Chapter Twenty-four – The Man on the Hill

Kahl rode cross country in weak moonlight, consulting the southern cross to ensure that he never strayed far from his heading. Storms roved far out in the fringes, flashing with lightning, but too distant for thunder to carry. The air itself was thick with insect life and deep humid scents that had been unearthed by the rain.  

The wound in Kahl’s thigh was painful and his limbs stiff. He knew that if he did not get medical care, the wound might eventually fester and possibly kill him. Until then, however, he would shoulder the pain and carry on, alert and focussed.

Lainey had already tried to ride away once, but he had noticed her edging away and was ready, firing over her head and swearing that the next bullet would be in her back. From then on, he secured her stallion with a long rope to his own. Her curses and mutters grew less frequent, and she seemed to plod on with dull acceptance.

They crossed a swiftly flowing Creswell Creek at first light, and the glow of dawn came dramatically, like a goblet of light poured into the eastern edge of the plains. Everything turned to russet-gold – the seed heads of the grass, the branches of bauhinia and kurrajong trees, rocks, and the soil itself. With this light came optimism, and Kahl felt encouraged enough to start thinking about his situation tactically. Ahead was a small but rugged hill – a chance to get high enough to spot riders in pursuit.

With the sun rising, Kahl, his captive and the packs climbed the first slopes, wending their way upwards, avoiding the steepest ground. He stopped them in a rocky bowl near the peak, with a view of the approaches. From there he looked searchingly to the east – the direction from which any pursuit must come. Nothing. Not yet.

The best course of action, he decided, was to sort through the mail, find the envelope he needed, along with any cash or valuables he stumbled on, and dump the rest, along with the surplus horses. The packs were slowing him down, and there was no point carting such a large volume of mail. Then, light and swift, he would head west towards Newcastle Waters, the nearest station on the overland telegraph line, which he could use to report his success to Bartlett in Melbourne. There would also, he hoped, be a doctor nearby, to care for his wound.

It would be a long ride, about a hundred miles of brown soil or red sandy plains, peabush flats and occasional ridges. But there were no impassable barriers, and he would make good time – two, maybe three days if he pushed hard and his health did not give out.

Kahl had been thinking about how Lainey would fit into these plans. In the short term she might prove useful, for he was expecting that Will Jones would come after him. He would keep her, for a day or two, as a human shield, but there would be no place for the woman once he reached the telegraph line. Elaine Jones was a wild, spiteful thing, full of bad language and anger. When her usefulness was over, she would need a bullet and a hole in the ground, and he would not shirk from giving it to her.

Now, dismounting, and forcing Lainey down from her own horse, he let her drink from one of the many puddles in the stone, tied her ankles and hands and sat her down. This done, he drank a bellyful himself, tethered the horses and started unloading the packs.

‘What are you doin’?’ Lainey asked.

‘Nothing. Just shut up.’

‘I need somefin’ to eat.’

He drew his pistol and aimed it at her. ‘I told you to shut up.’

Lainey said nothing, just wiped her filthy face on the crook of her elbow and glared at him.

He started by getting the mail bags out of the panniers, and he was smart enough to sort through these by opening them in turn and looking at one or two letters from inside. He put aside the bags collected from Avon Downs, Alexandria and Brunette. He also identified those destined for Anthony’s Lagoon, Creswell, Valhalla and Macarthur River.

The Territory mail seemed to be made up of four bags, and Kahl emptied them out on a smooth slab of rock. Then, using another bag as a cushion, he sprawled painfully on one buttock, changing positions often to keep the pain from his wound at bay. He started sorting through the mail, making an untidy pile of those that he was discarding. He knew that the envelope he was after would be thicker than most. He knew that it was addressed to Mr. Rafael Williamson.

‘Will’s gonna kill you for this,’ said Lainey. ‘He’s a mild mannered barsted but once he gets riled up …’

Kahl stared at her for a moment, then stood up, staggering with pain and stiffness. He hobbled up close to her and swung his hand so his knuckles struck her lip and a dribble of blood dripped down from her chin.

‘Shut up,’ he said, ‘or I’ll leave nothing but your dead body for your brother.’

He went back to sorting the envelopes, getting more impatient and frustrated by the moment. The pile of discards grew as the sun rose higher, and he had collected very little in the way of cash or other valuables. He was sweating by then and swearing to himself.

When he had been through the pile twice, he emptied out all the other bags, and went through them too, building into a murderous rage. That one letter was not there. The thing he needed. The difference between penury and a hefty windfall, was not there.

Finally, almost mad with hunger, lack of sleep, pain and frustration he staggered over to Lainey and pointed his revolver at her. ‘Where is it?’

‘I’m as surprised as you are that it ain’t there,’ she said. ‘An’ that’s the damned truth.’

Kahl’s eyes flicked from his captive to the horizon. The faintest sound of hooves, borne on the wind. He stood up, scanning into the distance. It was too damp for hooves to raise dust, but finally he managed to pick out the movement of horsemen – at least two – coming fast across the plains.

Kahl walked to his horse, drew the rifle he had taken from Lenny, then hurriedly stuffed mail back into a bag to create a dead rest. He lay prone and carefully positioned the rifle, watching over the sights as the horsemen came closer.  

The leading man was Will Jones, and hatred of him burned like a canker inside Kahl’s chest. He had ruined everything, and if anyone knew where that damned letter was, it would be him. Was it in his saddle bags? Or buttoned up in a pocket?

Kahl had his finger on the trigger now, just a little closer and he would be sure of getting a body hit at least.

He heard movement behind him and turned. It was Lainey. She had managed to snatch a mail bag, and stand, despite her bound ankles. She had raised the bag high and was waving it, wailing like a banshee.

Kahl was forced to stand, knock her back to the ground before he could resume his lie and prepare to take the shot.

***

Will saw Lainey wave the mailbag and swerved his horse instinctively. Jim did the same beside him. Lainey was warning them for a reason, Will decided. Kahl was probably lining them up in his sights right now.  

He swivelled his head to yell at Jim. ‘Get in close to the hill, he won’t be able to see us.’

A rifle barked, from up on the hill, and the bullet flew close to Will’s head. He was galloping now, racing against time to get below the field of fire. Another gunshot. Closer still, but finally the bowl near the summit where the rifleman was firing from was hidden by the lower bulk of the hill.

Will reined in and turned to Jim. They had left Luke, Rafe and Matt behind to bury the dead. This was serious and personal. He wanted Kahl dead, and Lainey back safely. Luke had ranted like a preacher, thundering at being left out of the party to take back Lainey. Will did not weaken. Luke was a good man, but he was not up to this.

‘I’ll go after the barsted on foot, straight up the hill,’ said Will. ‘You ride ‘round the back in case ‘e does a runner.’

While Jim rode away, following the lower contours of the hill, Will dismounted and shouldered his rifle. He checked the load of his revolver, slipped off the coat he had donned during the night and rolled up his sleeves. Then, he looked up the slope, picked a route, and started off uphill.

He was sweating before long, for the hill was steep in places, and often he used an acacia trunk to haul himself up. Rocks that seemed to be firm sometimes gave way, and it was only his good leather boots that saved his ankles from scrapes and cuts. There were easier routes, but Will did not want to risk being observed from above.

Finally, nearing the peak, he began to work his way around to where he had seen Lainey with the mail bag. He unslung his rifle, taking every step with care, and finally he looked down into the place where they had been. Four packhorses were still tethered there, and mail had been strewn over the area, sitting in piles or thrown all around.

There was no sign of Lainey or the Scarred Man, and the riding horses were gone.

***

Jim was riding Sam’s new mare – one of the two they had purchased from Kennedy, back in Camooweal. She was a game horse, but not in the same class as the stallion that Kahl had stolen. Besides, she was dead on her feet from exhaustion. Yesterday evening they had run hell for leather from the outlaws, and through the night they had alternated a trot, walk and canter. That final gallop had been a cruel test for the horse, and she needed good feed and a rest.

Jim nursed her as much as he could, letting her pick her own path around the base of the hill. This area was lightly wooded, with patches of spinifex and acacia trees.

He was scanning ahead, looking up towards the hillside when a gunshot came from an outlying chunk of sandstone. There was a mortal grunt, and the mare collapsed beneath him, dead before she hit the ground. He managed to kick his feet from the stirrups on the way down, then used the horse’s body for protection, while he drew his pistol and stared out, spotting drifting black powder smoke from the marksman’s lair.

When the target came, it was not static. A man shouting, ‘yah, yah.’ Then two riders galloping out of cover. One was Kahl, and the other Lainey, trailing two spares. Kahl had been smart enough to know that one of his pursuers would circle the hill, and had lain in ambush to take him out. Thankfully, he had misjudged the range and the bullet had killed the horse.

Jim holstered the pistol, useless at such a distance, and leaned down to drag his rifle from the scabbard. One cartridge left. One shot to stop the Scarred Man once and for all.

He raised the open sights to maximum, and hurried to an adjacent tree, shouldering the rifle and using the narrow trunk to steady his aim. Extreme range now – perhaps four hundred yards.

One shot, and perhaps his only chance to stop Kahl, and rescue Lainey.

The smell of the mare’s fresh blood in his nostrils, Jim squeezed the trigger, needing all his skills to hold his aim on the back of the fast-riding target.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday.
You can read this chapter, and previous chapters on the website here: https://www.storiesofoz.com/category/will-jones-and-the-territory-mail/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/