River Run

by Alexander, Nicole

  ‘What?’ She didn’t move immediately and then Eleanor was on her knees by his side, staring at the body in the grass. ‘Shit.’

  ‘We should try to roll him over, shouldn’t we?’ Robbie asked when his sister’s shocked silence grew too much to bear. Eleanor was still looking at the body, her face blank. ‘Shouldn’t we?’

  ‘I-I guess,’ she stammered.

  Together they reached out and, with a nod of mutual agreement, pulled the man onto his back. ‘You shot him in the shoulder,’ Eleanor stated in disbelief and then she was on her hands and knees, being sick. She coughed and spluttered before wiping her nose and mouth on a shirtsleeve.

  Robbie peered at the wound and crinkled his nose at the smell of vomit. ‘But his head is all bloody.’

  Eleanor spat into the grass, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. ‘He must have hit it when he fell from his horse.’ She took a few steps backwards, staring at the blood seeping into the man’s shirt. ‘I don’t recognise him. Do you?’

  ‘Nope. Is he dead?’

  His sister looked like she could be sick again at any moment. ‘I don’t know. Put your hand over his mouth and see if you can feel air.’

  ‘No way,’ Robbie replied. ‘I’m not doing that.’

  Eleanor put hands on her hips. ‘Well, you shot him.’

  Robbie shook his head. ‘I’m just a kid.’

  ‘Damn you, Robbie.’ They both stood there, staring at the man, at each other. Finally Eleanor gave a sigh of frustration and leant over the wounded stranger, her palm wavering across his face. ‘I-I don’t think he’s dead. No, he’s breathing. Thank heavens for that.’

  Robbie suddenly felt a whole lot better. ‘I only winged him then. Thought so.’

  ‘Thought so? Thought so?’ Eleanor’s hands curled into fists.

  ‘You’re not going to faint or do something girly like that, are you?’ asked Robbie. ‘’Cause that’s what happens when girls see blood, they get sick and then they fall over.’ Maybe not, he decided, taking a few steps away from his sister, for safety’s sake. He’d never seen her looking so mad.

  ‘We have to get your father,’ Eleanor decided when she’d calmed.

  ‘No way,’ Robbie argued.

  ‘We can’t leave him here!’

  ‘But we don’t know who he is,’ Robbie reasoned. ‘I only found money. Nothing else.’

  ‘You’ve already been through his pockets? Geez.’ Eleanor counted the roll of money Robbie placed in her hand. ‘There’s a lot here. What about a wallet? Did you find anything else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ Eleanor said accusingly, ‘he’s not a bloody Russian, is he?’

  Robbie wasn’t so sure about that. He didn’t know what a Russian looked like. But his dad once told him that the Germans looked just like them and he’d seen them up close in the trenches. ‘So why doesn’t he have a wallet or something that says who he is?’

  ‘He could be from another property in the district,’ Eleanor suggested.

  ‘So why is he on River Run, sneaking about on a Saturday afternoon? This isn’t my fault, sis, he heard you calling out to me when I was in the tree and I saw him aim the rifle at me.’ He kicked at the dirt, feeling inexplicably annoyed that he had to justify what had happened, as if it were his fault. ‘It was either him or me. I only meant to warn him off.’

  Eleanor gave him a long, hard stare.

  ‘If he isn’t a Russian, who is he, Eleanor?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ Eleanor ran fingers through her hair. ‘I’ll ride back and tell Mum and Uncle Colin.’

  ‘But I shot him. What will happen?’

  ‘Honestly,’ Eleanor replied, ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘But by the time you get home it will be getting dark and I didn’t mean to shoot him. Eleanor, wait. I don’t want to stay out here by myself.’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you fired the rifle.’ Unstrapping the swag from Garnet, Eleanor shook out the blanket. ‘Here, put that over him.’

  ‘What for? It’s not cold.’

  ‘Because of shock and things like that.’ She lifted a warning finger. ‘And don’t you dare move until I get back.’

  Robbie looked from the blanket to his sister and then to the man on the ground. He was beginning to get a very bad feeling. Draping the man with the cover, he turned to Eleanor but she was already riding away. There was no way he was sitting beside the stranger in the dark. What if he woke up or, worse, died?

  Robbie backed away from the body and it was at that moment that he spied something shining in the grass.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The stretch of shadows was disconcerting. The mare trotted doggedly onward, weaving through the sparse trees, firm-footed across ground marred by depressions, spiky grass and fallen branches. The horse needed no guiding for the last mile and maintained a steady pace. Eleanor was grateful, for the land at night was a stranger and she was desperate to reach the house before light left the sky. Not even the faint glow of burnished copper that sat low above the tree line provided comfort. Already the familiar nervousness that had accompanied the arrival of darkness since childhood was seeping through her. None too soon, Hilda trotted past the tennis court and rose garden, the trickle of the fountain loud in the air. Eleanor gulped at the scents of habitation. The earthy smell of freshly watered lawn, the aroma of food, the faint whiff of perfume.

  Outside the homestead Eleanor slid from the mare, her knees buckling. Her wet clothes were nearly dry. On the second crossing of the river she’d managed to keep her seat on the horse, but even with the earlier drenching it felt as if her body would never cool down. Eleanor clung to the mare, steadying herself, trying to catch a breath that would not come to her.

  Breathe, she willed, breathe.

  Overhead insects gathered about the veranda light. The thickness of night would soon be upon them and already the familiarity of the garden was being altered into something unknowable as the darkness encroached. They had to get back and find Robbie. Tend to the wounded stranger. And yet Eleanor hesitated, her mind a blur. The gunshot, the wounded man, an eleven-year-old boy bashing crows to death with a stick. The gravel crunched as Eleanor willed her legs to movement. How could she explain to her mother what had occurred? It was all so unbelievable.

  Walking into the house, Eleanor was heedless of the dirt that trailed her. At the door to the sitting room she paused in an attempt to gather her thoughts. It was useless. There was no right or wrong way. From within came the sound of laughter and chattering. Turning the doorknob, she walked into the room.

  Margaret and Keith Winslow were sitting on one of the large floral sofas. Clearly a humorous tale had been told, for Mr Winslow was wiping away tears of mirth while Uncle Colin stood at the mahogany sideboard mixing their pre-dinner drinks. Her mother, in the midst of passing around savouries on a silver tray, stopped the moment she saw her daughter.

  ‘Eleanor!’ she exclaimed, nearly dropping the platter. ‘Where have you been all afternoon?’ Georgia looked her daughter up and down. ‘And what on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘I, that is –’ Her throat was raspy and dry. Wetting her lips, Eleanor could only imagine how she appeared. Clothes unkempt with patches of dried mud, her shirt untucked, boots still on. Heaven knows what had become of her hat.

  In the shocked silence came the sound of gas bubbling in the soda siphon her uncle held.

  Her mother was by her side immediately, trying to lead her to the sofa, asking what had happened, where she’d fallen, if she were further injured. If Robbie was with her. Eleanor met her uncle’s questioning gaze from over her mother’s shoulder, pleading silently with her eyes. He placed the soda bottle on the sideboard.

  Mrs Winslow inhaled deeply. ‘Goodness gracious, let the girl speak, Georgia.’ Tonight she smoked with a long black telescopic cigarette holder and when she spoke, fumes appeared from both her nose and mouth. ‘My dear girl, hav
e you had a tumble? That’s a nasty scratch.’

  Eleanor probed at the wound to her cheek, oblivious to how she’d received it.

  ‘And where is that young brother of yours?’ asked her mother. ‘Somehow he managed to get out of his room. I sent Miss Hastings down to Mr Goward’s cottage in search of him. Was he with you?’

  ‘Here, take this.’ Her uncle covered the short distance between them, pressing a glass of whisky into her palm. ‘Stop bombarding her with questions, Georgia,’ he chastised. ‘Looks like you need to wash up, Eleanor.’

  Georgia’s lips drew together in a tight line. Eleanor took the drink gratefully, skolling the contents in one gulp. The room fell quiet.

  ‘Is Robbie alright?’ asked her mother.

  Eleanor nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you lot continue on?’ Colin suggested. ‘I don’t think Eleanor looks like she’s up to an inquisition, especially with the likes of you polo-playing Winslows passing judgement on her riding skills,’ he joked. ‘Keith, I’ll leave you to attend to the drinks. A gin fizz for your dear wife, a martini for Georgia and a western wobbler for me.’

  ‘Of course, of course. If you’re sure you are alright, Eleanor?’ Mr Winslow enquired kindly.

  Eleanor didn’t have a chance to answer. Her uncle was escorting her from the room, closing the door quietly but firmly in her mother’s face and leading them into the hallway. Colin placed a hand on an elbow, and Eleanor allowed herself to be steered the length of the long room to the opposite end.

  ‘Is it Robbie?’ asked Colin, his features tightening.

  The whisky pooled in her stomach, warm and comforting, fortifying. ‘He’s fine, but –’

  The relief showed immediately. ‘Then what the hell is going on?’ They reached the foot of the staircase. ‘I’ve seen enough men in shock to recognise the symptoms.’

  Eleanor took a deep breath. ‘Robbie shot a man down near the river. A stranger. He’s unconscious.’ The words tumbled out. ‘I tried to stop him.’

  Colin turned a paler shade of his usual grey. He leant on the balustrade for support. ‘He shot someone? I don’t understand. How, why? What the hell happened and where is Robbie?’

  Heavens, he looks so angry, Eleanor thought. ‘Robbie was in a tree. He saw this person and yelled down to me and the next thing I heard was rifle fire. Robbie said the man aimed a gun at him.’ The story sounded quite unbelievable, but her stepfather listened intently. ‘So, afterwards, when we found him lying in the grass, I told Robbie to stay with him. That I’d get help. I didn’t think the man should be left out there by himself.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. He actually shot a man?’ Colin ran a hand through thinning hair. ‘Who is this man? Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s dark outside now.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘Alright. As you know where Robbie is, Eleanor, you’ll have to go back with the men to give directions.’

  ‘But –’

  Colin limped towards the passageway, his cane a steady tap. Once in the hall he headed towards the kitchen, where light outlined the closed door. ‘I’ll get Alice to run and fetch Rex. He can go out with you and Hugh,’ he said, talking over his shoulder.

  ‘But why do I have to go? I can tell Rex where Robbie is.’ Eleanor knew she sounded like a coward, however, the last thing she wanted to do was go back out to where the stranger lay, shot, maybe dying, in the grass. And the dark, all that unfathomable space. She increased her pace, not wanting to have a disagreement with her uncle in front of Mrs Howell. ‘Uncle Colin, I’ll give Rex directions.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ He turned briefly towards her. ‘It will be pitch black by the time you go the long way round and take the bridge road. And as Rex and Hugh weren’t there and you were, you can help guide them to Robbie and this injured man. God, I can’t understand you, Eleanor, how the hell did you let this happen?’

  She stopped dead in the passageway.

  Her stepfather continued on. ‘I’ll get Mrs Howell to make you up a thermos and some sandwiches.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  At the kitchen door he finally turned to her. ‘And you’re sure Robbie is okay?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Eleanor answered sharply.

  Colin gave a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  They drove home slowly. Too slowly. In an evening when the hot breath of the day was barely diminished by night. From within the safety of the vehicle’s cabin, Eleanor kept looking down at the child asleep by her side. Even now it was impossible to comprehend what had happened, how it had occurred, but she’d been there. Pressing herself into the upholstery, bones aching, Eleanor doubted she’d sleep at all tonight, despite the exhaustion. For the last hour she’d kept reworking the afternoon, searching for any clue as to why Robbie had done the unthinkable, and how it had come to pass that she’d unwittingly been party to such a crime.

  And the man himself. The innocent victim. Having finally located the stranger, Eleanor’s memory of the exact moment that he’d been found was a mixture of torchlight, of the overseer and Rex efficiently checking the man’s injuries, of grass patched red by blood and Rex’s words: ‘This is a messy business we’ve found ourselves in.’

  Then there was Robbie, skulking in the dark, complaining of being left behind when he was only a kid, whinging about being hungry and tired and wanting to go home.

  And still the stranger lay there, pale and unconscious.

  ‘Bad night for it, with the moon on the wane and all,’ Rex remarked, shifting down a gear to navigate the bumpy road.

  He was right. It had taken some time to locate Robbie and the stranger. If not for the campfire her brother had lit, they might still be out there searching in the dark.

  The gardener cleared his throat. ‘A scant moon, this heat. No good can come of it, ever.’

  Eleanor picked irritably at a piece of dried mud in her hair. ‘What are you talking about, Rex?’

  He cleared his throat and spat out of the open window. ‘Nothing, just an old man rambling. Trying to make sense of things.’

  ‘And can you …’ asked Eleanor, feeling the weight of Robbie’s head against her shoulder, ‘make sense of things?’

  ‘You were there, Miss Eleanor,’ said Rex a little stiffly, ‘you tell me.’

  There it was again, the voice of accusation. Outside, the sky seemed heavy with stars. Eleanor fixed her gaze on the fading moon. Soon it would be a crescent shape before disappearing altogether. Behind them, Mr Goward was barely visible as he kept vigil by the stranger’s side, intermittent torchlight reflecting through the rear window as he checked the patient. It would be a rough ride for both of them, despite the mattress.

  Their route was reduced to the two narrow beams of light provided by the headlights of the blue truck. They illuminated the corded bark of trees, foraging rabbits and startled kangaroos who bounded across their path into an impenetrable black. The ground ahead seemed to unravel endlessly and, as Eleanor wearied of ever reaching the rutted track that merged with the bridge road, suddenly their passage smoothed to the jolt and jarring of potholes. Relieved, she leant back into the cracked leather of the bench seat.

  ‘Summer shearing,’ said Rex. ‘My father used to call it a blood summer when he shore in those big stations up in Queensland. No storage for the meat back then, Miss Eleanor. You either wrapped it in a wet bag and hung it in a tree or used a Coolgardie safe. But it didn’t keep long and the men got sick of it salted or brined, so near every second day they were slaughtering sheep to feed the men. Same as here. A blood summer. Winter and spring, that’s the time to shear, but every cocky’s got his idea about when’s best, when lambing should start and, of course, these days a place often has to fit in with the labour.’

  ‘We have fridges now, Rex.’

  ‘If this heatwave keeps up the generator will probably cack itself, girl. Anyway, them old fridges in the shearers’ me
ss with their dodgy batteries ain’t real reliable, not when it gets real hot and we ain’t got the cool storage for more than a few days. Slaughter and eat the meat fresh. It’s the only way to be sure no-one gets crook. Be tough though. If meat doesn’t hang for a couple of days it’s always tough. They’ll be whingers. There are always whingers when it comes to the tucker. Me dad used to hang a carcass for a good week or so. You want it ripe. The blowies buzzing. Cooks up a treat then. Cut it with a fork. Old mate in the back,’ Rex gestured over his shoulder, ‘he’ll be right lucky if he doesn’t have a few maggot eggs in that shoulder of his already.’

  ‘Rex, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘Just nature, Miss Eleanor, just nature. The bloke was right lucky I reckon that he wasn’t laying out there in the paddock when the sun was high. I’ve seen men dead of the sun. After a time their limbs shrink and stiffen. Saw a cobber I did one time, way out west, and his arms and legs were bent all out of shape and pointing towards the sky. Like one of them ancient mummies.’

  ‘Rex, please.’

  ‘I’m just saying, I’m just saying.’ The gardener looked at Robbie. ‘Sometimes, it’s just in a person, this killing thing.’

  ‘Rex,’ Eleanor rebuked. The last thing her young brother needed was to hear remarks like that.

  ‘Sorry, I just thought, well, it helps to talk about things.’

  Maybe it did, but not now. Eleanor felt unnerved. In her world, night had never been a friend. Her night-time paranoia didn’t lessen with the death of her father and later Lesley’s fiancé. Both men had died in the dead of night. Her father through illness and Marcus, suicide. Try as she may, Eleanor could never quite shake the fear that the night had taken both men. Would it also take the stranger her half-brother shot? The boy’s head rested on her shoulder. With every bump he gave an involuntary lurch forward in sleep. Robbie had fought for Garnet to be brought home. For his old horse to be tied to the back of the tray. There’d been no choice but to leave him grazing in the paddock. She pinched the bridge of her nose in tiredness. He’d been more concerned about Garnet than the injured man.