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  There was nothing more anyone could do, so I followed the

  other two back to the boarding house. When I got to the

  kitchen, the doctor was still tending to Catherine while Harriet

  and Nellie hovered.

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  Her injuries were purely superficial. There were a couple

  of abrasions and a sprained wrist, probably from putting out

  her arm to break her fall. The doctor bound the wrist and made

  a wisecrack about not having to do the dishes for a while, then

  he looked at me.

  I had an ugly bruise on the ribs below my shoulder blade,

  which wasn’t likely to be serious. The doctor probed with his

  fingers. I winced.

  “Lucky boy, you could have some fractures, but all in all,

  nothing broken; you got off lightly.” He taped me up. I knew

  what had caused it – as I lay on top of Catherine, a chunk of

  wood had hit me, bounced off and crashed into the wall

  behind. I was lucky – if it had been a piece of brick it would

  have crippled me.

  “No sleeping on your back, no horse riding, running, or

  labouring of any kind for a week. Feel free to drink plenty of

  alcohol for pain relief, especially at night.” With that, he

  snapped his bag shut and made off without presenting a bill.

  All the while I had no shirt on and Catherine was hovering.

  In spite of myself, I kind of hoped she liked what she saw. By

  now, the Colonel had returned from his errand to the telegraph

  office and corralled us in the kitchen.

  Anderson’s face was dark, his demeanour completely

  changed. Half an hour ago he was congenial, entertaining, the

  prince of graciousness and charm. Now he was an avenging

  devil bent on retribution, and woe betide any who were the

  object of his wrath.

  “Those men you followed earlier – do you remember how

  to find the house they went to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then put your shirt back on. We’re going after them.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes – right now!” He disappeared towards his room and

  returned in the blink of an eye with a leather travelling case.

  Putting it down, he opened the lid. It contained two 12 gauge,

  lever action, Winchester shotguns and an assortment of large

  calibre service revolvers; all packed in nice little pockets with

  loops to strap them in. “Take your pick.”

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  I swooped on one of the Winchesters and Floyd grabbed

  the other. They were model 1893’s and the barrels had been cut

  off flush with the ends of the magazine tubes. It was then that I

  noticed the Colonel was wearing a gun belt containing two

  double-action, multi-ejection revolvers mounted in the cross

  draw position, the butts protruding from the front of his coat.

  He threw me a bandolier of triple O buckshot cartridges

  and bade me to wait by the front door, then turned his attention

  on Potts and Floyd. All the while, Harriet and Catherine were

  watching and their eyes were larger than saucers.

  Catherine followed me to the front door, her expression

  one of concern.

  “Why are you here? Why do you have so many guns?” As

  she spoke, I thumbed cartridges into the magazine of the

  Winchester until it could hold no more. I paused.

  “We are a special military taskforce whose job is to hunt

  down the people who did that.” I pointed at the ghostly

  remains of the railway station. “Odds are they are still here and

  if they are, we will get them. They are not peasant Boer

  farmers on the warpath. They are professional anarchists from

  abroad and very dangerous people. They have already

  committed one murder that we know about and we are the only

  ones here who can stop them.”

  She stared at me with a look that was even more

  concerned. She stepped up and hugged me. I put my arms

  around her and held her with the shotgun still in my left hand.

  We could hear the others coming, so we let each other go.

  “Don’t let them hurt you, Richard. I don’t want you to be

  killed.” She stepped out of the doorway so the others could

  pass. Bit late for that, I thought absently. My back was already

  hurt and I hurried as much as mounting soreness would allow

  to catch up with the others.

  The section we sought was long and narrow, with barely a

  yard or two of space on either side. The house was small – a

  wood-framed cottage with vertical corrugated iron for

  cladding. The back fence was low and we shuffled quietly

  towards the house without disturbing the horses, noting that

  they were saddled and ready to go. Converging on the back of

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  the house, we split into two groups. Floyd and Potts crept

  around each side to cover the front, while the Colonel and I

  waited to give them time to set themselves up.

  The back of the house was dark with the exception of a

  room in the lean-to that was probably the kitchen. The curtains

  of the only window were pulled across, while the moon lit up

  the yard with a pale, ambient light, creating deep shadow

  under the verandah that ran across the back. We stepped across

  the verandah carefully so the boards wouldn’t squeak, and

  slowly approached the back door which was mounted

  centrally, taking up positions on either side. There was a

  murmur of hushed voices coming from within.

  The Colonel drew both revolvers from their holsters and

  with the muzzles up, thumbed back the hammers.

  “Open up! This is the law.” He gave the door a good kick

  and sprang out of the way. The murmuring abruptly stopped

  and was followed by a barrage of shots. Wood splinters blew

  outwards from the tongue and groove that clad the door and

  little shafts of light shone out of the holes. The lamp in the

  kitchen went out. It was now deathly dark and silent within.

  While straining to hear something I heard the sound of

  window weights clang from around the side of the house. On

  tiptoes I glided to the edge of the verandah, where I poked my

  head out in time to see a shadowy figure drop from a window

  and crouch defensively, staring my way. His arm came up and

  pointed.

  “Drop it, felon.” There was a shot, followed by a thunk as

  the bullet hit the weatherboards a foot or two away.

  I looked again, in time to see the felon sprinting towards

  the front of the house, where a blow to the head from a gun

  butt felled him. Floyd emerged from the shadow of the front

  verandah, holding his shotgun on the prostrate form. Turning

  back, I could see that the back door was now wide open; the

  Colonel nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, a running figure

  emerged from the other side of the house. He was carrying

  something bulky and heading for the horses like the devil was

  on his tail.

  He was too short to be Potts or the Colonel, so I fired from

  the hip. He dropped whatever it was he carried and vaulted

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  onto a horse. In the time it took to lever another round and put

  the butt on my shoulder, he was
about to clear the back fence,

  so I loosed off another quick shot. He sailed over the fence and

  disappeared into the gloom, folded low over the horse’s neck.

  Potts then appeared trailing a handcuffed prisoner and

  Floyd materialised like a ghost from out of the gloom.

  “The other fellow is out cold. I cuffed ‘im to a verandah

  post.”

  Before I could say anything the Colonel reappeared,

  framed by the still-open back door, one of his guns returned to

  its holster.

  “House clear,” he said and looked at Pott’s prisoner.

  Even in the moonlight I could see he was the big boy that I

  had seen at the crossroads. I walked to the middle of the yard

  and bent over to examine the object that was left on the

  ground. It was a burlap sack. I grabbed it and tried to lift it, but

  my back hurt too much. I straightened up slowly.

  “Colonel, come and take a look at this.”

  Anderson strode over and picked it up. “Well, look at that,

  this should be interesting.” He took the sack inside, lit the still-

  warm lamp in the kitchen and deposited the sack on an

  adjacent table. Inside the sack was a half emptied case of

  dynamite sticks, at least fifty detonators in little packets and

  about one hundred and fifty yards of fuse, all wound into neat

  little coils. “Yep, we got the right house. Lucky you didn’t put

  a bullet into that – it could’ve gone sky high and taken us with

  it!”

  We returned to the boarding house at 3am to find the front

  door unlocked and the lamps in the hallway still going.

  Catherine and Harriet appeared, clad in their dressing gowns

  and looking hugely relieved to see us. We unloaded our

  hardware and followed Harriet to the kitchen for a cup of tea

  and a bite to eat.

  The women looked tired, for after we had left they were

  too anxious to sleep, so they all piled into Harriet’s bed to

  comfort each other and await our return. Once the water boiled

  we had tea and sandwiches while the Colonel recited events

  for the benefit of the ladies, sticking to the broader details

  while the rest of us ate.

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  We roused the unconscious prisoner that Floyd had

  manacled to a verandah post and after propping him against it,

  we examined him by the light of the lantern. He was still

  groggy and there was a sizable gash on his forehead above one

  eye. The light was indifferent, so it was difficult to tell if his

  eyes had dilated or not, which didn’t really matter. Until we

  got him to the cells there was nothing we could do for him

  anyway. Meanwhile, the local populace must have been roused

  by all the gunshots, but wisely, were keeping their heads well

  down in case the shooting started up again.

  By this time the Chief Constable and a junior constable had

  arrived in response to all the firing; both armed with revolvers

  and wanting to know what was going on. They examined the

  prisoners then we marched them to the police station, half

  walking and dragging the injured man between Floyd and

  another constable, who had also turned up belatedly. We put

  the two men in the cells and presented the duty constable with

  the sack and its vital evidence, after which we reconvened in

  the front office. While a junior constable went to fetch a doctor

  the Chief Constable took notes of our account of the capture of

  the felons and the gunfight that resulted. He lived in the house

  next door to the station and was awake at the time of the

  disturbance, working on a report on the bombing. Now he’d

  need to do a lot more writing before the report could be

  finished.

  Since there was nothing we could do before daylight

  returned and we could examine the house of the bombers more

  closely, we trudged back to the boarding house for some much-

  needed sleep. By 4am we had all gone to bed, by which time

  my back was killing me. Potts had given me a bottle of

  whiskey, so I guzzled at least three or four large mouthfuls on

  the spot and almost gagged, to the amusement of the others

  and consternation of Catherine and Harriet. Then I slumped off

  to my room.

  I woke. Someone was tapping on my door. It was daylight

  and my head throbbed. My throat felt drier than a yard of

  Sahara sand.

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  “Go away,” was amended to “who is it?” It was Catherine.

  She was concerned. Was I all right? Well no, I wasn’t really

  but I couldn’t tell her that.

  I was lying face down, diagonally across the bed, my head

  partly over the side. I had been woken constantly by aches

  through the night and kept sipping the whisky, which had been

  a godsend, for without it I wouldn’t have slept at all.

  Unfortunately the downside was that now I had a hangover to

  go with my sore back. I partly rolled over – carefully. The

  blankets were a mess, so after struggling to sit up, I rearranged

  my pillows and straightened the blankets to cover my legs and

  underwear.

  “Come in then.” The door slowly opened and in she came,

  holding a small metal tray with a poached egg and awkwardly

  favouring her bound wrist. She was still in her nightdress, the

  vertical, lace-trimmed collar that covered her neck protruding

  from the open top of her dressing gown.

  Her hair had been meticulously brushed, the right side

  pushed behind her ear. Even my bleary eyes could see how

  cute she was. She walked over and put the tray next to me

  before sitting down carefully on the end of the bed. She

  grinned and lightly rubbed the bandaging around her wrist.

  “You look awful.”

  I limply smiled back. “Thanks. With friends like you I

  won’t need detractors.” Her grin deepened. I picked up the tray

  and positioned it across my knees.

  “Wow, breakfast in bed. Do all the occupants get this?”

  “No silly, only the helpless ones.”

  “Damn. I thought it was because I was someone special.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you are special all right, but not for the

  reasons you think.”

  I was back on the bench seat, which had been righted and

  cleaned. It appeared to be none the worse for wear after its

  ordeal, which was more than I could say for myself, but there

  were of course, adequate compensations. Nellie had to be

  prodded off to school, her eyes wide with indignation,

  protesting that she wanted to stay right here with us. Catherine

  then brought me a mug of freshly brewed coffee and as I

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  sipped, I watched the workmen on the other side of the road

  sweeping up debris and tossing bricks into a flatbed wagon. I

  wriggled to get more comfortable and all was well with the

  world again, or at least, it almost was.

  Anderson, Potts and Floyd went back to the house of the

  train wreckers and I tagged along, although I wasn’t much use.

  I slumped on the back verandah while they tipped the house

  upside down, but there was nothing of interest to find, not even

 
; a sawn-off shotgun that could have killed Ferg. They talked to

  the neighbours, hoping they would learn something to link

  Shaun Blaine or Eric von Smidt to the men in jail, but all to no

  avail. It was as if Smidt and Blaine didn’t exist; nowhere

  around here, anyway. They went to the jail and interviewed the

  two men but still didn’t learn anything, or the name of the

  individual who’d got away.

  The prisoners were tough nuts; men who were not

  intimidated by Potts and with the exception that they had come

  from Orange Free State they were not about to give up their

  secrets, even though Potts would have tried his darndest to get

  something out of them. They were grilled about the death of

  Flighty Ferg and any part they may have contributed to it, but

  they hunkered down, jaw muscles tightened, and wouldn’t

  admit a thing. They thought that officially we had nothing on

  them. They were prisoners of war until we could prove

  something otherwise. The reality though, was that they were

  spies and saboteurs, so it was unlikely there would be any

  armistice for them. Consequently, an unsympathetic military

  court would try them and there was every likelihood they

  would be shot.

  One of the horses left in their yard had a white spot on the

  fetlock of the right, front leg, which matched the description of

  the missing horse from Jamestown. It seemed we had found

  Herrick’s stolen horse if nothing else. It also proved they had

  been in Jamestown, but that was all it proved. Floyd had also

  been looking at the hoof prints made by the horse that jumped

  the fence and got away.

  “Do y’ think you might have hit this fellow?”

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  “Yes. It was dark and the range was stretched for a

  shotgun, but I had a good line and he hunched forward after he

  cleared the fence, so maybe I did.”

  Floyd meanwhile had got down on his haunches. He

  pointed to the marks in the dust.

  “The horse he took has an odd-shaped shoe. See, it has a

  flat bit here and an uneven radius. I could follow that hoof

  print almost anywhere.” He looked at Potts and the Colonel.

  “Would it be worth our while to go after him?”

  “Hell yes,” blurted the Colonel. “He’s obviously heading

  somewhere and that somewhere will certainly be of interest to

  us. He could lead us to someone important; that would be a

  whole lot more than just worth our while.”

  That was it then. Potts volunteered to go with Floyd while