Free Wanted Dead by Kenneth Cook Page B

only one week’s wages this month. You will be allowed to retain fifty per cent.”
    This could all be corrected, thought Riley. A written complaint to headquarters in Sydney would set all this right. But how long would it take, and what fantastic amount of trouble would it involve? Better just get out of the service now and forget the whole thing.
    â€œAnd in case you were thinking of leaving us, Riley,” said the sub-inspector, “I might remind you that in the event of a trooper leaving the service the whole of any money due under the provisions for the replacement of gear lost or damaged becomes due immediately.”
    This bloody man seemed to be reading his thoughts.
    â€œAnd I might also remind you Riley that leaving the service without due notice constitutes desertion and is punishable by imprisonment. Imprisonment, Riley.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The situation seemed well covered from any possible angle. God damn the impulse that had brought him to this barbaric Colony and double God damn the impulse that had led him to join the police force.
    â€œSo off you go again, Riley, and if you can’t bring back a bushranger at least bring back a better story next time, eh?”
    The sub-inspector’s uncontrolled laughter followed Riley out of the office.
    Riley hoped he choked.
    The small boys followed Riley out of town again.
    He was equipped exactly as he had been a month before, even down to the horses, who surely musthave been foaled by the same dams as the other two, and as long ago.
    The only difference was that this time Riley was reading and re-reading a letter which had been handed to him when he collected his gear. It had been waiting at the barracks for him for a fortnight, but he hadn’t been able to receive it while he was in the cells.
    â€œDear Mr. Riley,” the letter ran: “I understand it is you whom I have to thank for the recovery of my racehorse Cicero. I understand your present circumstances make it impractical for me to thank you personally at the moment, but I also understand these circumstances are only of a temporary, formal nature. I would be more than grateful if, as soon as you are able, you would call at my property to enable me to express my thanks in a concrete form.”
    The letter was signed Charles Collingwood, and underneath the signature was a small map showing how to reach his property from the township of Goulburn.
    Now just what did Charles Collingwood mean by a “concrete form” Riley wondered as he walked his horses slowly along the first of the roads indicated by the map. The racehorse was undoubtedly a valuable animal and there well could have been a reward offered for its recovery. How much? Fifty pounds perhaps, a hundred? Anyhow it was obviously well worth going to see him. At least he might get a decent meal, of which he felt sorely in need.
    The homestead was about a mile off the road and the drive up to it was lined with pines about ten years old. The homestead itself was a long, wooden building painted white with verandahs on all sides. Hundreds of sheep were grazing in paddocks around thehouse, although the house itself was isolated in a garden of lawns and shrubs from which the sheep were barred by a white picket fence.
    It was a pleasanter place than Riley had seen since he arrived in Australia, except for a few stone houses near the port in Sydney.
    He left his horses outside the homestead garden and walked up a metal drive to the house.
    â€œThat’s quite far enough for the time being,” a voice called to him.
    He stopped walking. He could see no-one.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” came the voice.
    â€œDermot Riley.”
    â€œAnd what’s your business?”
    â€œI was invited here by a Mr. Collingwood,” said Riley.
    â€œMy dear fellow,” cried the voice apologetically, “I’m so sorry.” A door on the verandah opened and a tall, lean man, dressed in white, and