let's go in; but for God's sake don't hang round here in the open.”

“Look,” said Riley. “I don't mind if you don't come, I can probably manage this quite well alone.” He couldn't. It needed two men. Otherwise the bushrangers could simply turn round and go the other way when they were ambushed, and leave him stranded, where he was, forever if necessary.

“I'll come,” said the Sergeant.

Not enthusiastic, but willing thought Riley. Which was all right. All the trooper had to do was shoot. Riley wished he'd been able to persuade him to borrow one of Collingwood's carbines. Pity the enthusiastic Swede wasn't here. He would have enjoyed this.

“I suppose I'd better wade in,” Riley said speculatively

“As you like,” said the Sergeant.

Riley eyed the water lilies doubtfully. He had suddenly remembered the prevalence of snakes in the district. The marshes were probably crawling with them. He saw himself splashing about in the mud, unable to move quickly, face to face with some hissing venomous serpent.

“I don't see why we shouldn't take the horses in,” he said. “It's easy enough to follow these tracks.”

“You get a horse stuck in there and you've lost him,” said the Sergeant.

“But if the others didn't get stuck we won't. We can go exactly the same way as they went.”

The Sergeant said nothing, but his expression was pained. Riley felt he was being specious himself. He had, after all, spoken somewhat grandly of wading in and making sure of the path. But it was perfectly true that it would be quite simple to follow the tracks of the horses that had already been through; the smashed and broken lilies and the mud that hung in the still water were an infallible guide.

“I'll go in and try,” said Riley, “you wait here.”

“No,” said the Sergeant, “I'll come.”

“There's no need to,” said Riley.

“I'm not going to bloody well hang around here by myself,” said the Sergeant bitterly. “Did it ever strike you, you bloody hero, that more of these bastards
might come in through here at any minute, or that some of them might come out.”

It had occurred to Riley, but that was just part of the calculated risk. There had been nothing he could do about it, so he had put it out of his mind. He was uncomfortably reminded of another calculated risk he had taken when he had tried to blow up the cave on Lightning Fork Ridge.