red rebel
Georgia and the McKinley Twins McKinley’s Rest 21st August 1895 Rebel Cause’s shod hooves left a distinctive print on the dirt road, making it easy for Georgia to track the horse and rider ahead. In the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, the road was deserted, except for a lone pastor in a pony trap, headed back to the parsonage in Pinjarra.
He called out, ‘Good day to you, Georgia,’ as he passed, but the girl, distracted by the call of the black swan flying above the trail, didn’t acknowledge his greeting.
Passing the turnoff to the McKinley’s Rest homestead, she came to the crest of a rise in the road. Angry voices of men alerted her to conflict ahead. She turned Tuppy offside to conceal herself behind roadside bushes while she watched. Time froze, suspended in the moment. A relentless drumbeat echoed in her head, a primal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart.
Below, her neighbours, Wolff and Johan McKinley, stood on the track. The sight of them ignited a rush of memories.14 Patrick and the twins had been childhood friends in the past but grown apart since the tragic loss of the twins’ parents. For Georgia it was different. Those tall, blonde-haired boys were etched into her psyche.
A third figure came into view. Constable Hogan, his grim authority palpable as he bound the hands of one twin, then gestured to the other to stand, so he too could have his wrists tied. The young man spat an obscenity at the policeman and made to run for it. Hogan raised his rifle, the glint of the barrel focused on the middle of the boy’s back.
Tuppy, bombproof, squared herself to maintain a steady stance when her mistress drew her Winchester from its sheath, pulled the gun to her shoulder and fired. The crack of the shot reverberated through the still air as the bullet tore through Hogan’s skull. The bound twin standing by the trooper shrieked as bloodied slime splattered across his face.
Wide-eyed, the twins watched as the sniper returned the weapon to its sleeve as she trotted the buckskin down the slope towards them. She dismounted and led her pony over to the body. Peter Hogan lay on his back, an expression of dismay on his face, eyes open. She laid a boot on the man’s shoulder and shoved his corpse over.
One boy clutched his belly and retched. Georgia raised her eyebrows at him, then shrugged as he rushed away.
‘Oh, go over there in the bushes if you must throw up, Johan,’ said Wolff. He stared in fascination at the brain tissue oozing through the skull, then looked with curiosity at Georgia. ‘That was a bloody good shot. Who the hell are you?’
They don’t recognise me. It’s better this way.
Johan returned and wiped his mouth with the back of his bound hands. 15 Georgia took hold of his wrists and cut the twine with a pocketknife she’d taken from her belt. ‘I’m … George, George Campbell. Patrick’s cousin from Guildford,’ she said, pitching her voice low.
‘Well, how do you do, George.’ He offered her his hand to shake. ‘I’m Johan McKinley and this is my brother, Wolff. That trooper would have shot us both if you hadn’t shown up when you did. You saved our lives.’
‘Not for much longer if someone catches us here,’ she replied, ignoring the proffered hand. ‘They’ll hang all three of us if we don’t clean up this mess quick smart before somebody comes along. Where’s the nearest dry well?’
‘There’s one about a mile north of our house.’
‘Alright—swap saddles between the stallion and the buckskin,’ said Georgia, handing over her reins. ‘Load the trooper’s body onto my mare. I don’t want blood on my uncle’s saddle—she’s a seasoned hunting mount and won’t react to having a carcass on her back. I’ll ride the stallion.’
The boys led Tuppy over to the other horses and swapped the saddles before securing the bloodied corpse onto the mare’s back. Five minutes of riding at a steady trot brought the trio to the track leading to the McKinley homestead. Behind them, the sky thickened as heavy clouds collected on the eastern horizon; to the west, a watery sun dissolved through the gloom, faintly illuminating the track ahead.
Skirting the house, they rode up the slope. Twilight had settled by the time they reached the dry well. There, the twins unfastened the body strapped to the trooper’s saddle and allowed it to fall to the ground.
Georgia looked down at the bloodied face of the man she’d shot and killed only a few minutes earlier, her face devoid of expression.
The twins became impatient. ‘Come on, George. What are you waiting for? Let’s send the bastard down to hell where he belongs.’
Wolff stepped closer as she gazed at the body. ‘Hogan didn’t know what hit him—dead before he hit the ground.’ He spat into the dead man's eyes. ‘A quick, painless death—too fucking good for the likes of him.’ He levelled a kick into Hogan’s ribs. ‘That’s for my father.’ Another kick. ‘That one’s for Judith.’
As he coiled to deliver yet another, Georgia placed a restraining hand on his arm and looked into Wolff’s twisted face, aware of an electric frisson passing between them. She beckoned towards Johan, who hung back a little; tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. They gathered up the corpse and heaved it down the well, followed by the saddle and the rest of the policeman’s gear. One of them hesitated as he held up the trooper’s Martini-Henry breech rifle. ‘This could come in handy.’
‘And if someone comes looking for him, it will also point you out as a suspect. That weapon is standard issue for the police.’ She took the rifle from him and tossed it into the well to join the rest of the equipment. ‘Now—let’s get out of here.’