The Burial

by Courtney Collins

  THE BOY HAD shown her a gorge and she led the hunters to it. The only way to lose them was through tougher and tougher terrain, and yet she could not lead them back up the mountain for fear they would discover the campsite or any sign of the gang. And she knew she could not lead them directly down into the valley where she would be fired at without cover or protection in the open fields.

  The gorge was narrow and dark and promised a steep decline and an uneven surface, then the surprise of rushing water. She ripped along the track, weighing its danger. Three hunters on her trail, if they hadn’t collected more. Three armed riders with nothing to lose except the horses they rode. It would be worth it, even to lose one of them.

  She pushed on in the dark, finding her way around trees that shone back silver. She could smell the water of the gorge carried up the warm cliffs and she breathed it in. The track vanished and she plummeted down into the deep canyon. She laid herself flat on the stolen horse and tried not to give herself away by screaming out the fear that was in her.

  The horse flew down the slope and did not stop. It could not have, even if it wanted to. The drop passed as a terror and she did not know if beneath them was rock or dirt or air or what the horse was even holding on to. The horse skidded down and she breathed relief when the horse’s neck evened out and it found its feet. She pulled herself up to sitting.

  She heard them then. All three hunters flinging themselves down the same drop. She pushed the horse into the water and rode through, holding its neck pointed to the other side so it had no choice but to get there. She heard the men hitting the water and the screaming of a man as he lost his horse and panicked. From the continued surging sound of the water she knew his companions had not stopped to save him.

  She crossed the water and pelted on through the thick scrub, pushing her body right down against the neck of her horse. Its heart was pounding. She urged it on and, though it did not stop and she did not turn back, in her mind she could see the man left behind in the river. The man was grabbing for a stick and, finding the stick without buoyancy, wrestled with it until his shirt and coat twisted up and drowned him.

  THAT NIGHT, BARLOW was sick of the sight of Jack Brown’s head. He lodged himself outside the cave and by the light of the sky he tried to write in his empty journal. But in pressing down on the nib of his pen it snapped and where he wanted words on the page there was only a blob of ink. He had thought this would be his story to tell, a young sergeant capturing an infamous female bushranger. But he had no spare nib to write the story and there was still no certain sign of her.

  In truth, he felt far from victory or hope. Days and days of sitting on his horse directed by whatever sign that Jack Brown intuited had bred an impatience and, later, a hostile anger in him—a force of rage he had never before felt or expected to feel.

  He closed his journal and lay down on his swag to sleep but was kept awake by the involuntary grinding of his teeth. He twisted and arched his back and neck and kicked his legs under a blanket, trying to get the feeling out of him.

  All day he had watched Jack Brown, easy and relaxed in his saddle, sun-slick, his hands floating on his knees, his body moving as if it were another muscular extension of the body of the horse. Looking this way, looking that, coming out with grand statements beyond rhyme or reason, as though he always knew something that Barlow did not.

  For Barlow, the mountains had unfolded without meaning. The colours and shapes continued to be strange to him and as they had moved higher up the slope he felt the clouds weighing in like the ceiling of a room that was sinking down upon him.

  All day he saw silver leaves as bullets shooting through the trees and though he wore his badge visible and shiny with its eagle sweeping in, it seemed ridiculous when they saw no one and he knew the badge itself would not deflect a bullet once a gun was aimed at him.

  He lay there, his heart racing with the spasms of his body, the kicking of his legs. He knew there was every chance he might die before he saw her again, that bullet or cliff could claim him and he would never get to see her as a grown woman, or reproach and punish her for deserting him. He knew that he might die with her only as a recurring dream and a recurring nightmare of Miss Jessie leaving behind Bandy Arrow.

  JESSIE WAS COLD and wet and frantic. She had survived the gorge but her mind was blank and she had no knowledge of the terrain on the other side of it. There were still two men on her trail and she knew that by pushing forward she was only marking a path for them to follow. She could hear the wheezing of their frightened horses and yet they pushed on as she did, reckless as hell in the dark. It was almost too close to continue.

  She rode on anyway, searching below her. All she could see was the shiny surface of the rock face disappearing into darkness. She guessed it was slippery with moss and water. But she had to climb down it. She pulled up the horse suddenly and swung to the ground. With a slap she sent it back in the hunters’direction. At best they would think she had been bucked, falling to her death. At worst they would think she had been unseated and would still come after her. She knew they would not risk leaving their horses and there was no way of travelling down the rock face on horseback unless they were intent on suicide. Better if they were.

  She rolled up her trousers and emptied the bullets out of her gun in case she slipped and fired it. She strapped it again to her back and began to scale down. Her hands and feet clung to clumps of moss and twisted vines and roots that grew out of the rock.

  Silently she went. She could not hear the hunters so she carried on, moving down, clutching at whatever she could, whatever nature offered her. She stopped when she heard them above her, pressed her face and body against the rock and waited for them to pass. She could not risk a loose rock giving her away.

  As she held on her legs began to tremble with exhaustion. She clenched them to stop them shaking and then a feeling like pins and needles set into her feet and they finally grew numb.

  The hunters passed. She kicked her feet against the rock to prompt her blood’s return to them. She trusted only the grip of her hands although they were damp with sweat. She wiped them on her shirt and began to lower herself down again, her hands taking most of her weight.

  It worked, this lowering down, the weight of her in her hands, and she could even see an end in sight as the cliff gave way to ground. But the rope of the vine she clung to snapped. Her feet had no hold and twisted out and slipped, her gun, her shirt, all sliding up around her, her bare skin scraping against the rock. She tried to grab for moss or rock or vine, anything, but nature seemed to baulk. There was nothing to hold on to.

  She fell and fell until the cliff finally turned her out on a ledge. She landed feet first and then crumpled down with the shock of it. She was conscious, she was on the ground, her body was shaking. And then, the most surprising thing, her body in its shock began to shudder with laughter.

  Fuck me, she said.

  She sat back, tried to straighten her legs, to stretch out. She felt her back. It was warm and damp and when she licked her fingers, she tasted blood. She had no cloth to bind herself but for her shirt which she could not sacrifice by ripping it up. She knew when blood and skin meshed with fabric it could be worse than the wound itself, so she took off her shirt and let the night air cool and dry the cuts.

  She waited. Still and silent on the ground. She consoled herself that maybe in the fall she had gained a couple of hours from her hunters.

  When the blood on her back had dried enough she put back on her scrap of a shirt and realised the ground she was on was actually another, shorter ledge. She climbed down from it, though it would have been shallow enough to jump, and found herself on a track. She walked along, her whole body stiff and sore, carrying her rifle, charged somehow by the adrenaline of her fall and her survival.

  She walked through the night.

  When she made out the two distinct forms standing on the track she thought she must have been hallucinating. But as she moved closer, it was clear. There
were two saddled horses tied up to a tree. One of them she recognised, absolutely.

  And then terror struck—the old man’s dog was moving towards her on the track and growling—and above her someone yelled, Miss Jessie!

  She looked up and saw a ghost and the ghost was holding a gun and the ghost was all grown up.

  And then all stars and dust and hope and loss came crashing together at once as the dog leapt on Jessie and Bandy Arrow fired.

  BARLOW HAD THE dog in his sights first. He was already awake and alert to every strange sound. He heard the dog moving through the bush. It was growling. He did not know what wild dogs roamed the mountains, if they came in packs, what they might do to him or the horses. He did not waste time wondering. He loaded his gun and crawled to the ridgeline.

  He did not expect to see her. But there she was, standing near the horses, bailed up by the dog. Finally he had her.

  His hand was trembling as he trained his gun on the dog and then on Jessie. Both were oblivious to him. He stood and yelled out, Miss Jessie! The dog barked and the horses reared up. She grabbed her gun from her back as the dog leapt on her and locked its jaw around some part of her.

  Barlow aimed at the dog. He took a shot. The dog unhooked itself from Jessie’s arm and went for the horses. He took another shot. Jessie fell down and so did Jack Brown’s horse.

  Jack Brown appeared on the ledge in time to see Jessie and his horse collapsing.

  What the fuck have you done? he said.

  Jessie was loading her gun on the ground. Her arm was bleeding profusely. She pointed the gun at the top of the ridge.

  Put the gun down, said Barlow.

  Jessie!

  Jack Brown?

  Do as Barlow says.

  Why should I?

  He’s the law, Jessie.

  Jessie put the gun down and watched the two men climb down the rock.

  There was nothing more to fear. Both her ghosts had caught her, both her ghosts were strapping her arm, both her ghosts were helping her to her feet.

  THEY SET OFF down the mountain, Barlow doubling Jessie on his own horse and Jack Brown trailing behind them. Barlow had offered his horse to Jack Brown and Jack Brown had refused it. Jessie suggested that the two men should double each other and she could walk. But neither of them would have it, especially Barlow, who foresaw her escaping.

  Barlow said, You know that if you do try to escape you will only be hunted by packs of men and they do not care if they bring you back to the valley dead or alive. For what it is worth, we are your best chance of surviving.

  What about Jack Brown? said Jessie.

  I will walk down, said Jack Brown. If there is a short cut I’ll take it and I will meet you at the bottom of the casing.

  The track narrowed as it wound down and Barlow and Jessie disappeared ahead of Jack Brown.

  He was sulking, which he was not proud of, and he let the space between them lengthen. He had supposed Barlow’s shooting of his horse was deliberate and, thinking about it more, he concluded that it was, that now Barlow had found Jessie he had no use for him. He felt shafted by both of them, that Barlow’s offering of his horse was just a hollow attempt to save face. Jessie gave little away and he had no way of knowing what she was thinking or how she was planning to escape this time or if she was planning an escape at all. He could tell there was some history between her and Barlow, some recognition. He felt jealous of it and he hated that they were now riding together in front of him. It all swilled inside of him and became an ache in his gut and he thought of deserting them both and disappearing into the mountains. He did not know why he was following them. What good could come of it now?

  But the thought of Jessie out there in front of him, possibly in danger, kept him walking. He picked up a branch and threw it out against the drop of the cliff in a futile but satisfying gesture.

  He walked on.

  JESSIE AND BARLOW rode along the slowly descending track with Jessie turning her head at each bend to see if Jack Brown was following.

  He won’t lose us, said Barlow. He’s the tracker.

  It made Jessie anxious not to see Jack Brown, not to know if he was actually following them directly. What was his intention? And what was Bandy Arrow’s? Her head was spinning.

  I know who you are, she said.

  You recognised me?

  You look the same.

  I’m not Bandy Arrow and I’m not seven years old.

  What happened to you? You’re a fucking cop?

  I was adopted by a police sergeant and his wife, who were there the night of the fall. They saw it all. Took pity on a broken orphan boy.

  Did they treat you well?

  They weren’t blood. They weren’t you.

  I’m not your blood.

  You’re the closest thing. You should have come to find me.

  Are you going to drag me back down to the valley to punish me?

  Maybe I am. You can take your chances and swing down now. But I’d advise against it. There’s a pack of men after you as wild as dogs. And they don’t even care about you enough to punish you.

  Seems I’m done for either way.

  Seems you are.

  They rode along in silence and although Jessie looked out for him there was never any sign of Jack Brown.

  When they heard the sound of riders coming up the lower track both of them froze.

  Fuck, said Barlow. My badge. Where’s my badge? Jessie, feel in the pack.

  She flipped up the leather top and searched through the pack. There’s handcuffs but no badge.

  Put them around our ankles.

  What?

  Fucking do it.

  Jessie secured their ankles together as four men rode around the bend.

  What’s this? said the one in the lead.

  Look here. A boy and his pony and a suspicious-looking lady.

  Would you call ’er that?

  The four men rode in close.

  She’s the prize. You’ve got the prize.

  Gentlemen, my name is Sergeant Andrew Barlow. His voice was wavering.

  I wouldn’t call ’er a lady and I wouldn’t call us gentlemen, one of the men sniggered.

  I’m a sergeant of the law and this woman is under arrest.

  A sergeant? Where’s your badge?

  It’s in my pack.

  The men started laughing until the one in the lead raised his gun and turned to Barlow. Sergeant, how about if you don’t hand her over we will blow your fucking head off.

  It’s alright, Barlow, said Jessie. I’ll go with them.

  There’s no choice to be made here, said Barlow. They cannot take you.

  The men began to argue among themselves. What if he is the sergeant that he says he is? Should we kill him? We can’t kill him. Let’s kill him. There’s no law on this mountain. A man can rape or kill and expect no consequence except his own consequence. You mean conscience? Consequence is what I said and what I mean to say!

  In their arguing, the men seemed to forget their purpose.

  So what will it be? said Barlow.

  The men all raised their guns and then one of them dismounted and stripped Jessie and Barlow of the guns they carried. We’ll ride till we find a camp and then we’ll decide what to do with you. So just be good little soldiers now and follow our lead.

  Jessie and Barlow kept quiet, both wondering if the other was forging a plan. The men and the perilous slope of the mountain had finally hemmed them in and neither of them had any idea of how to escape.

  WHEN JACK BROWN heard the rabble of voices, he stayed well back and hidden. He squatted in the bush and, listening, discerned that there were four men. He had no clarity other than that. He did not know what to do.

  He knew he could not do nothing. If he acted now, what was the right way to act? There was no law to guide him except his instinct to protect Jessie and then the terrible feeling that until this moment, for all of his instinct, he had not. So how could he trust himself now?

&nb
sp; Jack Brown stalked them. He kept low in the bush and he knew if he had any powers to be invisible, now was the time to find them. He followed them all day and they set up camp and when a roo appeared near him he lay right down on the ground, because he guessed that soon they would spot the roo and start taking pot shots in his direction.

  When it was dark, he got close enough to the camp to hear them. The men had already turned to celebrating and he could see Barlow and Jessie tied up on the ground.

  So what’s a thousand pounds divided by four? said one of the men.

  Dunno.

  You blockhead. It’s two hundred and fifty, all divided. They were sculling whiskey and staggering around the fire.

  So do we get more for her alive or dead?

  Doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. We’re better to keep her alive than to have to drag her carcass down the mountain. If she’s all rotted up, how can we prove it’s her? Better to keep her in one piece.

  The night passed more slowly than any night Jack Brown had ever known. The men were large and for all they drank they did not seem to relent from drinking more. Their talk was violent and Jack Brown felt sick with rage when one of them staggered over to where Jessie and Barlow were tied up and blindfoldeded them with his own stinking socks and began pissing on them.

  But he must wait. He could not charge out and launch a showdown. The risk was of harming Jessie and the risk for him was too great. He must wait. It felt the same to him as when he had been fighting from the trenches. But even then the enemy did not seem so real as it did now.