I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales

by Lawrence Patchett

  ‘Good God,’ said Grey.

  He lowered the glass and shook his head bitterly. It was a disgraceful showing. No doubt the great fish had been foul-hooked to begin with, and now limped through the depths, maimed and bleeding, its throat or stomach ripped out by the triple hook and leaking blood, prey to mako sharks and even greater killers of the sea.

  Grey could not watch any longer. He ordered his own boat back out to troll.

  And almost immediately there was a response with a hard hungry tug on a teaser, Grey playing the bait just beyond the bite until he felt sure it was a heavy marlin. Seeing the fish he became excited and worked in earnest to hook him, playing the fish until it tugged once more and Grey struck decisively, yanking the rod up to hook the fish solid on a taut line, whereupon the rod slammed hard in his hands.

  Grey braced his feet, secured his chair, and shouted. ‘There’s real play here, boys,’ he said. ‘A fine marlin, unless I’m mistaken.’

  Then he let the line sing out before beginning to fight him. Conscious of the presence of the other boats, and his own crew, and of the camera that Crowe now operated for him, Grey performed violently, pulling the marlin up and forcing him to leap from the water many times, clear and shimmering and huge. And each time he did, his own crew, still not used to seeing a fish perform properly in the hands of a sportsman, gave loud cries of excitement. And indeed the fish was, when he leapt clear, a thrilling thing to witness in his thrumming flight from the water, two hundred pounds coming high to pierce the sky with his sword and his colours and thrashing loudly as he came down.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Crowe, from behind the camera.

  ‘Fourteen,’ said Grey, ‘fifteen,’ keeping score as the fish leapt from water to sky, pulled from its element and resisting, again and again.

  Twenty-three times the fish leapt—or ‘breached’ as Crowe, in his ex-whaler’s language, called that spectacular flight—and before even half the fight had elapsed Grey’s back and hauling-up arms were aching, hot from the strain and his hands slippery, sweat stinging in his eyes. Yet the fight was something to exhilarate him, the hammering contest put up by the leaping striped tiger of the sea—and then the fish sounded, plunging deep and taking line with him until only one hundred yards of Grey’s line remained and the fish rested there, demanding that he be worked up, testing Grey’s back and arms again as the lock-jawed fighter was inched from the deep and at last to the boat, whipped and marvellous with his green stripe displayed, his sword bumping the boat as Crowe reached down to hook the gaff in.

  And immediately that the marlin was brought in, Grey was baiting up again and trolling, for during the struggle he’d seen the dorsal of a mako scything the boat’s wake, and Grey was exceedingly eager to entice him. Of all the locality’s great fish the mako was the gamest, yet even to this unparalleled fighter Grey had seen local anglers extend their unique form of brutality. In his first week one of the species had lain in the hold of a boat while sportsmen bent over the shark and belaboured its head with what appeared to be a modified spade, bashing and slicing while the long iron spear of a harpoon jabbed already from its side. Since then Grey had seen only two of the species, and each time the sight had excited him deeply, stirring a desire to honour the mako by extending a fair contest to that noblest of fighters.

  And now on his line he felt a savage pull and he struck hard, hooking something that grabbed and shook with great ferocity. Then he paid out line and pulled again and it was a savage force he’d hooked, the fight immediately becoming a violent and ripping labour. With his energy already sapped from the marlin, Grey braced against the line and wrestled with the shark until he felt the fish coming shallow and he shouted.

  ‘He’s jumping! Boys, he’s leaping!’ And here it was, a white and blue arc of shark vaulting clear of the water—high, high in an aching upward shape, as if straining to leave the sea for the first time and forever—and then back down it came, slick and fast and taking line as it cleaved down.

  At the sight Crowe whooped and Grey’s rod bent again, the mako fighting on and on, leaping a further three times—a full thirty feet in one instance—thrashing on the line in the insanity of his pain until Grey felt neither he nor the mako could take any more. And still the shark resisted, ranging slowly nearer to the boat till suddenly it was alongside, showing blue-grey from above, a bullet-nosed sleekness that raged as Crowe loomed above with the gaff. Blood leaked from the corner of the shark’s mouth and then the gaff was in and the shark bucked against it, Crowe shouting as the gaff went whack-whack on the side of the boat and then ripped free and the fish spun down on line that Grey’s reel screamed out, the rod almost vaulting from his hands, yard upon yard of line paying after the down-diving mako. And again Grey heaved against his adversary, making the line tighten and sing, straining him back towards the boat until at last it was alongside.

  ‘He’s whipped now, surely,’ said Grey, taking care to hold the rod secure in his hands this time.

  But when Crowe’s shadow came again with the gaff the mako found a further reserve and bucked so violently that the water frothed to white and Grey shouted—amazed, moved—as Crowe crouched warily over the side with his weight tending forward, the gaff in his hands, and then Grey sensed Anderson coming alongside him with the great javelin shape of a harpoon reaching back from his hands.

  ‘No!’ shouted Grey, putting his arm in front.

  But Anderson pressed forward against Grey as if he’d not heard him.

  ‘No!’ shouted Grey. ‘No harpoon, man! I told you!’

  Now Anderson turned and Grey saw a raw surge of antagonism flash in his eyes.

  But Grey did not flinch. ‘Do not use the harpoon, Anderson,’ he said. ‘Not on my boat. You know my rules.’ And he drew the man aside even as the mako renewed its savagery, curling and straightening with machine-gun rapidity as if sheer violence of movement would fling the gaff free again, the hook too.

  And Anderson surveyed the chaos at the boat’s side and then surveyed Grey, and sneered. ‘And how do you suppose we’re going to bring that in?’

  ‘We have the gaff,’ said Grey. ‘We have ropes. A fish like that—’ he gasped as water was flung up, his rod jerking violently ‘—it deserves a fair fight, Anderson. I won’t savage him at the last.’

  Anderson shrugged, suddenly morose in the din. ‘Do it yourself, then,’ he said. ‘I know what works. The harpoon’s what we use, and it works. If you want to use something else, do it yourself.’

  ‘Harpooning is a barbarous custom, Anderson,’ said Grey. ‘I won’t support it. We must resist it—on this boat, I won’t have the harpoon.’ Still holding his rod, Grey reached to the rope nearby and pushed it against Anderson’s chest.

  There was a moment as Anderson did not take it, impertinently meeting Grey’s eyes instead.

  Grey’s voice steeled. ‘Take the rope, Anderson.’

  Still the man held his stare, not taking the rope that Grey pushed against his chest.

  ‘Put down the harpoon, Anderson,’ said Grey. ‘I order you to put it down.’

  ‘Do you now?’ said Anderson. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘For God’s sake, you two!’ Crowe shouted. ‘Help me!’

  Both men looked down at him. The noise from down there was great, Crowe reaching again and again with the gaff unsuccessfully.

  ‘Please, Anderson,’ said Grey.

  Anderson shrugged, this time lobbing the harpoon into the hold and making his way down to Crowe.

  ‘He’s whipped anyway,’ Grey called down. ‘He’ll submit to the gaff shortly, I wager. We’ll get him with the gaff and rope shortly.’

  Crowe glanced at Anderson as he came alongside, nodded sharply, then returned his attention to the shark.

  Finally the creature was brought onboard, the three men heaving it up with ropes and the gaff and laying him to his full extent in the hold, the tail and gills still working but slowly, blood coming from the mangled corner of its mouth, and Grey exul
ted over it. It was a magnificent shark, an arrow of terrible beauty. Grey applauded with big flat claps that made Crowe laugh as he bent over the shark, while Anderson returned to his post to reorient the boat and set a direction.

  ‘Thank you, men,’ said Grey. ‘Thank you, both of you.’

  All alone he stood above the savage-toothed fish, admiring its conquered bullet strength, its round enraged eye.

  They trolled again, Grey landing two more marlin, then motored back towards the Cape, there being only a few hours remaining before dusk. As they rode up alongside the boats under the cliff, Grey sensed Crowe and Anderson tensing, half in expectation, it seemed, of an order to run up a flag. They were bracing, he felt, for the loudhailer.

  And as they neared the boats under the Cape he reached for it—he had three marlin and a fine mako in the hold—but then he let the loudhailer hang for the moment from his hand, remembering that conversation with Colin. Damn that man. He’d complicated life’s rawest joy. Running in was a celebration, an extension of fishing itself, a celebration of all that was wild and vigorous and not yet tamed, not just in the ocean but in the human spirit too. Why shouldn’t a man share that triumph with a harmless—harmless, after all—yet stentorian yell across the waves?

  The men on the other boats were clearly visible now, readying their own craft to come in, bringing in their lines and packing rods away. Swaying with the movement of his boat, Grey stood poised. He felt the tense scrutiny of his crew. He felt the loudhailer swinging and heavy in his hand.

  ‘What do you say, boys?’ he said. ‘Should we let ’em have it? Should we let them know?’

  Anderson said nothing, not moving from his post at the wheel, and Crowe laughed, as if pretending that Grey might brag in such a way had not occurred to him.

  At that Grey smiled, and teetered on the brink of giving in, of tucking the instrument away and running in quietly. But then on the largest of the craft riding opposite he glimpsed the man who’d foul-hooked and lost that marlin in the morning, a man whose gait was squat and crabwise and complacent as he made his way downship, and Grey thought, damn them.

  He hoisted the loudhailer. ‘Mr Zane Grey running in,’ he shouted. ‘Three marlin and a mako. None lost today—all single-hooked with live bait.’

  Over the instrument’s brow he saw the men on the other boats look up, confused for a moment at the noise that was coming across; then, seeing Grey and the loudhailer, the boat riding opposite them, they stared. Hands shading their eyes, they stood immobile to take him in, and for a long moment the Alma G and the local boats silently rode the swell, fifty yards of water rolling in between them. Then Grey lifted the loudhailer again.

  ‘Mr Zane Grey and crew,’ he said. ‘Three marlin and a mako. Single-hooked with live bait, via trolling. Good night, gentlemen.’

  ‘So, what do you say, Mr Slade?’ said Hazel. ‘Throw in your hand with my boys. They’re hard-riding men, and some were desperadoes once, just like you. But they’ve become good men. I’ve watched them grow. And I’m saying you could do that too.’

  Still Tom Slade attended to his saddlebags, peering in as if he’d lost something in there only minutes before, not years ago. Hazel could see the allure of it working on him. She wondered how many nights he must have known out in the brush with only his horse for company and a saddle for a pillow, the stars pricking the deep blue above him.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Kit,’ said the outlaw, his voice hoarse. ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve had my past too, man. I didn’t always ride for Miss O’Connell, here. I was awhile on the panhandle as well. But Old Man O’Connell saw good in me and offered me a chance before he died, same as Hazel’s offering you now. God knows I took it with both hands.’

  Slade shook his head and sighed. He studied the ground.

  ‘Hazel’s asking you to change, man,’ said Kit. ‘That’s all she’s asking you—throw in your lot with us, because there’s a hell of a fight comin’. And you know we need a new foreman.’

  With an effort Slade lifted his head to face Hazel. ‘You’d put this faith in me, Miss O’Connell? You know what it means?’

  ‘You saved my ranch, sir,’ repeated Hazel. ‘I can’t thank you any other way.’

  At that Slade smoothed a hand on his jeans and looked at the bunkhouse and the corral and the whole O’Connell spread, and Hazel felt the matter was almost decided. But then the gunman shook his head again and shivered and clung to an old vision of himself, some idea that the outlaw clothes he wore put him outside the mercies and demands of decent folk. Hazel could see it was a notion he’d grown used to, one he’d learned to take consolation from. Slade wasn’t special that way. Hazel had seen the same syndrome in every dumb and proud desperado she’d signed up since her father had died. Slade had to be helped out of it, same as the rest of them.

  ‘This is mighty range, Mr Slade,’ said Hazel. ‘All you have to do is rise up to it. Do that now.’

  This time in the gunman’s face as it came up, Hazel saw something that might have been a smile and might have been pain. He couldn’t look at her, but he held Kit’s eye without wavering. ‘The hell you say! Stay out of it, cowpoke.’

  ‘What in hell’s name?’ said Kit. ‘What’d you say?’

  Slade’s gaze was cold, drilling straight into Kit’s face. Still he couldn’t look at Hazel. ‘I’ll thank you to stick out of my business, Kit. And don’t try to persuade me, neither, unless you want to eat lead today. I mean it, old man.’

  Coldly the outlaw stared at Kit until the old man looked down, perhaps in fear of more gunplay. Then Slade’s eyes passed over Hazel—again a violent struggle jerked in his face—and then he tore himself away. Vaulting into the saddle, he raked his horse with the spurs and galloped down past the corral to the trail.

  ‘Hell’s fire,’ said Kit, staring after the gunman.

  ‘What happened, Kit?’ said Hazel. ‘Where’s he gone?’ She heard the tremble in her own voice, and again she felt the shudder of shock go through her, having brushed against danger for the second time that day.

  ‘Bear up, kid,’ said Kit. ‘You’ve had a fright.’

  Still the shakes gripped Hazel, but she straightened and scanned the slope opposite, where the trail led up towards a ravine, and where Slade was already a dark outline trailing dust towards the skyline, apparently leaving O’Connell country far behind. But then he reined in and turned to survey the ranch homestead and the range surrounding—and, while she watched that enigmatic shape silhouetted up there, Hazel heard Kit laugh gently beside her.

  ‘What is it, Kit?’ said Hazel. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘It’s nothing, child,’ said Kit. ‘I’m just glad that double-faced rattlesnake inside is heading underground at last. I’ve been trying to find a way to flush out Dillon and his cronies for years. Plus I’ve got a notion we’ll see Mr Slade on this range again, and perhaps before the snow flies.’

  They turned and began walking back towards the bunkhouse, where they would separate, and Hazel braced against a sudden desire to embrace her late father’s oldest friend, this range-worn cowpuncher who’d once bounced her as a baby on his knee.

  ‘Hazel, I have an idea,’ said Kit. ‘May I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course, Kit,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  ‘I think it’s time you held another ball,’ he said. ‘And I mean one of the old style—mariachis, side-meat, the whole shebang. Now that this rustlin’ business is over. It’ll be a new start, a fresh one. You can invite the whole range—invite everybody.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a grand idea, Kit!’ said Hazel. ‘An open invitation, for all my cowboys and neighbours, and in honour of my father. He so loved hospitality.’

  ‘The good man crosses my threshold,’ said Kit, quoting the old man. ‘That’s right, child. We’ll make it a big one. We might even attract some newcomers as well.’

  ‘Yes, a ball for all my cowboys,’ said H
azel, taking his arm, ‘present and future—all my knights of the range.’

  Kit laughed and they embraced properly now, the old cowhand and the young ranch mistress, and Hazel smiled at this new future opening before her, and at the small shape she could see over Kit’s shoulder, looking down from the rocks and mesquite of the ridgeline, darkly silhouetted and yearning.

  THE ROAD TO TOKOMAIRIRO

  I

  Harry was a first-rate whip. It wasn’t boasting to say that, it was simply a fact. He was a top driver, a trusted one. He’d whipped the great Victorian routes and, lately, the action having shifted to Otago, he’d made the South Road his own, the Pigroot too. When the first Cobb & Co pulled into Naseby it was Harry who’d whipped the horses in, the whole town out in bunting and brass to watch his team and coach pour over the bridge. And still people looked out for him. They listened for the cornet he played; kids ran alongside his wheels. Everyone knew Harry. They knew him and trusted him—and he loved them for it in return. On the coach he was all for his passengers. He fussed over them and joked with them and took the road slowly. Some whips went hell-for-leather, but that wasn’t Harry’s way—he preferred his passengers to arrive comfortable. Harry was all for his passengers.

  And on that November morning he loaded up with even more goodwill than usual, a pair of newlyweds boarding at Otokia—Mr and Mrs Ryrie, just married the previous day. They’d come up especially for the ceremony, and when Harry pulled the coach alongside to return them, they smiled up as if they adored the whole world.

  ‘Folks, here’s the happy couple I told you about,’ said Harry. ‘Mr and Mrs Ryrie—just married.’ Then he leapt down and flung the doors open. At the sight of the newlyweds, all the passengers applauded. One man whooped out loud.