“How are we supposed to light it from here?” Rowland asked.
“I have an idea,” Simpson said, heading back to the firepit and dragging Edna and Rowland with him via the chain. He stretched out towards the fire and extracted a burning faggot.
“Would you like to do the honours, Miss Higgins?” He offered the flaming branch to Edna.
“Good Lord, don’t give it to Ed,” Rowland warned. “Her aim’s abysmal.”
“That’s hardly fair!” Edna protested.
“You shot me,” Rowland reminded her.
“It’s very ungracious of you to keep bringing that up.”
Simpson threw the torch himself.
Rowland blanched and Edna put her hands over her face as the tree caught and exploded into flame.
Simpson cheered, and put his big arm around Rowland. “How’s that for aim, Rowly?”
Rowland laughed. “Hell of a blaze though,” he said, sizing up the flames. “Moran and his boys will be back if they notice.”
Simpson shook his head. “It’s too dark to see the smoke. If one of them happens to spot the flames they won’t do anything till morning anyway… They’re usually well and truly pickled by now.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Rowland asked, as he watched the tree which was now engulfed.
“A couple of hours at least. Make yourself comfortable, mate…”
And so they sat there by the edge of the stream. The fire threw enough heat that they were not cold despite the evening chill. Simpson took the opportunity to unwrap the bandages around Rowland’s arm and wash out the wound.
“You don’t want it to get infected, Rowly,” he said, as he poured the icy stream water over Rowland’s arm. “Had a dog once with this tiny little nick on its paw… got infected and we had to shoot it in the end.” He sighed. “Bloody good dog too.”
Rowland craned his neck to look at his arm. It was slightly inflamed and bruised, but other than the gash Simpson had incised, and the impression left by Edna’s teeth, it didn’t look too bad. With any luck Simpson wouldn’t have to shoot him any time soon.
It took most of the night for the tree trunk to burn down to a level that would allow them to simply lift the chain over the stump, then another half-hour of pouring water over that part of the chain to ensure it was cool enough to lift without injury. All in all they were free before dawn.
They clambered, still shackled together, towards the cave in which Moran’s men had stored the tools. It was about a hundred yards away and reaching it in the dark was a stumbling challenge. It took Simpson several minutes to smash through the chains with an axe, and then more carefully to remove the shackles entirely.
“Right.” Simpson glanced up at the lightening horizon. In the daylight the smoke from the now smouldering tree stump was obvious. “Let’s get going before Moran turns up to investigate the smoke.”
“How long will it take us to get to Pocket’s Hut?” Rowland asked, as Simpson passed swags out from the cave.
“Not sure, at least a day…” Simpson slung two swags over his shoulder. “Can you take one, Rowly?”
Rowland nodded, taking the third swag on the shoulder of his good arm. They gave Edna a canteen and what food remained.
“Shouldn’t we take more water?” Edna asked. The single canteen seemed a paltry supply for the three of them.
“There’re streams all over this country,” Simpson reassured her. “You don’t want to be carrying any more than you have to… we have a fair way to go.” He glanced at Rowland and frowned. “If you have trouble with the swag, Rowly, toss it. We’ll make do.”
“I’m fine,” Rowland muttered. “We should get going. O’Shea’s Hut is only about an hour’s ride from here. They could be here any moment.”
Simpson agreed. “This way.”
Clyde dismounted, and signalled for the others to do likewise. He’d brought six men with him; the other six had already started to search for Simpson… or his remains. Despite Rowland’s refusal to seriously consider the possibility, Clyde thought it likely that the Sinclair’s head stockman had perished. For some reason Rowland, and it seemed, Wilfred, had a loyalty to the man that was hard to fathom. Still, to Clyde’s mind, the ways of the landed gentry were often odd.
Milton and Sarah Brent were safely back at Rules Point. Clyde had stayed just briefly before he set out to do as Rowland had asked.
He could hear several voices within O’Shea’s Hut, and there was a number of horses tethered outside. Clyde smiled. If anything could bring cattlemen back to the home pasture it would be the presence of Edna.
The door was opened, to Clyde’s surprise, by Moran.
“What are you doing here?”
Moran’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The hut burnt down, didn’t it? We were worried about you all… figured you would have tried to get to O’Shea’s.”
Clyde nodded slowly. It seemed reasonable, but still he was uneasy.
“Where’s Rowly—Mr. Sinclair?” Clyde asked, scanning the room.
“You mean he’s not with you?” Moran’s voice was startled.
“We lost a horse and had an injured man.” Clyde said alarmed. “He and Miss Higgins came here.”
Merrick rose from the easychair. “Well, they didn’t arrive. We haven’t seen them, have we boys?” He looked around at the men in the room, who all nodded and murmured in a show of consensus.
“This is terrible!” Moran exploded. “This is not friendly country for a couple of city kids lost on their own.”
“I doubt they’re lost,” Clyde said, a little irritated by Moran’s reduction of Rowland and Edna to children. Neither was he convinced by the stockman’s apparent show of concern.’
“I guess the boys and I better go look for them.” Moran sighed. “They’re bound to be somewhere between here and Rope’s End. Why don’t you wait at Rules Point, Mr. Jones? My boys know this country. We’ll find them.”
“We might as well join the search while we’re here.” Clyde’s response was guarded. He’d caught a glimpse of something pinned to the wall behind the Cassidys. He recognised the drawing—he had seen the painting which Rowland developed from it, but this was not the time to show his hand.
“Fair enough,” Moran said congenially. “Why don’t we split up? We’ll cover more ground.”
Clyde agreed. “We might head back to Rope’s End… or what’s left of it. Maybe they found trouble on the way here.”
“Righto.” Moran seemed satisfied with the proposition. “We’ll fan out from here.”
And so an uneasy agreement was reached. Clyde took his leave, and his own men, to begin the search for Rowland Sinclair and Edna Higgins.
26
FIRST AID TO THE INJURED
WHAT TO DO TILL THE DOCTOR COMES
[By the late Dr. W. Gordon-Stables]
BANDAGES AND BANDAGING
We can dispense with prettiness when doing up an arm or leg; what we want is real utility, and the bandage so fixed that it will not get loose and fall down—come off, as it were. If there be any prettiness or dandifying to be done the doctor himself is the man to do it, and if you have been successful in the application of the bandage he will not mind if it be a little untidy.
The Register, 1929
Rowland rested his head back against the smooth bark of the snow gum. They had been trudging through the scrub for hours now. Simpson had finally allowed them to stop for a while.
“Hope you know where you’re going, Harry,” Rowland said, as Simpson built a fire.
“I’m keeping well away from the trails in case Moran’s boys are looking for us,” the stockman replied.
“They’ve probably decided to let us die hopelessly lost in the wilderness,” Rowland sighed.
“We’re not lost.”
“So you keep saying.”
“You can’t always go places directly, Rowly. I had a dog once, lazy blighter, always went in a straight line… was trampled by a cow in the end—had
to shoot him.”
“You’ve had a lot of dogs, Mr. Simpson,” Edna said, sitting beside Rowland.
Rowland smiled. “They don’t seem to last long though, Harry.”
Simpson threw a stick at him. “Don’t be smart, Rowly! I like dogs.”
“Do you think Mr. Moran knows we’re free yet?” Edna asked, rubbing her arms. Now that they had stopped, it was cold.
“They might,” Simpson replied. “Hopefully they think their time is better spent finding Glover’s gold than us.”
“You know,” Rowland said regretfully, “I do believe I forgot to sack them.”
“I didn’t,” Harry Simpson replied. “It was how I ended up chained to that tree. When I realised they were rebranding my cows, I went straight in and sacked them…” He shrugged. “Probably wasn’t all that well thought out, really.”
“I didn’t fare much better,” Rowland admitted.
Simpson handed him the hessian sack which Glover had left them. It still contained some biscuits, and a box of sultanas.
“If I had a rod, I’d catch us something better than this.” Simpson poured water from the canteen into a billy and added a generous fistful of tea. “Some of the best fishing in the country here.”
When the billy had boiled he swung it in a circle to settle the leaves and set it off the fire. “Give it a couple of minutes to cool.”
Rowland looked critically at the sky. It had turned a greenish grey. “We might not have a couple of minutes, Harry.” The clouds had gathered with extraordinary speed.
Simpson glanced up and nodded. “You’re not wrong, Rowly.” He frowned. “Try and drink some tea.” He wrapped the empty hessian bag around the billy and handed it to Edna. “We’re about to get wet.”
The rain, when it started, was an inundation. There was no introductory drizzle, just an immediate downpour. It seemed to fall in icy, almost horizontal, sheets, making it difficult to see. Very quickly the ground became slippery and they were soaked. Rowland pulled Edna to him as they stumbled after Simpson.
Despite its ferocity, the deluge was not expended. The rain became hail and the landscape was soon netted with rivulets and streams.
They ploughed on through the mud, trusting that Simpson knew where he was going.
The hut was small, a rudimentary construction that appeared so unexpectedly that Rowland was still surprised when they staggered through the door and stood dripping and shivering on the uneven floor of the single room.
“Damn it!” Simpson began building a fire in the stone fireplace. A stack of dry wood and kindling had been left on the hearth.
“Where are we?” Rowland asked, as he removed his sodden jacket.
“Lonesome Hut,” Simpson replied. “Only really used in emergencies.”
“Like now,” Edna shivered. “We’re lucky it’s here. I’m so cold…”
“Maybe,” Simpson replied, frowning.
Rowland pulled a blanket from his swag. Rolled up in the oilskin, it was only a little damp. He handed it to Edna and knelt beside Simpson who was coaxing a flame from smouldering kindling. “What’s wrong, Harry?”
“This is the closest hut to the cave,” Simpson said, pulling back as the fire caught and jumped suddenly. “If Moran’s men are looking for us, they’ll check here. I wouldn’t have brought you here if there’d been any other shelter nearby.”
“Oh.” Rowland glanced upwards as the hail pounded and clattered on the iron roof. “Hopefully this storm will slow them too. We’ll leave as soon as it eases.”
Simpson piled logs upon the fire. “Let’s try and get as dry as possible in the meantime,” he said.
They rolled out the swags and removed as many wet clothes as decency would allow.
Edna laughed at Simpson’s obvious embarrassment as she removed her sodden breeches under the blanket. Rowland placed them with the steaming jackets and muddy socks before the fire. He watched the sculptress thoughtfully as she tried to wring the water from her hair. She’d wrapped the blanket chastely about her body. The firelight cast her in a warm, gentle light that gave her beauty an earthy timelessness—like a Degas, her figure seemed to emit its own glow. He wondered briefly if his notebook was too wet to allow him to capture her.
All the while he listened closely for any sign that the storm was letting up. There was none. It seemed the rain had set in.
“How far are we from Pocket’s Hut?” Rowland asked, sitting as close to the hearth as he could without scorching himself.
“Five miles maybe,” Simpson said, keeping his eyes on the fire and averted from Edna.
Rowland smiled. “Good Lord, Harry, I didn’t think you could blush.”
Simpson regarded him sternly and poked him in the chest. “A man cannot help but wonder why you’re not blushing, gagamin.”
“He used to.” Edna laughed as she combed her fingers through her hair. “The first time Rowly painted me, he was completely crimson!”
Simpson chuckled.
“How’s your arm?” he asked Rowland, still unwilling to let his eyes anywhere near Edna.
“It’s not getting any worse,” Rowland lied. He was doing his best to ignore the pain, but he was well aware of it.
Simpson inspected the rough bandage. Rowland’s arm was bruised from shoulder to elbow, swollen and clearly tender. “We can get you a doctor as soon as we get to Pocket’s.” He tested Rowland’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. Perhaps you and Miss Higgins should try to catch some shut-eye. I’ll keep watch and wake you as soon as the rain clears.”
“I’m fine, Harry,” Rowland murmured, though he did stretch out on the swag.
Edna moved closer to the fire to check her clothes. She turned them over to dry the other side and sat huddled in the blanket beside Rowland. It was only close to the fire that it was not cold and even then the side of her that was not facing the flames became quickly chilled.
“I wonder if Clyde got Milt and Sarah back all right.” She bit her lip anxiously.
“Of course he did.” Rowland wondered vaguely how she could manage to smell like roses after all the rain and the mud. “Clyde’s probably back looking for us by now.”
“He’ll go to O’Shea’s Hut… What if they…?”
Rowland put his good arm behind his head. “Clyde will bring a few blokes with him. How many men can they possibly shackle to a tree?”
“With any luck, the fact that your friends are poking around will keep them from going back to the cave to check on us,” Simpson said thoughtfully. “If the rain doesn’t let up soon we’ll be stuck here till morning. We don’t want to risk being stuck in the open at night.”
Rowland stirred as Simpson prodded him with his foot. Edna roused him more gently, shaking his shoulder.
“Rowly, wake up.”
The rain had stopped. It was quiet and dark, but for the fire which Simpson had kept fed through the night. Rowland sat up. “Time to go?”
“The sun will be up soon,” Edna replied.
Rowland was a little surprised that he’d slept so soundly and for so long.
Edna handed him his jacket, now dry. She was dressed. “It’s no wonder you were tired,” she said, as he gingerly inserted his injured arm into the jacket’s sleeve. “Poor darling, you’ve had a terrible time of it.”
“Rubbish—you’re getting soft, Rowly,” Simpson said, as he re-rolled the swag. “We want to leave at first light.”
“You’re still worried that Moran could find us?”
“Nah, I’m just hungry.”
Rowland smiled. “Fair enough.”
Simpson put out the fire and restocked the logs which had been beside the fireplace from the woodpile outside, and they left Lonesome Hut as they had found it, ready for the next person who needed shelter from the inclement and unpredictable mountain weather. The rain had left the ground soft and, in some places, quite boggy. The trek was increasingly arduous and it was very cold. It wasn’t long before the glistening undergrowth had soaked them anew.
Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand to keep her from sliding down the steep incline. A little way further up the slope, Simpson cursed.
“Harry?”
Simpson climbed up onto a rock and looked grimly out over the valley. “They’re coming.”
Rowland clambered up beside Simpson. Half a dozen men on horses were picking their way through the scrub, following their trail.
“It’ll be dead easy to track us with all this bloody mud,” Simpson groaned.
“Can we outrun them?”
“They’re on horses, but in this country it might not be an advantage. Either way we’re going to have to try.”
They set out now with urgency, moving as quickly as they could through the dense scrub. Though they did what they could to keep their tracks invisible, it was an impossible task. The mud and fragile undergrowth kept a faithful record of their passing. Despite the cold, Simpson was sweating as he led them. In the interests of speed they discarded the swags and blankets and committed themselves to reaching help before nightfall.
They came over the rise, hopeful that they had increased the gap between themselves and the horsemen.
Rowland saw the movement in the distance ahead of them first.
“Harry!” He got down, pulling Edna with him.
Simpson cursed quietly. “They must have split up and come round.”
“So what do we do now?” Rowland craned his neck around the pale grey trunk of a snow gum.
“This way.” Simpson motioned for them to follow. They moved slowly at first, keeping down, trying to avoid any undue noise, but then they heard the shouts.
“Over there!”
They ran out of instinct more than reason, a wild panicked scramble to escape. Of course they could not outrun horses. Rowland pushed Edna before him as they climbed a steep incline in the hope the horses would be unable to follow. Simpson grabbed the sculptress’ hand and pulled her up.
“Rowly, come on!”
“Gotchya, you bastard!” Rowland heard Blue Cassidy’s voice just a split second before the rope fell around his shoulders and pulled tight. He was dragged over, his injured arm taking the impact of the fall. For a moment he could do nothing but swear, and then he rolled, struggling to free himself from the rope. Simpson came back for him. The others arrived—Glover, Moran and three more Cassidys. Simpson dragged him up, refusing to give in, and then they heard the unmistakable click of a shotgun being cocked.
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