Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  Another volunteer pulled out a flask. “Can’t be responsible for what happens when we’re away from the wimmen,” he said. “We did our bit and now we’re out for some fun. Why did you need to keep us safe, anyways?” He didn’t wait for an answer but took a swig and passed his flask to the man next to him. “Want a bit o’ brandy to warm you up mate?”

  “Let them drink,” Frank said quietly to the troopers. “It will seem less suspicious if they’re having a good time. Just don’t succumb yourselves. I’m going to need you alert and ready at a moment’s notice.”

  As he walked back along the carriage he noticed a uniformed volunteer slumped in a seat by himself, his hat pulled down over his eyes, apparently fast asleep. He couldn’t see enough of the man to see who he was, but he recognized his hand, flopped on the empty seat beside him. He had seen that hand at countless Sunday dinners, waving around as he made a point. The same hand that had been raised to Mette and to Agnete, his wife. Ernest.

  He turned back towards the troopers, caught the leader’s eye, and gestured sideways with his head. The trooper gave a slight nod. He knew what to do.

  Mette was sitting with Wiki in the families of volunteers carriage, surrounded by happy travellers. Frank walked the length of the carriage looking closely at everyone. Mostly families, with a few small groups of single men. Now that he knew Ernest was on the train he was on high alert for another member of the gang. One man caught his eye, sitting alone, wearing the long voluminous coat and scuffed boots of a station hand. He was clean shaven, but with a shaggy, iron-grey moustache that covered his upper lip and partly hid a weatherbeaten face. He did not look like a New Zealander.

  The rest of the families were boisterous and excited, standing, walking around and talking to each other. One family had pulled out a picnic basket and spread out bread, cheese and fruit across their laps.

  “Good show today sergeant,” said an older boy, who was standing beside the picnickers. “I felt as if I was in a real battle.”

  “I assume you haven’t been in a real battle then,” said Frank, slapping the boy on his shoulder. He saw moustache’s eyes flicker briefly in his direction and then return to a straight-ahead position.

  Frank and Karira had loaded Starcrossed into the horse box at the end of the train and secured her loosely with a slip knot. Karira was inside the box with his carbine loaded, ready for a sudden attack. When the train stopped he would leave the box and set off up the track to see what the problem was, leaving the horse alone, giving the gang a chance to grab her. Constable Crozier was crowded in with the engineer, and a second constable was in the seat behind Mette and Wiki. Neither of them had been told about their guard, but Frank did not intend to leave Mette unprotected. If there was a fight, he’d be in the thick of it and not able to help her.

  The train chugged out of the station and headed north up the Rangitikei Line, a flat, forested area dotted with farms torn from the bush, to the west of Feilding. The first stop would usually be Awahuri for refreshments and to pick up passengers from the Foxton train, but this train would drive right on through. Just as well, with all the bush. Too much opportunity for an attack to take place.

  They came at him unexpectedly. The train was still a mile from Awahuri, travelling at top speed across the flat ground, when it hit something with a series of loud thumps. The train slowed and came to a stop, brakes screeching, clouds of steam pouring from the engine, throwing everyone in the carriage forward. A sandwich and a bottle of ginger beer skittered down the aisle from the picnickers.

  “Hit a horse,” said the constable behind Mette and Wiki. He had come to a stop with his head and elbows jammed between the two women. “Or a cow.” He pushed himself back onto his seat. “We’ll be here for a half hour cleaning up the mess. I heard they hit a horse a couple of weeks ago and it was cut right in half. One half was stuck on the cowcatcher the other half under the engine. Didn’t die right away either - not the front half…”

  Frank opened the window and leaned out cautiously, gun in hand. Between him and the engine lay a row of bloodied sheep, thrown to the side of the rails by the cow catcher on the front of the engine. “Sheep,” he said to the constable. “A whole flock by the look of it.”

  “Do you think…?” The constable withdrew his gun and got himself into the aisle.

  “It’s them? Yes I do.”

  He eased open the door of the carriage and looked back at the constable. “Get up here and keep your gun on the door. Don’t let anyone come through. Anyone tries, shoot.”

  The constable knelt with his gun trained on the door. Frank eyed the rest of the passengers. The woman were comforting their children, many of them crying. Two older boys had leaned out the windows, relaying information back to the others in the carriage.

  “There’s a dozen of them. Someone was crossing with a whole flock…what a mess…hope the shepherd didn’t get hurt…”

  At the end of the carriage, moustache sat without moving, his eyes alert and watchful. Frank recognized the look - the quiet stillness of a man about to do battle. He’d been right about the man.

  “You,” he said, beckoning. “Come with me. The rest of you get down below the window.

  Moustache got up, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, and weaved down the aisle between the picnickers. “What do you want me to do? Are you expecting trouble?”

  “Are you armed?”

  Moustache nodded and pulled back his jacket. “I have a revolver…” He put his hand on the grip and started easing it out between two fingers.

  Frank leaned towards him and said quietly, “Take a look at the woman about half way back in the carriage…the fair-haired one on the left…”

  As Frank had expected, moustache turned without thinking it through. Frank hit him hard on the back of his head with the butt of his gun, caught him from behind as he fell, and eased him to the floor of the carriage.

  “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the constable as he tossed him moustache’s gun. “He’s one of theirs.”

  “We’ll tie him up,” said Wiki. “Come on Mette. Pull out his belt. We’ll tie him to the seat.” She pulled out her Bowie knife and held it against the man’s face. “Don’t move, you pakeha bastard…or I’ll cut off your nose. We’ve got this one Sergeant Frank - go get the rest of them.”

  The man stared at Wiki’s knife, not moving, dazed but awake. “You’re a dead man, Hardy,” he said softly. “You know that? Don’t try to stop them. There’ll be twenty of them out there.”

  Mette pulled moustache’s belt from his trousers and hooked him to the seat by the neck. “Be careful, Frank.”

  “A dead man,” yelled moustache as Frank jumped from the carriage and slammed the door. Frank ignored him. He recognized an empty threat from a blowhard when he heard one.

  Keeping in the shadow of the carriages he moved towards the rear of the train. Karira slid from the horse box, gun in hand. “See anyone?”

  “No. But they’re out there. No one accidentally sends that many sheep across the tracks.”

  A dog ran from the bush, barking - a black and white sheepdog. He stopped in front of Frank and Karira, his teeth bared, growling.

  Frank squinted out at the bush. Something moved, and light glinted off a metal object.

  “Here we go. They’re coming.”

  A lone shot rang out, answered immediately by a volley from the troopers in the next carriage, followed by clicks as the troopers reloaded.

  Two more shots came from the bush. A dual action, he thought, rather than two people firing at once. Not twenty men. A couple of men at most. Probably just the man who had sent the sheep out onto the railway track. Bernard probably.

  “Ernest is in the volunteer carriage. He’ll come at the box from the other side of the train while the man out there keeps us pinned down.”

  “The man? Not more than that?”

  “One, two maybe,” said Frank. “If there were more they’d be swarming us by now. I was sure they’d wait
until after Halcombe. I’m getting rusty at this stuff…”

  “They weren’t expecting a train packed with troopers,” said Karira. “Do you think they’ll make a move soon?”

  The door to the horse carriage opened and Starcrossed peeked out. The dye had started to run on her nose, and some white was showing through. A hand clutched the bit.

  “And here’s Ernest coming back to life. He did come along the other side,” said Frank quietly. “Good. Let’s hope he can’t ride without a saddle.” He leaned against the train to steady his aim and raised his carbine. “He’ll try to make a run for it with the horse. He knows we’re on foot. Pity Inspector James is ten miles up the track.”

  Karira took a position behind him, his gun resting on Frank’s shoulder.

  The horse made a sudden leap from the train, a uniformed volunteer clinging to her back. The rider smacked the horse on the rear, but as he did the sheep dog ran between its legs, barking madly, and Starcrossed stopped dead. She’d been trained to carry a woman, not to be a fiery competitor on the race track. Besides that, she wasn’t wearing a saddle. She stepped back and shook the rider to the ground. He landed on his back, rolled over and looked up at Frank.

  “Good afternoon Ernest,” said Frank. “Are there any more of your gang in there with you?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” said Ernest stiffly. “I want to talk to my solicitor.”

  “Please yourself,“ said Frank. “Did you have a good look at the horse?”

  Ernest looked up at Starcrossed’s underbelly and broke his vow of silence. “Hell’s teeth. It’s not even the right damn horse. It’s a filly - I knew this was a fool’s errand…”

  The troopers came out of the volunteer carriage in a long line of grey, guns aimed out towards the bush. They stopped long enough for one of them to twist Ernest’s hands behind his back and slap handcuffs on him.

  Ernest pulled away. “I’m not going to go anywhere. No need for the cuffs…my lawyer will sort all this out…a complete misunderstanding…”

  The Irish trooper jerked Ernest to his feet. He came up awkwardly, stumbled and fell against Starcrossed, unable to stop himself with his hands cuffed.

  Starcrossed turned her head lazily to look at Ernest, then flicked one hoof up and kicked him above the knee.

  Ernest began to scream in a high-pitched, agonized voice. “The bloody horse broke my leg…oh god, she broke my leg…”

  “Better than having your heart broken,” said the trooper unsympathetically watching Ernest writhing in agony. “I think we’d better continue on to Halcombe, sergeant. Then we can deliver the prisoner to Inspector James. He’ll take it from there. But we’ll run down the shooter in the bush first. One man, I believe, up on that little escarpment about five hundred yards away. He’s there as a distraction, not to hit anyone. But he’ll move when he sees us coming. We’re going for a pincer movement.”

  “There’s another one on the train,” said Frank. “In the family carriage. I believe he’s under control.” He patted Starcrossed on her muzzle. “The women have saved the day.”

  “We’ll get him after we’ve got the man in the bush,” said the Irish trooper.

  “Men!” He pointed to either side of where the gunshots had originated. “First three follow me to the left flank. Second three with trooper Atkinson to the right flank.” He turned to Frank. “Don’t worry sergeant. We’ll get him. You get back on the train and secure the prisoners. We’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  The troopers split into two groups and disappeared into the bush in two long, grey streaks. He could hear them in the distance calling to each other.

  “I hope that’s Bernard out…” he started to say to Karira. Karira nodded as if he was about to say something, then hurtled backwards as if Frank had pushed him. His fall was followed by the sound of a gunshot echoing along the train tracks.

  “Will!” Frank dropped to the ground beside Karira. A red stain was spreading across the left side of his chest. He tore open Karira’s shirt. A bullet had passed though under his armpit between his chest and his arm. A nasty wound, but not fatal.

  He crouched low and looked at his options. “You’ll be alright. I’m going to drag you between the carriage and the horse box and go after him.”

  Karira grimaced in pain, his arm flat against his chest. “Got to be Bernard. Where’s he shooting from?”

  Frank leaned his back against the end of the carriage and moved his head around slowly. A bullet bounced off the horse box and ricocheted towards Ernest who was trying to roll behind the box. “Pull me in,” he said to Frank. “Please. He’ll kill me.”

  Frank ignored him. “He was down near the engine,” he said to Karira.

  “He must have been in the coal box.”

  “Or he came up over the cowcatcher when we stopped.” He looked again. “I can’t see him from here. I’m going to have to get up on the top of the train.”

  “He’ll kill you as soon as you put your head up,” said Karira. “Constable Crozier might have a shot at him.”

  “I hope he hasn’t done anything to Crozier or…”

  “Hardy? I’m on the carriage above your wife. Send out the horse or I’ll kill her.”

  Bernard.

  Everything slowed down for a minute. Frank could see the carriage in his mind’s eye. Anyone on the roof could easily hang down and take a shot into the carriage. Hitting Mette might be difficult, but he was not going to take a chance.

  “Can you move?” he asked Karira.

  Karira pulled himself into a seating position and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “He wants the horse. We’ll send him the horse.”

  “A distraction?”

  Frank nodded. “I’ll take a couple of shots while you get to the horse. When I’ve climbed up the side here, you can send her out fast. That will distract him for a few seconds and give me a chance to get on top of the train. Then I’ll shoot him.”

  “I’ll ride the horse,” said Karira. “That’ll distract him more. And he won’t shoot at me while I’m on the horse.”

  “He’ll kill you both,” said Ernest. “He’s one of the best shooters I’ve ever seen.”

  “He can only do so much with one rifle,” said Frank. “Are you sure you want to do this, Will?”

  “One rifle,” said Ernest. He pulled himself into a seated position, apparently more hopeful about his future. “But not just any rifle. He has an 1873 Winchester. A repeater. He’ll take both of you down with that. And he can knock down a moving target. I’ve seen him.”

  Frank stared at Karira, who looked back at him, nodding. They’d have to trust each other. He checked his carbine. Two shots. If he missed they’d both be dead, and Bernard would kill Mette out of spite. It was his brother all over again, only this time so much more depended on his accuracy. But he had no choice.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. He pulled himself up on the horse box until his head was just below the top, and found a grip that would help him vault onto the top of the box. “On the count of three - one, two, let’s go!”

  Karira ran out to where the Starcrossed was eating grass at the edge of the tracks and leaped onto her. With a whack on its rear, the horse was away from the train at a gallop.

  Frank hurled himself onto the top of the horse box and lay flat on his stomach. He could see Bernard now, on one knee, looking down the sights of his gun as he swung it after Karira, deciding whether he should shoot.

  He steadied himself, looked along the barrel of the gun, and aimed towards the left side of Bernard’s chest. As Bernard’s gun swung back in his direction he gently squeezed the trigger of his carbine. Without waiting to see what happened, he lined up ready to shoot again. But years of training and practice held. The first shot had found its mark. Bernard spun around, a surprised look on his face, and tumbled slowly off the visitors’ carriage, grabbing at the top edge of the carriage, but missing. He landed on his back on the grass verge.

  Frank
slid from the top of the horse box, yelling for Crozier to get out of the engine. He had aimed to hit Bernard in the shoulder, and he might still be able to shoot.

  The window of the carriage opened abruptly and Wiki leapt out, knife in hand.

  “I got him Frank. I got the bastard.”

  By the time Frank reached the visitor carriage, Wiki was kneeling on Bernard’s chest, her knife at his throat. His right shoulder was gushing blood from where the bullet had passed through. He wouldn’t be shooting anyone for a while, and would have to learn how to wield his belt with his left hand. But he’d have some time in prison to do that.

  Karira came galloping back on Starcrossed and jumped down beside them.

  Wiki took one look at his wounded chest, handed her knife to Frank, and threw herself at him. “Will, Will, you’re hurt.”

  “Watch my shoulder, aroha,” said Karira, grinning at her.

  Aroha. That meant darling if he was not mistaken. He’d been right. Something had happened between them.

  Which reminded him of Mette.

  He pounded on the door of the visitors’ carriage, and the constable opened the door slowly, his gun aimed at Frank’s head. He’d watched the whole thing through the window, but was anxious to follow orders. Frank jumped in and retrieved moustache from his awkward position. The constable cuffed him and took him off to the volunteer car.

  He threw an angry look at Frank as he left. “This is not over.”

  Frank sat down next to Mette, exhausted.

  “That’s that, I hope,” he said. “We’ve got Bernard, we’ve got Ernest. And we’ve got whoever that was. The troopers will have the man on the escarpment by now. One of them will talk and this whole thing will be put to… ”

  He was interrupted by the sound of clapping. The entire carriage was standing, applauding enthusiastically. The older boy with the picnicking family waded down the length of the carriage and pounded him on the shoulder, his eyes bright with admiration.