Why don’t you tie them together? she asked, as she could begin to gauge just how long it would take to join them all.
A knot just wears down the rope, miss, said the boy. And a weave is much stronger than a knot, you know—and after you and Joe and the others bring in the cattle we have other plans for this rope, miss, and it should remain a surprise to you but you will soon see that there should be no knots in it at all.
Jessie watched the boy and the others and none of them seemed to fatigue of their work. She stretched out in the sun next to the boy and said, Tell me when you’re tired. And the boy said, I will do, miss.
She relaxed then in the uncommon peace she felt in their company.
By the end of the second day the six joins were made and there was one long rope and they measured it in strides and made sure it met the dimensions they had measured first by horse-length on their reconnaissance.
Jo explained to Jessie that although they had first conceived the rope working as a giant lasso their aim was not to close the rope around the cattle but more use it as a moving fence, high and taut, pushing the cattle from behind.
They practised with the rope, looping sections of it over their arms and their shoulders and then spreading it out in one choreographed movement around the campsite. The boy stood in the middle of their circle and signalled to them the proper timing of the rope’s release. Aside from a few rope burns on their arms they deemed it a success.
The moon was soon dark and Jessie, Joe, Bill and the rest of the gang prepared to set off, leaving the boy and his dog behind. The boy’s job was to guard the camp, though Jessie heard Joe tell him that if anyone approached the site he was to hide himself and his dog. Take yourself to the cave on the other side of the waterhole, he said, and if we come back and you’re not here, we’ll know where to find you.
They all took turns in hugging the boy or roughing his hair before they mounted their horses and he walked them out to the ridgeline. His dog at his side he waved them off as they stepped their horses down one by one. They moved cautiously along the narrow track; later, when the track allowed it, they rode side by side. There was an easy feeling between them and as they rode they practised on birdcalls and sometimes the birds seemed to call right back, as if they were all a part of some earthly communion whose only subject was beauty and gratitude.
Sometimes the slope was too steep to ride and they led their horses and walked them close along crumbling tracks. Soon they entered caves and tunnels so large they dwarfed their party of six plus the six horses.
After two days of riding, they reached the edge of the northern range. At Joe’s instruction, they halted within a cave and painted the hooves of their horses white. They could not risk lighting fires so they passed the time eating their food raw and whispering their plan between them until it was dark.
When Joe said it was time they gathered a part of the rope each and looped it around their arms and their shoulders and then they mounted their horses and Joe led them out. It was dark but for a sliver of moon and they could hardly see or be seen but Joe said, Just keep your eyes on the horse’s feet in front of you. And then when the paddocks opened up they formed a line and each of them tugged on the rope both ways to signal they were still connected to each other.
They heard the cattle first and proceeded towards the sound, keeping pace with each other, measuring their distance by the hooves that appeared as luminous streaks near to the ground in front of them. When they were close to the herd, they unwound the rope from their arms and rode out in a curve, making no sound or signal other than what the tension of the rope revealed.
Riding in a circle, they drew the rope out around the cattle and moved them back towards the direction of the cave. The cattle moved slowly and there was no protest in them.
The gang moved the herd across the field and each cow was barely distinguishable, no more than bleached patches of night floating in some strange order.
It took them half the night to reach the cave. When they arrived at the mouth of it they closed the rope in and funnelled the cattle inside. Then it was Jessie and Bill’s job to drove them up into the narrower passages, while the other four went back, in haste, to remove any evidence around the perimeter of the cave, which amounted to filling bags with dung that they scooped up with pieces of bark they carried with them.
When they reconvened they began to herd the cattle through the tunnels and then cave to cave until they arrived at what they called Branding Point. It was a cave split at the top with a natural chimney that would let smoke out and it was far enough away from Phantom Ridge to remain unseen by anyone in the morning patrol of the cattle.
They had hidden lanterns and branding irons there on previous missions and even experimented with a fire beneath the split. They used the same pit to light a fire, and set the branding irons against the coals until they glowed purple. Then they took turns to hold and brand the cattle. Each creature shuffled its bulk and bellowed as they pressed the iron into its hide. But the cave was well chosen, a cave within a cave, and all sounds there were contained within the chambers of the rock.
When the cattle were all rebranded they moved on. There were five lanterns between the gang and they lit them all although it was not the dark that bothered them, more the asphyxiating smell of dung as the cows released more readily into the narrow passages of the cave.
By the next morning they had reached the southern side. They hid the rope and their lanterns within the cave and herded the cattle into the daylight, moving them steadily towards the sale yards. Joe and Jessie paused to tidy themselves. Bill had made moustaches for them by snipping pieces of their hair, weaving them onto small scraps of fabric and now pasting these onto their top lips with a mix of flour and water. Joe and Jessie looked at each other and laughed at what a handsome pair they made.
When they arrived at the sale yards, Joe and Jessie presented the clerk with the forged letter. The hand was elaborate and the paper was watermarked and the clerk had no reason to question it. A stockman inspected the cattle and then a sale in cash was made.
The gang breezed through the township as easily as any band of drovers and there was no evidence of what they had done, aside from the money in their pockets and the lingering smell of dung they carried in their nostrils.
They had vanished a hundred head of cattle.
They did not waste their time with town things but found a store and bought dried biscuits and sweet milk and new boots and shirts, and a pulley and in no time they were on course again, riding back in the direction from which they had come.
WHEN THEY REACHED the opening to the cave they collected the rope and lanterns but did not continue further in. They needed air and country. It would take them a few more days but they were happy not to move into the tunnels until they were halfway up the mountain.
That night, they camped out in the open. In the morning, when Jessie woke, she could see horses grazing in the distance. They looked as though they were covered in frost, ghostly shapes all of them. She had an impulse to go after them, but she held herself back and just watched. One of the horses stirred and turned its long neck in her direction, as if it had suddenly become aware of her. Then it surged out and all of them disappeared into the denser mountain.
Jessie lay back, heard the thrumming of their hooves echoing down. She thought of Jack Brown. It came with a heavy feeling.
There was a whole year between the first time they were together and the second. And after the first time, she cold-shouldered him. They continued to ride together and drove, but she kept a physical distance from him at all times. She believed that both their lives would be in danger if Fitz found out what had happened.
Over the years, she had done her best to ward off Fitz’s advances. But sometimes she could not. He called it her wifely duty. Some nights she was saved because he was too drunk to scratch himself and for half the month she told him she was bleeding, which repulsed him so much he avoided her for another week again. So
that left a week or a few days a month to evade him as best she could. She had learnt from the women in prison how to synch her cycle with the moon and for years of managing this and Fitz she had never fallen pregnant.
She could think of no worse thing.
But then one morning she woke and Fitz was already on top of her. She knew it would be more punishing to resist him.
Four weeks later she suspected she was pregnant. Five weeks later she was certain.
It consumed her but she told no one. She even copped a beating from Fitz but still she kept it from him.
Six weeks later, she was droving with Jack Brown.
He was asleep in his swag and she went to him.
Kissed his neck.
She felt herself unfreezing.
He woke and he did not stop her.
In the morning he said, What took you so long?
And she did not check herself when she said, Jack Brown, I do not want to die by Fitz's hand.
They were gentle with each other all day and then their days of riding passed in a haze. Two months later, on another ride, she told him, Jack Brown, I am pregnant.
Is it mine, he asked, or is it Fitz’s?
I believe it’s yours, she said.
With all her heart she wished me to be Jack Brown’s child. But all of her wishing could not make it true. She had deceived him.
WHEN THE GANG woke, they lit a small fire and made tea and dipped dried biscuits in sweet milk. They saddled their horses and rode them through the thick scrub in pairs. For sport, when they spotted a wild horse they would charge up behind it. If they could get close enough one of them would grab its tail which slowed it down sufficiently for the other to make a short throw and slip a rope over its head. Then they would tie the brumby to the nearest tree until it had tired itself of kicking and bucking and then guide it on.
Jessie paired up with Bill. They rode in silence for most of the day and Jessie was grateful for it. The day was almost spent and they were riding close through thicker scrub and Bill said, Miss, you may have guessed it, my name is not Bill—it is Layla, but no one here except Joe knows me as that.
Layla is a girl’s name, said Jessie.
Yes, miss.
You are a good rider, Layla.
Thank you, miss, but I’ve seen that none of us are as good as you.
That’s just ’cause I’ve ridden longer.
They ducked beneath the trees. Jessie was curious about how Layla came to call herself Bill. Where were you before you came here? she asked.
Me and Joe were working up north on a station. I was working as hard as a man but sometimes even that is not enough. The station owner wanted me to herd his cattle by day and be his bed companion at night. But I did not want to, miss. And Joe was my friend, a real friend who looked out for me. We droved together and although he is not black, as you can see, he was young and neither of us were treated well there. And the station owner said that I must do as he said and he said that he owned me and I did not want to be owned. So I left with Joe, miss. We ran away.
Layla— Jessie began.
Please, miss, around the gang I want you to call me Bill.
That night the gang tied all the horses they had captured to trees and they camped on high and uneven ground. They sprawled out on their backs and Bill pointed out a constellation and she called it Pleiades. All of them stars there are related. Can you see, miss, there are seven of them? One for each of us. They are almost blue and you will see that they are all moving in the same direction across the sky, all moving in a cluster. But we are a gang and all of those stars are sisters and they are being chased by one man. They are all running from him, but he will not catch them.
Why not? said Jessie.
He cannot, miss. That man there, he is locked in the sky.
The next morning, they saw that more horses had gathered in around the ones they had caught. They did not have enough ropes to capture them but as they moved slowly back up the steep slope the horses followed and then, as if one of their gang had cracked a whip, all of the horses veered off at once, leaning their bodies sideways, far away and east of them.
V
OCTOBER NOW. A month or more since she had gone and the only trace of the September winds and storms was a subdued whistling that came and went. Jack Brown’s horse hustled back and forth and then there was just the tinkling of stirrups and buckles, the slapping of leather against flanks, and he would have preferred to be harboured by some din, than to be alone with the sounds of himself, a horse, a gun.
He looked upon the great spread of the mountains. The blue mystery of their trace folded out into obscurity. It gave him no relief to contemplate them knowing that she was there, somewhere within the trees, the long stretches of scrub, the larger forest.
Now, as always, she felt as impossible as a dream.
Even riding with her, through grove or open field, he always felt that she was already far away, moving on some different path. And many days he felt his own horse was made of clay and they were being towed in her wake and all he could do was hold on and do his best not to slow her as she lit out at breakneck speed. She rode like she would not stop till she reached the horizon and there was no telling where her horse ended and where she began.
Was it love, then, to want to capture her?
It did not feel right to him. But in truth he had wanted her to be his.
His horse shifted sideways and back in the field. He turned his shoulder against the mountains and his horse followed the lead of his turned body and they moved towards the station hut.
He found Barlow crawling through the kitchen on hands and knees. He had his nose right down to the floor like a dog. Jack Brown leant against the doorframe and folded his arms. He watched Barlow following an ant trail that wound across the kitchen floor, disappeared behind a cupboard and then reappeared on the wall. He watched the sergeant angle his thin arm around the back of the cupboard and press his face flat against it as he twisted half of his body around to retrieve the perfect skeleton of a bird. He wasn’t talking to Jack Brown when he said, Look at that!
I am, said Jack Brown.
Barlow clutched the bird against his chest and drew up his knees like a chastised child. He stared up at Jack Brown, his eyes pulsing in his head.
Must have flown in and died, said Jack Brown.
The remains of the bird were strung together by ribbons of flesh that the ants were making short work of. Soon the ants were crawling all over Barlow and he brushed himself frantically with one hand, holding onto the bird with the other.
A pounding on the station door startled them both. Jack Brown was immune to Barlow’s antics now so an unexpected visitor to the police hut was more bizarre than the scene in front of him. He opened the door in time to see the wide back of a man heading around the side of the hut.
Hey! said Jack Brown. What’s your business here?
The man turned around to face him. His face was typical of most faces Jack Brown had seen in the valley. A face as sunburnt and soiled as old leather.
So someone’s manning this hole after all. I was about to give up when I saw those horses in the yard and I thought nobody would be stupid enough to leave horses like that. Not even a city copper. Or his black tracker.
Word travels fast. How can I help you, sir?
Get me the big-city sergeant.
He’s not here.
I’ll wait.
Fair enough, just take a pew and we’ll see if he’s back by tomorrow morning.
The man sat down and surveyed the view from the hill. And who are you anyway? he asked.
Jack Brown. But you can call me the black tracker.
Expected you’d be blacker. Jack Brown, eh? I’m a cattleman. And one hundred head of my cattle has gone missing. The man clicked his fingers. Jack Brown, my cattle just fucking gone!
Any idea who did it?
The man dragged his feet in and sat forward. Truth is it could have been any one of the desperate bastar
ds around here. But one hundred—that’s a real job. Those bastards usually just skim, like cream off the milk. But one hundred, that’s the milk and the cream.
One hundred.
A real fucking vanishing act.
Where’s your land?
Up there. He pointed to the far mountains. Near Phantom Ridge. Sidling up the north end.
Jack Brown knew it. A stretch of land against the northern band of the mountains. He had ridden through it with Jessie and they had skimmed some of the cattle for themselves.
How many days they been missing?
Five days or so. I’ve been out looking for signs of them myself. You’d think that one hundred head of cattle, they’d leave some trail. But this is the thing, Jack Brown—I couldn’t even find a trace of their shit. The man scratched his beard with his blunt fingers. Not even a trace of shit.
The man stood up. I've got no time to waste. Get some of your blackfella magic on to it. When cattle goes missing without a trace, it makes for a very uneasy feeling around here. There are ex-soldiers all over holed up in their huts. They’re all guarding their shitty bit of land and a couple of skinny cows.
They’re already spooked. They get word of this, a hundred head just vanished, and they’ll be out with their guns shooting at the fucking dark wanting a bit of it themselves. They’ll be racing around like fucking lame vigilantes.
The man walked along the veranda. Jack Brown followed him and watched him mount his horse.
We’ll need someone to blame for this, Jack Brown, and I hear from good sources that an ex-convict woman is loose and she is famous for her rustling.
I haven’t heard that, said Jack Brown. And surely you can’t pin a hundred cattle on one woman.
Rumour is she killed her husband, too. Two birds with one stone, Jack Brown.
The Burial Page 14