still damp. ‘Although I do have proof that my cattle, fifty head or more, have been wandering on your land since well before Christmas,’ Hamish lied smoothly. ‘I have also informed the relevant authorities about the diversion of the drain.’
‘A clever tactic, I’ll grant you that, Gordon. It will not help you though. My trackers will have your men rounded up before the police arrive.’
Hamish laughed. ‘And my men will tell the constabulary that marauding blacks herded your escaped cattle onto my land.’
Crawford spluttered. ‘The thing is, Gordon, your reputation condemns you. Especially now you are wounded and standing here in my house uninvited. I know of your early dealings in Ridge Gully, of the pedigree of your first wife’s family.’
Hamish struck out with his hand and, even with his strength failing him, managed to wallop Crawford such a blow that the portly man crashed against the wall. A painting fell to the ground. ‘That is the second time in as many months that you have caused offence. There will not be a third, you foppish turd.’
Oscar ran a hand over the livid mark on his cheek. ‘I’m betting your dear wife doesn’t know of your messy history.’
‘We’ll have it out now,’ Hamish limped after Oscar as he walked to the verandah. ‘With my wound we should be evenly matched,’ he snarled.
Oscar walked twenty feet away from Hamish and then turned on him. The rifle was loaded and cocked. ‘I’ll say that you tried to attack me and that I shot in self-defence.’
‘You arrogant, trumped-up Englishman. Always thinking yourself better than others with your airs, but if the truth be told you don’t know how to fight fair. You never have.’
Crawford lifted the rifle.
Hamish didn’t wait for the shot to be fired. He rushed at Crawford, brandishing the nulla-nulla, immediately the sharp crack of gunfire echoed and Hamish felt hands pushing at him, slamming him into the wall. He looked across to see Luke, thrown backwards by the closeness of the shot, lifeless, his red blood staining the wooden boards.
With an almighty roar Hamish crossed the short distance to a stunned Crawford and, grabbing his pudgy neck, wrapped his hands about his throat. He lifted the Englishman into the air, oblivious to the torture of the added weight on his injured leg. He held on as the man spluttered, dropped the rifle and didn’t let go until Crawford’s eyes bulged and the stink of a bowel release stenched the air. The man fell to the ground, dead. Hamish stared at the corpse. This was not his first murder, but it was one that could lead to the undoing of his family.
He staggered back to Luke, gently turning him over. The bullet had gone clean through his shoulder. Luke, momentarily stunned into silence, looked up at his father’s ragged face. Hamish gave the briefest of smiles before collapsing.
‘Father.’ Angus ran to his father’s side.
‘Holy frost, Angus,’ Luke growled, leveraging his body up into a sitting position. ‘Can’t you do one thing you’re told?’
The boy ignored him. Hamish was breathing heavily, Crawford was dead. Luke wondered how the hell he was going to get everyone out of here.
‘Angus, you got your horse?’
The boy nodded between his tears. He was stroking his father’s face. Willy popped his head up from the end of the verandah. ‘Mebbe take my horse.’
There was the sound of running feet. Luke reached for his own rifle, pointed the barrel towards the doorway. Willy ducked out of sight. A beak-nosed man and three black faces showed themselves before screaming and running in the opposite direction. Luke sat for some minutes, considering unfeasible options. Flies settled on his wound, and massed also about his father. He pulled himself closer to where Hamish lay. His father’s clothes were muddy and torn; there was a bloody wound to his thigh.
‘Horses,’ Willy yelled. ‘Two.’
Luke rested his rifle across his legs. Payback was coming.
‘Burn the place.’ Hamish’s voice cut strongly across his thoughts. Luke watched his father lift a bloody hand to Angus, cup his boy about the neck and draw him close. ‘Burn it,’ he growled.
‘Do it,’ Luke agreed. ‘Willy, go with Angus. Start a fire. A big one. Stack all the wood you can find in the kitchen and light it up.’
As the men galloped to the homestead gate, Angus picked up Crawford’s rifle and ran behind the house with Willy. Luke guessed that the rather flashily dressed white man was none other than Crawford’s son. The boy had drawn a pistol