by Jack Tunney
Hall slammed his fist onto the desk. “No, you wait a minute, son. Here's what happened. I reckon you stole the horse, but had second thoughts when you figured an easily recognisable pinto wouldn't be simple to sell. Once it was reported as stolen and gazetted you'd be stuck with it. Then you'd be arrested. So you returned it, but thought you'd keep the blanket for your trouble. When McCormack challenged you, you struck him and knocked him to the ground.”
“I didn't lay a hand on McCormack. The splaw-footed oath tripped over his own two feet. Ran into his own horse.”
“Let's leave that for the judge to decide, eh?”
“Judge be damned. You're not stitching me up with this one,” Kelly roared as he jumped to his feet.
Hall knew the boy would try to bolt and was ready. Moving with an agility that bellied his size, he leaped up and rounded the desk toward the door. He intercepted Kelly and took him by the scruff of the collar. Kelly struggled, trying to break free. Hall grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Let me go you wombat-bellied son-of-a...” Kelly yelled.
Hall didn't ease up, raising the twisted limb higher. Kelly grunted in pain, but stopped struggling. With his free hand, Hall clipped the youngster behind the ear, then dragged him back to the station's solitary prison cell.
The constable pushed the youthful cur inside, slammed the door shut, and slid home the bolt.
That would hold him.
***
As Ned sat on the wooden bunk inside the cell, he couldn't help think the whole affair had been a stitch-up from the start. Only two weeks had passed since his uncle, Patrick Quinn had been sentenced to three years imprisonment. Uncle Pat had been charged with violent assault.
The story was, in Wangaratta, Pat had gotten into a drunken scrap at a hotel. A bit of mischief to be sure, but no real harm done. He was about to leave when a trooper attempted to arrest him. Pat refused to go quietly. Instead he drew the stirrup from his saddle and spinning the iron by the leather strap, he tried to keep the trooper at bay. But the constable kept coming, insisting he was only doing his duty. Duty be damned. Pat cracked the stirrup-iron into the trooper's skull.
The trooper's name was Constable Hall.
It surely wasn't a coincidence the same Constable Hall had been transferred to Greta. Equally unlikely to be a coincidence, the same Constable Hall had just arrested Ned.
A stitch-up, it was. Hall wasn't doing his duty. He was claiming his revenge, and Ned was the innocent victim.
ROUND 3
INDECENT BEHAVIOR
WANGARATTA COURTHOUSE
EASTERN VICTORIA,
9 NOVEMBER 1871
“Walk softly, called the magistrate,
who counted up the score.
Walk softly, called the turnkey,
as he clanged the iron door.”
Ned Kelly (Shel Silverstein)
Ned couldn't believe it had been taken this far. He had done nothing but return a stray horse. But here he was in the small courtroom in Wangaratta. He had been transported in an iron wagon the day before and spent the night in the local lockup. His was the first case to be presented that day. He was lined up against the side wall with twelve other prisoners, who were also going to have their cases heard. They each had manacles on their wrists. Two armed troopers stood guard.
So much for innocent, until proven guilty, he thought.
The courtroom was crowded, the gallery full. But no-one was here for Ned. He had no lawyer either. He was on his own.
The crier, who was standing near the front bench, called, “All rise for Police Magistrate, Mr. A. C. Wills.”
Those present in the courtroom stood. The prisoners were already on their feet. From a back door, a thin man with small round-lensed glasses, and dressed in a black cloak, entered the room and crossed to the bench. He took a seat.
“Be seated,” Magistrate Wills said. Everyone sat down, except the prisoners. “First case?” he asked, addressing the crier, but not looking at him directly.
“Mr. Edward Kelly of Eleven Mile Creek,” the crier announced.
Ned didn't know what to do.
“Mr. Kelly, will you please approach the bench,” the magistrate said, the frustration in his voice was palpable. One of the troopers grabbed Ned's arm and swung him forward. “You have been charged with indecent behavior,” Wills continued, “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your honour,” Ned replied.
“Your plea is noted,” Wills said dismissively.
He then looked down at the paperwork before him, going over the arrest report and statement. The room was silent as he read. Ned watched him, noting the subtle sneering and shaking of the head.
Wills raised his eyes. “Call the witness,” he said.
“Mr. Jeremiah McCormack, will you approach the bench, sir,” the crier called.
Ned heard movement behind him. He saw McCormack making his way forward. He was dressed in a fine suit, was clean shaven, and held his hat in his hands before him. He looked every inch a gentleman, rather than the cowardly slug he was. The crier guided him to the witness box and swore him in.
“You have sworn a statement that Edward Kelly struck you several times, on the thirtieth of October, 1870 in the township of Greta. Is this correct, sir?” Wills asked.
“Yes, your honour,” McCormack replied.
“The altercation was about a horse?”
“Yes, your honour. My horse had gone missing, sir. He claimed to be returning it, but when I questioned him about it, he became abusive.”
“What was it that Mr. Kelly said to you?”
“I dare not repeat it, the language used was most vulgar,” McCormack stated.
“I appreciate your manners and discretion, Mr. McCormack, but if you please,” Wills said.
McCormack nodded. “He said, I will ride my horse over you and kill the [gulp] lot of you, you [gulp] wretches. I was afraid, sir. While he said this, he held a stirrup-iron and leather in his hand.”
Ned couldn't believe it. What a pack of lies. Hall had put McCormack up to it. The testimony about the stirrup iron was the key. Ned shook his head angrily. What chance did he have?
***
Ned could barely control his temper. The truth had been twisted beyond all reason. After listening to McCormack spin a tale so tall, it would have reached the clouds, Ned finally got his chance in the witness box. Not that he figured it would do much good. All he could do was describe events as they actually happened and hope the judge could see through McCormack's lies.
“What do you have to say in your defense?” Wills asked.
“Lies. It's a pack of lies,” Ned responded, almost yelling. “I had no stirrup iron in my hand. McCormack called me a flamin' liar. He said I stole his horse and rug, which vexed me, because I never stole anything from him. But I never struck him. No need to. The stupid fool, turned and ran into his own horse.”
“Are you suggesting his sworn statement and the arrest report from Constable Hall have been fabricated?”
“Yes I am,” Ned replied.
Wills shook his head. “This has gone on long enough, and it is clear you have no intention of admitting your guilt. I have many cases to get through today, so I will now pass sentence.” He looked Ned directly in the eyes as he spoke. “Edward Kelly, I find you guilty of indecent behavior and sentence you to six months hard labour at Beechworth Gaol. Walk softly, Mr. Kelly. I fear if you do not change your ways, your future will be a short one, finishing at the end of a hangman's noose.”
Wills banged his gavel down.
“Next case!”
ROUND 4
BORN TO BE WILD
IMPERIAL HOTEL
MANSFIELD, EASTERN VICTORIA,
12 MARCH 1871
Hotelier, Ethan Rogers looked at the clock on the wall for the sixth time in as many minutes. He was worried. It was almost one o'clock. Two young men were standing at the bar where they shouldn't. He had owned the Imperial Hotel for three y
ears. During that time he been forced to rebuild the front bar sixteen times due to damage. Drunken brawls were not uncommon, particularly when Wild Wright was in town. And Wright, a creature of habit, was due to arrive at any moment. Rogers, a tall loose limbed gentleman with thinning hair, suspected if the men didn't move soon, he may have to rebuild the bar once again.
Turning to the newcomers, he said, “Gentlemen, maybe you'd like to take a seat over near the window.”
One of the men, an under-chinned fellow with crooked buck teeth snarled, “Any law against us standing here at the bar.”
“No. Not at all...But...”
“But nothing. Why don't you just stick to what you're good at – pouring drinks – and mind your own damn business.”
Rogers shook his head and walked away. At least he had tried.
***
Isaiah Wild Wright didn't step aside for anybody. He didn't need to. At six-foot-two and topping two-hundred pounds, he was a force of nature. Full whiskered and with the fiercest pair of eyes you'd ever see, he worked hard as a horsebreaker during the week, and consequently liked to kick his heels up of a weekend. It wasn't uncommon for his socialising to end up in a scrap. He was often considered the unofficial bareknuckle champion of north-eastern Victoria.
The Imperial Hotel was his local, and every Saturday he'd arrive at 1:00 pm like clockwork, taking his usual position at the bar. The hotel regulars knew better than to take Wright's spot, lest they end up with a broken head. However passers-by did not know of the unwritten law.
Wright pushed through the hotel doors bang on time and was greeted by the regulars, who all knew him well. He nodded to his friends and as he moved toward the bar, he looked around the room. It was then he saw two men leaning against the counter in his spot. Normally he would have rushed across and flattened them. But he was in a good mood on this day. He'd ask them to move along instead. Good manners, never cost anyone, he thought. He weaved through the tables and sidled up next to the newcomers at the bar.
“I think you boys are drinking in my spot,” he said, his voice a mixture of mirth and menace. He had a smile on his face, but there was no mistaking the coldness in his tone.
The two men looked around. Wright saw they were little more than kids – maybe in their early twenties. The man standing closest to Wright had ginger hair and appeared to be attempting to grow his first moustache. His drinking companion had dark hair, narrow eyes and buck teeth.
“I didn't see your name on it,” Ginger said.
“It's not your spot today, lard-ass,” Bucktooth added.
They both laughed.
Wright recognised them for what they were – loud mouth kids trying to prove they were men. But it didn't mean he forgave them. He didn't like being treated like a dog in front of his friends. These pups needed to be taught a lesson.
Roger leaned across the bar between them with his arms spread. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, there's no need for trouble. There's plenty of room. Maybe you men would like a seat at the other end of the bar,” he said trying to keep the peace, and protect his furniture.
Bucktooth placed in his hand in Rogers' chest and pushed him away. Then both men stepped away from their stools and faced Wright.
“If you want your spot, you'll have to take it,” Ginger said grinning.
Wright didn't need to be asked twice. If the boys wanted to play, he'd play. He grabbed Ginger by the collar and dragged him away from the bar. As he released his grip, he balled his fist and smacked the loud-mouth on the jaw.
Ginger flew backward, hitting a table and chairs, much to the chagrin of the men seated there. As the table collapsed, glasses were broken and beer spilled across the floor. Angered, the men who had been seated at the table, scrambled to their feet and dragged Ginger off the floor. They then threw him back toward Wright.
“Finish 'im off, Wild, so we can get back to our drinking,” one called.
As Ginger staggered forward, he tried to throw a long looping uppercut. Wright sidestepped the blow and latched on to the man's arm. He swung him around and threw him back into the broken furniture.
While Wright's back was turned, Ginger's bucktooth partner rushed forward and threw a round-arm haymaker, catching Wright on the side of the head. Angered at being bushwhacked from behind, he turned quickly and pushed out three hard fast jabs. Bucktooth's head rocked back with each blow. While the man was dazed, Wright grabbed him by the scruff of collar and threw him across the bar. As Bucktooth rolled over the counter, he collided with a tray of empty beer glasses, which shattered as they struck the floor.
Rogers threw up his arms in frustration. “Wild, please! The damage!” he cried.
Wright saw the look of displeasure on Roger's face, and shrugged his shoulders. What could he do? It wasn't his fault the men wouldn't move.
As Wright turned, he saw Ginger back on his feet. He had blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and his eyes were full of fury and hatred. He picked up a broken wooden chair from his feet and charged at Wright. Holding it by the leg, he brought the crude weapon down over Wright's head. The chair shattered on contact, one leg flying off and hitting a large mirror behind the bar.
Rogers gritted his teeth.
Wright shrugged off the blow, then clenched his fists. Standing toe to toe, he unleashed a ferocious volley of punches. Ginger didn't know Arthur from Martha as the blows rained down upon him. He tried to protect his head by raising his arms in defence, but Wright swatted them away, then unleashed his trademark punch – a rugged haymaker – or a Wild-right, as the locals called it. It caught Ginger on the point of the jaw. The young man slumped to the floor, barely able to keep his eyes open.
Wright grinned as he looked down at the fallen man.
“I'll be taken my spot,” Wright said.
Ginger didn't answer, his head bobbing back and forward as he tried to focus. Wright could see the boy was done. The fun was over. He almost wished the fight could have gone a bit longer. He was only getting warmed up. Oh, well. So be it.
Wright turned and walked across to his favourite spot at the bar. Rogers was waiting. He didn't look happy.
“What'll it be?” he said joylessly, standing amongst the shards of broken glass and mirror.
Wright smiled. “I'll have a half of your finest porter.”
Rogers sneered, but dutifully crossed to the pump and poured a beer for the ferocious barroom brawler.
***
As the sun tucked itself behind Victoria's High Country Mountains, it was time for Wild Wright to call an end to his excessive drinking session. Not that he really wanted to, mind you. But he had a long journey to make on foot. He pushed away from the bar, and slapped his mate Seamus Cameron on the back.
“I gotta be goin',” Wright slurred.
“Already? Wha's about one more?” Cameron replied, holding up a boney finger. Cameron was Wright's polar opposite. He was a whisper thin man, who, if he turned side on, wouldn't even cast a shadow.
“What'd'ya mean already? We been drinking six hours,” Wright said. But then he considered one last drink. Why not? “You buyin'?”
Cameron nodded, and tucked his hand into his pocket. His expression turned glum as he realised he had spent everything he had. He turned his pocket inside out.
“I got nothin'” Cameron admitted sadly.
“That's it then,” Wright said.
He slapped his friend on the back once again. “I'll see you next week.”
On unsteady legs, Wright cut through the tables and headed through the door. Stepping down from the wooden verandah, he started to sing Wild Colonial Boy – or at least the words he could remember. “... born in Castlemaine – he was 'is father's only son – his mother's pride an' joy – and dearly did his parents love their Wild Colonial Boy...”
He repeated the same verse over and over as he made his way along the road to Miss Peakin's boarding house, where he was billeted. Miss Peakin's was three miles from Mansfield – a heck of a walk for a man in Wrig
ht's condition. But luck shined on Wright that fair evening. Up ahead, grazing by the side of the road in the half-light, was a chestnut mare with a white blaze. She was still saddled, the reins hanging to the ground over her shoulder.
Wright stopped in his tracks and looked around to see if the rider was about – maybe relieving himself in the trees.
“Hello there,” Wright called. There was no answer. “Anybody here?”
Still no response. It was just him and the horse.
He came to the conclusion the horse must have strayed. Wright moved closer, and as he got a better look at the beast, nodded his head in recognition. She belonged to Newland, the Postmaster. It appeared the mare had escaped once again from Maindample Park Station. The horse had done so before, and Wright had no doubt she would do so again. She appeared to have a knack for it.
Knowing the Postmaster wouldn't mind, Wright decided he'd borrow the horse for the evening to get him home.
“Easy, girl,” Wright said as he lurched forward.
The horse whinnied and moved away. Wright cursed silently and took another step forward, and slowly this time, held out his hand. He placed his hand behind the horse’s ear and stroked her neck. The horse stood steady.
“That's the girl,” Wright said, pleased with himself.
He took the reins in one hand and moved into position. With his free hand, he latched onto the saddle horn and heaved himself up. Once mounted, he slumped forward in the saddle and whispered in the horse’s ear.
“You're a beautiful creature, you are. You've gone an' saved my life.”
Slipping back in the saddle, he urged her forward, and continued his journey home, singing as he went, “Surrender now Jack Duggan – for you see it's three to one, Surrender now in the Queen's high name – you daring highway man, Jack drew two pistols from his belt – he waved them like a toy, I'll fight, but not surrender cried the wild colonial boy.”
ROUND 5