The dull thud of kangaroos echoed through the trees. There was a slight swish of air through leaves. He sensed open space and relished this slight victory of distance over pain. He grimaced through the final erratic grasps of his hand, his fingers ready to close around newly tilled soil. Instead he reached for loose dirt and looked directly into the eyes of a fox. The animal was very close to him. He sat as if waiting and showed no signs of moving from Anthony’s path when he continued onwards. And continue Anthony did, crawling forward as the animal backed away. Crawling forward in the path of the fox he’d followed so carelessly earlier. Was there a lair ahead, Anthony wondered, some hungry cubs waiting to be fed? He was beginning to expect the worst of the quietly patient carnivore, when the remains of a building rose up from the clearing. He paused breathlessly, his mind scrambling to decipher the unknown structure. His eyes traced the fallen roof and the broken gutters. Most of the house was wrecked. The large verandah was about the only element still intact, although the boards were rumpled like an untidy blanket and saplings grew through the wood like spiky chin hairs. Anthony let out a moan of despair. He had no idea where he was. He was lost.
Giving a weak chuckle at the stupidity of his accident, Anthony burrowed his cheek in the dirt, his breath shallow. He could see the fox from where he lay, sitting on the ruined verandah, his head tilted to one side. There was an ancient hitching post to the left of the animal and wavering trees. The ground grew colder. The increasing chill and accompanying shivering began to surpass the excruciating pain in his leg. He prayed silently, wishing for help, wishing to be found. His breath sent bursts of dirt from the ground near his mouth, the same soil creeping steadily into his nose. Anthony sensed that even with the temperature dropping to zero and a nasty frost looming, exposure wasn’t his main concern. He tried to turn over, however the earth rose up like a billowing sheet and he collapsed. There was something seriously wrong and although he could only guess at the extent of his injuries, his eyes pictured a black and white film running to the end of a flickering negative. When the next river of pain struck him, his fingers gripped at the unyielding dirt. ‘Sarah,’ he whispered weakly. ‘Come home’.
Lauren woke late, a thin line of drool forming a wet patch beneath her cheek. A curtain of spindly needlewood leaves obscured her vision and she lifted her legs from where she’d hooked them over the side of the dray, struggling into a sitting position. Her clothes were damp from last night’s rain and her lower back argued nastily with the abrupt change in her position. The old nag still tethered to the dray complained briefly by snorting and striking the earth.
‘Shhh. You’re lucky you’ve still got a job.’ Rubbing away sleep from the corners of her eyes, Lauren dragged the dray free of the obscuring stand of needlewoods. Miles of lightly timbered country spread out in all directions; a flat monotone of space made busy by hopping kangaroos, emus and darting birds. Lauren sniffed at the silence, lifted her skirt and, squatting in the dirt, relieved herself.
Dawn had long disappeared. The sky was a blue haze. There were thin tails of smoke in two directions and a background of grey–blue clouds in another. It was in this direction that she believed the rutted track led. Having followed it till near midnight she figured there were only a couple of hours’ travel left before she arrived at the homestead. She walked in a circle, fanning out from the dray in search of the track. Surely she couldn’t have strayed so far off course, yet there was no sign of her own tracks let alone the one that hopefully led her to Wangallon. ‘Damn rain,’ she cursed, spitting onto the ground. Returning to the dray she swigged down a mouthful of water, swished it around her mouth and spat it out before swallowing a good measure of the liquid. Lauren refused to admit she was lost. It wasn’t possible. Climbing into the dray, she twitched the reins and headed away from the thin streams of smoke. She was positive Wangallon wasn’t in that direction.
Two hours later Lauren stopped to check her bearings. There was a dense tree line to her right and the clouds on the horizon were gone. She sipped at her waterbag, wondering if there was a creek or river nearby, for she wasn’t the only one greedy for a drink. Her horse seemed to be getting slower and the wooden seat was bruisingly uncomfortable as the dray bumped across the uneven ground. By noon Lauren admitted she was lost. She stopped under a towering belah tree, certain her horse would drop dead if she didn’t rest. Lying flat in the dray, the sun filtered through the leaves onto her face, the heat pricking at her skin. She supposed she would have to wait it out until the late afternoon and then continue onwards.
‘God’s holy trousers, you’d think someone would live out here.’ There had been such grand images in her head: A homestead rising from amid the wilderness like some ancient monument, a fine building, long and low with an impressive garden surrounded by a paling fence. That’s what she imagined Wangallon to be like. After all, everyone knew the Gordons had money and folks like that knew how to carve a home for themselves in the bush. ‘Much good it will do me now.’ Lauren tipped the waterbag up and moistened her tongue with the few remaining drops. It was turning out to be a real bugger of a day.
It was the soft lowing of cattle that woke her. She’d been dreaming of her mother standing over her, calling her a silly fool as she kicked at her bones polished white by the sun. Lauren licked at her sunburnt lips, barely able to raise any spit. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die. And that would be just her luck. It was fine for her mother to be calling Susanna a slut, but Susanna wasn’t the one lost in the scrub. Susanna wasn’t the one deserving of a better life. The sound of cattle grew closer. Lauren scrambled into a sitting position, wiping at her tears and licking the moisture from the back of her hand. She concentrated all of her attention on the noises about her. There was wind she could hear, the odd bird, a clicking sound in the tree above her, the laboured breathing of the old nag and there, it was a crack. Rifle fire or stockwhip, she wondered? There was a cloud of dust in the distance. Lauren watched the low hanging pall move steadily onwards. Another whack sounded and this time she knew it was the crack of a rawhide whip. The growing sounds of cattle spread about the countryside. Lauren patted uselessly at her sleep-creased clothes and, spitting in her palms, smoothed her hair. Pinching her cheeks red she tugged at the reins, turned the dray and drove the stumbling nag towards the dust.
‘Holy frost, Lauren, what are you doing here?’
Lauren gave her best smile as McKenzie rode to where the black stockman had suggested she wait; like she had anywhere else more pleasant to go to.
‘I’ve had the most terrible time of it,’ Lauren sniffed. ‘I came out to join you specially and then, then,’ she gave a little hiccup, ‘I got lost. You wouldn’t have a little water to spare?’ She asked demurely. She accepted the waterbag and, taking two great gulps, was about to swipe her arm across her face when she stopped and dabbed politely at her chin.
The herd of cattle was about half a mile from them. Lauren covered her nose as the wind changed direction and blew sheets of dirt across them. ‘You look like you’ve been up half the night.’ Lauren patted McKenzie on the arm. ‘It’s good to see you.’
McKenzie scratched his head, the action tilting his wide-brimmed hat. ‘I can’t take you back to the homestead, Lauren. Mr Gordon’s given us a job to do. Besides, we’re already two men down, what with Wetherly and Mungo pissing off into the wind. Wetherly never showed and Mungo reckoned he was bringing a cook from the black’s camp but he came back empty-handed and then pissed off. Not that I can’t handle it.’
Like all this meant anything to her. Lauren batted her eyelids. Wasn’t it clear she was in distress?
‘You’ll have to come with us.’
‘What, with that raggedly mob of blacks and a bunch of cows?’
McKenzie pushed his hat back on firmly. ‘That mob is the best herd of beef this side of the mountains.’ He looked at her nag. ‘So you can stay here and die or,’ he gave a crooked smile, ‘you can come with me as my woman. I’ll tell the m
en we’re married and they’ll see right by you.’
Lauren kicked at a stick lying in the dirt – so much for the big house.
He handed her a tortoiseshell hair comb.
‘Oh McKenzie, it’s beautiful.’
McKenzie unhooked the horse from the dray, tying the reins to his chestnut mare. ‘Got it off Mungo. Said I should give it to Mr Luke and tell ’em that he knew, something like that. Reckoned you’d like it better.’
‘Where are we going?’
Hooking his arm under hers, he pulled her up onto his horse. ‘Sydney.’
Lauren wrapped her arms tightly about his waist and pressed her cheek to the back of his shirt. ‘Ohhh, sounds lovely.’ She never had gone much on Luke Gordon.
McKenzie trotted his horse towards the herd, leading the dray behind him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. His name’s Jasperson.’
Hamish broke off some branches, peering through the dense foliage. He couldn’t recall his escape from the river’s currents nor how he’d arrived at this hole of bushy camouflage. His hands were ripped and bleeding, suggesting he’d clawed his way into hiding. There was pain throughout his body, shoulders, back, head and leg. With a gasp he leant against a gnarled tree trunk and surveyed his leg. The shaft of the spear was broken neatly about one handspan out from his flesh. In frustration he bashed his head against the tree trunk behind him, cursing Crawford for his artfully arranged, ambush. It was likely his men had been captured, even killed in last night’s skirmish. He hoped no one had been recognised for that was the prime method of conviction.
Either way he had to presume the worst. Pulling his pocket-knife free of the pouch on his belt, Hamish placed a stick between his teeth and began to slowly prise at the flesh of his thigh. He made two straight cuts, grimacing through the pain, and then grasped the shaft of the spear and pulled it free. Blood gushed from the wound. Spitting the twig free of his mouth, he ripped a length of material from his shirt tail and did his best to tie something of a bandage. Pain radiated through his leg. There was precious little time to salvage his failed plan and there was only one way to do it.
The snapping of twigs halted his ministrations. He pulled back from the noise, his shape merging with the shadowy trees. Hearing the lone whinny, Hamish stuck his head out from amid his bushy cover – the horse was riderless. He staggered over to the rangy brown mare and, coaxing her softly, dragged his body onto the saddle. There was a bloody nulla-nulla, a waterbag and a spray of dried blood patterning down the horse’s girth. Hamish drank thirstily and walked the horse along the edge of the riverbank. The signs of the cattle’s crossing were obvious. Hamish hoped the herd was well away.
About a mile downstream the river narrowed. Tracks marked where riders had crossed from the other side; two men only. Hamish hoped it was McKenzie and Jasperson. He’d seen his old friend Boxer go down during the fracas so the number made sense. ‘Boxer dead.’ He rolled the words around on his tongue, tasting its sourness. ‘Dead because of a bloody-minded Englishman.’ He spat in the dirt, swatting at the flies massing about his bloody wound. He thought of his old friend, envisioned his night black face. Boxer had been with Hamish from the very beginning. Together they’d travelled the breadth of the country they both loved. Boxer advised Hamish when the rains would come, taught him to study the directions the birds flew at sunset if he needed water, showed him where the best waterholes were. More importantly he was a guardian of the old ways, of the customs of his people. His was a great loss.
‘The rainbow serpent came from the mother earth,’ Hamish said clearly, ‘and caused the waterways to form in his wake. Where he rested he made a billabong.’ A wind lifted the branches about him. ‘I hope you’re in that place where the water is still and shady, my old friend.’ To Hamish, Boxer was the last of his kind: a full-blood Aborigine with a bond of love for this land that would remain unbroken, even in death.
Hamish directed his horse down the sandy bank. The horse stepped gingerly off the edge and, with his hind legs partially bent, half-slid down the embankment. Hamish held himself steady, leant back in the saddle and relaxed his body so that he matched the horse’s gait. In the centre of the river, rivulets of water ran across a sandy bar. These were the type of odds he could work with, he decided. Hamish tied a rope from his waist to his saddle and urged his horse into the water. ‘Come on then, lad,’ he coaxed, rubbing his neck.
The bottom deepened quickly, the water reached his thighs and then they were climbing up onto the sandy bank. The horse whinnied softly and snorted. They were stranded on an island. Realising that he had little choice but to go onwards, the horse plunged into the water at Hamish’s urging. This part of the river was much deeper and the horse struck out to swim to the bank. The current caught at them and once again Hamish felt the push of water, felt the horse being propelled sideways. They were carried one hundred feet downstream into the path of a fallen tree, which stopped their progress with a jolt. Hamish grimaced as his good leg was buffeted, the horse thrashing against the timber. Finally the animal gained his footing and, finding traction on the river floor, scrambled out of the water.
Regardless of his exhaustion and the pain of his useless leg, Hamish gave a grim smile. If Crawford could prove the events that unfolded last night, he could destroy everything. Nonetheless there were two things he had in his favour. One was the involvement of the renegade blacks, especially the fur-coated warrior of last night whom Hamish assumed was the marauding Aborigine Wetherly spoke of, and secondly, Crawford would not be expecting Hamish Gordon to pay him a visit.
It was midafternoon. Through the tree canopy edging Oscar Crawford’s homestead, the sun was a blinding orb. Luke hid quietly behind a stand of belah saplings and squinted across the short distance between the line of trees and the paling fence surrounding the homestead. The open space provided little cover. If he was going to make a run for it he had to be prepared. He pulled his carbine closer, running his hand protectively across the metal barrel. Overhead, crows called out soullessly. A black sulky remained parked at the front of the house, and he counted three, perhaps four horses. He ducked back under cover, his rifle grasped to his chest.
A number of hours spent searching the riverbank had yielded no clues as to his father’s whereabouts. There were the obvious tracks of where men and cattle crossed the river, but apart from a quantity of manure and trampled undergrowth, there was no sign of any men. A severed rope tied to a tree and two dead beasts, already torn apart by wild pigs, marked what must have been a frenzied crossing. It was only on Willy’s insistence that they’d travelled further downstream. Here along the edge of the river they’d found hoof marks. Willy, holding his palm above a boot print in the dirt, nodded once and pointed across the river. He sensed a white’s energy and considered it strong. Luke left Willy and Angus on the bank as Joseph and he battled the short swim to the other side.
At the homestead there was movement. Men were mounting their horses. There were blacks among them, trackers, he presumed. The sulky was pulling away, the horse trotting along after the riders. At least he hadn’t recognised his father, for Crawford would surely have him bound and parcelled up for the coppers in readiness for his appearance before the magistrate. Luke rubbed his eyes against the glare, pulled the brim of his hat down lower. The thought of his father no longer in charge of Wangallon left him hollow.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.’ The unmistakeable figure of his father was thrown into relief against the white-washed mud brick of Crawford’s homestead. He was moving slowly, edging along the side of the building. ‘Damn him, what the hell does he think he’s doing?’ Luke let out a low groan as his father disappeared through a window. Luke blinked twice in disbelief and then, crouching low, began to run towards the homestead.
Closing the window Hamish lifted his rifle, hoping it was dry enough for action. If not he had a nulla-nulla jammed through his belt. If he were accused of the crime, Crawford would ensure he was jailed. Unable to rely on Luke to
safeguard Wangallon until Angus came of age left Wangallon at the mercy of any number of prospective buyers, including Crawford. He walked across the polished floorboards, his injured leg was weakening and the blood loss had not lessened. Through the partially opened door he looked down a long hallway to where a black stockman was standing with William Crawford, his father and Wetherly.
‘Damn nuisance that magistrate, telling me to leave it in the hands of the police. Time was when a man’s word was good enough. By the time they catch up with the mob they’ll probably be mixed up with a thousand of Gordon’s. Wants proof, he says, before we can charge the likes of Hamish Gordon. Tells me he’s in receipt of a letter of complaint from Gordon about that damn water business last year. Warns me, me, to ensure my own doings are without tarnish. I’ve a mind to ride out there myself, confront Gordon and take him into Wangallon Town myself.’
‘Mebbe he’s dead,’ the stockman announced.
‘And maybe not,’ Oscar yelled. ‘Just because you find a man’s horse drowned doesn’t mean he’s dead.’
‘He was speared, Father,’ William reminded him, ‘and not by our men. Some renegade savage had the pleasure.’
Oscar brushed worried fingers through his hair, ‘True, true. I should never have got the magistrate involved. Should have handled matters myself,’ he mumbled. ‘Anyway, at least it’s a spear. We can’t be held accountable for that.’
A Changing Land Page 36