‘I know you’re not married,’ he said. ‘You told us. You wouldn’t remember. It was when we first rescued you. We asked who your kin were, and you said you had none in Wellington. That’s what we told the policeman. I hope that was right.’
‘It was,’ I said. ‘Thank you for doing that.’
We both looked across the grass. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘I think no one can feel comfortable about what they did out there that day—except the horses. And that’s because they had the best orders. Carry this man; walk that way. Simple. But even they looked miserable, to my eye.’
He tried to smile. ‘They were tired,’ he said. ‘We worked them very hard.’
‘Try to get some rest, sir,’ I said. ‘You’ve had a very bad trial. Are you going home today?’
‘Maybe in an hour. I’ll wait for an empty road. That parade will take some time to clear.’
‘All right,’ I said, and stood up.
From his seat he looked up at me and again, despite all I’d said to rescue us, what passed between us was a kind of shame—shame at what we’d survived and evaded and attempted to explain.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Safe journey. Thank you.’
I turned and entered the crowds then. I didn’t look back at him as I threaded through the people, but I thought of his journey back to that steep and remote station. I thought of him on his horse, and of my own boarding house, and of the little house I expected to own one day. I felt the stillness of those rooms I would live in; I saw the solitude that the accidents and designs of my life would destine me for. I saw an end to thinking daily about what happened at Terawhiti. I saw those things and, in my borrowed suit and shoes, I walked mildly towards them.
CLAIM OF BLOOD
He was almost too fast to track. From Riccarton through Hagley Park he walked without a break, not looking round, no gloves, no hat, his hair jutting up—Oliver Duff. 1930 in the Christchurch frost. I was fifty yards behind him, sweating in winter clothes, breath coming in panicked white puffs. I had to reach him before he made the Press building, coat-tail him inside, infiltrate his workplace. His office was my best chance—I could corner him there and make the contact.
He was quick, but I had one thing in my favour. I knew the route. Raised nearby, I knew these streets, though not in quite these colours or layout, not with these buildings still standing up. And by now I was experienced. I’d tracked many of his type, and I was dogged.
But he moved so fast. From the park he swept onto Deans Avenue and up Cashel Street past shops that were mostly still shut, though some early storekeepers waved, then went blank as I came after, hatless and chuffing in odd clothes and openly giving chase.
Nothing stopped Duff. Across the Square he went, then up Warner’s Lane as if he owned it (and I admired him for this, because he walked that asphalt as one who’d laid it—if not this exact street then one just like it—and through sweat had won the right to walk on such streets. Unionist, I remembered reading. Advocate.) Then he was in a side door and up the stairs into the Press. Sweating and somewhat fat, product of a more leisured age, I panted up behind.
Up three flights at the same relentless pace, then into the reporters’ room, where he swept past the empty desks with the approving glance of one who loves the work, loves to see a reporter angle a telephone against a shoulder and dash down notes, likes the set of a typewriter on a desk, potent and squat.
Then past his assistant’s desk and into his office. On the desk, that morning’s Press. He’d seen it already; I’d watched him lift it from his Riccarton doormat as I stalked him before dawn, but that was just a quick read, and this was the full check. Facing the far wall of his office he stood with head bent over the front page, scanning for mistakes.
Panting, I stood in the door, facing his back. He was still in his greatcoat, and so far, I judged, not upset. His shoulders hadn’t flared yet at what he’d seen—a printer’s smudge, a typo in some advertisement. I leaned against the doorjamb, getting my breath. I was pulsing—about to make contact. This was always a tingling moment.
Still with the paper at his face, he went round his desk. Then he sensed me in the door and looked up.
I wiped off sweat and stepped forward. ‘Mr Duff.’
His look was part-surprised and part-irritated. The beginning of the business day was still a long way off. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘I don’t remember an appointment?’
‘I don’t expect you to,’ I said. ‘I don’t have an appointment.’
He shrank back just a bit.
‘I’ve got a claim on you, all the same,’ I said. ‘A claim of blood.’
Now he lowered his copy of the Press and glanced at the door. I saw him calculate the threat. He wasn’t scared, but he was alert. The desk was in between us; we were about even height; he was thicker through the chest. Ten years on a farm, I remembered, he’d done his share of manual work. He’d be tougher than me, if it came to a scrap.
‘I’ve got a claim on you,’ I said. ‘It’s family business.’
He glanced at the phone. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Here’s a name you’ll recognise,’ I said. ‘Mr Franklin Duff—Frankie Duff, as they called him. Your contemporary, I’d judge.’
I studied his face while he searched the name, one hand curling unconsciously into his Press.
‘Frankie Duff,’ I said. ‘Father to Evie—my nan. She died two years back. I’ve assumed you’re a cousin of hers, an uncle perhaps.’
‘You’re here because of this Frankie Duff?’
‘We’re blood,’ I said. ‘I’m from the Duffs—although that name’s died out for us. It was on my mother’s side. It died out with Evie in 2010. That’s why I’m here.’
Still wary behind his desk, he gauged me, gauged my jeans and Icebreaker top.
‘But what’s this about?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ll explain that,’ I said, reaching for the documents on his desk. ‘Let me confirm the connection first.’
‘Wait, who are you? Where are you from?’
I rummaged on his desk, then looked up quickly, not stopping my search. ‘I’m from ... elsewhere, let’s say. I’ve come a fair distance.’
‘And you want this connection for?’
‘Like I said, it’s family business.’
I bent again to his papers—proofing sheets, a stack of correspondence, some of it potentially useful—but this time he pushed my fingers off.
‘Look,’ I said, losing patience. ‘It’s family business. It’s blood stuff. You have to let me look.’
He squared off at me now, and I recognised the look from other targets at such times—the outrage of the subject at my barging in to make contact. He wasn’t the first to react like this. I had a reputation. Many considered me dangerous. I was a family historian—self-appointed, but then most family historians are self-appointed—and my tenacity was what made me good. I’d hurt some people, offended some more, but published a lot. I’d made a profession of it; I had a thirst.
‘Step back, please,’ he said. ‘Get back.’ Again he fussed my fingers away from his desk.
‘Look, there’s nothing to worry about,’ I said.
Standing close now above his desk, we tussled for the papers until he shoved me and I staggered back.
‘Come on!’ I said. ‘I’m a Duff, more or less. Let me look.’
‘We’re not related,’ he said. ‘Get back!’
‘Yes we are,’ I said. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know any Frankie Duff. I’m from the Dunedin Duffs. I gather you’re from Christchurch. We’re not related, you and I—I’m a different Duff.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Let me check.’ Coming forward again I reached for his chin and tilted it, looking in the adjusted light for a trace of my nan in his face.
‘Get off me!’ he said. ‘We’re not related.’
‘You’re positiv
e?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Frankie Duff and I are not related.’
‘Damn it,’ I said. ‘I read about you—I thought ...’ I cast a look about his office. ‘Mind if I look around anyway?’
‘Yes, I mind,’ he said. ‘This is an office. Who are you, sir? How did you get in here?’ He waved to get my attention. ‘Sir?’
I was looking at the Press spreads and front pages framed on his wall—Victoria’s death, the opening of the Otira tunnel, Kingsford Smith. Not many, not as many as I’d hoped. In fact it wasn’t much of an editor’s office. Not very elaborate. Just a wooden filing cabinet, a stark desk. Nothing particularly 1930s, I thought.
‘But we’re blood,’ I said. ‘We have to be. We must be related. There must be something, if we trace far enough back.’
‘I’d like you to leave. I’m trying to run a newspaper here.’
I lunged towards him again. ‘I know—and I’d love to talk about that! You could tell me heaps of stuff. We could swap some notes. I’ve done lots of research. There must be something you want.’
‘Get out.’
Still I lingered before his desk, searching his face and his office. It was going to waste—we’d made this contact, and now he was letting it go to waste. ‘Come on!’ I said. ‘Can’t you try harder than this?’
‘Get out, please,’ he said. ‘This isn’t your place. There’s no family connection—we’ve established that.’
‘What, and you’re happy with that? We’re just strangers? Silence? You’d prefer that?’
But it was too late. His face was already fading. I clambered across the desk to get at it.
‘Come on!’ I said, reaching. ‘You won’t even talk?’
But it was done. He’d receded. His clothes and backdrop and hair, it all faded to black and white, and then out. Outside, I heard the street revert as well. It was all gone to waste. It was all quiet again, all broken and passed and quiet.
THE KNIGHT OF THE RANGE
Hazel ran into the bunkhouse with her gun drawn.
‘Hands up, mister,’ she said. ‘Reach.’
But the stranger didn’t lift his hands. Instead he faced the half-dozen cowboys alone, hands hovering over his guns. Across the bunkhouse Dillon gloated back at him, his arms spread along the sill. Sitting further along were the rest of Hazel’s cowboys, leaving Dillon to confront the intruder alone.
‘Didn’t you hear me, stranger?’ said Hazel. ‘I said reach, and I don’t see you reaching.’
Dillon was the first to acknowledge her. ‘Well howdy, Miss O’Connell,’ he said. ‘You’re just in time for our parley with this outlaw, here.’
Still the stranger didn’t turn.
‘Kit, will you explain this to me?’ said Hazel. ‘Why’s this man bailing up my foreman?’
Kit was her oldest and most trusted cowhand, hired by her father forty years before. ‘Well, Miss Hazel,’ he said, ‘here’s the first thing you need to know. That man there is Tom Slade.’
Hazel gasped and lowered her gun.
‘So I advise you to put away your shooting iron, Hazel,’ said Kit. ‘This ain’t no fight for a young lady.’
Hazel swallowed, then steeled herself anew. ‘Mr Slade, that’s my foreman there. Please explain why you’re staring him down.’
Now the outlaw spoke for the first time. ‘Stay out of this, Miss O’Connell. My beef’s with Dillon. I aim to kill him today.’
‘And just why is that, Mr Slade?’ said Hazel. ‘Or should I send for the sheriff right away? Lord knows I can’t take any more losses on this ranch, least of all my foreman.’
‘I repeat, please stand down,’ said Slade. ‘This is no fight for a lady.’
‘With respect, Mr Slade,’ she said. ‘I’m already part of this conversation. This is my bunkhouse, that’s my foreman, and you’re an outlaw wanted by every lawman in the county. Plus I have my forty-five trained on you.’
But the gunman didn’t even look at her. ‘Put away that peashooter, Miss. You can’t shoot fast enough.’
Now Dillon guffawed, as if to mock the outlaw for blustering, but Slade didn’t flinch.
‘All the same,’ said Hazel, ‘I need an explanation.’
‘This man’s been changing brands on your cattle, Miss O’Connell,’ said Slade. ‘For years he’s been rebranding your stock, two-facing you, and fleecing this ranch—and all the while pretending he’s your honest foreman. And he lied about me too, years ago. He blackened my name.’
To this Dillon laughed lazily. ‘What a lie.’ But Hazel caught the glance he cast her way, anxious to see how she was taking it.
‘What exactly are you saying, Mr Slade?’ said Hazel. ‘Make your point plain.’
‘This man’s a low-down rustler,’ said Slade. ‘He’s the reason your ranch has gone broke since your Pappy died. And I can prove it, too. I shot three of his gang today, and I have a dying man’s witness in my saddlebags, outside.’
Again Dillon made to laugh this off as bluff, but Kit interjected from further down.
‘It’s true, Miss Hazel. I’ve seen that witness paper with my own eyes. You can believe Slade.’
Dillon swore, then recovered quickly. ‘You don’t believe Tom Slade, do you, Miss Hazel? Some outlaw? I’ve worked this ranch for ten years!’
Hazel searched her foreman’s eyes. ‘And in all that time, Mr Dillon,’ she said, speaking slowly, ‘we’ve lost cattle every year. A thousand head here, fifteen hundred there. And you’ve never managed to find a single rustler, have you? Though you tried so hard—riding out after them every time and somehow losing the trail. The great mystery of the disappearing cattle, these last five years.’
Now all colour drained out of her foreman’s face. His eyes flicked round the room.
‘Looks like your talkin’s through, Dillon,’ said Slade.
‘The hell you say,’ flashed Dillon.
But his face was greasy with fear. Opposite him the gunman had gone into a crouch, his hands poised over his Colts. And Dillon seemed to realise his disadvantage, the arms he’d slung so confidently along the sill behind him now too far from his guns. As soon as he went to draw, he would telegraph his intentions to Slade—a gunfighter whose speed was legend.
Dillon was the first to break, his hand flashing down—but much too late. Slade’s big blue Colts were up already and they cracked and smoked, splitting the room with noise.
Through the vapour Hazel saw Dillon’s head slam back against the sill to rest there, a precise hole in the forehead leaking blood down over his right eye. Then Slade’s guns swooped over the rest of the cowboys.
Nobody moved.
‘Holster them guns, Slade,’ said Kit, from the side. ‘You know your beef ain’t with us boys. We’re loyal to Miss Hazel.’
‘I know that,’ said the outlaw. ‘I’m just taking precautions.’
Now Hazel reeled to a bench at the side and sat down, shuddering. Until today she’d never held a gun on any man, and now her ranch foreman lay bleeding on the bunkhouse wall.
‘You all right, Miss Hazel?’ Kit shouted across, still not moving.
Hazel breathed deep a few times, then looked up again. ‘You know this man, Kit?’ she said. ‘Tom Slade?’
‘Slade and I became acquainted some time ago, Miss Hazel,’ said Kit. ‘Since we both had a beef with Dillon’s rustlin’. But it seems he’s just solved that problem.’
Now Slade holstered his guns and turned. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Miss O’Connell,’ he said. ‘Good day.’
‘Wait!’ said Hazel.
But the gunman was already outside, stalking for his horse across the yard.
‘Mr Slade,’ said Hazel, running after him. ‘Why’d you fight for me? Why’d you kill Dillon?’
Slade paused at his horse, not facing her.
‘Answer her question, Slade,’ said Kit, ranging alongside. ‘You got nothing to fear now, not from Miss Hazel. I’ll see your name’s cleared.’
‘Please,’ said
Hazel, stepping forward. ‘I owe you everything, it seems.’
Slade lifted his head, and his blue eyes flashed across the yard. ‘That man outlawed me. He lied to save his own skin ten years ago, and fixed me with the blame for his crime. He gave me this life—this killer’s life—and all the while that I lived in the hills like a dog, outlawed, he prospered here, double-crossing a lady rancher every day. I couldn’t let that stand.’
Hazel stared at him, amazed. Tom Slade—it was a name to conjure fear all along the range. The gentleman cowboy turned bad, the courtly assassin of the big blue guns.
‘Mr Slade,’ she said, ‘will you work for me?’
‘Hell’s fire!’ said Kit. ‘That man’s a killer, Hazel. No offence, Slade.’
‘I don’t care,’ flashed Hazel. ‘He’s a gentleman. I can see that now. What do you say, Mr Slade?’
The offer had stunned the outlaw, but he was trying not to show it, standing silent with his eyes on the ground.
‘I’m deadly serious, Mr Slade,’ she said. ‘You saved my life, and I need a new foreman.’
Beside her Kit groaned, rubbed his forehead, then brought his hat down, slapping it on his thigh. ‘Aw Christ, how about it, Slade? I can’t persuade Hazel once she’s got an idea, and it ain’t such a bad one. This range is only going to get rougher, this next decade, and we sure could use straight-shooting men like you.’
Slade lifted his face now, and Hazel saw how deeply her offer had shaken him. He was not used to kindness, it seemed, at least not in recent times.
‘You saved my life, sir,’ she said. ‘I can’t describe my gratitude. And you know my situation. This is the one way I can repay you. I hope you’ll accept it.’
‘You heard the lady, Slade,’ said Kit. ‘She’s offering you a challenge. God knows it’s a grand one. All you see here,’ he said, pointing, ‘all this is O’Connell country. It’s range country like I’ve never seen, but it needs good men. That’s what Miss O’Connell is askin’ you. Are you good enough for this range?’
Grey snuffed the candle and laid his papers aside. His work was done. He’d risen early to write, but now the dark had lifted outside the tent and the birds were twittering. As he stepped out he found another miraculous morning, the air fresh and colourful, the sea not one hundred yards away and pushing a small swell at the sand. It thrilled him—this closeness of the New Zealand waters, pulsing with marlin and waiting for him.
I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales Page 16