Dead Shot

by Wendy M Wilson

  She could see Frank’s brood mare Dolores watching her from the paddock, where she was being nuzzled by a knobbly kneed yearling who seemed to have forgotten she’d been weaned months ago. She was Frank’s first filly from Dolores, who was ten years old, and should be good for another five years of breeding. The filly wasn’t promising though, and Frank had been looking for a better sire to mate with Dolores. His old horse, Copenhagen, was grazing on the far side of the paddock, living out her days in peace. Mette envied her.

  Frank came from the house, buttoning up a cuff with one hand. He was wearing a smart new summer lounging suit with a pale grey jacket, a shirt with a white drill collar, a dark grey vest and drab Angola trousers: his best outfit that he’d bought when they were on their honeymoon in Wellington. He didn’t usually dress like that and it gave her a little thrill of pride, at the same time as it reminded her of their wonderful honeymoon.

  “You’re off to Patea?”

  “Well, Waitotara first, on the train, and then on by coach to Patea. I’ll be gone for a couple of days.”

  She pushed her trowel into the dirt and stood up. “Is this going to cost a lot? I could give you something from my book sales…”

  “That money is yours,” he said. “Spend it however you want. You work hard and you deserve to spend something on yourself.“

  She knew she should have told him how much it was. But he hadn’t seem interested…were they doing better from the farm than she believed?

  “It probably won’t cost much,” he continued. “Fifteen quid if I take Dolores up to Waitotara and meet the trainer there.” He looked over at Dolores, who was carefully avoiding the advances of her offspring. “But the breeder is interested in having someone bring the horse down here for a while, and I’m going to discuss it with him. It will be easier now that I have Boyle to help me out. He’s doing well so far.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “In a couple of days, depending on how the trains run. I’ll be at the Albion in Patea. You can telegraph me there if anything comes up. You’ll be alright by yourself for a couple of days, won’t you?”

  “Hemi’s here,” she said, wondering how she would telegraph him without taking the trap into town. Send Mr. Boyle, she supposed.

  “And Mr. Boyle, as I said…” said Frank.

  Mette looked at him for a minute, wondering if it was worth saying anything. “Do you trust him?” she asked finally.

  Frank put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, worried. “You don’t like him, do you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel…”

  “I could take you over to your sister’s place if you like. I’m taking John Bull into town and leaving her in the paddock at the Royal Hotel. We could ride together to Bunnythorpe.”

  Mette stood on her tip toes and kissed him. “You know how much I loved riding with you on Copenhagen. But John Bull is a bit more, what should I say? Livlig? Lively I suppose.”

  “I’d hold on to you,” he said, kissing her in return. “I’d enjoy that…”

  Mette laughed. “You’re just trying to tempt me…but I’d rather not go to Maren and Pieter’s for the night. Maren’s so busy with the three boys, and little Anna…and now she has Agnete’s two as well. She hardly has time to think.” Pieter and Maren had taken in Agnete’s children when Ernest refused to allow Agnete to keep them when they married. Everyone was so relieved that someone was willing to take Agnete that they had acquiesced to his demand. But it seemed strange that a mother would allow her children to be sent to live with someone else.

  “I could take the trap into town and stay at a hotel.” She knew what he’d say, but she might as well give it a try while he was feeling romantic.

  “No, that’s not a good idea. I have to give you some lessons first. I could send Wiki out to stay with you…if I can find her,” said Frank. Wiki, the older sister of Hemi and Hohepa, was a close friend of Mette’s.

  “She’s off somewhere,” said Mette. “She’s probably up in Poverty Bay visiting her mother…but she didn’t tell me.”

  “Should I not go?” asked Frank. “I can leave it for a few days if you like. I’m sure Mr. Milroy will wait…”

  Mette looked over at Dolores, who was ready to have more foals. She understood how Dolores must feel. “No, you go…but you know, I need to be able to protect myself, and not rely on you all the time…perhaps I should learn how to shoot…”

  Frank laughed and hugged her. “No need for that,” he said. “We’re not living at the front. And I hate to think of you holding a gun…but that gives me an idea…where’s Hemi?”

  Hemi reached out his hands for the rabbit gun, his eyes huge, as if Frank was about to give him a sceptre to hold.

  “Now Hemi, you know how to use this?” asked Frank as he handed it to him. “It’s a 380 bore Martini Zeller, good for up to a hundred yards. It’s powerful, but the rebound won’t knock you down.” He handed the rifle to Hemi.

  Hemi nodded, his eyes glued on Frank’s. “Yes Sergeant Frank,” he said. “I’ve used one like this for rabbits. I’m a good shot…”

  “Not just rabbits,” said Frank. “If Mrs. Hardy is in trouble, you have to help her. If any tramps come to the farm, you can run them off with the rabbit gun.”

  Hemi looked down at the gun resting in his arms. “If a tramp comes here, can I shoot him?”

  Frank tousled Hemi’s curly hair. “No Hemi, but if you see a suspicious character hanging about you can threaten him with the rabbit gun or fire a shot over his head. Don’t shoot directly at him.”

  “Make sure you aim high,” said Mette. “I don’t want you to kill someone accidentally.”

  She stood with her arm around Hemi’s thin shoulders and watched Frank ride off on John Bull.

  “I can teach you how to shoot a rabbit gun, Mrs. Hardy, if you like,” Hemi said, when Frank was well out of earshot.

  “I’d like that. Thank you Hemi. Where will you keep the gun? In the soddy…?” Right where Mr. Boyle could reach it? She thought not.

  “I’ll sleep with it under my mattress,” he said. “If anybody wants it, they’ll have to move me out of the way.”

  She laughed. He wouldn’t be a hard person to move. He was shorter than she was, and as thin as a rail. But he was wiry, and a fighter. She hoped he wouldn’t be tested.

  She walked back to her garden. Dolores was still gazing at her from the paddock. She put her hand on her belly wondering how Dolores felt when she carried a foal and wishing she could ask her. She would talk to Maren about it if they ever had time alone; she was dying to know if she was feeling what she thought she was feeling. She wasn’t sure yet. When she was, she would tell Frank. No sense in getting his hopes up for nothing.

  5

  Dead Shot

  Dead Shot looked at Frank with dark, intelligent eyes. A beautiful horse. Frank ran his hand over the horse’s shoulders and chest, then turned to Mr. Milroy’s trainer. “He’s a first class thoroughbred,” he said. “Good head, nice muscular neck, good shoulders. And look at the size of his chest. His heart must be massive.”

  “Look him up in the New Zealand stud Book,” said the trainer. “His grandsire was an Arab, hence the pure blackness and the increased speed and endurance. Mr. Milroy purchased him in Hawera in an estate sale; he was owned by the late Colonel Patterson of the Hawera Light Horse Volunteers -the colonel raced him all around Taranaki, won the Governor’s Cup and a few major races. The dam was Valetta, from McCarthy’s’s stud farm. An impeccable lineage.”

  Frank had taken a long, wearying train ride from Palmerston to Wanganui, connected there to the Waitotara train, and then travelled on from Waitotara in the coach to Patea. He couldn’t imagine Dolores being happy about such a trip. But Dead Shot was a different story. He would manage the trip down by sea. Frank knew a trooper when he saw one. He’d been interested in taking the horse before he saw him, and now he was sure. This was a horse that would make money for
him.

  “John Jordan, the owner of the saddlery in Palmerston, told me you might have a proposition,” he said. “The owner wants to send the horse away for a while?”

  The trainer eyed Frank up and down. “He did say something about sending him away,“ he said. “But you’ll have to talk to him yourself. Have a military background, do you?”

  “I fought in the Maori Wars - Taranaki and later against Titokowaru. Before that India and Crimea…will that matter?”

  “It might,” said the trainer. “Could make him more interested. Are you set up to take care of the horse? D’you have plenty of help?”

  “I have a couple of…men,” said Frank. “As a matter of fact, I just hired a very experienced man, also with a military background. I’d like to take on Dead Shot - as long as the war holds off.”

  “Come and talk to Mr. Milroy later today, after tea,” said the trainer. “See if the two of you can come to an agreement. You may even catch him at the hotel…I assume you’re staying at the Albion? He dines there sometimes.”

  On the way to the hotel, Frank ran into a group of volunteer rifles marching towards the hill that ran down to the wharf, kicking up a column of dust behind them. They moved in tight formation and wheeled towards the river without missing a beat. Off to the front, by the look of them, and well-enough trained to be of use when they got there. He obviously had more work to do, to get his men to that level of readiness. Of course, the government were probably sending the best of the volunteer troops up to the front in Parihaka, and his men were unlikely to be needed. A native contingent of thirty-two armed constables had recently left from Foxton, and they would be more effective than his own mostly English volunteers. The whole thing would be over in a few weeks.

  He’d booked a room at the Albion Hotel on Egmont Street, which ran directly towards the perfectly-shaped mountain looming over the town. He dropped his bag in his room and went downstairs to the billiard room to see if he could get a game in before dinner. A young woman about Mette’s age, with disheveled dark hair and dark circles under her eyes was knocking the balls listlessly from one end of the table.

  “Hello. Would you like to play, then?”

  He’d seen too many women like her not to understand what she was saying.

  “Ah…I was looking for Mr. Milroy…I heard he…”

  “Mr. Milroy doesn’t come here,” she said. “He’s a templar. He’d as soon cut off his hand as take a drink…”

  “I must have misunderstood,” said Frank. “I need to talk to him about his horse…”

  “Dead Shot, do you mean?” She picked up the billiard cue and smiled at Frank. “He’s a right one, he is. I have a filly out of him. Had one, I mean to say…”

  “Something happened to the filly?”

  “Stolen. Disappeared from the paddock in the middle of the night. A beautiful horse she was, with a star right between the eyes, but crooked. We called her Starcrossed.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Frank. He doubted a woman like this one owned a horse, but you never could tell.

  She stared at him for a minute, reading the look on his face. “I have several horses,” she said finally. “My late husband, Dennis O’Sullivan, left them to me. He died recently. I run the farm now, but it’s hard…”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “His trap flipped on the road,” she said. “And landed on top of him. He was killed.”

  “And you lost a horse as well? That was unfortunate.”

  She nodded. “I’m not the only one either,” she said. “Mr. Milroy lost a filly out of Dead Shot, and Mr. McCarthy had a filly hamstrung. Another filly from Dead Shot. And Mr. Milroy’s stable boy…”

  “Your husband owned a farm?” asked Frank. It sounded as if the offspring of Dead Shot were jinxed. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have the horse on his farm. He didn’t believe in jinxes, but he’d seen them in action, even so.

  “He was a baker, but he always liked having a few horses,” she said. “Ever since he was in the army. He left me the horses in his will.”

  “The army? Which regiment?” asked Frank.

  “The 57th,” she said. “He was a …”

  “A Die Hard,” said Frank. “I’m an ex-Die Hard myself. I could have fought with him…”

  “Lots of ex-Die Hards in Taranaki,“ she said. “He made it through the wars, with all that killing, then he got killed in a stupid accident. His cart lost a wheel and overturned. He was caught underneath and broke his back.” She stared at the billiard table, tapping her fingers on the edge. “They said he died right away, that he didn’t suffer…”

  Frank had heard that story before. His captain in the 57th had written many letters to the families of men who had died, and always told the grieving widow or mother that their beloved husband or son had died instantly and had not suffered. He left the billiard room, unsure what else there was to say, regretting his assumptions. Life could be difficult for widows. He should write a will and take out an insurance policy against his own life. Mette would need the money if anything happened to him. The trouble was, he would need money to buy insurance and right now there wasn’t any to spare.

  Frank ate his dinner, a thick slice of roast beef with roasted potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, all swimming in gravy, and returned to Milroy’s stables feeling somewhat dyspeptic. Strange that Dead Shot’s offspring had been attacked like that. Was it a good idea to breed his mare with the stallion, if someone had something against the owner? Mrs. O’Sullivan’s horse had been stolen, however, rather than hurt. Everything else could just be a coincidence.

  Mr. Milroy greeted him at the stable door, and shook his hand. He was a solid horse breeder of the type Frank knew, dressed in dark grey tweed suit with a felt hat pulled low, and bushy whiskers flowing down over his shirt collar. “I hear you’re interested in Dead Shot…”

  “I am,” said Frank. He’d decided to be cautious about telegraphing his interest in the horse, to see how keen Mr. Milroy was first. “But Mrs. O’Sullivan said some of Dead Shot’s offspring have been interfered with, and she had one stolen…”

  “Don’t pay too much attention to her,” said Milroy. “She hasn’t been the same since her husband died. She’s become a very loose woman, hanging around the saloons. Probably left the gate open and the horse took off…”

  “But haven’t other horses been hobbled?” asked Frank.

  “Just the usual mischief.” Milroy waved his hand to underscore the insignificance of the problem. “Nothing to worry about. Nothing has happened. And I’ll make it worth your while to take Dead Shot, if you’re interested. I charge three guineas a mare plus groom’s fees - five guineas for two at a time. You could keep four for yourself. ”

  “I might be interested,” said Frank, mentally calculating the possible take. “I’d have to tell customers about the history, of course.”

  The door to the stable creaked open and a boy of around fifteen, his head swathed in bandages, peered in. “Mr. Milroy.”

  “What is it Tommy?”

  “Mr. Gibson says he doesn’t want to mate Live Lady with Dead Shot. He says…”

  “Never mind Tommy,” said Milroy. “Be off now.”

  Tommy left, closing the door slowly behind him.

  “What happened to him?” asked Frank. Mrs. O’Sullivan had said something about a stable boy…

  Milroy sighed and stared at the ground. After a few minutes he looked up.

  “I can’t lie to you,” he said. “It’s worse than I said. If you’re going to take Dead Shot I have to be honest about the problems.”

  Frank waited and said nothing.

  “A filly of mine was killed…out in the yard. We thought the horse did it…”

  “Dead Shot killed a filly?”

  “Well, no. Not as it turned out. We thought at first that he’d killed the filly. And wounded the boy you just saw as well.”

  “And now
you don’t think so? Can’t the boy - Tommy is it?- tell you what happened?“”

  “He got knocked on the head at the same time,“ said Milroy. “Can’t remember a thing. He wasn’t up to much in the first place, but the hit rattled his brains even more…”

  “Was there an inquest?”

  “Mr. Horner, the veterinary surgeon, said the horse did it,” said Milroy. “Dead Shot. He said Dead Shot killed the horse and kicked the boy. We found the horse standing over the filly. I couldn’t quite believe it. He’s been a very calm horse up till now. But then…” He gestured with his head towards the gloom of the stable. “Come and look what we found yesterday.” He walked over to the wall and took down a long stick with a nob on one end. “You know what this is?”

  “It’s an Irish stick,” said Frank, turning it in his hands. “A shillelagh I think they call it.” He touched the rounded nob on the top of the stick. “What’s this stuff on top? Is it blood?”

  “My trainer found it in a ditch yesterday,” said Milroy. “It’s a good stick, and he was wondering why someone would throw it away. He was showing it around, and one of my grooms recognized it. He claims it belonged to a groom who left suddenly around the time the filly died. We’d assumed he’d found the filly and taken off so he wouldn’t get blamed for being asleep. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what we thought. But when we found his stick…well, now I’m inclined to think he killed the filly and made it look like Dead Shot did it. And I have an idea why.”

  Frank waited.

  “I’ve been getting pressure from the Australians,” he said. “You know about them?”