Not the Faintest Trace

by Wendy M Wilson

  “You’d best be careful,” said Karira. “He’s a big strong man, I hear, over sixteen stone, all muscle and bone, and a man who’s seen fighting in war time. If you go looking for him take some backup. I’ll come with you if you need me.”

  “Count on me as well,” said Frank. “Especially seeing I’m the one he seems to be after. No idea why. I did run into him with Miss Jensen, however. Perhaps that bothered him. I wasn’t scared enough, or I protected her.”

  Constable Price locked the door of his police station and sent his Assistant Constable, who had just finished conveying two deadbeats to the lockup, to fetch other members for a posse. The constable rounded up a few of the local shopkeepers who belonged to the Reserve Force, as well as the recently elected mayor, Mr. George Snelson, and Sergeant Jackson with his road crew. The Scandi with the missing teeth was not with them. Just as well. He would deal with that cretin in due course. He went out to the paddock behind the Royal Hotel and managed to find a horse for everyone, although the mayor decided to take his pony cart. They mounted and headed up the bridle path towards the sawmill.

  Hans Christian Nissen and Pieter Sorensen were standing outside talking when they arrived. The saw mill was in full operation, with men yelling and logs coming at them through the chute from the back of the mill, but Hans Christian, standing near the door with his sleeves rolled up and hands on his hips, soon disillusioned them.

  “We’ve had an accident,” he said. “On the mechanical saw. We’re waiting for Dr. Rockstrow to arrive.”

  “What happened?” asked Frank.

  “One of the new men, from Schleswig, he arrived last week with his young wife, whom he had wed on the boat coming here. He cut off both his hands with the mechanical saw. When he realized what had happened he threw himself on the saw and let it take him in the throat.”

  Frank was appalled. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. He would have bled to death quickly anyway,” said Hans Christian. “But he wanted to make sure he died. Without him his wife will be able to find another husband. But without his hands he couldn’t work. His family would not survive.”

  “But the heartache, man, how will she recover from his loss?”

  Hans Christian shrugged. “She’ll forget him, I’m sure, eventually. She’ll need to forget him if she is to have a life. They have no children, you see, and she’ll be accustomed to marriage but still free to begin a new family. Someone will marry her. There are many unmarried men in Palmerston, as you yourself must know Sergeant Hardy. And, of course, she must marry in her own community so she will quickly find a new husband.” That sounded as if it was directed at him, Frank thought.

  They left the mayor at the mill to await Dr. Rockstrow. He looked relieved; his pony trap would be used to transport the body into town, with him at the reins – a more preferably task than dealing with a large, angry native. Frank arranged the group into single file, with Constable Karira in front, and Constable Price at the rear, and went ahead to see what he could find, avoiding the track as much as he could in case it was booby-trapped.

  In a few hundred yards, far enough from the sawmill to avoid notice, he found a deserted camp, with signs that someone had recently been there. A large eel was smoking over embers of a fire. He dismounted to check on the fire, to estimate how long it had been since the it was fully ablaze, but as he did he heard a loud thump followed by a high-pitched scream. He leapt on Copenhagen and raced back towards the sound. The men had all dismounted and surrounded one of the shopkeepers who lay curled in agony, blood gushing from a cut across his face.

  “He’s not dead,” said Constable Karira, who was kneeling beside him. “He stepped on a tawhiti, a trap. He sprang it just off the path there. I was concentrating on the track itself so I didn’t spot it, unfortunately.”

  Frank climbed down to look. A small black matipo tree had been stripped of its lower branches and bent backwards. Frank could see, about ten feet away, the place where it had been fastened to the ground with flax.

  “See here,” said Karira, patting the trunk gently. “Anyone touching the stripped trunk at any point would release the flax and cause the tree to spring upwards and hit him. He’s lucky it didn’t kill him.” The shopkeeper lay on the ground beside them moaning. Karira knelt beside him and patted his shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You’re experiencing some shock. You’ll live.”

  “There could be more,” said Frank.

  “He would have set more than one,” said Karira. “Constable Price should keep the group here while we continue up the track to check for more traps. Any sign of him up ahead?”

  “I found his camp,” said Frank, as the two men moved cautiously along either side of the track. Looks like he’s gone, and recently. Ah, there’s another one.”

  He squatted down at the head of a smaller matipo tree, tied down almost parallel to the ground, and took out his knife. It would have been difficult to spot for anyone not looking carefully. When he cut the flax, the tree sprang forward and then whiplashed back towards him. If it had hit his horse, the horse would have been terrified and would have reared up, hurting or killing them both.

  By the time they reached the campfire they had found and released three more. He called back to Constable Price to bring the rest of the men, who trotted nervously to the camp. Frank could see that they wouldn’t be much use to him if it came to a fight, other than Sergeant Jackson, who was carrying a carbine across his saddle, and the sturdy Constable Price, who was now leading the wounded shopkeeper behind him on his horse, lying over it like a blanket roll, still moaning.

  “One of these men needs to take Mr. Barnard back to the sawmill,” Price said. “Dr. Rockstrow will be there soon to attend to the body of the Scandi who threw himself on the saw. They can take him back to town on the mayor’s pony trap.”

  “I’ll take him,” said Sergeant Jackson. “Needs to be someone who can fight off the Hauhau, if we run into him.”

  The rest of the shopkeepers, who had obviously thought returning to the saw mill would be an escape, looked at each other nervously, happy to leave the job to Sergeant Jackson. The sergeant wheeled his horse around and headed back towards the sawmill with the wounded man trussed to the saddle of his own horse.

  The fire was almost out, and they could see that little remained at the camp. Constable Karira jumped down beside the fire. “Might as well have that eel,” he said. He scooped it up and thrust it into his saddlebag. It was a tight fit and he had to cut it in half with his knife. The group watched him, varying signs of distaste showing on their faces. Few of them understood how delicious eel could be, smoked over a fire. Frank remembered the eel they’d eaten while they camped at the river, before his brother was murdered.

  “Let’s follow the track further on,” said Frank to Karira. “See if we can find where he’s been sleeping.”

  “Why don’t the rest of you return to town,” said Frank to the men in the posse. “Constable Karira and I will see what else we can find. He’s obviously gone…”

  As they rode off he said to Karira, “Fewer potential targets for him. Let’s hope they make it back to town without incident.”

  Karira grinned at him. “Some of them, a hatchet would bounce off their heads.”

  They found the sleeping quarters in a giant totara tree. A bedroll was barely visible, sticking out from a branch the size of two men.

  “Any idea how we can get that down?”

  Karira nudged his horse against the tree, tossed the reins to Frank, and stood up on the saddle. He took hold of the branch and swung himself up.

  “Finding anything,” asked Frank.

  Karira said nothing for a minute, then leaned down and held a feather out to Frank, twirling it in his fingers.

  “A feather?” asked Frank. What does that mean?”

  “Comes from a cloak,” said Karira loudly. Then, more softly, “I heard a horse snicker.”

  “Is a cloak important?�
� said Frank. If anyone was listening, he would surely know they were on to him. “Which direction.”

  “Looks like something that belonged to a chief or a Tohunga. Look…” He dropped a feather and Frank caught it. “Behind me and to my left. Hand me my carbine. I’ll keep you covered.”

  Frank admired the feather with one hand, and with the other slipped Karira’s carbine from its holster on the saddle and handed it to him, keeping the tree between the gun and the noise of the horse.

  “It’s a kiwi feather,” said Karira loudly as he took the carbine from Frank. “From the bird. The feather comes from a kahu huruhuru, a cloak.”

  “What does a cloak like that mean then?” asked Frank, edging forward. “Many Māoriwear cloaks. What does it tell us? That this man is somebody important?”

  He pulled his revolver from inside his coat and cocked the trigger. He’d ordered it from Wellington after he’d felt the presence of someone watching him at the river, an Adams New Patent Double Action breech loader, not as good as the Colt single action, but more practical in the bush. He’d kept it inside his coat and used it when Anahera had attacked him and Mette. By law he could carry only one gun, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And two certain shots were always better than six uncertain ones. He moved around behind the tree and towards the sound of the horse, holding the revolver straight out in front of him, moving it from right to left as he scanned the bush. As he got further away from the track the bush darkened.

  “The kahu huruhuru is is worn only by chiefs and Tohunga,” he heard Karira, his voice further off now. He sounded quite insincere and Frank hoped he was fooling anyone hiding in the bush nearby. “The kiwi feather is prized because the birds are difficult to catch. They come out only at night. The feathers are somewhat rare. Kiwi can’t fly, so a feather could not have got up into the tree without help. I think it comes from a cloak, and the cloak is a kahu huruhuru and thus belonged to a chief or a Tohunga. Now I must ask myself, why would an important man like that be hiding up behind a sawmill in a small town in the Manawatu? If he were a local chief, I’d know him.”

  Frank paused and listened for a minute. He too now heard the faint snicker of a horse. He moved slowly towards it, both hands on his gun, sweeping the area. The shape came out of the gloom, the white blaze on the forehead, and the whites of the eyes standing out against the darkness. He backed against a tree and looked around. Nothing. He chambered two bullets, ready to shoot at any movement as he crept towards the horse. The horse greeted him with a soft whinny and stamped its hoof lightly on the ground.

  “Where’s your master then, eh?” Frank said softly. He took hold of the reins and looked around again. Nothing stirred.

  “I think he’s gone,” he called softly to Karira.

  Something that felt like a load of bricks hit him in the back and knocked him to the ground. His gun flew from his hand, exploding loudly, and someone pressed a foot heavily on his back.

  “Mate i teie nei,” a voice snarled. “Matepakeke.”

  A huge hand grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over. Anahera stood above him, holding a greenstone mere, raised high, ready to attack. Frank flinched, waiting for the blow. Instead, he heard a shot. The mere flew from Anahera’s hand and he clutched at his arm. Frank crawled away and stood up. He felt like he was escaping a collapsed building after an earthquake. He heard a clang as Karira chambered another bullet.

  “Leave,” yelled Karira. “Or I’ll shoot to kill next time. Ka kopere i ki te patu.”

  Anahera lunged for his mere, losing his forage cap in the effort. Karira fired again. His shot went wide and Frank heard it ping against a tree.

  “Muri,” said Anahera. “Muri.”

  He picked up his weapon, leapt on his horse and disappeared between the trees. The sound of the hooves faded quickly. Karira appeared within minutes, astride his horse.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Too late,” said Frank. “A couple of minutes head start in this bush, and he knows his way around. We won’t catch him now. At least we know he’s still in the area.”

  Karira dismounted.

  “He was in the tree,” he said. “Dropped right on you.”

  “Felt like a giant kauri tree fell on me,” said Frank. “Thanks for stopping him. I thought I was a dead man.”

  “He said ‘You die now,’” said Karira. “Then he said, ‘die hard.’ He wanted to hurt you as well as kill you, apparently.”

  “Die hard?” said Frank. “That sounds like a reference to my regiment. The Die Hards. He could be the man the Armed Constables are looking for, although I thought that man was a pakeha. One of ours, they said.”

  Karira looked at the flattened fern around them.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Behind you on the ground.”

  Frank turned. “His cap,” he said, picking it up. “He wears a forage cap for some reason.” He turned it over. “Good God. It’s a Die Hard cap, like mine. See the insignia?”

  Karira said, “Is he after Die Hards, do you think?”

  Frank squinted at the inside band. “There’s something written here. I can’t read it…”

  Karira took the cap. “Adams, it looks like. Do you recognize that name?”

  “It sounds familiar,” said Frank. “Adams? I knew most of the men in my regiment, but I can’t remember an Adams. But something’s there in my memory. It’ll come to me.”

  They rode back to Palmerston. No more mention was made of Die Hards, but the name Adams hovered in Frank’s mind. Who was it? Was he a Die Hard? Why was the faint memory accompanied by a feeling of dread, or revulsion? When and where had he known Adams?

  The body of the young sawmill worker and the wounded shopkeeper had both been returned to Palmerston, and the sawmill was running smoothly again. Nissen and Sorensen were nowhere in sight. They parted ways, Frank to the Royal Hotel and Karira to the Pa.

  13

  Frank Finds Gottlieb

  Captain McAndrews of the Armed Constabulary was not happy to be called to account in Constable Price’s station and to explain his actions to a Māori constable and a coach driver. “I want you to leave the searching to us,” he said to them. “We know who we’re looking for. You’ll just get in the way…”

  “A Māori hiding up near the sawmill attacked me,” said Frank. “I was lucky that Constable Karira was nearby and saved me.” He looked around the group and shook his head. “But he’s not the man you’re looking for. You told me you were looking for one of ours…a soldier…”

  “We’re looking for a Māori,” said the captain. “I told you that.”

  Frank frowned. “No. You said he was one of ours.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said the captain. “A Kupapa, a Māori loyal to the Crown. At least originally. But like many of them, he changed sides during the Titokowaru uprising. The land confiscations stirred them up.”

  “Why are you looking for him now, after all this time?” asked Frank.

  “He escaped from gaol,” said the captain. “After eight years alone in a cell. He killed a guard, strangled him through the bars, and he’s been killing people ever since. Thinks he’s Te Kooti and that it’s his job to kill settlers and soldiers…”

  “He’s killed settlers?” said Frank, thinking of Mette and her lucky escape.

  “Settlers who used to be soldiers,” said the captain. “You’d best watch your back…you’re his type…”

  “Why were you looking for him down here?” asked Karira.

  Captain McAndrews ignored him. “We’ll find him, I have no doubt of that.”

  “We can help with…” said Frank.

  “Not you,” said the captain. “I have reinforcements coming. We’ll blanket the area and keep a close watch on the Gorge. He won’t get through there without us knowing. You stay out of it.” He glanced at Constable Price. “And you as well, sir, if you don’t mind. This is a job for professionals.”

  Constable Price bristled, but said nothing.

>   Banned from searching for Anahera, Frank’s thoughts returned to Mette’s night-time attacker. He was positive the man who attacked her was the same man he saw with the road crew. Pieter had let slip that he suspected someone from the road crew, and Mette had mentioned his missing teeth. Those facts, together with the man’s comments about watching the young Māori women at the river, added up for Frank. It was just a matter of finding the man alone and making him understand that he should never go near Mette again. How he was going to achieve that, he was not sure. An old-fashioned man would use a horsewhip to teach the lesson, but Frank had seen too much of that in the army. Even so, he replaced his dual action revolver with his Colt single action, better for a close assault, putting it in the inside pocket of his greatcoat. Best to be ready if he met the man. And Anahera was still out there somewhere as well.

  Frank was picking up a bag of oats for Copenhagen at Snelson’s General Store and ran into Sergeant Jackson who was checking the latest specifications for metaling contracts. He asked Jackson where his team was working.

  Sergeant Jackson finished writing in a small notebook and pushed it into his coat pocket. “Up near the Pa,” he said. “We’re finishing metaling the road so builders can get in when…”

  “They’re planning to build something up there?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t ask for the details. I just build the road. Why did you want to know?”

  “I need to talk to one of your men,” said Frank. “So, up near the Pa?”

  “On the Foxton road,” said Jackson. “I won’t be there, but you’ll find them easy enough. Follow the metal, and when it runs out they’ll be there somewhere.”

  Frank took his horse out along the track towards Foxton and soon found the crew. They were dragging rocks from the river and doing the first break, making sure they were small enough to load on the dray; the next step was to cart them nearer to the road, where they would smash them again into metal. Three men were on the job, their muscles bulging and faces red as they pounded at the rocks with iron mallets. The fourth man, the one with missing teeth, was not with them.