The Post at Gundoee

by Amanda Doyle

  Lindsay’s eyes were exploring Margie’s earnest face.

  ‘Margie, why are you telling me this?’ she asked slowly.

  She couldn’t stop herself asking that. It was something she felt compelled to know.

  Margie gave her a direct look. It was a look of extraordinary understanding and kindness.

  ‘Because,’ she replied simply, ‘you’re in love with him., aren’t you? I just felt I wanted you to know.’

  Lindsay’s eyes were full of tears which she utterly refused to shed. She turned her head away, gazed blankly at the picture on the wall beside her, not really seeing anything at all.

  ‘It—doesn’t really matter, Margie,’ she told the other girl in a choked voice. ‘It won’t make any difference—none at all. But it was nice of you, anyway. Thanks.’

  Margie gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.

  ‘Where is she today, anyhow?’

  Lindsay did not have to ask to whom Margie referred. They both knew that!

  ‘She’s asleep in her room, I think. She—er—isn’t very well today.’

  ‘Lindsay, I’m sorry,’ Margie said, before she left her there in the dimness of the hall and went back alone to her little plane—and Lindsay knew, from the compassion in Margie’s gentle blue eyes as she spoke those words, that this time they did not refer to Carleen!

  She did not see Carleen again until tea-time that night. She was still pale and heavy-eyed, but in a way even more feminine because of it, in an appealing sort of way.

  Rod seemed to think so, anyway! As he brought her a brandy and lemonade from the drinks cabinet in the sitting-room and leaned over her in her chair, he was more solicitous than Lindsay had ever seen him before.

  ‘Drink it, Carleen, please. It will do you good, I think.’ He smiled with charming persuasiveness.

  Carleen put back her head and gazed up at him, her lustrous eyes eloquent with apology. She laid that ever-possessive hand on his arm, and said softly, ‘Rod, darling, I’m so sorry about this morning. What fools we girls can be sometimes, can’t we! We’re so—so weak, and you men are so strong—you really do show us up to our great discredit sometimes, you know. It isn’t kind.’

  Rod passed her the glass he held, regarded her with a certain grave deference.

  ‘My dear, it’s I who should apologise. I behaved like a boorish brute, and to a guest in my own house, at that. It was unforgivable of me, I know, but perhaps you’ll be generous and try to forget, hm?’

  The way she was gazing at him, she’d have forgiven him if he’d chopped off her head, thought Lindsay to herself with uncharacteristic waspishness.

  ‘But of course! I’ve done that already, where you’re concerned. After all, it wasn’t you who invited me on such a ghastly expedition, and I must admit, looking back, that you did look a little surprised and put-out when I insisted on coming.’ She smiled appealingly. ‘I was so terrified, but do you know, I’ve learned something, too, Rod, from the experience. I’ve learned that we women aren’t designed for such tough and frightening assignments at all. We’re too delicate and easily alarmed—at least, I know I am. In future, I shall know my place as a member of the weaker sex, and leave those things to men. To you, Rod.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Carleen.’ He patted her shoulder comfortingly with a large brown hand. ‘You’re much too fragile and lovely to enjoy such things as that this morning, especially when you’ve been ill lately, too. I dare say Mickie only meant to be kind, but I’m sure most men would agree with me that your role in their world should be in the nature of a decorative one.’

  ‘Why, Rod! How gallant of you!’

  Carleen sipped her brandy, obviously mollified.

  Later, when Rod invited her to come for a ride with him on the following afternoon, she appeared keener than usual, but her eyelids drooped suddenly and her pretty mouth took on a slightly petulant pout when he added, carelessly, ‘Perhaps you’d like to join us, too, this time, Lindsay—you and Dusty?’

  Lindsay flushed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think—I mean—’

  He glanced at her, took in her dubious expression, and his jaw tightened.

  ‘It’s an order, if-you prefer things that way,’ he said more firmly. ‘I want to make sure that you’re safe on the horse my men have allotted you, and also to check your progress. Presumably, after all those tedious lessons, you must have learned a little, surely?’

  She pressed her lips together.

  ‘Very well,’ she answered, somewhat ungraciously, aware of the superior gleam in Carleen’s eye. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do insist.’ Rod was adamant. ‘After tomorrow, I and the rest of the men will be away for possibly more than a week, and you three women will be here at the homestead alone. I have no qualms whatever about Carleen’s own superb horsemanship, but I certainly don’t want you tinkering around in my absence on some animal which you have possibly little or no idea how to control. I shall see for myself tomorrow, so please be ready to accompany us.’

  ‘Very well, Rod.’

  She refused to look Carleen’s way this time, but she knew that the other girl, well aware of her shortcomings on horseback, was secretly amused at the prospect of the morrow’s ride.

  Lindsay arrived at the saddling yard punctually next day to find Dusty tied to the sliprail, waiting for her. Carleen was already mounted on the daintily prancing Chalita, and she was immediately aware of just how wide a margin there was between both the proficiency and the sartorial appearance of Rod’s two equestrienne companions! Lindsay looked down ruefully at her bagging khaki trousers, whose excessive width had pleated itself neatly out over the belt around her middle like a frill around a leg of ham. Oh well—She shrugged resignedly, observing Rod’s striding figure approaching from the region of the near-by power-house. It was too late, now, to do anything about those trousers even had there been an alternative. It was too late to do anything about anything!

  Rod helped her into the saddle, handed her the reins, and let down the sliprail before mounting his own snorting stallion and following her out of the yard.

  For Lindsay, that ride represented a gruelling experience that she would never care to repeat. Mostly it was because Dusty’s stubborn gait was somehow unmatched to that of his more active equine mates, she decided regretfully, as she jogged along behind the others in an uncomfortably bumpy trot.

  It seemed to Lindsay that she trotted for miles that afternoon, without respite. Miles and miles. The other horses ambled along at a fast, lively walk, ears up, eyes alert, necks straining to be given their heads, while, in the rear, Dusty trotted and trotted, urged on by the thud of Lindsay’s sandshoes digging ineffectively into his foaming flanks.

  Lindsay slowed down to a walk, savouring the brief moment of respite, but as the distance between herself and the others appeared to be widening at an alarming rate, she was soon forced to urge him into that monotonous trot once more.

  Carleen seemed to have purposely set out to capture Rod’s entire attention on that ride. She talked animatedly, every now and then gesturing with graceful eloquence to illustrate a point she was making. There wasn’t a doubt that Rod was being entertained to the fullest of Carleen’s not inconsiderable ability, and all the time Lindsay trotted and trotted a little to the rear.

  The miles went by—or, at least, Lindsay found herself hoping that they were going by. You could hardly go on trotting at this maddeningly frustrating pace without some distance being covered, could you? The only trouble was, there was distance everywhere, out here. So much distance. Flat, brown, plains sort of distance. Muted, hazy, distant distance. Outback, relentless, interminable distance.

  It seemed to Lindsay, as Dusty followed those others at this tireless jog of his, that he and she were trotting along on an actual treadmill of distance!

  When the stitch that had developed in her side became almost unbearable, she managed to release a furtive groan under cover of Carleen’s tinkling laugh, and when, presently, a
sound started up deep in the region of Dusty’s sagging middle, she thought that perhaps he had developed a stitch in sympathy. The sound inside him was like a heavy boot stepping on a creaking board, and it came with monotonous regularity, every time his bony carcase vibrated to his own trot.

  Rod must have heard it, too, the creaking board sound. He stopped, came back, took in her set face and twisted mouth with instant concern.

  ‘What is it? A stitch? Can’t you spur this old nag on a bit, Lindsay?’ He smiled kindly. ‘I remember what it can be like—as a boy, jogging along on a pony behind the men’s horses, having trouble keeping up. Won’t Dusty go a little faster for you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Rod. I can’t get him to go faster, or even slower, unless he walks—and he takes his time about that, too. He just has a mind of his own, that’s all. I suppose, at his age, one does! If we can only stand still a minute, the pain in my side will go.’ There was pleading in her voice. It was wonderful to be standing here, and not trot-trotting on into the distance.

  Rod pushed back his hat, considered her thoughtfully for a moment, and then said apologetically,

  ‘I’m sorry, Lindsay. I thought you were handling him quite well, actually. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You take Chalita for a little while. Carleen has ridden most of the steam out of her anyway. Carleen can easily cope with Martians and I’ll relieve you of old Dusty for a while. He’ll perhaps go better for me. Some of these old horses can be sinfully cunning when it suits them. They need a firm hand, and a rider who’s up to their tricks. Do you mind, Carleen?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Carleen looked pleased at the idea of riding Martian. She mounted him with ease, laughing as he sidled around with arching neck and rolling eye, disapproving openly of his unfamiliar rider. It was a challenge, and she handled it beautifully.

  There was admiration still lurking in Rod’s eye as he turned now to Lindsay and held Chalita firmly while she clambered awkwardly into the saddle.

  Straight away, things seemed to go wrong. The little mare shied suddenly away, jerking the reins from Rod’s grasp before Lindsay had secured them properly in her nervous fingers. She leaned forward frantically, missed the reins altogether, flung her arms instead around Chalita’s dappled neck, and the animal promptly went mad. She plunged and reared away over the ground, and Lindsay didn’t quite know what happened next.

  There was a distinct curse as Rod threw himself on to the surprised Dusty and dug in a brutal heel in hot pursuit. Pounding hooves sounded deafeningly close to Lindsay’s ears, and then as Rod came alongside, Chalita propped on all four feet, as if mischievously aware that the game was up. Lindsay, by this time too confused to know what she was doing or why, went sailing through the air in a neat arc and landed with a resounding thud in the dust not far away.

  It only seemed a matter of seconds after she hit the ground before she was being scooped up into a pair of powerful arms and crushed against a khaki-shirted chest.

  ‘Lindsay! Lindsay? Thank God—’ as she opened her eyes she saw his set face above her, pale with remorse, tense with anxiety.

  Lindsay smiled, rather sleepily. She still couldn’t quite think how she had got here, close against Rod’s broad chest, cushioned in his muscular hold.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she assured him, almost happily.

  ‘Thank heaven for that!’ His deep voice was oddly harsh in its relief. ‘I should never have tried it, Lindsay. It was all my fault. You aren’t quite ready for Chalita, I’m afraid. Can you walk? Sure? Let me see you do it I’m sorry, Lindsay, but there seems no alternative to Dusty, after all, does there?’ He gave her the ghost of a grin, still pale beneath his heavy tan.

  ‘We’ll all walk, this time—very slowly,’ said Rod quite tenderly, as he put her into Dusty’s saddle once more. ‘If necessary, I’ll lead him.’

  And that was how they returned to the homestead, with Carleen on Chalita prancing skittishly in front, and Rod on his impatient stallion, pulling a recalcitrant and by now extremely weary Dusty behind him.

  ‘Gawd’l’mighty! Look at that!’ Herb poked Artie sharply in the ribs and indicated the approaching trio. ‘What d’yer make of that, now, Art?’

  His companion screwed up his eyes against the setting sun, and squinted with critical interest at the horses and riders. Then he cupped his hands over his wrinkled forehead to make quite sure he was seeing right before replying gloomily,

  ‘Nothink very good, by the look of it, ’Erb. That’s ’er in the lead, I reckon, as natty as yer please. Cor, she can ride, that dame! And there’s Lindsay comin’ up be’ind, only why’s Rod leadin’ ’er, for Pete’s sake? We learned ’er ’ow ter ride, didn’t we? Why d’yer suppose ’e’s leadin’ ’er?’

  Lindsay saw the two figures drift tactfully out of view behind the tankstand, but she was too weary and worn to even wonder who they were or why they were there.

  Rod seemed aware of her exhaustion, too.

  ‘You go up to the house, Lindsay. Carleen and I will turn the horses out for the night.’

  Carleen and I.

  It was dismissal, but Lindsay was past feeling hurt or rebuffed. Three’s a crowd, she reminded herself dismally, especially when the third one can’t even ride properly!

  ‘Pst! ’Ere! Lindsay?’

  She had passed the tankstand now, to be confronted by Herb and Artie. They were idling casually in her path with their hands in their pockets. Herb coughed.

  ‘ ’Ullo, Lindsay!’ he greeted her, on a note of surprised discovery, as if she was the very last person he expected to see passing behind this tankstand, albeit it was right on the recognised route to the homestead from the yard. ’Ave yer been out fer a ride, then, eh? With Rod and ’er, was it? ’Ow did yer get on, Lindsay?’

  Not even Herb’s sublime approach could hide the anxiety behind his question. Artie, too, was standing waiting for her reply with bow-legged curiosity.

  ‘I didn’t get on. I got off.’ She attempted a smile that was somehow not very successful.

  ‘Stone the crows! Yer mean—yer don’t mean yer fell off?’ Art shook his grizzled head incredulously.

  ‘I didn’t fall off. I was thrown off.’ She felt her tender places gingerly. ‘I was hurled off,’ she confessed, with a fleeting, urchin grin, but just the slightest tremor in her voice all the same.

  Lindsay pushed past them, making for the house. She was not in a mood for further conversation right then.

  ‘Well, I’ll be danged!’ Herb looked after her, and Artie, too, knocked back his hat and gazed after that small, hurrying figure. His angular bow-legged body had slumped into a curiously dejected arc.

  ‘It don’t seem too good, I must admit.’ Artie cleared his throat noisily, and looked his mate squarely in the eye. ‘I reckon the knockout stakes might soon be over, ’Erb, an’ it’ll be Bluey and Cook collectin’, worst luck—not us.’

  ‘Maybe not, Art, old cobber.’ A spark of returning optimism gleamed in Herb’s beady eye. ‘We could win out yet if we play things right, yer know, Artie. Maybe Mick’ll ’ave another of them bright ideas.’

  ‘Bright ideas? Jeeze!’ Artie spat neatly to one side to register his disgust. ‘Them brain-waves of Mick’s is about as subtle as a man-eatin’ crocodile sittin’ on a mudbank.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Herb said on a sigh, ‘while there’s life there’s ’ope, Artie. Ain’t that what they say? While there’s life there’s ’ope.’

  But you could tell, from the way he said it, that not even Herb believed it, really. Not now.

  CHAPTER 10

  The men rode out next morning.

  Lindsay pressed her nose to the gauze and watched them until they were out of sight Blue and Shorty and Cook had gone ahead earlier, and now the others followed, Rod riding in front with Jimmy and Tommo. Artie, Herb, and Mickie bringing up the rear. They all rode the same way, these men, legs thrust out long in the stirrups, wide hat pulled down, body angled in a carelessly relaxed positio
n in a saddle that was cluttered with saddle-bag, water-bag, ropes, pint-pot, and various other impedimenta to fulfil their present needs. A couple of horses without anyone on their backs loped along beside Herb, but there were other spares, too, already out at the Dinewan Block. Hughes, a boundary rider, lived in a hut out that way and could provide extra mounts, as could his mate Jenison from the Billabong outcamp.

  Lindsay had only seen these men to nod to on mail-days, and even then they did not always bother to come in to the homestead. She knew approximately where they lived, though, and others like them at the other huts and outposts. Each place was identified on the wall-map in Rod’s study by a neat cross. Beside the crosses were names like Billabong, Goof gap, Rainbow, Loophole, Force Eight, Blue Lady, Dogleg Plains, or simply, in one particular instance, Fawcett’s Place.

  That cross with ‘Fawcett’s Place’ printed beside it was the most outlying one of all, and Fawcett himself had never been in for a single mail-day since Lindsay’s arrival.

  When she mentioned this phenomenon to Artie, he had laughed and replied,

  ‘ ’E’s a kind of ’ermit, see, Lindsay. Old Fawcett don’t take ter company. Yer’d be lucky ter see ’im as often as yer see Santa Claus ’imself, and that’s the truth. Sometimes ’e don’t come in fer a whole year, and then it’s only because ’is rakin’ beard’s beginning’ ter trip ’is feet up and ’is shears is blunt.’

  Lindsay didn’t quite believe Artie, but all the same, whenever she looked at that far-away little cross that was Fawcett’s Place, she envisaged a bearded recluse, an independent, fierce yet lonely old man, a mysterious and strangely poignant figure.

  The knot of riders that she watched until they were a mere dust-ball in the distance weren’t going anywhere near Fawcett’s Place today. They were heading west and then tracking along the dry creek-bed until they got to the Dinewan Block’s camp. Rod had shown her on the map when she asked him to, a brow raised briefly in surprise that she should evince an interest. The truth was that Lindsay’s imagination was captured by the immensity of space represented on that map—the spread of ‘the Bush’, as she privately called it She had had to learn, very quickly, that ‘the Bush’ meant not only the pretty, lush area where she herself had been born and spent those first six Utopian years, but many other things as well. ‘The Bush’ had hundreds of different forms—endless mutations, depending upon which part of it you happened to be in! And now Mickie had told her that ‘the Bush’ where they were now going to muster was a different Bush again from the homestead and its environs.