Wanted Dead by Kenneth Cook Page A

other struggled on alone for a few moments then his scraping too died away.
    There was some sort of confusion in the doorway again, Riley could hardly see over the heads of the crowd, but more men seemed to be coming in and forcing their way through.
    The harsh voice of the old shanty-owner sounded over the babble of talk and scraping feet: “Just stay where you are Martin Kingston. Just stay where you are.”
    He seemed to be talking to the man who was threatening to leap over the bar. The man answered, but Riley, who was only ten feet away, couldn’t hear him.
    The crowd began to fall back from the middle of the shanty and Riley saw half a dozen men, revolvers in hand, coming through towards the bar.
    Leading them was James Hatton, huge and bearded, a revolver in each hand and several more stuck in his belt.
    Riley for a moment regretted the revolver he’d left in his saddle bag, then was glad he had because otherwise he might have been tempted to do something absurd. Not that the temptation would have been great. The crowd was falling back before the armed men and Riley found himself crushed into the corner, finding it difficult to breathe, much less move. But because of his position against the bar he could now see quite clearly everything that was happening.
    The men with Hatton spread out on either side of him, urging the crowd back towards the walls. A few women screamed, but everybody moved back, the men warily eyeing the revolvers being aimed at their stomachs.
    The man who’d been chasing Johnny Cabel, Riley remembered that that was the youth’s name, fell back when Hatton approached.
    Hatton stopped within a few feet of the bar. He gestured at the cringing boy, but spoke to his father.
    â€œI want him, Dan,” Hatton said, his deep vibrant voice rising clear above the noises in the shanty. As he spoke everyone fell silent and still, as though striving to listen.
    â€œWhy?” came the harsh gravelly monosyllable from the old man. Riley realised that the old man’s head, bent over the bar as he was, was still on a level with Hatton’s. And Hatton, he knew, was six foot three.
    â€œHe’s a traitor,” said Hatton. The youth had stoppedwhimpering now and was staring fixedly at Hatton. He still clung to his father’s arm, like a small boy.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” said the old man, who still had not changed his position.
    The bushranger seemed to be treating old Cabel with some respect, thought Riley. Jane Cabel squirmed out of the crowd at the far end of the shanty and made her way to the bar. None of the bushrangers interfered with her. She stood in front of the bar in front of Hatton.
    â€œYes, why do you say that, James Hatton?” she said bravely enough, thought Riley. But she looked white and drawn. Perhaps she was sick.
    â€œI’m sorry about this, Janey,” said Hatton, “but he had something to do with that business up at the cave.”
    Riley saw for the first time that there was a livid, fresh scar, running from the bushranger’s temple to his chin, cleaving a line through his beard. Had Riley done that with his sword? Had Hatton been the anonymous rider he’d struck down on Lightning Fork Ridge?
    â€œHe did not,” cried Jane Cabel: “Did you, Johnny?” She turned to her brother.
    John Cabel shook his head.
    â€œThere, you see,” said Jane to Hatton, as though something had been proved.
    Hatton motioned with his hand to one of his followers and the man went over and stood by the door leading out into the kitchen.
    â€œCome out here, Johnny,” said Hatton, “I want to talk to you.”
    â€œYou can talk to him from there,” said the old man. Hatton hesitated. Riley wondered what it was that made him respect the shanty owner. It couldn’t be hissheer size. The man was enormous, but he was very old. And Hatton was armed.
    â€œYou set the traps on us, didn’t you, Johnny?”