Dan Robbins’ family had been murdered also; his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter raped then killed. His ten- year old son had been decapitated by these depraved creatures who called themselves human. Robbins had shot himself because there had been no-one at his ranch to stop him.
The Federal Marshal was joining the hunt now, as were the army. They were all to rendezvous at Broken Mountain. At long last the authorities were prepared to do something. Too little, too late, Will thought bitterly. If they had acted sooner, his little family would still be alive, and God alone knew how many others.
Hatred and bitterness would sustain him until he made Denzil pay for what he did.
As they rode past the graveyard, he stared at the fresh mounds. His eyes filled with tears. “Farewell, my beautiful angels,” he whispered. “You were too precious to stay on this earth for very long.”
On and on they rode, and it didn’t take long for Will to pick up the outlaws’ trail. They were making for the badlands, where they would probably hide out for a while. He didn’t tell the sheriff that one of their horses was lame, and there was every likelihood one horse was carrying double. It would slow them down.
It was hot, and Will’s throat was parched, a combination of heat, dust and the aftermath of too much whiskey. He took a couple of swigs from his canteen, wiping the spillage off his chin with the back of one hand.
By mid-afternoon he knew they were gaining on the outlaws. In fact, he would stake his life on the fact they were heading to a lookout near Dead Man’s canyon. There was fresh water and the area was peppered with caves, but the real attraction was that the place commanded a view for miles around. If they had the ammunition, they could hold off an army. Probably had stores stashed away there, also.
First thing in the morning he would start off on his own. The sheriff was an honorable man who always followed the letter of the law.”
I’ve no honor left. After I’ve dealt with Denzil, they can string me up, because I couldn’t care less. I’ve nothing to live for now.
They set up camp not too far from the rendezvous point at Broken Mountain. The Federal Marshall wouldn’t arrive until mid-morning tomorrow, the army a day or so later. It was too long. He couldn’t risk Denzil escaping. He wanted them dead before the Marshall arrived.
One of the men got a fire going, put on the coffee pot and beans. Will pulled out a stick of jerky from his pocket and nibbled on that. He needed the coffee, real bad. His head throbbed, his eyes ached, and all he really wanted to do was curl up and die. Not until I’ve taken my revenge on Denzil and those savages he rides with, though.
The other three men sat sipping coffee, and eating their beans.
Will ate slowly, brooding and plotting. He would move out before dawn while the others still slept, and by dawn’s light would find the outlaws and kill them.
“I might try to get some shuteye,” he said to the sheriff as he emptied the dregs of his coffee mug near the flames. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“You’re not planning anything are you, Will? The law must take its course.”
“Couldn’t do much on my own, could I?”
Jake was a wily old fox, and it was hard to put anything over him, but hatred made Will cunning, ruthless, and nothing on earth would stop him from having his revenge.
“I don’t think we should unsaddle our horses,” Will said. “In case we need to move in a hurry. As soon as it’s light tomorrow morning I want to leave.” He hoped he sounded normal, methodical like he usually was.
The stars and moon were fading, but it wasn’t quite dawn when Will stealthily left camp leading his horse. He had ripped up his spare shirt and wrapped the horse’s hooves in the cloth to deaden any sound. Blood surged through his veins until he felt almost light headed, but hatred and loss weighed down his heart, ate into his gut.
A couple of hundred yards from their camp, he mounted and rode off toward his rendezvous with a gang of murderers.
Once he was well away from the posse he spurred his horse into a gallop. A couple of hours later, as dawn’s pink tentacles spread across the sky, he knew his hunch had been correct. Denzil had made camp near a large overhang of rock. Probably the opening to a cave, Will surmised. The area was riddled with them. A fire burned brightly, obviously the outlaws had no idea they would be followed.
Still mounted, Will waited until it became lighter. There were probably four or five of them. Could he deal with all of them on his own? He was fast on the draw and had the element of surprise. The twin colts at his hips reassured him, but the odds were against him. Would it be better to lure them out one by one? Hatred and the thirst for revenge allowed him to think; coldly evaluate the situation and how best to kill these men who had slaughtered Anna and his babies. He didn’t care if he died, as long as none of them walked away.
Finally, he decided it was time to make his move. Dismounting, he tethered his horse, and edged closer. His heart slammed against his ribcage, sweat moistened his brow. He hated these men, wanted them dead, but couldn’t shoot them down in cold blood.
A gun battle, four or five against one, that way he could die and join his beloved family.
“Denzil, you vicious sonofabitch, come out of your hole and face me. You’re nothing but a mangy polecat.” Will’s shot in the air was followed by enraged curses and three men charged out of the cave, colts drawn. They let off several shots, but Will calmly stood and gunned them down. There was no mercy in his heart, only hatred and a thirst for revenge.
One man had not come out of the cave with the others. Where was he? Will took the opportunity to reload. There was not even the slightest tremor to his hand.
Rory Hudson dashed out of the cave carrying a rifle. He was hatless, and his blond hair gleamed in the morning sun.
“Throw down your gun and put your hands in the air,” Will yelled, wondering why he didn’t drill a hole in Rory. Will dived to the ground when rifle shots pinged around him. One nicked the side of his neck. Sonofabitch, it was either kill or be killed. He fired at the young man who dropped to the ground, twitched and then lay still.
Will strode over to his horse, mounted, then gazed at the carnage he had wrought. Sweat ran from his forehead onto his cheeks. He rubbed his sleeve across his face.
The sheriff and two deputies galloped up. “What the hell happened?” the sheriff yelled. “I thought you’d been ambushed.”
“I killed them all,” Will stated calmly. “They drew on me and I shot them.”
“Wait here, men” the sheriff ordered. “I’ll go check if they’re all dead, and if Will so much as twitches, put a bullet in him.” He wheeled his horse and rode off.
They were dead alright, he had shot to kill, but if the sheriff wanted to take a look around so be it. If it were up to him he’d let the buzzards feast on them. He blinked back tears. Those vicious sonsofbitches deserved it after what they had done to Anna and his babies. But the sheriff was always mighty conscientious about carrying out his duties.
When the sheriff returned his face was pale, his lips set into grim lines. “Goddammit, Will, I told you to wait. What were you thinking, shooting an unarmed man?”
“What?”
“Three of them died with their guns drawn, except for young Rory Hudson. He didn’t have a gun.”
“He pointed a rifle at me,” Will said. “He even nicked the side of my neck. See, I’m still bleeding.”
“I didn’t find a rifle,” the sheriff said. “You shot a Federal Marshall’s nephew in cold blood. You’ll swing for this.”
“He had a rifle. Damnation, I’m not lying.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth.
“There was no rifle, Will. No gun of any description.”
“He shot me, could have killed me.” Will pointed at the blood dripping onto the collar of his shirt.
“Ok you men, you get back to the rest of the posse as quick as you can and tell them what happened, then wait for the Federal Marshall. I’ll come along at a
slower pace with our prisoner. I’m asking for your guns, Will.”
“Take them.” Will drew his guns and handed them over. “I don’t need them anymore.”
The sheriff didn’t speak again until the two deputies had ridden off.
Will pulled a stick of jerky from his pocket and nibbled on it.
“Why the hell didn’t you wait for us? They would have hanged, now it’s you who will be facing the noose. The best you can hope for is life in prison.”
“I don’t care what happens to me, Jake. My life was over the moment Denzil torched my home.”
“Foolish talk, boy.” The sheriff fixed him with a level stare. “You’re a relatively young man, you could have made a new life for yourself.”
“I don’t want a new life. I want my family back.” Tears trickled down his cheeks. “Without them life isn’t worth living.”
“You think that now, but later when the pain is not so raw…”
“Do what you have to do, Jake, but I’m telling you, young Hudson had a rifle.”
“Well, where is it?”
“I don’t know, unless there was someone else there who didn’t come out of the cave until after I left. It’s the only explanation I can give.”
“It’s plausible.” Jake gnawed his lower lip, but how can you prove it?”
“I guess I can’t.” Will didn’t care if they hanged him. Didn’t care about anything now.
“Hit me on the head with your gun butt,” the sheriff suddenly said.
“What!”
“Not too hard mind. I never could stand pain, but enough to knock me out, then go.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I lost my two boys, I know how devastated you feel, but it does get easier. You’ll have to ride through the badlands, take your chances with any outlaws. Cut across country to Preston so you can hook up with the railway. Then get yourself on board a ship to Australia, and never come back.”
“But…”
“Do it, Will. I don’t want your death on my conscience. When you make it to Australia, send Verna a cryptic letter. No addresses or signature, just say it is her cousin Jasper. That way I’ll know it’s you.”
“I can’t. I have to see to the headstones, the ranch...”
“Leave all of that to me. I’ll see they get decent headstones. The bank will probably take your ranch. Here, have this, it’s all the money I’ve got.”
“I couldn’t let you do all that for me, Jake.”
“Take it, isn’t much I know, but it should help. If there’s anything left after the bank sells the ranch, I’ll collect it then.”
“Thanks.” They shook hands. Will didn’t particularly want to live, but Jake was a friend so he would do what he suggested. He grabbed the sheriff’s colt and hit him on the side of the head, hard enough to knock him out, but not do too much damage. He would have one hell of a headache when he woke up, though.
Chapter Four
Mattie - 1870’s near Castlemaine, Australia.
“I can’t marry him, Grandpa.”
“You can, Mattie. You must.” Horace Jansen’s rattling cough shook his skeletal frame. He gasped for breath. “I’ll die a happy man if I know you’re safe and well cared for.” The old man bowed his head. “I don’t have long left on this earth.”
“If you could see a doctor, maybe.” Tears cascaded from her eyes.
“They can’t do nothing for me. Please, Mattie, McIntyre seems a decent young man. He’s offered to wed you.”
“I’ve only met him a couple of times.” She gnawed her lip as she stood in the opening of their tent, and gazed out over the goldfields.
The red-brown mounds of dirt and holes gouged in the ground reminded her of a graveyard. Most of the miners had left for richer pickings on the larger goldfields, leaving a few like them to fossick over the remains.
McIntyre had a farm only a couple of miles away, but he spent a lot of time here digging at his own claim. Sometimes he joined grandpa panning for gold in the creek.
He had only spoken to her on a few occasions, if you could call his grunted good morning or good afternoon, speaking.
How could she marry him? And, on her seventeenth birthday. Once grandpa passed, and that time was coming, she would be alone. They had no money and only a little gold dust left.
She shuddered on thinking about the goldfield whores who plied their trade in tents and huts on the more prosperous goldfields. The more fortunate might be employed in the brothels in the large mining towns of Bendigo, Ballarat or Castlemaine. Anything had to be better than that. Grandpa wouldn’t suggest she marry a man who was no good.
McIntyre, she didn’t even know his Christian name, was tall, maybe six feet or so. He had dark hair and blue eyes. That was about all she could recall. Quite a presentable looking man, but he acted cold and distant. Maybe he was shy with women. After all, he didn’t really know her.
She blinked back tears. Why make it any harder for grandpa?
After her parents and two brothers had died in the typhoid outbreak when she was ten years old, grandpa had been her only relative, and he willingly took her in.
Times had been tough, but he made sure she attended school and learnt to read and write. He was a bootmaker by trade, and they lived behind his small shop in Castlemaine until gold fever got into his blood. He never did make the big strike, but they panned the creek for gold dust and with what they found, combined with a little business he ran, repairing boots for miners, they lived a reasonable existence. Once he became sick, things started on a downward spiral.
“All right, if you think he’s a good man, I’ll do it.” She tried to hide the apprehension in her voice.
He hugged her, and his arms were only skin and bone. “You won’t regret it, Mattie. Be an obedient wife to him and you will have a good life together.”
Grey eyes, faded almost to silver by the hot sun and age, stared into her hazel ones. He gave a long, shuddering breath. “He’s coming over tomorrow and we’ll see the preacher so you can wed, then I can meet the good Lord with no regrets.”
***
A pall of red-brown dust hung over the diggings as Mattie waited for McIntyre to come in his buggy to collect them.
She had washed the whole of her body and her hair, and donned the only gown she possessed, a pale blue cotton, faded from years of washing. It had been a cast off like the other few pieces of clothing she owned. Even her boots were a size too big. A miner had left them to be repaired and never returned for them. She plaited her hair and left the long braid to fall down her back where it almost reached waist level.
Grandpa wore a clean brown shirt over his dusty trousers.
Mattie’s insides were churned up with nerves as they waited outside the tent for McIntyre’s arrival. The afternoon sun poured down on them, hot, relentless. Grandpa looked even frailer than usual, bent almost double; a gust of wind would easily blow him over.
McIntyre arrived in a cloud of dust, causing grandpa to go into a spasm of coughing. The buggy was shabby, the horse a nondescript old nag. He climbed down and stepped over to them.
“Horace, Miss Mattie.” He touched his hat. He wore a blue shirt buttoned to the neck. He was clean shaven, the skin of his face tanned. Knee length black boots were worn over brown trousers.
He surveyed her from head to foot, his features showing neither approval nor disapproval of her appearance. Putting his hands around her small waist he lifted her into the buggy as if she weighed nothing. Puffing and panting, grandpa climbed up and she sat between the two men.
“Giddup.” McIntyre slapped the horse’s rump three times with the reins to get it going.
She glanced back at the only home she had known for four years. The dilapidated tent, coated with dust, looked dirty and somehow forlorn in the almost deserted goldfield. Just a few old-timers like grandpa poked around the left over diggings and panned for gold in the creek. All the able-bodied young men had moved further afield, closer to where big finds were
being made.
Not a word passed between them. Grandpa clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers reassuringly every now and again. His normally pale cheeks were grey, his lips tinged with blue. McIntyre stared straight ahead. If only he would say something to ease her mounting tension.
“Do you have a ring?” Grandpa asked.
“No, we don’t need one.”
Mattie stifled a gasp of shock. She didn’t know of any wife who wouldn’t want a wedding ring.
“I’ve got Mattie’s mother’s wedding ring, only right she should wear it.”
“If that’s what she wants, I’ve no objection.”
The preacher lived on the outskirts of town, in a cottage attached to the side of the church. His back door looked out over a paddock that adjoined the small graveyard.
A shiver shot through Mattie as she nervously glanced around. Once they drove into a holding yard, McIntyre lifted her down, then turned to help her grandfather alight. The three of them made their way to the preacher’s residence without speaking.
A thin, elderly man greeted them. “I’m Reverend Johnson. Come along inside. My housekeeper will act as the other witness.”
They stepped into a small parlor crammed with dark, heavy looking furniture.
“Mattie, you are entering this marriage of your own free will?”
She hesitated until she felt the pressure of grandpa’s fingers around her own. Glancing into his faded, pain-racked eyes she uttered the words that would give her to McIntyre. She didn’t even know his first name. “Yes.”
“Good. Your grandfather has already signed his consent for the marriage as you are under age.”
“Can we get on with it?” McIntyre’s lips tightened. He was obviously anxious to get the marrying over and done with.
The preacher picked up a bible from the table, read a few words out loud. His housekeeper, a small birdlike woman entered the room and encompassed them all with a nod.
“Do you Wilbur McIntyre take Matilda Jansen for your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“Do you Matilda Jansen take Wilbur McIntyre for your lawfully wedded husband?”
His Brother's Wife Page 3
