by Téa Cooper
He stepped into the dim interior, moved to one side out of the direct beam of light, didn’t want to take the trigger-happy fool by surprise. ‘Mr Parker. It’s Nathaniel Poole. Can I have a word?’
Parker straightened up and lowered a large crowbar and rested it between his boots, his hands still wrapped around the shaft. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Just a chat. I was down in Sydney, hoping to make a bid on the block. I failed. Outbid.’ No need to go into the whys and wherefores. ‘You’ll have to deal with the new owners. Denman’s got a mind to stay in the area and you’ve been here longer than anyone else. Thought perhaps you could help me make another selection. Maybe we could come to some sort of arrangement if we find something.’
‘Nothing coming up as far as I know.’ Parker propped the crowbar against the chimney breast, picked up a filthy leather bag, slung it over his shoulder and ambled out to the fire.
So far so good. Perhaps Lettie and Denman had caught Parker on a bad day. ‘I’m thinking about weather patterns and which side of the stock route might be better. I’ve mind to breed some horses.’
‘When and if something comes up and you’re not outbid again,’ Parker added with a note of satisfaction. He swung the bag off his shoulder and, with a low groan, hunkered down next to the fire pit.
‘True enough.’ Plough on. Stick with it, don’t get riled by the old fool. ‘Wouldn’t be much you don’t know about the area, and the weather. Seven-year cycles they say. Drought and fire. I’d like your advice.’ Nathaniel pulled a couple of ten-shilling notes from his inside pocket. Stashed for the purpose. Folded them neatly and clasped them in his hand.
Parker didn’t miss a trick. His eyebrows raised and his tone changed. ‘It’s the hot north-westerlies you’ve got to watch, hot as a Chinaman’s arse, blow for days and days. Take the top soil, dry the bloody skin off your bones. Happens about every seven years, you’re right there.’ He pulled a metal canister from the leather bag, unscrewed the lid and dragged out a roll of loose papers, gave them a quick scrunch and tossed them into the fire. The papers caught and rose, crackled and curled, licked by the flames. ‘That’s when the wildfires come. You’re praying for rain; clouds gather and all you get is bloody lightning. Hills are tinder dry, one crack and up they go. Then the windstorms come, and the grasses catch, whip around like a doxy’s skirt.’ His hand sketched a wide arc to encompass the tall grass waving in the breeze.
‘And you’ve never had one through here?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Gotta be smart, know when to graze the paddocks out. I remember one year thirty, maybe thirty-five years ago, it got real close, real close.’
Parker’s voice faded as Nathaniel counted back the years.
‘Didn’t know what I know now. Didn’t act in time. Didn’t have the track through for a firebreak. Wind changed direction and the whole bloody mountain went up. For weeks and weeks we’d prayed for rain. Been over a hundred degrees in the shade for days on end. Then the lightning came and up she went. I burnt back into the hills. Wind was in my favour. It didn’t come down the hill, didn’t get as far as Aberdeen neither, burnt out the ridge around Owens Gap then almost as though the good lord heard our prayers we got a dump of rain, more a bloody flood. Stopped it in its tracks but it was weeks before you could get through. Always thought it odd, fire and flood in the same spot within days.’
Amazing how a few shillings could loosen an old man’s tongue. ‘This fire thirty-odd years ago … that’d make it around the beginning of the 1880s.’
‘Me memory’s not what it was … let’s see.’ Parker reached into the saddlebag and pulled out some more papers, rough and yellowed. ‘Was before the wife upped and left. Me boy was here too. Remember getting her to roll the bedding up, bung it under the doors, seal all the gaps, stay inside. Come to think of it, it was right after that she and the boy upped and left. Went back to her family in Scone, said she couldn’t hack it around here. Blamed me for the fire.’ He threw another handful of papers into the flames.
‘What’s that you’re burning?’
‘Found it when I was cleaning up. Can’t make head nor tail of the rubbish inside. Not mind you I’m much for reading. Thought the bag might come in handy seeing as how I’ve got to move on.’ Parker narrowed his eyes and glared at him from beneath his shaggy brows.
‘Thank you, Mr Parker. You’ve given me a good idea. I’ll make sure any property I’m looking at is well cleared.’ He held up the two notes and at that moment a gust of wind whipped them from his outstretched hand. He slammed his palm down, just beating Parker, and slapped them flat on the bag.
‘Close.’ The old man slid the notes from under his fingers and balled them tight in his fist.
‘Here. Let me give you a hand.’ Nathaniel hefted the bag and stood. Just about to upend the entire contents into the fire, his hand stilled as his thumb grazed an indentation on the leather.
A familiar indentation.
One he’d known since he was a child.
An intertwined L & M. The Ludgrove-Maynard brand. The brand every one of their animals, horse and cattle alike had carried since they’d first settled in the Hunter.
He snatched the bag upright. A few more loose sheets of paper fluttered towards the fire, he clasped it tight to his chest. ‘Where’d you get this?’
Parker lifted his rheumy eyes and grimaced. ‘Told you, found it. I’m cleaning out.’
Holy hell. Had Bailey been carrying it, with the wages? And what were the papers Parker’d burnt. Certainly wouldn’t be cash, the man was too wily for that. He cast a quick glance at the fire. Nothing but charred remnants fluttered in the ash. ‘This brand here.’ He stabbed at the symbol on the soft leather. ‘That’s the Ludgrove-Maynard brand.’
Parker lifted his shoulders. Then turned over the two notes still clutched in his filthy fingers. ‘Got any more of these?’ He waved them under Nathaniel’s nose. ‘I’ll sell it to you if it means that much.’
Before the old codger changed his mind, Nathaniel slung the bag over his shoulder. It had to be Bailey’s. The one he’d used to carry the wages. Stood to reason Olivia would give him something to carry the money. His fingers itched to open it, look inside. ‘You say you found it. Where?’
‘Inside the shack, under the fireplace.’
Bullshit. He’d bet the rest of the money he’d saved for the land Parker knew well and good it was there. ‘Where did you find it?’ He rammed his hand down in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, the ones he’d earnt for moving the stallion, and some others left behind from his pathetic attempt to scavenge every penny he could for the land sale. He held out the handful and they were gone in a blink. Less.
‘Happy to do business with you, Mr Poole.’
‘Where did you get the saddlebag?’
‘Bit of a long story. Fancy a cuppa?’
No. The last thing he wanted. Clenching his fist to stop the impatient drumming of his fingers he nodded in agreement.
Parker wedged the billy into the coals and rocked back on his heels. ‘That fire I was telling you about. The year me missus took off. Wasn’t feeling too good, sorry for meself. All me plans gone to shit. Took to wandering in the hills.’ He slopped some tea into a tin mug and took a sip. ‘Help yourself.’
Nathaniel gritted his teeth. He’d like to grab the old fool by the shoulders, shake the words out of him. He glanced up, saw the glint in Parker’s eye. He knew what he was doing. Stringing him along. Bastard. ‘Wandering the hills you said.’
‘Not straight after the fire, mind. Too dangerous then. Trees falling, rock slides every way you turned. Then the rain turning it all to a quagmire. Was out looking for a fresh water supply.’ He gestured up into the hills. ‘’Bout halfway up that hill. Up behind the spot you’d picked out for your house site …’
And how the hell would he know that?
‘… there’s a spring. Comes out of the rock face, nice little cave. Like a little slice of heaven it was, a
fter the fires. Still green, rock ferns shading it from the sun. Stopped there for a breather. Sweetest water ever. Found the bag in there.’
Nathaniel leapt to his feet. ‘Show me.’
‘These bones are getting on. Not sure I’m up for the climb. Take your horse. Ride up over the house site—thought that’s why you’d decided to put the house there. Fresh water supply ain’t to be sneezed at. Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought.’ He threw Nathaniel a squinty-eyed look. ‘You’ll see the wallaby track through the trees. They know what’s good for ’em.’
Within minutes Nathaniel sat astride Rogue on the flat nub of the hill looking up at the crest of Rossgole Mountain. The wallaby track disappeared into the tree line as Parker described, too narrow for a horse. He tethered Rogue and set off on foot. The overgrown scrub snatched at his face, tore his hands and his breath came in ragged gasps as he reached the top of the hill. Below him lay a panorama stretching from Muswellbrook out towards the Liverpool Plains and north.
The wallaby track twisted and turned then ran parallel with the hill and dropped down into Parker’s little slice of heaven. He pushed through a group of cycads to the crystal-clear pool surrounded by ferns where a splash of water emerged from the rock face and trickled down. Squatting, he cupped his hands, threw the water across his face then drank his fill.
The tiny waterfall masked a small cave. Dumping his hat, he stuck his head through the spray of water and waited for the shadows to resolve, then crawled on all fours inside.
With his hands raised above his head he straightened up. Not quite high enough to stand but with his knees and head bent he could get a sense of the space. Cool and dry. Beneath his feet a sandy loam.
Rummaging through his pockets, he brought out his matches. The smell of sulphur filled the confined space then the flame steadied, revealing the small cave. The match flickered and died. The second flared, illuminating the smooth rock walls and nothing else except the sense that Parker had told the truth. It was the perfect hiding spot. Dry and safe from fire and flood.
He pushed back out into the light and hunkered down, staring at the white ribbon of road cutting through the paddocks below. linked to the spot where he sat by the gully. A gully that wove its way down the hill to the very spot where Lettie had come to grief. It made perfect sense.
Once more he needed to speak to Parker, confirm he’d found the correct spot, because if he had it linked the saddlebag and the bit. Crashing through the bush he raced back, leapt astride Rogue, let out a whoop of excitement and galloped down the hill. He might not have been able to secure the land for Denman but he had a feeling this could be almost as good.
He hitched Rogue’s bridle to the tree next to the water butt and strode over to the leaning slab shack. ‘Parker! You around?’ He made a circuit of the shack, strode over to the water butt, scanned the paddocks. No sign of him.
The door dangled from the leather hinge and he stuck his head inside. The stretcher sat against the wall, blankets gone and the cupboard doors hanging wide. Crouching down he swept his hand over the shelf, scooped out the shredded remains of a packet of tea and more rat shit and cobwebs than he’d seen in a long time.
Nothing else. What had he hoped to find? He wiped his hands on the back of his pants and leant his shoulder against the chimney breast, his gaze coming to rest on the neatly swept hearth. Neatly swept! Nothing else in the ramshackle building had seen a broom in a long time.
Bending, he stuck his head up inside the chimney, no daylight. Possum more than like taken up residence because Parker had been using the outside fire pit. Why?
Why had Parker chosen to use the fire pit outside? He ran his hands down the inside of the wall, boulders from the property held in place by a sandy lime mix, just the same as any early building. Whoever had put it together had done a good job. Maybe Parker had built the slab hut around an existing chimney.
As he turned, the toe of his boot caught a loose slab of sandstone to one side of the hearth. He crouched down and ran his fingers around the edge, loosened and lifted it.
A hidey hole more than like, and not a bad one. Two, maybe three feet deep, and equally wide, running under the adjacent slabs. The earth was cool, not damp but cool.
Nothing inside. What had he expected to find?
A series of gouged lines ran across the top of the slab next to the hole. He ran his finger over them, scored indentations as though some animal had tried to claw their way into the cavity. He rocked back on his heels, his fingers still smoothing the groves.
Was this where Parker had hidden the saddlebag after he retrieved it from the cave?
With one last look around the shack he stepped outside into the fading light.
Nathaniel was off his horse before it even slowed, saddlebag clutched under his arm as he sprang up onto the verandah. ‘Denman! Where are you?’ He stuck his head through the door, dark as a bottomless pit after the sunlight. No sign, no sound. ‘Denman?’ He shot off the verandah and loped around the back out to the shed. ‘Oi! Old fella. Where are you?’
Denman ambled out. A heavy pair of box joint tongs dangling from one hand, sweat dripping from his face. ‘I was beginning to think you’d got the raw end of Parker’s shotgun. Any luck?’
‘Take a look at this.’ He held the bag up, good as stuffed it under Denman’s nose.
‘Nice bit of leather. Could do with a clean-up. Give me a minute.’ He wandered back into the shed and reappeared a moment or two later wiping his hands.
Nathaniel’s fingers itched to open the bag but he couldn’t, not without Denman, not if it had something to do with Bailey. ‘Here.’ He thrust the bag into Denman’s hands. ‘Look at the brand on the outside flap. Recognise it?’
Denman turned the bag over, the flat of his hand on the flap. ‘Course I do. Ludgrove-Maynard brand. Know it as well as you do.’ He undid the remaining strap. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Parker had it. He was cleaning up before he moved on. Offered him some money. He handed it over. Easy as.’ Nathaniel’s breath rasped in his throat. ‘Reckon it’s Bailey’s? Reckon he was carrying it? With the drovers’ wages?’
The flap lifted and the bag fell wide.
‘Nah!’ Denman reached in. ‘Nah! Not Bailey’s. And if it had the wages in they’d be long gone by now. Parker’s no fool. And besides Bailey wasn’t one for painting.’ He held up a thin paintbrush.
‘Then why’s it got the brand on it? Why would he have it?’
Denman upended the bag and dropped it to the ground.
Nathaniel was on his hands and knees scrabbling in the dirt. ‘What did you do that for?’ One side housed a series of brushes and pencils all held in place by neat leather loops, and a leather-bound notebook. The other side held a pile of thick paper anchored by two leather clasps and a set of watercolour paints.
He reached into the bottom of the bag, his fingers settling on something round. He pulled it out and twisted it. The air whooshed out of Nathaniel’s lungs and his shoulders dropped. He lifted it to show Denman.
A compass, the brass tarnished but the needle still swinging.
Denman snorted. ‘Sure as shit it ain’t Bailey’s. He didn’t need a compass.’
He’d been expecting something that proved the accusations about Bailey were false, certainly not a bunch of pencils, paints, brushes and a compass. He rocked back on his heels and looked up.
Denman had a smile, perhaps a grimace, certainly a look of satisfaction. ‘That belonged to young Evie.’
‘Why would Bailey be carrying it?’
‘Maybe he wasn’t.’
‘Who then? Couldn’t be Evie. She wasn’t out this way.’
‘Perhaps she was. Perhaps she was with Bailey.’
‘If she’d been with Bailey, Olivia would’ve known. She wouldn’t have kept quiet about it.’
‘She’s the only one that can answer that.’ Denman bent down and unstrapped the notebook. He fanned the pages.
Neat tidy script and some d
rawings covered a good few pages, the rest blank. Nathaniel leant over his shoulder to read it but before he had a chance Denman snapped the notebook shut. ‘Don’t reckon this is for us to see. Need to put it all back together and get it to Olivia.’ He slid the notebook back into place then smoothed the dusty leather with his gnarled hands in something resembling a caress. ‘One of the straps is missing. Looks like it’s been chewed. Parker didn’t say where he got it?’
‘First he said he was cleaning out, and he’d forgotten about it.’
‘Seems all us old blokes have fading memories.’
‘Handful of cash fixed his memory.’
‘Cash? How much?’
Nathaniel shrugged. ‘No idea to be honest.’ He patted his pockets. ‘I’ve got some of the money for the land sale here. Gave him a couple of ten-shilling notes and some coins. I was certain the saddlebag was Bailey’s. Thought you’d want it. Managed to get Parker to tell me where he’d found it. Over the top of Rossgole Mountain, there’s a cave up there. Reckon it’s the head of the gully, the one that runs down to the road, to the culvert where Lettie ran off the road—where you found Bailey’s bit.’
‘And what would Bailey be doing up Rossgole Mountain? No need to go that way to Scone.’
And that was the piece of information he didn’t want to share with Denman because in his mind the answer was clear. ‘Parker remembers a wildfire through there, summer of 1881.’
Denman’s face paled and he reached for the verandah to steady himself. ‘What are you going to do?’
The words brought him up short. He picked up the saddlebag and slung it across his shoulder. ‘Get it back to Yellow Rock, I suppose. You’re right. Olivia’s the one that should have it.’ He let out a sigh. Cast a glance at Rogue and Raven who had their heads down munching on the sweet grass growing on the edge of the creek. ‘I’ll go back in the morning.’
‘Good lad. I’ll be coming with you.’
Twenty-Six
Overnight Lettie somehow managed to put all thoughts of Miriam out of her mind, all thoughts of anything other than Andrew Hume. She stretched, shook the cobwebs away. There was no point in trying to pretend the confrontation with Miriam hadn’t happened. And she couldn’t let Peg send Sam to Wollombi to do her donkey work. She would have to face Miriam herself, but it was still early—she could spend a couple of hours in the study before driving into Wollombi. Besides there was something childishly pleasing about keeping Miriam waiting.