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Slaughter At Stringybark Creek Chapter Three (c) Cederwyn Whitefurr 2nd December, 2012 All Rights Reserved.

Weeks passed, as Lachlan and Clanton's uneasy truce held, Lachlan teaching the recuperating Kangaroo how to gut and skin the rabbits and a multitude of other things. Clanton taught Lachlan how to read and write - of a fashion - and other more 'civilised' things. One evening, as Clanton was tending the fire at the mouth of the cave, he heard the rustle of the branches and his head snapped up in alarm.

"You need to be more attentive - " Lachlan snorted, before dropping the gutted carcass of a young Doe wallaby before the fire.

"You can't be serious - " Clanton gagged, staring at the Wallaby's corpse, his ears flattening and eyes going wide.

"Mate, its all I could trap - its either this...or we starve. I don't like it as much as you do," Lachlan sighed. "That flour and such you got for us, there's very little left. I don't know what sort of food you lived on in the Stockade..."

Clanton shook his head violently. "I'll go hungry - I'm - I'm sorry, but there's just no way I can bring myself to eat her - it'd be like eating my own kind, in a way."

Lachlan placed a large paw on the trembling Kangaroo's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze "I know where there's some edible berries and such - sure, its not much...look, we got to face some harsh realities. We're coming up on winter, we have neither the food reserves nor the clothing to comfortably survive. I won't lie to you Constable - "

Clanton blanched, his ears going flat and he turned away. "Please don't call me that - "

"Sorry - " Lachlan muttered.

*

Sgt. MacGoven reined in his horse outside the Police Barracks and dismounted, the remaining Troopers following suit. As they laughed and joked amongst themselves, none of them paid much attention to the scrawny, half-starved young Lapine girl, her dress more a mix of old patches and threadbare fabric; eyes downcast as she timidly waited.

"Mr. MacGoven, message for you sir - " Whispered the young Doe, as she stepped closer, timidly holding a folded piece of paper.

MacGoven sneered disdainfully, snatching the note from the Doe's paw, before unfolding it and reading the short sentence written on the paper he nodded once then as the Doe waited patiently, he glared at her, before roughly seizing her by the collar and violently pushing her back against the thick timber wall.

"If you're expecting payment for the letter delivery," He snarled at her, tightening his grip. "Forget it - your filthy kind is a disgrace, you hear me? Now get away from here you Godless whore - before I forget my manners!"

Cruelly throwing her to the ground, he aimed a well placed kick into her rump, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Tears slid down her cheeks as she slowly got to her foot paws, then ran, crying uncontrollably. A few humans and other Anthropomorphic creatures had watch the Sargent, none dared speak up and more than one eye glimmered with cruel pleasure.

"What? What are you all staring at?" Sgt. MacGoven snorted, as he wiped his gloved hands on his uniform, like they'd touched something impure.

He stormed back into the Barracks, then sighed and headed back out, once again throwing the reins over his gelding and slipping his foot into the saddle, before twisting the Gelding's neck around savagely and kicking him in the flanks, the eager, headstrong gelding leaping like a whip had been cracked over his rump, scattering people aide as he barrelled his way across the square and down the main road out of town.

*

"A Sargent MacGoven to see you, sir!" Spoke the impeccably dressed Butler, before bowing graciously and leaving the room.

Like a penitent man before his God, Sgt. MacGoven swept his hat off, and grasped it between his hands, keeping his head bowed until the elderly man seated in the leather chair waved a liver spotted hand with a dismissive wave.

"Mister Patterson, Sir - " Stammered Sgt. MacGoven.

"Harrison? A Scotch, a drink Sargent?" Come the old man's reply, as he glanced at the Butler, who nodded and moved across the room almost silently.

Sgt. MacGoven's eyes trailed around the opulent room, taking in the furnishings, the thick rug and the tasteful sculptures and paintings that adorned the walls.

"A - a scotch would be fine, thank you Sir." Sgt. MacGoven replied, standing formally at attention.

Patterson rose from his couch, huffing slightly as if this exertion tired him. For in his youth, he had worked long and hard to amass his fortune and power, his once short cropped black hair now as wispy silken tendrils that clung to his liver-spotted scalp. His legs were bowed, from a lifetime spent in and out of the saddle, his thick bushy eyebrows hid deeply sunken eyes that missed nothing, as they gleamed with a malicious intelligence that put the cold chill into whoever they fell upon. Power emanated from Patterson like an invisible wave, and he could be urbane, polite and courteous as the finest of Nobility in England, or as cold, cruel and uncouth as the lowliest of the convicts who had been deported to the new colonies.

He dressed in a elegant smoking jacket, beneath which was worn a fine silk shirt, and dark trousers clung to his scarecrow like legs, his feet encased in thin slippers of the finest Marino wool. His frame, withered and bent from age made him look fragile and weak, but he possessed an indomitable will, strength of character and spirit, that made lesser men quail before him.

As quiet as a wraith, the Butler brought over a silver tray, with two glasses sitting on it. Patterson took one, then the Butler turned and held out the tray, as Sgt. MacGoven took the other.

"Will that be all, Sir?" Whispered the Butler in an impeccable British accent.

"Yes, thank you Harrison - " Patterson grunted, then sipped the scotch, feeling the burn of the distilled alcohol.

"Very good, Sir." Harrison replied, with a formal bow.

After the Butler left and closed the double doors, Patterson grinned and turned on the Sargent, with a chilling stare.

"I trust - the business matter - has been resolved, in my favour?" Patterson chuckled, then downed the scotch in one swallow.

"Yes - Sir," Sgt. MacGoven replied. "It - she refused your most generous offer of three shillings per acre, as you instructed and - "

With a shrug, Patterson waved a hand. "I care not for how it was done, the less I know, the better - now, I trust there will be no - problems - acquiring the now vacant land?"

"No, Sir." Sgt. MacGoven replied submissively. "It defaults back to the Crown, but since I have - forgive me Sir, since - you - have influence, I believe there will be no - inconveniences for you."

"Remember your place Sargent - " Patterson spoke slowly, poking a bony finger into the Sargent's chest. "I control what happens, when, how and who. I haven't gotten as wealthy as I have, by not knowing how to cultivate the right - interests. You have proven - adequate so far, some of your methods though..."

"Sir - " Sgt. MacGoven spoke, then shut his mouth with a snap.

"You make your - displeasure - too widely known Sargent, I care not one wit for your own petty issues with the...creatures. Some of them are useful to me, yet overall - your excesses are proving to become - an issue. They will stop, immediately, do I make myself clear?" Patterson growled quietly. "I gave you everything Sargent - I made you the man you are, and this is how you repay my generosity?"

"Yes Sir, it - it won't happen again Sir, I promise - " Sgt. MacGoven whispered, visibly shrinking under Patterson's scathing fury.

"Get out Sargent, and remember - I made you, and I can destroy you - just as easily." Patterson snorted, turning his back. "Harrison will pay you what you're owed, and this conversation never happened."

*

For weeks, Lachlan and Clanton barely survived, their meagre supplies dwindling day by day. Lachlan added a few more thin branches, for without an axe to cut down thicker branches, he had to forage further and further afield for firewood, the bare armload of twigs and sticks wouldn't last them past the night. Clanton helped when he could, but not being thick bodied from a young life spent in the outdoors, he was suffering the most from their poor diet. He pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders, and tried not to cough, his eyes sparkling in the flicker of the sparks that rose up to the cold, cloudless night sky.

"We can't go on like this Clanton - " Lachlan sniffled, as he used a stick to poke the dying embers.

Lachlan looked up, then sighed and poked the embers again, sighing and letting his mind wander as he glanced at their meagre reserves of food that Clanton had begged and borrowed from people he knew in Stringybark Creek.

Clanton shivered, then cupped his paws to his muzzle, a dry, hacking cough torn from his throat. "What choice do we have? I'm a renegade, and you - Sargent MacGoven - he'd want both of us dead, to tie up any loose ends."

Lachlan stood, then gripped Clanton by the back of his neck, feeling the skin easily pulled into a thick scruff, Clanton squirmed in discomfort, rubbing his aching stomach, before twisting his head to glance askance at Lachlan, whose own weak, malnourished body had lost a lot of its former musculature.

"So, we're not living like Kings - " Clanton murmured, then looked into the charred tin that sat next to the hot coals.

"We're hardly living - " Lachlan replied miserably, feeling his own hunger pangs. "Hunting has been - difficult. I'm running short of ammunition and...there are alternatives - " Lachlan began.

Clanton shivered, pulling the blanket closer, before he caught Lachlan eye and his own eyes went wide, as the realisation sunk in. Clanton croaked, then cupped his paws to his muzzle and coughed again, his ears flattening back against his neck. "No..."

A choking fit seized Clanton and squeezed him tight, the threadbare blanket falling from his shoulders. He slid over onto his side, convulsing and coughing helplessly, before Lachlan come to him, sitting him up and draping his own blanket and the fallen one, around Clanton's shoulders - his fingers brushing across the slender shoulders of the Kangaroo, feeling the dry, brittle fur and the pronounced shoulder bones.

For several agonising minutes, Clanton wheezed and coughed, his back-swept ears trembling as he clutched his paws to his muzzle and the coughing grew worse, before Lachlan forced Clanton to drink some water, the Kangaroo nearly choking on it, before swallowing.

"You're sick - " Lachlan admonished him.

"I - " Clanton waved an almost skeletal paw, the black leather pads cracked and dry. "I'm fine - "

Lachlan put the back of his paw against Clanton's forehead, feeling the sweat and warmth. "You're not fine - you've got a fever, I can feel it. I'm going to get you some medicine, wether you like it or not!"

Clanton rolled his eyes to look at Lachlan, then opened his mouth to speak, but Lachlan would hear none of it. Wrapping Clanton in the threadbare blankets, he carried Clanton into the cave, where it was modestly dry and warm, before he started gathering up a few things.

"Promise me - " Clanton croaked.

Lachlan paused, as he picked up Clanton's revolver, dropping the cylinder out and checking the chambers, before turning away, dropping the pistol into the leather holster. "I promise nothing - "

To Be Continued...