Wendy M. Wilson
Dead Shot
Copyright © 2018 by Wendy M. Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
First edition
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Contents
The Real Deadshot
1. Putting a Scare into the New Chums
2. The Square
3. The Coffee Tavern
4. The Farm
5. Dead Shot
6. Boyle is Sent Away
7. The Argument
8. Ernest and Agnete
9. Inspector James
10. The Letter
11. The Race Track
12. Escape
13. New Chums Town
14. The Witch in the Clearing
15. Back to Bunnythorpe
16. The Hut in the Woods
17. The Pledge Tent
18. Mette and Hop Li
19. Searching for Ernest
20. Catching Fire
21. The Team
22. Frank Comes through the Door
23. At the Hotel
24. An Open Window
25. Shifts and Nightdresses
26. Breakfast with Inspector James
27. Trouble at the Bank
28. The Sham Battle
29. A Journey By Train
30. Dead Shot at Work
31. The Long Shot
32. Mr. Robinson’s Gift
Continue Reading…
The Real Deadshot
As with most of the books in this series, the novel Dead Shot was based on a true story. There are probably still descendants of Dead Shot, the horse, in New Zealand, but they were not born on Frank and Mette’s farm, which is fictional. Here is an article from the newspapers at the time:
This morning a Dead Shot filly belonging to Mr. John Milroy was found dead within a few yards of the Institute. The skull was fractured, and small hole led to the brain. Experts examined the wound, and there seems a diversity of opinion as to whether it was made by a bullet, some sharp instrument, or a kick from another horse. No bullet could be found, nor was the report of firearms heard during the night. Only the other day Mrs. O’Sullivan lost a valuable horse which had its shoulder broken by a kick, and Mr. F. McCarthy had a Dead Shot filly hamstrung. Some maliciously disposed person is responsible for that act, but in this instance, there is room for doubt.
Wanganui Herald, December 3, 1880
Now, please continue with the fictional story of Dead Shot.
1
Putting a Scare into the New Chums
Palmerston North, New Zealand, December, 1880
The rain had begun again, trickling off Sergeant Frank Hardy’s forage cap and pooling between his neck and his collar, soaking into his shirt. It reminded him of wartime, when they had slogged through the mud of Taranaki and had never been completely dry. When the sun came out the wool uniforms would steam and smell, and always the collar choked and the wool itched.
The rain would throw the volunteers into disarray. They were unwilling to come out when the wind was blowing; rain meant time to find a sheltered spot and roll up a cigarette. For himself, he was just glad they weren’t going to be forced to march at night or eat the packhorses. Not yet at least. Rain and mud he could handle.
He gave his command. “Shoulder, arms.”
The Palmerston Volunteer Rifles shouldered their Snider Enfields, heels together, toes splayed out, and watched him intently, waiting for his next command - probably expecting to be dismissed. It was raining for chrissakes.
“At ease.” The guns moved slightly into the ease position.
He was relieved they hadn’t interpreted the command as a chance to relax and rest their guns on the ground. The commands required specific moves, and it was important that every soldier knew exactly what to do in a time of war. He needed them to understand that failure to follow orders could mean death for a soldier.
He’d spent an hour showing them how to load and hold their weapons, in their hands for the first time. Later he would return the weapons to the drill shed behind the saddlery where they’d begun their training earlier. But for the march they were about to make they needed the intimidating effect of the shouldered Snider Enfields.
“Pay attention now,” he said. “We have a mission today.” Nothing like a mission to pull a troop together. Not exactly a war-time manoeuvre, but some esprit-de-corp might come from it. “We’re going to march through new chums town and shake them up. We - Inspector James and I - suspect that someone in new chums town is hiding the Maori prisoners who escaped from the train heading to Wellington a few days ago.”
“Permission to speak, sir,” said one of the volunteers, a ginger-haired bank clerk who saw himself as the spokesman for the group.
Frank nodded. “Go ahead.”
“They’re all new chums there. That’s why we call it new chums town. Why would a new chum hide a Maori? They haven’t had time…”
“Good question,” said Frank. “Does anyone else have anything to say? Anyone?”
No one did. He could see their eyes moving sideways to look at the bank clerk, waiting for him to press the issue.
“Right then. Shoulder arms. Face to the rear….and forward, march.”
They spun around and marched forward briskly, more or less in step, their boots squelching in the mud. He followed them as they headed towards new chums town, giving them the beat every now and then. He wasn’t sure how intimidating they’d be, but they might help to flush out Boyle. Inspector James seemed to think so.
Because they weren’t looking for the Maori prisoners. They were looking for a groom who had killed a filly - the offspring of a stud horse up in Patea - who was known to be in the district. A groom he himself had hired, stupidly. But the mixed loyalties of the volunteers - mostly English and Irish, like the residents of new chums town - could cause problems; and none of them would have any loyalty to the poor bloody Maori prisoners.
More than anything, Inspector James wanted to send a message to the man, or men, who had sent the groom to do the damage.
The inspector was waiting for him at the end of the street leading into the new settlement, and he saluted Frank smartly. His two constables stood to one side with arms behind backs looking solid and capable.
“Morning men,” James said to the volunteers. “Did Sergeant Hardy tell you what your task is today?”
“Yes sir,” they snapped in unison.
“Sergeant Hardy is going to march you to the end of the street and back again. You can manage that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Like the Grand Old Duke of York,” Inspector James said quietly to Frank as they followed the men down the street. “Only to better effect, one hopes.”
Doors began opening and women came out with small children clinging to their skirts. They didn’t look especially nervous - just interested. But Frank noticed there were no men amongst them. Men were more inclined to be suspicious. He saw the two constables peel off several times to talk to likely looking women.
The volunteers reached the end of the street, and Frank brought them to a halt, arms shouldered. One of the constables came puffing up.
“Woman back there says there was some suspicious stuff going on last night in the bush. Said she heard a gunshot.”
Inspector James frowned. “Could it have been someone at target practice? Or shooting rabbits?”
“She did
n’t think so,” said the constable. “It was late in the evening, getting dark. Not a good time for target practice or shooting rabbits.”
The bush at the end of the street was not dense. It was mostly flax and ferns, interspersed with scraggly Manuka bushes. It would be easy enough to search, although tricky to march through in any kind of order.
“Line your men up,” said Inspector James. We’ll do a march across the area as far as the Featherston Street ditch, see if we can find anything. The bush is pretty dense after that…”
He walked with Frank behind the men as they struggled through the bush, stepping over hillocks and fallen branches.
They reached the turning point of the ditch and started to wheel around. As they did, the man on the left flank stopped and yelled something. The others began to mill round, all rules forgotten.
“They didn’t last as long as I expected,” Frank said to the Inspector. “I wonder what the problem is?” He caught up with his men and pushed his way through to the centre.
“What’s going on? Why have you stopped?”
The ginger-haired bank clerk stepped forward. “We found a pony trap, sir. And a pony as well. Down there.” Beside him a deep ditch cut through the bush along Featherston Street, hidden from view by a stand of flax.
Frank pushed to the front of the volunteers. In the ditch, looking unfazed by her situation, his own grey pony grazed quietly, still hitched to her trap. “Miss Lucy?” he said, puzzled. “How…?” He slid down the side of the ditch, taking a small landslide of dirt with him. What was his pony trap doing, stuck in this ditch? Who had left it here?”
The two constables followed him down. One of them made his way to the other side of the trap and stopped, staring at the ground. “Inspector James, sir. You’d better get down here. There’s a body…and a lot of blood…”
Frank’s gut dropped. A body? Who was it? He gripped the side of the trap to stop his legs giving way. God, please no…“Mette?”
2
The Square
Earlier the same week
Sergeant Frank Hardy would give his life for his wife Mette. She was so full of life, so different from him with his dark moods and dreadful memories; and she’d saved him from himself. He woke sometimes at night and watched her, terrified something would happen to take her away from him, and send his life back to the black hole it was in before they met.
He was not as interested in giving his life for his country. Unfortunately, his country disagreed. With a horse farm and an investigation agency keeping him busy, he’d been forced to add volunteer training to his duties, preparing them for the front up in Taranaki. He was spending his Wednesdays on the thankless task of training the Palmerston Volunteer Rifles, most of them spoiling for a fight, to march in step while carrying a rifle.
He was sure the government would not attack the rebels, who, led by a charismatic leader preaching peaceful protest, were building fences around land the settlers believed was theirs. What would be the point? Why not wait them out? But that didn’t mean he could get out of the preparations for war. Or the war itself, if it came, god forbid.
As he leaned on the door jamb of Jordan’s saddlery, he watched his wife walk around The Square while Mr. Jordan buffed a saddle he’d repaired for him. It was something he never tired of, watching his wife walk. She had a bounce in her step that brought joy to his heart.
“Got a proposition for you.” said Mr. Jordan from inside the store.
Frank turned, frowning. “A proposition?”
Jordan had some connections in the sporting world that weren’t exactly straight. And after his last run-in with the Armed Constabulary he wasn’t interested in doing anything shady. But he was so damned short of cash these days and was ready to listen to anyone with a plan that would bring some in.
“A bloke I know up in Patea,” said Jordan. “He’s looking for someone to take a stallion for a bit…Dead Shot. Big name in the racing world…sired some real champions…”
“Dead Shot?” asked Frank. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him. We don’t often get horses from Patea down here…what’s the proposition exactly?”
“The owner’s looking for someone to bring him down here to service mares for a couple of months,” said Jordan. “He wants to try a different district…a few new dams.”
Frank was tempted. He’d been feeling the pinch of the depression brought on by the end of the land wars and all the government borrowing and debt. The bank manager had started ignoring him in the street. “I don’t think I could afford to take on a horse like that - the feed, the security - and I’m on my own. No men. And with the training I’m doing, not much free time.”
“Mr. Milroy, the breeder, isn’t asking you to put out much. You’d just need to cover the cost of the feed up front. Mr. Snelson at the general store will let you buy on credit. You could offer to service his mare free. And you could hire a lad to help you. Lots of prospects with all the new chums…”
“Mostly shop assistants,” said Frank dismissively. “I need an ex-soldier or a farm boy with a bit of education. If I could find the right man I’d jump at the chance. He’d pay for himself. Not a lad though. I have a lad already…from the old Maori pa. I need a man. You’d best ask someone else. Sorry.”
“Think about it,” said Jordan. “Ask around. See if you can find a man with experience. You’re going to need someone if war comes. You’ll be sent to the front, a man with your experience. What about a Scandy? Your wife being a Scandy herself, surely one of those…”
Frank shook his head and turned to look at The Square again. “Good with axes,” he said. “But not with horses.”
He could see several of the men he’d drilled that morning wandering around drunkenly, looking totally unprepared for a day at the races, let alone a skirmish against trained resisters. He was getting tired of yelling at them. The thought of taking on one of them to help him on the farm was unthinkable.
As he watched, one of the volunteers accosted Mette outside the boot-makers, and she swerved to avoid him. He saw her look over towards him and turned away quickly. She knew what he’d do to a volunteer who came near her.
“Captain Snelson told me they’re going to start training the volunteers on the rifle range,” said Jordan. “Get them ready for a real fight…and he’s talking about a sham battle next week when Atkinson comes down for the review…”
“Well count me out on the training.” Frank turned and eyed the Square again in time to see Mette disappear into Robinson’s book shop. A lone man outside stared after her. Looked a bit rough, but half the population looked rough these days, with all the new chums pouring in from England, driving the economy even further into depression. Appearances didn’t necessarily indicate lack of willingness to work, or to learn.
“Marching straight ahead is hard enough to achieve,” he said to Jordan. “Did you see me trying to get them to wheel in formation this morning? Enough to make a man cry in his beer.”
“I think he has you in mind for the training,” said Jordan. “Weren’t you a dead shot, back in the Maori Wars?”
Frank nodded. “I still am,” he said. “All the more reason for me not to train the volunteers on the rifle range. It’d sap my will to live.”
He turned to look at the Square again to make sure Mette was still safe, and saw her coming out of the book shop. She had something clutched to her chest - another book no doubt, although the shop no longer carried much that she liked. The rough character and the drunken volunteers were no longer in evidence.
He felt sad for her. Mr. Robinson, the previous owner of the book shop and a good friend of hers, had died in an accidental fall from a ladder, and left the business to his oily son Ernest. Frank had been trying to get Ernest to volunteer ever since he had married Agnete, Mette’s sister-in-law, but Ernest was in deep with the temperance movement and felt that was enough of a commitment to the country. Owning a book shop in the growing town of Palmerston had allowed him to build a good-sized house
out near the race track, although he’d probably had to take a mortgage out on it. Eight percent if he was lucky.
Money was hard to come by at the moment, with the depression. Almost everyone was feeling the pain…Frank included. Once, he’d been able to walk right in to the bank manager’s office and ask for a loan. Now his needs were attended to by a teller, who took Frank’s bank drafts back to the accountant on the desk behind him to be studied with deep suspicion.
Mette walked towards the saddlery, and he stepped out from the shade of the doorway to meet her. From fifty yards away, he could tell she was in a state of high excitement. She was smiling broadly, her face flushed. She held an envelope and a brown paper package against her chest, her hand clutching the locket he had given her for her birthday. Something important, obviously. The locket-pulling always signalled excitement. He held her gaze, smiling back at her, until she was within a few feet of him, then asked, “Did you ask Ernest about your cookbook sales? He told me…”
He was interrupted by a bullet ricocheting off the door jamb inches from his head, followed by the boom of a gunshot - a breech loading revolver by the sound of the echo. Most likely a Colt or an Adams. He grabbed his wife by the elbows and manhandled her into Mr. Jordan’s shop. “Get down behind the counter, Mette.” Then he strode out into the Square to find out what the bloody hell was going on.
The answer came quickly. In the centre of the Square, a runaway horse, its rider waving a pistol frantically - an Adams, as he’d suspected - had been brought to a halt by a quick-thinking bystander. A man he’d never seen before, dark-haired and sturdy, with a gash across his forehead that hinted at a military past. The rider was one of Frank’s volunteers, Henry Thompson, a recent immigrant from Southampton.
“What the blazes are you up to?” asked Frank, glaring up at Thompson. He took the reins from the bystander and wrapped them around his wrist. “You almost killed my wife.” He pulled the pistol from Thompson and broke it open. “There’s still a bullet in here. Were you intending to kill me as well?”
Dead Shot Page 1
