* * *
It was getting dark when the two riders reined in on the hill overlooking Hawkins Grove. Frank O’Connor spoke first. “What about Ned Willis?”
Robert removed the pistol from his belt and checked that it was loaded. “I will see to our Mr Willis. You know what you have to do?”
“Yes, set the barn alight to get the men out of the house,” replied Frank.
Frank had spoken to the stagecoach driver in Gladstone and had obtained a good description of the bushranger. He had found himself a brown coat, a wide-brimmed hat and a grey horse. The plan was to allow himself to be seen fleeing into the bush after setting the barn on fire, the bushranger would be blamed for everything that happened at Hawkins Grove tonight.
Frank made his way down the hill and then veered off to the right so as to bring himself up behind the barn out of sight of the house. Robert rode his horse north, away from the house until he came to the small timber hut in a clearing. He dismounted from his horse, drew the pistol from his belt, and walked up to the door. Using the butt of the pistol he hammered on the door.
“Who is it?” inquired a gravelly voice from within the hut.
Robert didn’t reply, he just hammered on the door again and stepped back a little, and to one side. Ned would come out with his shotgun at the ready, he could be sure of that. An angry Ned Willis opened the door. He didn’t have time to swing the gun around. Robert shot him in the centre of his forehead. Ned’s eyes rolled in surprise and then went blank as he crumpled to the ground.
Frank looked at his pocket watch. Robert would have had time to get into position by now. He knelt down and struck the flint, sending sparks into the dry hay, it burst into flames. Frank watched the flames leap into the air as he turned to mount his horse. Then, something clicked in his mind. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He knew that Jim Hawkins would come into the barn to try and release the horses. This was his chance to settle his account. Jim Hawkins would die in the fire.
He led his horse out the rear of the barn and tied it to a tree a safe distance away. He checked the pistol tucked in his belt to make sure it was loaded. He returned to the now blazing barn and picked up a pitchfork. Then, he stood calmly, and waited behind the door.
“Father, the barn is on fire!” yelled William from the kitchen window.
“Go and get Billy and the other workers, I will try and get the horses out.” Jim rushed out and ran across the yard to the barn door. He flung it open and stepped inside and it was then he saw the smiling, sadistic face of Frank O’Connor. A bale of burning hay fell from the loft above causing Jim to lurch to one side. It saved his life as the pitch fork went deep into his shoulder. The pain was excruciating as Frank drove the sharp tines deeper.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” yelled Frank as he withdrew the fork and was poised to deliver the final blow to Jim’s chest. Jim was still on his feet, but only just, as his eyes were blurred and his feet unsteady. He backed away, at the same time he noticed several bales of burning hay sitting precariously on the edge of the loft and about to fall.
“You won’t get away with this,” yelled Jim, above the crackling roar of the fire. He moved around in a semi-circle, Frank followed him and was now directly below the burning bales. “You and Robert are finished, Constable Hopwood will see to that.”
“See to what, you will die in the fire. Lillian will be killed by a bushranger seen fleeing from the house. There will be no evidence to connect us to your deaths.”
For a brief moment Jim was overcome with anger. He wanted to rush at Frank, but he knew that was tantamount to suicide. Jim taunted him some more as he watched the bales from out of the corner of his eye. “It’s all over, Frank.”
“Die you bastard,” said Frank as he raised the fork. It was then that the burning bales fell and landed right on top of Frank. He dropped the fork and fell to the ground. His clothing was alight. Frank O’Connor knew he was in mortal danger as he grappled for the pistol in his belt, he could smell burning hair, his own hair. Rolling onto his back he swung the pistol up, but he was too late. He saw the hovering Jim Hawkins and felt the piercing pain as the tines of the fork entered his chest. He stared up at Jim with pure hatred in his eyes as he tried to lift the pistol.
“This is for all the suffering and pain you have caused Lillian, you bastard.” Jim pushed the fork in further. The pistol fell from Frank’s fingers; he was dead.
Matilda and Lillian stayed in the sitting room of the house. From here they could see the burning barn. Billy had arrived with the other workers. Matilda heard the back door open and close. She went to see who it was.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as Robert Langley walked towards her. He drew a pistol from his belt and aimed it at her. Matilda felt faint.
“Where is your mother?” he demanded.
“In the sitting room,” replied Matilda with a quiver in her voice.
“Matilda, who is it?” asked Lillian when she heard voices in the passage. Then, she saw Matilda backing into the room with fear etched on her face. She understood why, when she saw Robert with the pistol.
“You are so bloody predictable, Robert,” said Lillian as she stood defiantly in front of him. Matilda stood beside her mother; she was trembling with fear as she held on to her mother’s arm.
“Lillian, I would have never recognised you, but I do recognise your wit and sarcasm.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Finishing what I should have done eighteen years ago, pity about your daughter: she will have to die too.”
“It was you who stole the amulet.”
“Of course, it is the only real evidence that you could use to confirm who you really are.”
“You are so sure of yourself, Robert, so sure that you will end up with all the money and the power that it will bring. Fate has a way of dealing with people like you.”
“I would call it opportunity, for you see, your deaths will be blamed on the bushranger that is loose in the district. Everything will finally be mine,” said Robert as he aimed the pistol at them. “Who wants to go first?”
There was no mistaking the mechanical sound of the hammer on a gun being drawn back.
“Opportunity,” repeated the husky voice behind him. “That is something I know a lot about.”
Matilda knew the figure in the doorway. It was the bushranger who had robbed the stage. She held her mother tightly as she felt the tension building in the room. The smirk on Robert’s cruel face had gone.
“Drop the gun,” commanded the voice.
“I think they call this a Mexican standoff,” said Robert as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament.
“Either way, you die,” said the voice.
Lillian noticed the flickering of Robert’s eyelids, his nervousness was showing.
“We can come to some sort of arrangement, name your price,” said Robert. It was followed by several moments of tension-filled silence. Robert was sweating underneath his clothes.
“As you intended to blame me for the deaths of these fine people, which would be a hanging offence, I would have to ask for at least a thousand pounds.”
“It’s a deal,” said Robert, the smirk returned to his face. He heard the hammer being released on the gun. The fool has fallen for it, thought Robert as he swung around with his pistol at the ready. His eyes opened wide as he saw his mistake. The bushranger held a double-barrel shotgun. He had only released one of the hammers.
The blast hit him full in the chest, and drove his flaying body past Matilda and Lillian to the other side of the room.
“No deal,” said the bushranger, lowering the smoking shotgun. “Are you two all right?”
“Yes,” stammered Lillian, looking across at the crumpled body of her brother.
“I think we should get out of here, to the kitchen maybe.”
“How can we ever thank you,” said Lillian, sitting down at the table. Matilda’s hands were shaking
as she tried to make some tea.
“You can thank me with some supplies and by helping me write a letter. Here, let me do that,” said the bushranger as he took the boiling kettle from Matilda. “You sit down and rest.”
Matilda gave him a puzzled look. “A letter?” she quizzed.
“You can write, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Matilda.