Perhaps the Aborigine would have thought better of it in a saner moment. At any rate he didn’t wait to see the outcome as he fled with the rest of his companions. They doubtless knew how terrible the white man’s vengeance could be.
Lloyd felt the spear whistle past him, almost brushing his sleeve, before he heard Jock’s cry. He pulled his horse up violently, causing Jock’s mount to collide with him. He grasped its rein and dragged it to a standstill, controlling his own excited horse one-handed. Jock was clutching the pommel of his saddle, ashen-faced, the other hand gripping the quivering shaft of the spear that protruded hideously from his left thigh. Already the blood was beginning to form a dark stain on his trousers.
Lloyd checked a horrified exclamation and slid from the saddle, dropping Dynamite’s reins and steadying Jock’s mare. Jock was crouched forward over her withers now, the breath wheezing through his clenched teeth, his face contorted.
‘Get the bloody thing out, Lloyd! Quick, before it kills me!’
Lloyd obediently grasped the wooden shaft of the spear and, gritting his jaw, wrenched the weapon from its bed of flesh and muscle. Blood gushed freely and Jock uttered a sharp, agonised cry, before toppling from the saddle into his companion’s arms. Lloyd carried him away from the horses and gently laid him full-length on the ground. He tore the blood-soaked trousers away to expose the wound.
It looked ugly to his inexperienced eye. As far as he could see, the barbed spearhead hadn’t touched the bone, but had gone deep enough to cruelly lacerate the flesh. After that first gush, the blood was pulsing steadily. He knew if he didn’t stop it, his friend could bleed to death.
In Jock’s pockets he found a clean handkerchief, still folded, which he placed over the wound to act as a pad. Then he tore the tail off his own shirt and wrapped it tightly around Jock’s thigh, knotting it securely with the aid of his teeth. Jock was beginning to come round and opened his eyes as Lloyd straightened.
‘Did I go out to it?’ he asked weakly.
‘Yeah. Just for a couple of minutes.’
‘Ye got the spear out? How does she look?’
Lloyd hesitated. ‘Not too bad.’ He thought he had the bleeding under control, but now he was more concerned that wounds like this always went bad. He knew men had died in agony from lesser injuries. He helped Jock to a seated position. ‘We’d better get you home. Do you think you can sit on a horse?’
Jock grimaced. ‘Aye, it hurts like the devil, but I’ll manage. That blasted black fellow–if I ever get me hands on him he’ll be sorry.’
It was an effort to get him into the saddle. At last it was accomplished and he hung there, trembling, heavy beads of perspiration standing out on the greyish pallor of his face.
‘What about the beast?’ Jock managed.
‘He’s buggered.’ Lloyd glanced briefly in the direction of the stricken steer, which was moaning softly, the blood bubbling from its nostrils. He took the revolver he always carried on his saddle and walked over to it, dispassionately putting it out of its misery.
That was the last attempt at conversation Jock made until they arrived back at Roundstone Creek nearly an hour later. Lloyd carried water to him in his quart-pot. ‘Would you like to stop for a spell?’
Jock shook his head. ‘Just keep going.’
As the miles drew by, they travelled with ever-increasing slowness. Jock grew feverish and dizzy and Lloyd was forced to dismount and walk beside his horse, supporting him in the saddle. This made for awkward progress in the heavy timber, until Lloyd, in a fit of exasperation, tied the reins around Dynamite’s neck and allowed him to follow at will. Then the gelding upset matters by pushing past them and trotting ahead, disturbing Jock’s normally quiet-natured mare.
They didn’t stop at all, for any advantage gained by allowing Jock to rest was outweighed by the difficulty of getting him into the saddle again. He was growing steadily more feverish and Lloyd knew it was imperative to bring him home and into bed as swiftly as possible.
It was well into the afternoon when they finally reached Kilbride. Andrew, Donald and the station hand were away from the house working on a new fence-line, so only the females of the family were there to greet them. The sight of their father hanging slackly in the saddle, flushed and drifting on the edge of delirium, shattered even Mercy’s composure. Surely there had been enough sickness and tragedy in the family without this.
Mercy stood there, stunned into immobility and it was left to Louise to help Lloyd carry the injured man to his bedroom. Yet after they had laid him on the bed, Mercy appeared in the doorway with a solution of Condy’s Crystals to bathe the wound and strips of sheeting to bandage it, apparently once again in possession of her wits.
‘Good girl,’ responded Lloyd tersely. ‘I hope you’ve got a strong stomach. It looks a bit of a mess.’
Wordlessly Mercy did what had to be done, her face set. When fresh bandages had been applied and the covers had been drawn over her barely-lucid father, he stirred himself enough to say, ‘Don’t ye write to Mother about this. Don’t want her worried.’
‘No, Father.’ Mercy patted his calloused hand. ‘Don’t fret yourself now–just hurry up and get well.’
Lloyd drew Louise aside. ‘Do you think you could get me something to eat?’
She looked at him swiftly. Jock had left at five, so presumably Lloyd had breakfasted earlier than that. Although they’d carried food in their saddlebags he would hardly have stopped to eat. ‘Of course. Come to the kitchen if you don’t mind eating there.’
The three younger girls were hovering outside the door. Louise noted their white, anxious faces and her heart twisted. ‘You may sit with your father if you like, but don’t talk to him. He must be allowed to sleep.’
Maggie shook her head, on the verge of tears. ‘We’ll be as quiet as mice, Miss Forrest.’
In the kitchen Louise set cold meat, pickles and bread in front of Lloyd and sat across the table from him. He looked tense and dishevelled, his clothes blood-spattered, but just being alone with him again after all this time made her pulse beat faster.
‘Do you think Mr Jamieson will be all right?’
‘God, I hope so.’ Lloyd sighed and dragged his hand through his sweat-matted hair. ‘The wound itself should heal if it doesn’t go bad, but that fever doesn’t look too good. Those poor kids. Fancy this on top of everything.’
‘Do you think we should let Mrs Jamieson know?’
‘No. There’s no point. She’d only fret and not be able to do anything.’
He ate rapidly and gulped down several pannikins of hot, sweet tea. As he chewed his last mouthful, he pushed back his chair. ‘Thanks, Louise. I’ll take another look at Jock and head off.’
‘Where are you going?’
He didn’t answer and she followed him into Jock’s study, where he took one of the rifles from the rack on the wall and pocketed a handful of cartridges.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to see where those black fellows have got to. I’ll hunt ‘em off if they’re still about. I won’t have ‘em on Myvanwy if they’re gunna be spearing cattle. We can’t let ‘em get away with this.’
Alarm rushed through her at the hard note in his voice. ‘Lloyd, you’re not going to shoot them!’
He looked quickly at her and gave a tight smile. ‘No, I won’t do that. But if I went to the traps, that’s just what would happen. They’d put the Native Police onto ‘em and they’d slaughter the whole tribe. There’s no need for that–I just want to scare ‘em off.’
‘What if Mr Jamieson takes a turn for the worse?’
‘There’s not much we can do. There’s no doctor in Banana, so it’s no use taking him there. The trip’d kill him, anyway. You’ll just have to do the best you can for him.’
‘Lloyd,’ she could only whisper, afraid to put it into words. ‘Do you think he’ll die?’
‘God, I hope not. But it doesn’t look too good. If he does...’
‘Don’t
do anything silly, for God’s sake. I wish you’d stay here.’
‘No, I can’t let ‘em get away with this. If they think they’ve got us scared, they’ll be eating our cattle whenever they feel like it and throwing spears at us into the bargain. Besides, I couldn’t stand to hang around here doing nothing. Can you get some food together for me?’
‘Why don’t you take one of the boys with you?’
He shook his head. ‘You might need ‘em both here. I don’t want ‘em mixed up in any trouble, anyway. The Jamiesons have enough problems right now.’
‘What about you?’ she demanded fiercely, angry that he should place less value on his own safety. ‘Do you think no-one cares about you?’
He smiled tiredly. ‘At least me mother and father don’t.’
‘They may not, but I do! And you know the Jamiesons do, too.’
She spun away from him before he could respond and returned to the kitchen, where in some agitation she packed meat and bread into a sugar-bag. Lloyd didn’t follow her and she guessed he was visiting Mr Jamieson. When he reappeared with the rifle in his hand she thrust the bag at him and turned away without a word, waiting until he’d gone outside before she gave way to her tears.
Chapter Fourteen
Lloyd didn’t bother returning to Myvanwy to change his horse. Dynamite had rested sufficiently on the long, slow trek home with Jock to regain whatever energy had been expended on the brisk morning ride.
He strapped the rifle in a scabbard under the flap of his saddle and tied the sugar-bag to the dees on the pommel. Maggie and Agnes had saddled their ponies and ridden off to fetch their brothers. He considered waiting for their return so he could enlist the help of Ernie Bates, but decided against it. It was better to have at least one mature adult at the homestead in case Jock’s condition deteriorated.
He rode his horse at a trot and canter most of the way, shortly before dark reaching the area where the beast had been speared. At first he had trouble finding the spot in the thick timber, but after a short delay he came upon the little clearing in the brigalow. Dismounting, he took the time to inspect the beast properly. It was a roan steer, at least two years old, with his LK brand on the ribs. The body had stiffened but hadn’t yet begun to swell and apart from the many spear wounds the carcass was still intact. Obviously the Aborigines hadn’t dared to return for any of the meat.
Lloyd compressed his lips. In another two or three years this animal would have grown into a heavy sale bullock. He hated to think of raising an animal past the age where it was likely to succumb to drought or dingoes, only to have it fall prey to the blacks. At this stage he couldn’t afford to lose too many of his bullocks. Perhaps he should have adopted the practice of some station owners of killing a lame or otherwise defected beast for the Aborigines at intervals in the hope that they’d leave his more valuable animals alone. But their natural game had seemed abundant and this tribe hadn’t shown signs of hunger.
However the killing of his cattle mattered little when he thought of Jock lying in his bed at Kilbride, fighting the fever and the poisons in his blood. If he died, after the tragedy the poor family had already suffered, the natives would have a lot to answer for. It wasn’t as if either he or Jock had ever treated them badly.
And Louise...he remembered her bravely taking charge of the household and something softened inside of him. He pictured her at Bauhinia Downs on the first day he met her, all haughty and conscious of her superiority and realized how much she’d changed. Unbidden, the memory of her in his arms, pliant and willing, came to disturb him. He gathered Dynamite’s reins and swung impatiently into his saddle, tired of the wanting and waiting for their chance to be together.
He could have had her the other night. He’d considered fetching his swag and taking it to some dark, secluded spot. No-one would have known, but his sense of shame had held him back. The Jamiesons trusted him, had been kind to him. If they had guessed he was out there in the dark with their governess...
He’d never met anyone like Louise and couldn’t understand why someone from her class would consider shacking up with a rough cove like him. She was so much of a mystery to him and he suspected that was part of the fascination.
He turned his horse in the direction of a nearby gully where he knew there would be water. Although it was fully dark when he arrived, there was sufficient moonlight to see that the Aborigines had been camping there. It was evident they’d vacated the spot in a hurry, for close to one of the gunyahs was a possum-skin dilly-bag, apparently dropped in haste. Dismounting, he struck a match to examine the contents:several birds’ eggs, a few yams and a handful of fat, white grubs–obviously one of the women’s gatherings for the day. Well, the eggs–if they were fresh–and the yams would supplement his supper, but he discarded the grubs with a grimace of distaste.
Daylight found him once more on his way. He followed the Aborigines’ trail over the Myvanwy boundary and into Bauhinia Downs and still they seemed to be well ahead of him. It appeared they’d been thoroughly frightened by the outcome of yesterday’s encounter and needed no encouragement from him to spur them on their way. In the south-west, a heavy cloud of dust indicated the presence of the Bauhinia Downs mustering camp. He decided to go ahead and collect the stray cattle, knowing it would be another year before they were mustered again and meanwhile he and Jock would risk losing their calves to the neighbour’s brand.
The men were cutting out bullocks when he arrived. They were holding two lots of cattle while Sam Naylor, mounted on his best stock-horse, camp-drafted selected animals from the main mob to another which, Lloyd guessed, would later be taken to a paddock close to the homestead. The head stockman paused in his work, directing one of his men to take over and walked his blowing horse to meet Lloyd.
‘G’day, Kavanagh. How are things with you? I was expecting you yesterday.’
‘They’re not too good.’ Lloyd spoke bluntly, forgoing a greeting. ‘We would’ve been here yesterday, but we ran into a bit of trouble.’ He went on to tell Naylor the whole story, adding, ‘Looks like the blacks have cleared right out of it and just as well for them. I wouldn’t have minded putting a few shots behind ‘em if I’d run into ‘em today.’
‘Christ, that’s bad luck for Jock.’ Naylor took out his pipe and thumbed fresh tobacco into the bowl. ‘Those spear wounds are rotten things. It was lucky you could get it out’
Lloyd grimaced at the memory. ‘It wasn’t easy. Jock went out to it in the process, poor bugger.’
‘He was lucky. Plenty of blokes have died with a spear still in ‘em.’
‘He might still die.’ Lloyd looked away, his eyes scanning the endless scrub. ‘Do you know this tribe I’m talking about?’
Naylor nodded. ‘I certainly do. We have one of ‘em here. A young fellow we took in at the homestead when he was a bit of a kid.’
‘Could I have a yarn to him?’
‘Yeah, I’ll get him.’
He signalled to one of the riders blocking the face of the camp, a dark boy on a scrawny, brown horse. The youth came promptly, his eyes wide and scared in his black, dusty face.
‘Billy, you know ‘bout wild-feller blackfellers bin spear ‘em white man yesterday?’
The aborigine’s eyes widened further. ‘Me no wild blackfeller. Me good blackfeller. Me brand ‘em calves, chase ‘em cows all longa day. Me no spear ‘em white man.’
Naylor laughed and turned to Lloyd. ‘He’s heard about it, all right. God knows how the hell they do it. These black fellows know what their mates are up to from twenty miles away. I didn’t see any smoke signals yesterday, but I might’ve been too busy to notice.’
‘He looks bloody worried,’ Lloyd agreed. He frowned at the black. ‘Billy, you bin tell ‘em blackfellers, no more spear ‘em white feller, no more spear ‘em bullock. Big boss policeman he bin come shoot ‘em blackfellers dead. You tell ‘em blackfellers, they hungry,’ rubbing his belly, ‘they come longa see me.’
Billy nodded, tremblin
g. ‘I bin tell ‘em, Boss. Other white feller, he all-same die?’
‘No, but he all-same plurry crook.’ Lloyd injected a note of grim warning into his voice. ‘Might be he die, bye ‘n bye.’
Naylor gestured to the terrified Aborigine. ‘When you see ‘em blackfellers, Billy, you tell ‘em clear out plurry quick. You tell ‘em whitefellers plenty cranky.’ He watched after the stockman’s retreating figure, grinning a little. ‘That’ll put the fear of God into ‘em.’
‘Yeah, but if Jock dies it won’t be much help.’
‘No, it’s a rotten business.’ Naylor puffed his pipe in silence, reflecting. At last he stirred. ‘Well, I’ll help you get your cattle out of the mob. There’re two cows and calves of Jamieson’s and a dry heifer and four steers of yours. Will you stop and have some smoko with us first?’
‘Thanks, Naylor, but I want to get back as soon as I can. Mrs Jamieson’s away–they lost their little girl to diphtheria the other day. There’s just a houseful of kids and the governess.’
Naylor cleared his throat uneasily. ‘That’s sad news about the little girl. But I think you’re reaching a bit high with that governess, Kavanagh.’
Lloyd felt himself flushing. ‘What do you mean?’
Naylor watched him steadily. ‘Someone saw you together at the race ball. I think you’re riding for a fall. She’s a wild girl, but remember what I told you when I first asked you to take her with you back at Bauhinia Downs.’
Lloyd squirmed inwardly. Perhaps she was a bit wild, but her male relatives were a safe distance away in England and he was too smitten with her to just walk away while there seemed to be a chance for him. ‘She’s not a trollop, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Naylor retorted. ‘But I also don’t know what a girl of her class was doing wandering about the bush on her own and I wonder if you do.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about it, but it’s your business and I’ll keep my nose out of it. Let’s get these cattle.’
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