Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  He beckoned a boy from the back. “Ask the manager if we can let Mrs. Hardy withdraw some money from her husband’s account. Just a small amount…” He looked at Mette. “Will twenty pounds be enough? I have no idea how much a dress might cost. Mrs. Todd does all her own shopping.” She nodded. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” he said. “The manager knows Sergeant Hardy, and I can confirm that you’re his wife.”

  The boy returned and whispered in Mr. Todd’s ear. “One minute Mrs. Hardy. The manager wants to speak with me. I’ll be back in an instant.”

  Mette waited for what seemed forever, and eventually Mr. Todd returned and sat down at his desk. He looked upset. After a long pause, he took a deep breath, looked her in the eye, and said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Hardy. The manager tells me there isn’t enough in that account to give you twenty pounds. He says the account is already overdrawn and he won’t give your husband an advance until he makes another payment on his loan.”

  Mette’s face was still red when she got back to the hotel. She was humiliated. Mrs. Patterson and Wiki trailed in her wake, mystified as to why she had run from the bank. They caught up to her on the verandah.

  Mrs. Patterson took her hand, looking worried. “Would they not give you anything? I’ve half a mind to give the manager a good talking to. Why must women be treated as if we can’t manage our own money?”

  “There wasn’t any to give,” said Mette. “I had no idea we were so poor. I thought…”

  Wiki reached into her trouser pocket and thrust a five pound bank note at Mette. “This is what’s left from what you gave me. Please take it back.”

  Mette pushed her hand away. “I gave it to you, and you might need it in the future. Please keep it.”

  “Never mind,” said Mrs. Patterson. “We can still go to Snelson’s. I offered to lend you money to buy a dress, but I can perfectly well afford to buy you one. Come along.”

  “No,” said Mette. “I want to see Hop Li, to ask him what the problem is. He and Frank have been partners for years. Hop Li bought houses with him. I can’t believe…”

  She ran up the stairs and knocked on Hop Li’s room. “It’s Mette.”

  He opened the door looking concerned. Hohepa sat on the bed behind him shivering.

  “What happened?”

  “He says…”

  “He Kino,” said Hohepa. “I looked out the window and I saw He Kino.”

  “You saw Ernest Robinson?” asked Mette.

  He shook his head. “No. I saw He Kino.”

  Mette looked at Hop Li. “Who do you think he saw?”

  “I looked out and didn’t see anyone,” said Hop Li. “I think he imagined someone. Or he saw Ernest and doesn’t know what Ernest looks like.”

  “I know what Mr. Robinson looks like,” said Hohepa. “Mr. Robinson gives me my shillings. I didn’t see Mr. Robinson, I saw He Kino.”

  Hop Li, who was standing where Hohepa couldn’t see him, gave a slight shrug.

  “Why don’t we go downstairs and have a nice cup of cocoa,” said Mette. “All of us. We’ll let Frank sort this out when he returns.”

  Mette, Hop Li, Hohepa and Wiki were sitting in the dining room of the Clarendon drinking cocoa when Frank strode up the steps and into the hotel. Mette had reconciled herself to the idea that they were now hard up. She was sure Frank had not borrowed money foolishly. When she had a chance she’d find out what was going on. But for now she decided to stay cheerful about their situation and not tell him what had happened at the bank.

  “He got away,” he said. “He went out the back door of the book shop and down to the river. He crossed the bridge and went into the bush. Someone followed him - Bernard probably. Inspector James is going to take a posse out and search for them.”

  Mette blushed at the reference to the back door of the book shop. She was sure Frank remembered all those times he’d come to visit her there. He’d always gone home at the end of the evening and she looked back and wondered why she had been so strict. Why hadn’t she let him stay the night with her?

  He sat beside her and his hand brushed against hers. She entwined her fingers with his. If he was hard up she was not going to say anything. He would work something out. They would work something out, even if they had to work harder than they already were.

  “I spoke to the mayor,” he said. “He reminded me that the review’s tomorrow.”

  “Will you still do it?” asked Mette. “Won’t having all those people in town make it easier for someone to steal Dead Shot?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I hope so. That’s the plan at least.”

  28

  The Sham Battle

  It felt good to be on horseback riding into battle again, real or sham. And Dead Shot was a magnificent horse. He responded to Frank’s every move as if he could read his mind. What a waste to be put out to stud when he still had so much to offer. Not that Frank didn’t appreciate the opportunity. Dead Shot would produce offspring for the ages, not just for him, but for others in the district. It would not be difficult to make sure everyone in town was talking about Dead Shot, and expressing regret he was leaving town at the end of the day.

  Frank had met with the volunteers in the drill shed, formed them into two lines, marched them around past Jordan’s Saddlery and watched with some pride as they wheeled into The Square in front of the railway station. The volunteer drum and fife band, led by Mr. Harbett, a recently-arrived teacher of instrumental music, was waiting, and they struck up a stirring version of The March of the Grenadiers. The Manawatu Rifle Volunteers followed the band around The Square, wheeled perfectly at the far end, and returned to the railway station.

  So far so good. Frank had woven back and forth behind the volunteers making sure everyone had a good look at Dead Shot, saluting dignitaries and children, winking at women. He saw Mette seated in Mrs. Patterson’s carriage, placed to get the best view of the proceedings, and nodded in her direction. He had not told her the full plan, afraid that she was too transparent to lie to anyone. No doubt she’d make sure that anyone who stopped to talk to Mrs. Patterson would hear that her husband was riding the magnificent black horse, and that the horse was to be returned to its owner later that day. That part he’d told her. And Mrs. Patterson’s popularity would encourage people to stop and talk to them.

  Back in front of the railway station the volunteers formed two lines, one row crouched in front, the other standing upright behind them. They held their rifle in the at ease position.

  Frank rode behind them and gave his orders. “Load your weapons.”

  A loud series of clicks echoed across the grounds.

  “Present arms! Aim! Fire!”

  The first volunteer fired. The second one followed a few seconds later, as did the rest of the men in the line at ten-second intervals. More or less ten-second intervals. Between each volley they gave huzzahs to Her Majesty the Queen, then repeated the process two more times.

  The feu de joie sounded ragged to Frank’s ears, not the clean rat-a-tat-tat volley he used to hear back in his days at Farnham. But the spectators were clearly impressed: women covered their ears, men applauded and children jumped up and down excitedly. A few small boys ran after each other with sticks, pretending to shoot each other, falling down and clutching at chests. It was so far from the real thing that Frank was amazed that anyone continued watching. But the excitement of both the performers and the crowd was palpable. Smoke hung in the air around the men, who remained with rifles raised until Frank gave the order to stand down. He could see them grinning, pleased with themselves and the effect the feu de joie had on the watching crowd.

  Next, the Wanganui Rifles and the Feilding Volunteers paraded onto The Square and performed manoeuvres expertly. Clearly they had been training longer and more often than the Palmerston Rifle Volunteers, and Frank felt a surge of guilt as he watched them. They marched over and presented themselves to the dignitaries, who stood on a raised platform in front of the post office. His group were to present
themselves after the sham battle.

  The ceremony ended with the volunteers ordered to disperse to dinner for an hour. Mette had brought a picnic from the Cumberland and they sat together in the sun and ate it, Dead Shot hovering nearby. He felt relaxed, ready for whatever the day would bring. He was back in action and it felt good.

  The afternoon began with a shooting contest, with targets set up at the end of The Square that gave way to ferns and Toe Toe grass. The review committee had made sure no one was lurking in the grass before setting up the targets. Frank had considered entering - the prize money would come in handy - but was reluctant to take his eyes off Dead Shot. Fortunately, Mr. Todd turned out to be somewhat of a crack shot and his score was enough to salvage the pride of the Palmerston Volunteers.

  The shooting contest was over, and the highlight of the day’s events began.

  A group of men in old clothes with strings around their knees to hold their trousers above the ground hurried from the railway station to the middle of The Square. Two were carrying a length of fence which they unfurled in front of the group. They took up positions behind the fence - leaving a space in the centre - and began flailing around with sticks, shouting.

  Frank and his volunteers were waiting in the paddock behind the saddlery, Frank on a corner where he could see the centre of The Square. When the miners were in place, he gave the order. “Charge!”

  The volunteers ran from behind the saddlery and into The Square, advancing rapidly towards the miners, both sides shouting insults at each other. He gave them a few minutes start, and then came out from behind the saddlery at full tilt, thundering down the grass towards the fence. He reached the barricade at the same time as the volunteers, soaring over the space left by the miners. He pulled Dead Shot to a stop, wheeled, and repeated the jump from the other direction, waving his carbine in the air like a fool. Both miners and volunteers were crouching well out of the way, but to the spectators he would appear to be leaping over their heads.

  Leaving the miners draped over the fence, defeated but happy dead men, he marched the Palmerston Volunteer Rifles smartly to where the colonel and the major stood stiffly at attention on the raised platform. The last time Frank had seen Deerfoot Roberts had been at the attack on Orakau, when Roberts was with Von Tempsky’s Rangers. Back then he’d been dressed in bush costume, the Maori rapaki, a shawl worn like a kilt, rather than trousers, making it easier for him to run. And run he did. Roberts and others had pursued the retreating Maori on foot, moving faster than the men on horseback, causing Von Tempsky to dub him Deerfoot. Roberts was dressed now in formal uniform, his New Zealand Cross prominent on his chest; he looked a lot less agile than he had fifteen years ago. Major Noake also wore his dress uniform, and clutched a pointed helmet against his ribbon-bedecked chest.

  Frank dismounted in front of the pair, marched up to them, and saluted.

  Major Noake and Colonel Roberts returned salutes.

  “Very impressive, sergeant,” said Colonel Roberts. “Reminded me of Orakau…that’s what you intended no doubt. My fame preceded me.”

  One stockade looked much like another, especially when represented by a few fence posts with wire between them. Frank took the easy way out and nodded his agreement.

  “A fine horse you have there,” said Major Noake. “I hope you bring him with you up to Parihaka.”

  “Not my horse, sir,” said Frank. “I’m returning him to Patea later today.”

  He knew he could have trusted the two officers with the truth, but others were in earshot.

  The review came to an end and Frank rode across to Mrs. Patterson’s coach. Mette leaned from the window, smiling broadly. “That was wonderful, Frank. I feel as if I’ve been in a battle. Now I know what you went through…”

  Mrs. Patterson was watching Frank through narrowed eyes, assessing the situation.

  “Mette tells me you’re going to Patea tonight…to return the horse to its owner.”

  “I’m not going as far as Patea,” he said. “Just as far as Wanganui. Mr. Milroy’s trainer is meeting us there with a group of troopers from Patea. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Your wife can stay in the hotel with me tonight, in that case. You can be sure I’ll keep her safe.”

  He started to thank her, but Mette opened the door to the coach and stepped down.

  “I’m coming with you to Wanganui.”

  “I’d rather you stayed at the hotel with Mrs. Patterson. You’ll be safer…”

  “I’ll feel safer if I’m with you,” said Mette. “I’ve had enough of being separated.”

  Wiki followed her from the coach.

  “Sergeant Frank, don’t you ever learn? Mette has been hit and kidnapped and been in a fire and seen a murder. She’s kicked a really nasty man in the face, and climbed out a window. She isn’t a little flower. She can fight almost as well as I can. And anyway, I’m coming too. So you may as well get used to the idea of having women around.”

  Mrs. Patterson tried one more time, determined to assert her own opinion on the matter. “Let me take you to the station at least,” she said. “Wiki, you go with Sergeant Hardy and I’ll drive around there with Mette.” She was determined to be helpful.

  But Mette had been inspired by Wiki’s words. “Thank you Mrs. Patterson. But I want to walk to the station with my husband.”

  “I’m so glad to get away from her,” she said to Frank as they walked Dead Shot over towards the station. “She was watching Dead Shot’s every move, and talking about him constantly, and about you. She asked me so many questions…I think she’s a little bit in love with both of you. No wonder - all that riding and jumping…I think I’m a little bit in love with you myself.”

  “Are you sure you want to come up to Wanganui with me? It could be dangerous.”

  “It will be like last time,” she said, smiling at the memory. “We could go back to the Rutland Hotel. And this time you can stay in the room and not sleep at the end of the hall…I was so sorry last time when I woke up and found you hadn’t stayed with me…”

  He took a deep breath. “It was difficult…but it all worked out, didn’t it?”

  “Mostly,” she said. “Could we stop at the Clarendon and get the nightdress Mrs. Patterson lent me? She said I could keep it, and it’s so pretty…”

  “We’re not going all the way to Wanganui.”

  “We’re not?”

  “I’ll explain when we get to the Royal…we’re not on the way to the station. Not yet.”

  Frank led Dead Shot into the paddock at the back of the Royal Hotel where Karira and the two men from Motuiti Marae waited in the shade. They held another black horse. Dead Shot nuzzled against the second horse - his near double.

  Frank patted the horse on its nose and then rubbed his hand on his trousers. “Looks good,” he said. “What did you use to cover the blaze?”

  “Barry’s Safe Hair Dye,” said Karira. “The chemist assumed I was buying it for myself. He told me I had a very fine head of hair, but the dye would make it even fuller and darker. If I had any left I’d be tempted, but I used the whole bottle on Starcrossed.”

  “Hair dye?” asked Mette. “Starcrossed? Frank…what’s going on?”

  “Mette,” said Frank. “Meet Starcrossed. She belongs to a widow up in Patea who would really like to have her back. So I’m obliging her.”

  “But she looks so much like Dead Shot,” said Mette.

  “That’s because she’s his daughter,” said Frank. “Except she has a star on her forehead - hence her name. Karira covered up the star with the dye to make her look even more like Dead Shot. She’s coming on the train with us.”

  “But won’t people be able to tell she’s a filly?”

  “We’ll cover her with a long blanket,” said Karira. “And Frank and I will walk on either side, Frank carrying her saddle. Only children and extremely short adults will be able to tell that she isn’t a stallion. And my men will take Dead Shot off into the bush somewhere and kee
p him hidden until we get back.”

  “Have you heard from Inspector James?” asked Frank.

  “His men are waiting in the volunteer carriage. They’re armed and ready. And a horse box has been attached to the end of the train. James himself and some men from the Feilding detachment are waiting on the other side of Halcombe. I hope you’ve done a good job of letting everyone in town know that Dead Shot will be on the train.”

  “I hope so,” said Frank. “So the game is on. Excellent.”

  29

  A Journey By Train

  The Wanganui Rifle Volunteers were piped to the train by the drum and fife band. At the station, the band struck up “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” the traditional song played for soldiers departing for battle. The volunteers weren’t expecting to go off to battle, but sang along loudly:

  It’s lonely since I left the hill, and crossed the moor and valley…

  Frank followed them aboard the train feeling as if he was leaving for war any moment, and made himself known to the troopers from Wanganui. There were six of them, a solid looking bunch, broad-shouldered and every man over six feet tall. The kind of men he would have chosen himself. They were in uniform and armed with Snider breech-loading carbines which would be good for the close battle he anticipated. He shook hands with a hard-faced Irishman who identified himself as the leader, and wished him luck.

  “You loafers been here all day?” yelled one of the volunteers. “Sitting in the train?”

  “Feels like it,” joked a trooper. “But we were out there keeping you buggers safe. Now we have to escort you home. Don’t do anything stupid.”