The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly (Fight Card) Read online

  “You've creased it,” she said angrily.

  McCormack smiled, and ran his hand over the fabric, unaware of how lewd his actions looked.

  “It will be fine,” he said. “Come on, we have business to attend to.”

  He led her along the street to the general store. He held the door open before following her inside. He had merchandise he had to sell.

  ***

  The sky was blanketed with ominous gray storm clouds rolling in from the high country to the west. Even though it was only midafternoon, it seemed like night. Ned looked up as a jagged fork of lightning lit up the sky. The thunder growled moments later. They were going to be blessed with more rain. Ned didn't want to be outside during the storm, but he knew he had to get Gould's wagon free before the trail became completely waterlogged.

  He figured Heenan and Old Toby would work better as a team, and had rigged them up with a rope fastened to the front of the wagon. He planned to let Gould urge the horses forward, while he tried to lever the wagon free from behind. But first, he knew they would need a little more traction.

  Moving quickly, he collected an armful of twigs and sticks and jammed them up tight against the sunken wheel as the first rain drops fell. Next, he retrieved a sturdy tree branch, about six-feet in length, which he could use to lever the wagon out of the bog.

  “Ready to give it a try, Mr. Gould?” Ned asked.

  “Right you are, lad,” Gould said, eagerly, moving alongside Old Toby and Heenan. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”

  Ned strained, heaving on the branch, while Gould took the horses by the reins. The wagon rocked back and forward, but the mud was not prepared to release the wagon from its grip. Ned planted his feet and putting his back into it, lifted again.

  The branch started to bow. Ned feared it would break before the wagon was clear. Then with a loud shluppp, the rear wheels bounced forward, rolling up onto the small branches Ned had placed there. The wood splintered under the wagon's weight, but the wagon had moved half a foot forward.

  They were almost there.

  The rain was falling heavily now. Ned could feel it rolling down the back of his neck as he gritted his teeth and prepared to try once more.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  He heaved. The mud finally released its grip on the wagon and it rolled clear.

  Ned, however, stumbled and fell to his hands and knees in the mud.

  Gould turned. “You right there, Ned?” he called.

  Ned laughed as he righted himself. “No harm done. Just a little mud is all.”

  The bottom of his breeches and his hands were caked in filth.

  Gould shook his head. “You'd better come with me. I can't send you back looking like that.”

  Ned followed as Gould unhitched the horses and led them to a twisted eucalypt. He let the reins fall, but the two old workhorses weren't going anywhere. The old merchant then retreated into his wagon, returning seconds later with a large ceramic jug of water.

  Ned took a seat on a log underneath the tree and removed his boots. Mud flew in every direction as he slapped them together sole to sole. Having cleared as much as he could, he placed them down at his side and went to work scraping the mud off his pant legs.

  “You can wash off the mud with this,” Gould said, handing over the water jug.

  Ned removed the stopper and tipped the water over his sullied clothes, using his fingers to work the mud free. It did little to help.

  “That won't do,” Gould said, realising the water was only making matters worse. He took the jug from Ned. “What size are you?”

  Ned was confused. “Size?”

  “Your trousers. What size are they?”

  Ned shrugged. He didn't know. “They were my father's. Ma took them in at the waist so they'd fit,” he explained.

  Gould nodded. “I'll have to make a guess,” he mumbled. He turned and made his way back to his wagon, carrying the jug.

  Ned wondered what the old merchant was doing. Several minutes later, Gould returned with a parcel wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. He handed it across to Ned.

  “Try to keep them dry. You'll find a set of new denim breeches in there. Tough as nails. They'll serve you well,” he said.

  Ned looked at the parcel. “I can't take them. I don't accept charity,” he responded solemnly.

  “It's not charity. It's a fair trade,” Gould explained. “You supplied muscle. I supplied clothing in return.”

  Ned could live with that. He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Gould.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when Heenan bucked and whinnied. Both men looked around, then stood. They saw a riderless pinto trotting along the trail toward them. Ned figured the lightning and thunder had spooked him.

  “I wonder who he belongs to?” Ned queried. He approached the horse with Gould at his side.

  “I'd recognise that horse anywhere,” Gould said. “It belongs to Jeremiah McCormack.”

  “McCormack?”

  “He's a competitor. A salesman. Like me, he travels around from town to town. But that's his horse, I am sure of it.”

  “Then we'd better get him back, or someone's gonna go around saying we stole him.” Ned suggested, as he stepped closer. “Easy boy.”

  “But that's absurd,” Gould exclaimed.

  “Not around here it ain't. Don't worry, I'll take him into town and see if I can find this McCormack.” Ned captured the pinto’s reins, and then crossed to Heenan. With both horses in tow, he nodded to the old merchant. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Gould. Thanks for the trousers.”

  “My pleasure, Ned. And thank you for your assistance. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

  ROUND 2

  THE STITCH-UP

  THE KELLY SELECTION

  ELEVEN MILE CREEK

  EASTERN VICTORIA

  30 OCTOBER 1870

  “With the driver and Pat, a dispute then arose,

  From high words, be-gorra, they soon came to blows,

  The police saw the row, and came down from the camp,

  And says Pat, Take that man, he's a horse-stealing scamp.”

  The Stolen Horse (J Smail)

  Ned looked like a drowned rat when he returned to the homestead with the horses in tow. He tied them to the hitching rail and pushed through the front door. The room was thick with the scent of a heavily seasoned wombat stew. Wombat was a very gamey beast, and plenty of salt and pepper was required to mask the taste, and if there was one thing of which his mother could never be accused was being light with the seasoning. She turned from the stove as he entered. Her expression said it all.

  “Look at you! You can leave all that mud at the door. You're not traipsing it through the house,” she said.

  “Sorry, ma.” He quickly slipped off his boots. “But I got these new britches,” he added, holding up the parcel Gould had given him. The paper was wet and falling apart from the rain.

  She took the parcel, stripped off the paper, and held up the trousers. They were saturated.

  “You won't be wearing these today. They'll have to dry by the fire,” she snapped, apparently unimpressed. “Get cleaned up and I'll serve up some stew. The others have already eaten.”

  Ned nodded. “Just a small portion. I've gotta go into Greta.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I got this stray horse. Apparently it belongs to a man named McCormack. He must have got free during the storm. I am going to take him into town and see if I can return him.”

  “Be sure you do. We have enough trouble around here as is, without accusations of horse theft.”

  “Don't worry, ma. If this McCormack fella's in town, I'll find him.”

  ***

  Ned put a saddle on Heenan and rode into Greta with the pinto tied behind. Greta wasn't a big town, just a short main street, surround by a few houses. Ned figured if McCormack was here, he would find him easily enough. As he trotted toward the police station, he saw a green wagon positioned n
earby. He read the sign painted on the side 'Clothing Merchants - Avenel. Ladies and Gentlemen's Outfitter.' It didn't say McCormack, but Ned recalled Gould saying McCormack was also a merchant. It had to be him. He eased up on the reins and climbed down from his horse.

  “Hello there. In the wagon,” Ned called. “I've got your horse.”

  He heard movement inside. The rear door opened and a pinch-faced man, with a strange moustache, stood silhouetted against the frame. He didn't step out into the rain. Ned assumed it was McCormack.

  “Good evening, sir. My name is Kelly and I found this horse down near Eleven Mile Creek. Mr. Gould said it belongs to you,” Ned stated, walking the horse across.

  McCormack looked at the horse then back at Ned. Anger flashed in his eyes. He stepped down from his wagon and marched across to intercept them.

  “Gould? He's in town?” McCormack snarled.

  “Just outside of it, sir. His cart was stuck in the mud near our selection.”

  “Stuck in the mud, eh? And my horse suddenly goes missing. You used him to pull the wagon out, didn't you?”

  “No, sir,” Ned responded earnestly.

  “I say you're a liar. And where's his blanket?”

  “Blanket?”

  “He had a horse blanket. I say you stole it!”

  “He had no blanket when I found her.”

  “You boy, are a dirty thieving liar. Kelly, is it? You said your name was Kelly. I have heard of your family. Wasn't your father, John Kelly, arrested for cattle theft?”

  Ned recalled the event to which McCormack was referring. Ned had only been eight years old at the time, but remembered his father being taken away. His father served six months in prison.

  “He was set up by a pompous splaw footed windbag named Morgan, and the stinkin' traps,” Ned replied angrily.

  McCormack wasn't listening. “You owe me for using my horse. And you owe me for the blanket.”

  “Owe you? More like you owe me a measure of gratitude for bringing the beast back to you.”

  “Why you impertinent young pup. How dare you speak to me like that? You need a lesson in manners.”

  “Who's gonna teach me? You?”

  “Why you...” McCormack didn't finish his sentence. He balled his fist and swung it wildly at Ned.

  Ned saw the punch coming and ducked under it. So that was how the old man wanted to play it. Ned squared up and faced McCormack.

  “If it's a fight you want, I'll give it to you,” Ned roared.

  He saw fear in McCormack's eyes. Ned figured the merchant hoped to catch him unawares with his first punch. But his tactic failed and now he did not know what to do.

  McCormack took a backward step and turned to run. As he did so, he ran straight into his horse, falling spread-eagled to the sodden ground.

  Ned laughed heartily at the sight of the cowardly merchant scrambling in the mud.

  “Serves you right, you yellow-bellied snake. I've returned your horse, and now I bid you good day.”

  Ned walked away, grinning from ear to ear. McCormack was a buffoon.

  ***

  McCormack had never felt so humiliated in all his life. And at hands of a fifteen-year-old boy. Then there was the matter of the missing horse rug. He was sure young Kelly had taken it.

  As McCormack brushed the filth from his clothing, he looked up and down the street to see if anyone else had witnessed the event. The coast was clear. Good. With no witnesses to confirm or deny what had been said, he would get his revenge.

  It would be his word against Kelly's. Who would belief the son of a cattle thief?

  ***

  All sixteen stone of Constable Edward Hall, of the Victorian Colonial Police, slouched in his seat with his boots on the desk. He was the only one on duty at Greta police station that evening. As stations went, it was little more than a wooden hut with sun-bleached grayed redgum planks. But it kept the chill out on a cold evening such as this.

  There was a rapid fire knock on the door and it was pushed open. Hall quickly swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He recognised the gentleman entering the station as the merchant, McCormack, and he was covered in mud. Hall had seen him and his wagon in town, but had never spoken to him.

  “Good evening, sir, how can I be of assistance?” Hall asked.

  “My name's McCormack, and I wish to report an assault.”

  Hall shifted his weight and scratched his chin. Another assault – another waste of time. Petty disagreements were commonplace in Greta. Besides, apart from being covered in mud, the gentleman standing before him, didn't appeared to be injured in any way.

  “It was that boy, Kelly. Ned Kelly,” McCormack added.

  Hall's ears pricked up. So the Kellys were up to mischief again. Criminals, the lot of them.

  “When did this take place?” Hall asked.

  “Only five minutes ago. Outside near my wagon. He claimed he was returning my horse – a pinto, but the blanket was missing.”

  “What's this about a horse? Did he steal it?”

  “He says he was returning it. But one thing is for sure, he took the horse's blanket.”

  “And you said he assaulted you?”

  “When I questioned him about the blanket, he became abusive. Catching me unaware, he punched me several times, forcing me to the ground.”

  Hall nodded. “That sounds like typical Kelly behavior. They are a bad lot. Only a fortnight ago, I sent one of the relatives to prison. Leave it with me, Mr. McCormack. I'll bring this young ruffian to justice. I'll make sure that the rightful charges are brought up against the boy.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” McCormack said, nodding his approval.

  ***

  The next morning, mounted on an ashen mare, Constable Hall rode out to Eleven Mile Creek. The going was slow. The track was pooled with water and deeply rutted with wagon tracks on account of the heavy rain. Finally up ahead, in a clearing amidst the green rolling hills was the Kelly's stringybark homestead. Hall couldn't help but think he'd be doing society a favour, if he put match to it and burned the whole place down.

  As he got closer, he saw one of the Kelly boys at the side of the house, gathering an armful of firewood from the stack. He was too young to be Ned. It could have been Jim or Dan, Hall couldn't be sure. As the boy saw Hall approach, he dropped the bundle of wood, ran to the house and pushed through the door.

  Moments later, Ellen Kelly stepped out onto the verandah. She held a baby on her hip, and looked tired and worn out.

  Hall didn't climb down from his horse.

  “What do you want?” she hissed.

  He knew why she was hostile. It was his testimony that had recently seen her brother, Patrick Quinn, sentenced to three years imprisonment.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Kelly, I'd like to speak with Ned. Is he around?” Hall spoke with politeness and civility, masking his true feelings.

  “Sorry? You're not sorry. Nary a day goes by without one of your mob turning up out here accusing us of one thing or the other,” she replied.

  Hall ignored the taunt. “I need to speak to Ned,” he reiterated.

  Ellen grunted, then called back to the house. “Ned, there's a trap here wanting to see you.”

  Hall waited for Ned to show. Ellen glared at him as he waited. He was relieved when the door finally opened and Ned stepped out, sliding his braces over one shoulder. Hall was surprised at how solidly built Ned was. It was hard to believe he was only fifteen years old.

  “Ned, I need to ask you some questions about Mr. McCormack's horse and blanket,” Hall said.

  “What about them?” Ned asked.

  “I think it is better we talk in town,” Hall replied. He wanted to get Ned alone. He couldn't do much with the whole Kelly family gathered round. But back in Greta, he could see justice done.

  “Why do you want to take him away?” Ellen interjected.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Kelly, there's just a matter that needs sorting out. No need to be alarmed,” Hall responded.<
br />
  “It's alright, Ma,” Ned added. “I'll go with him. I didn't do nothin'.”

  Hall heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment he thought things were going to get ugly.

  Ned crossed to a coral, took down the sliding rail and rounded up Heenan. Leading him by the reins, he came alongside Hall.

  “Thanks, Ned,” Hall said, as the young man swung up onto his mount.

  Hall turned his mare around, and with Ned riding at his side, they both made their way back to town.

  ***

  At Greta Police station, seated at his desk, Hall lit a rolled cigarette and inhaled. He took his time. They were on his turf now, and he was in charge. As he slowly exhaled, he stared through the whisper trail of smoke at young Ned Kelly who sat across from him. The boy looked nervous. Of course, he was nervous, Hall thought. Kelly knew he had been found out.

  Now Hall had him alone, he didn't need to keep up the masquerade. He didn't need to be civil any more.

  “What did you do with McCormack's blanket?” Hall demanded.

  “I didn't have anything to do with the blanket,” Kelly replied.

  “And I suppose you didn't take his horse either?”

  “As I told McCormack yesterday, Mr. Gould and I found his horse by the side of the road. I just returned it, that's all.”

  “Mr. Gould, who is he?”

  “He's that travelling merchant. You know the one. He has a red wagon.”

  “And he can verify your story?” Hall was skeptical.

  “He can.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He camped by our selection last night. We didn't pass his wagon on the way here, so he must have set off this morning.”

  “So he's gone?”

  “It looks that way. But you could catch up to him.”

  “I am not going riding off on some cock 'n' bull story you've made up. We both know the truth of it.”

  “Why would I lie?” Kelly protested.

  “Because you're a Kelly,” Hall snarled. “You're a family of liars, each and every one of you.”

  “Now, wait a flamin' minute...”