Haines waited until the cart carrying the dead man was well behind them and on its way to town before he sent his men back to his home property. The sight of the Robinsons had unsettled him. Why were they out and about carting the dead body?
He needed to be at the Bayley place in a hurry so he doubled back to the track. Uneasy, unnerved, he didn’t like to think that there’d been anything left that needed tidying up. The stupid bastards who worked for him mightn’t have done the job properly, but at least it had been Morgan shrouded in the cart. Was he alive when they found him? Had he said anything? Dammit, not like he could bloody ask.
The Bayley place had to be ready for him, with no loose ends floating about to attract the wrong sort of attention. Bad enough the woman’s grave was fresh. He wondered if it could be shifted, that and her kid’s grave. Get rid of them both.
At the hut door he dismounted. It surprised him to see shots had been fired at the dwelling. He hadn’t noticed that before. Shards of timber had been blown off the doorjamb, and the wall was peppered with holes. He put his nose to one then peered at it. It was recent, real recent. A short tree branch lay shattered on the ground not far from his feet, white sap pebbling on its jagged edges. There’d been other trouble out here. Pulling at his collar, he thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t around at the time. Things could have backfired. Before long, he’d raze this hovel to the ground and thrash any interlopers he found causing a ruckus—
Was anyone still inside? He loosened his shoulders. Swallowing the spit filling his mouth, he pushed open the door and stared into the light room. No one here, thank Christ. He let out the breath he’d been holding.
I have to defend what’s mine. This is my property.
It’s not yet, a faint voice in his head pointed out.
Bugger it.
He kicked the dirt under his feet, despising the nervous sweat that dripped under his shirt, snaking its way to his belly. When he got back to town, he’d warn off the temporary trooper with a good blast of indignant landowner fury, then he’d give that no-hoper Robinson a box around the ears, lay him out for a week. That’d put the district on notice, that he, Ernest Haines, wasn’t to be tackled. Things would settle down then.
Outside, standing at the back of the hut and facing the river, he stared across the serene water to his property in the neighbouring colony. He was safe, he just needed to play it calm. And stay calm. No one would know it was him who—
‘Mr Haines.’
He spun, saw two men mounted, and in tatty uniforms. Jesus. Crept up on him. He recognised them from when they’d first tramped into the police station that morning: Sergeant Bill and Constable Porter. Didn’t like ’em then, didn’t like ’em now.
‘How do,’ he said, his voice firm despite his guts taking a turn. What are they doin’ here?
‘We meet again,’ the sergeant said, all congenial. ‘This your place?’
‘Good as.’
‘We were watching from the scrub earlier. Saw you pass a cart on the main road.’
‘That’s right.’ Sweat dripped again. That could also mean they’d seen him get rid of his men and turn back here alone.
‘We’re looking for a fugitive. The cart was carrying a wailin’ woman, leaning over a body maybe.’
Haines sniffed. Steady. Wiped a hand over his mouth. ‘It was a body. Some fella by the name of Morgan.’
‘That all you got?’
‘Fitz Morgan.’
Sergeant Bill nodded at Porter, his offsider, and muttered something about O’Shea under his breath. The local trooper, of course. Haines couldn’t read the look that passed between the two men.
‘Dead?’ the sergeant said to Haines.
‘A body, yeah.’ Thick as two planks. ‘Uh, something musta happened out here, but the constable’s got it in hand, looks like.’ Haines steadied his horse and mounted. Best to lead these two away from the property. ‘Visit the police station if you need more information.’
Porter leaned forward. ‘But the bloke in the back of the cart was dead, right?’
‘What I said,’ Haines snapped, then backed off. ‘He was all covered over and that female was bawlin’ her eyes out sittin’ with the body. Dead enough for ye?’
Sergeant Bill straightened, his mouth working as he chewed back a grin. ‘Well, well.’ Seemed dead enough made him happy. ‘Still, we’ll verify with the local constable. Means our journey might have come to an end, if that’s the case.’ He sat for a moment. ‘The woman in the back. Who was she?’
‘No idea. Not from around here. That big bloke seemed to have his eye on her.’
The sergeant’s brows rose. ‘Ah yes, him. And the man and woman driving?’
‘Local nobodies.’
‘I see.’ He tipped his cap and looked about to wheel his horse when he said, ‘One more thing. Mind if we take a look inside?’
‘Go ahead. I’ll be pulling it down the moment the place is signed over to me. It’s barely more’n a humpy.’ Haines watched as they led their horses to the shade of a tree.
And hurry up about it. Don’t want no trooper poking his nose in.
His sweat was still dripping as Bill and Porter dismounted and wandered past him to the door, a hot and musty odour in their wake. It was only when the sergeant put his fingers to the gunshot splintering the doorjamb and laughed, that the sweat chilled and rolled into Haines’s pants.
He needn’t be worried. He was as safe as can be. The nasty taste in his mouth slid down his throat. No one other than his men knew he’d clobbered Fitz Morgan with a rock and left him to die.