River Run

by Alexander, Nicole

  Around the campfire the men were on their feet instantly, searching for boots, yelling at each other, calling into the dark. Dazed, Robbie shook his head and then he too was moving, running through the trees, rifle in hand. He tripped and stumbled, collided into branches and felt spiky leaves scratch his face, as he did his best to place as much distance between himself and the strangers. Suddenly, something large loomed before him in the dark. Robbie drew up hard in the dirt, halting mid-stride. A lorry was parked amongst the timber and his arrival disturbed the animals in the crate on the back. Frightened, they called to each other, their hoofs clattering on the timber tray.

  ‘Sheep,’ Robbie muttered, his voice barely audible. They were stealing River Run’s sheep!

  Sliding under the truck, he hid behind one of the tyres, listening for the crunch of boots on dry twigs, for the low voices of the searchers. One thing he knew for sure was that with a load of sheep on the back of a truck, they certainly weren’t kangaroo shooters. Finding his pocketknife, Robbie flicked open the blade and, without hesitating, jammed the point into the tyre. Escaping air made a whooshing sound, as scrambling to the opposite tyre he lay on his stomach and punctured it as well. Then he held his breath while the rear body of the truck dropped towards the ground as the rubber deflated.

  The men could be heard walking through the scrub towards the vehicle. Robbie stuck his head out from under the lorry and looked up into a changed sky. The stars appeared wind-blown and blurry, as if dirt and whisper-thin cloud were leeching the heavens. He didn’t like the look of it. The distinctive dry tang of the bush was being eroded by a gathering wind and with it came the thick, cloddy scent of dust. Reaching for the Winchester, he opened the box of cartridges, dismayed that only two remained in the carton. Well, he thought dryly, he’d have to make them count. Quietly he loaded the rifle.

  ‘Ouch!’ Something grabbed his lower leg. Robbie kicked out in fright, but the heavy weight crawled onto the middle of his back, plying the length of his spine, a wet tongue licking at his neck. ‘What the … Bluey?’ The cattle-pup whined with delight. ‘Bluey? Bluey, is that you?’

  The cattle-pup barked in response, his yelp unmistakable.

  ‘Shush up.’ Robbie grabbed the animal, tucking the cattle dog under a protective arm as a wet tongue coated his cheek with saliva. ‘I’m pleased to see you too, little mate,’ he whispered. The chain was still attached to the pup’s collar and Robbie quickly unfastened it. ‘You could have got that caught in a log,’ he chastised. ‘You could have died.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Somebody grabbed an ankle and proceeded to drag Robbie out from under the vehicle. He was flipped onto his back in the process, losing his grip on the rifle. Robbie groped and clawed at loose dirt but within seconds he was looking up at fuzzy stars. Free of Robbie’s grasp, the pup growled and barked before launching his squat body into the air, latching onto Robbie’s assailant.

  ‘Get this bloody mutt off me!’ the thief cried. He threw the dog from him, the cattle-pup landing in the dirt with a series of yelps.

  Robbie, hearing Bluey whimpering, felt the blood boil in his veins. Yanking the shanghai from a back pocket, he loaded it with a shiny river pebble, aimed at the attacker and fired. The missile hit the stock-rustler in the face. The man fell heavily to the ground, uttering a string of unmentionable swearwords.

  In the brief silence that ensued, the voices of the other two men carried on the night air. The sounds growing in volume as they called to their companion, querying where he was, if he were hurt, directed by their injured friend who was yelling for help.

  Robbie felt for the rifle, pulled it free from under the truck, and fired a warning shot into the air. ‘One more move,’ Robbie warned, running to the far side of the vehicle. His hands were shaking terribly.

  The increasing noise, made by the pursuing thieves as they ran and then walked through the bush, ceased.

  ‘Drop your rifle,’ Robbie commanded. Eyes accustomed to the dark, he made out the shapes of the two approaching men. ‘I said drop it. This is my land and you’re trespassing. I can shoot the backside out of a duck at two hundred yards.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘This close, well, it would be between the eyes.’

  ‘It’s the goddamn kid.’

  The accent sounded American. Cripes, Robbie thought. His eyes bulged, justification surging through him. ‘My father and uncle were both snipers during the war,’ he told them. ‘Don’t think I can’t hit one of you.’

  ‘What kid?’ the man who’d been felled with the shanghai asked, once he was standing again.

  ‘The kid that shot me,’ the American revealed. ‘Throw that rifle away, I don’t need another bullet in me.’

  ‘But he’s only a kid.’

  Jiminy Cricket, Robbie’s trigger finger quivered, now he understood what the western comic-book heroes meant when they said they had an itchy finger. ‘Get back.’ About them the wind gained in strength and with it came dust, great billowing waves of it. The blast of gritty air shoved him backwards.

  ‘The kid that shot you?’ one of the strangers yelled above the blustery weather. ‘But what the hell is he doing here? You told us he was packed off to some fancy school.’

  ‘And it wasn’t an accident,’ Robbie said loudly, interrupting further discussion. The cattle-pup made his presence known by sitting on his foot. Robbie wondered what he should do next. If he tried to get the men back to the campfire, they would try to run and probably succeed. ‘Get in the lorry. Go on, you heard me,’ he ordered, his eyes tearing from the flying grit.

  They approached reluctantly, three silhouettes rendered almost insubstantial by the strengthening dust storm.

  ‘Open the crate,’ Robbie directed, his voice rising above the growing storm. ‘Do it. Quick-smart, or I’ll sool my dog onto you.’ Bluey might only be six months old but he could bite.

  The sliding door on the crate squeaked open noisily. Robbie could see the men dillydallying at the rear of the vehicle. It wouldn’t take much for them to disarm him. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. He let off another shot, just so they knew he meant business. That was it then. The last of the ammunition.

  ‘I reckon the kid’s all out of bullets,’ one of the men said.

  In the gloom, the campfire glowed an angry red. Spurred by the wind, it crept along the ground, growing in size as it consumed the dry grass in its path.

  The intensifying breeze rattled the truck. Two of the men grabbed at the wooden crate, clinging to it in the onslaught of the angry wind. The third made a lunge towards Robbie, knocking the rifle from his grip and clutching at the boy’s shirt.

  As Robbie yelled for help, a strong gust of wind struck, blowing him off his feet and out of reach of his attacker.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The noise echoed along the river, reverberating through scrubby bush and timber, carrying loudly the length of the waterway. Hugh and Eleanor drew their horses to a standstill near the steep side of the riverbank. Here, protected from the gathering wind, Eleanor looked to Hugh for guidance. Someone had fired a shot. The sound was unmistakable.

  ‘Sound carries across water,’ Hugh remarked. ‘I wish to hell we knew what was going on out there.’ He patted his mount’s neck. ‘Robbie wouldn’t have a rifle, would he?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ If she’d hoped for reassurance, it was not forthcoming from her companion. Hugh appeared distinctly ill-at-ease.

  He met her concern with a brief nod. ‘Well someone does, and they’re not afraid to use it.’ The beam of the torch showed Robbie’s prints in the sand. ‘Come on.’

  Eleanor hoped it was one of River Run’s search parties. Maybe they’d already found Robbie. Maybe, very soon they would meet up with the men and her young brother and then they could all head safely home.

  They kept their horses at a trot, keeping to the water’s edge. Eleanor gritted her teeth, clinging to the reins, grateful for Hilda’s cautiousness as they continued on in the direction of the gunshot.

  ‘I
don’t like the look of this storm,’ Hugh commented, when they slowed to side-track a fallen tree.

  The stars were beginning to disappear, vanishing one by one, consumed by a dark mass that edged menacingly across the sky. Eleanor thought of the warrigal storm, of what Hugh told her in the paddock that day. ‘Is it the same storm, Hugh? Has it come back again?’ The scent of dust was strong in the air.

  ‘Keep up, Elly,’ was his only reply.

  The splash of hoofs in water was quickly drowned by the wind. Eleanor felt a shiver travel the length of her spine. How she wished she’d not allowed Hugh to talk her into coming out with him. Why had she? Because she’d believed in the man. Foolish, foolish woman. What would it have mattered if Colin rode out instead of her? Robbie couldn’t keep running from home forever.

  Someone was out here with them, firing a rifle and a storm was about to hit, a storm during the dark of the moon. Were Eleanor not so afraid of falling behind, of losing Hugh, of being stranded in the bush alone in the night, with a lost boy and a thief on the run, she would have stopped to spit out the bile fouling her mouth. Instead she leant forward, crouching low along the mare’s neck as her hat blew away and the binding holding her hair came loose. At any moment Eleanor expected to be lifted clean out of the saddle by the ferocity of the dust storm.

  ‘Keep up,’ Hugh hollered. ‘Look!’

  Ahead, a red blaze of light stretched through the trees, smoke mingling with the dirty storm. Slowing their horses, they edged through the timber, keeping the river close.

  The rushing of wind through the bush grew louder, the water rippling in the glow of Hugh’s torch.

  The fire was racing in the opposite direction. Curtailed by the waterway and directed by an indecisive wind, it hugged the banks of the river.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Hugh. They rode hard and fast. Water splashed up across their thighs in great arcs as they raced towards the blaze.

  ‘Robbie!’ Eleanor called, the words lost in the dust storm. ‘Robbie?’

  By the time Hugh reined in his horse and dismounted, he was bent low into the airstream. ‘Get off!’ he yelled above the howling wind. Eleanor did so immediately, sliding from Hilda, who whinnied and took off into the trees.

  ‘Forget the horse, Elly. Come here,’ he beckoned, a hand outstretched.

  Eleanor struggled to reach him, as the wind buffeted her every move, but he met her halfway, clasping a wrist and leading her to a thick tree trunk. She could barely stand, but Hugh held her safe, pressing his body close to hers, the tree trunk solid next to her back. Eleanor closed her eyes against the storm, grateful for Hugh’s protection. She clung to him desperately as branches fell around them and the gale roared.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she cried, as Hugh stepped back and began to rope her to the trunk, leaving her arms free. Eleanor reached for his determined hands, fighting the constriction of the rope.

  ‘Stop it, Elly.’ Hugh fought her off, as he tied a knot. ‘I’m doing this for your own good.’

  The stiff twine cut into her waist as she grabbed a muscled forearm. ‘Hugh?’ she pleaded. She’d never been so scared.

  ‘Hell, Elly, I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to, but you’ll be blown away in this wind.’ He checked the rope, making sure it was good and tight.

  ‘But what about you?’ she yelled in return.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Elly. I have to check the fire, make sure Robbie isn’t caught near it. Either someone’s campfire has got away or it’s been caused by a lightning strike.’

  ‘Oh my God, you think –’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ he yelled. ‘It could be that Chad bloke’s camp but Robbie’s a smart kid. Your arms are still free, Elly, you can release yourself once the wind dies down. This tree’s stood for ages. It’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘I don’t know how bad this is going to get. But I do know you’ll be safer here. Where I can find you. The wind is blowing that fire in the opposite direction, but just in case.’ He slipped a pocketknife into her hand, closed her fingers over it. ‘If the wind changes direction, get in the river. If the lightning gets bad, cut the rope, move away and drop to the ground. Don’t hug the tree. Promise me?’

  The buffeting force grew worse. The wind whipped their faces.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Hugh!’ Elly screamed.

  He gripped her shoulders. ‘I can’t watch over you and find Robbie.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  His hands cupped her face. ‘You’ll be fine, Elly.’

  But she wouldn’t be. Not without Robbie and not without …

  ‘Trust me,’ Hugh commanded, shaking her roughly by the shoulders.

  Lightning struck the ground in the distance and in the momentary flash they caught sight of a truck rolling over and over.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he told her. ‘Don’t cut the rope unless you have to. If this weather gets any worse, half the country will be blown away.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Elly, trust me.’

  Eleanor placed her hands on the width of his chest. ‘Okay,’ she swallowed nervously, ‘go and find him, Hugh. Find Robbie.’ What choice did she have?

  Cupping her face, Hugh’s thumb traced the curve of a cheek. He kissed her hard on the lips. Eleanor closed her eyes tightly, feeling his mouth on hers, the hardness of his chest, the strength of his embrace. The wind roared. The trees surrounding them creaked and groaned. Don’t go, she whispered, don’t leave me. What if he didn’t come back? He said he would, but what if he didn’t?

  Then Hugh was gone, the closeness of his body replaced by the chill of desolation, the fear of being abandoned. Eleanor’s chest tightened as she turned her face away from the wind and flying grit. Pressing her shoulders hard against the bark, hands shielding her face, the great tree seemed to groan. All around, the countryside swayed and cracked, woody plants toppling to the ground. And from every direction she was surrounded by the night.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Eleanor kept her face turned from the rushing wind, her cheek pressed hard against the bark of the tree. The dust was incredibly thick. It coated her skin, clogged her eyes and made breathing difficult. It was as if the countryside really was blowing away. Soil was being lifted from distant miles to be carried across River Run on a raging wind. Fragile earth, grown loose and powdery through lack of moisture.

  God, why doesn’t it rain, Eleanor pleaded as the air grew dense with flying grit. The wind continued to lash her body and the very thought of where she was scared Eleanor witless.

  Where was Hugh? Why wasn’t he back? Why didn’t he take her with him?

  Think of something else, anything, her brain screamed.

  An image of the rolling vehicle entered her mind. Eleanor shrank back further, making her body as small as possible. Who owned the truck? What were they doing out here?

  If she were out in the open. If there was a moon. If she could see further than the glow of fire and the blackness surrounding her. But she couldn’t. Eleanor could barely see anything at all.

  In the past she recalled summer storms often being dry. On the front veranda of the homestead, she and Lesley often waited and watched with their father as a blustery wind and the flare of lightning appeared on the horizon.

  ‘No rain today,’ their dad would mutter, ‘let’s hope we don’t get a bushfire out of this.’

  Dad, Eleanor cried out, why did you leave us?

  The crackle of burning scrub competed with the wind.

  Briefly opening her eyes to gritty air and the smear of distant red flames, Eleanor noted that the gale was yet to change direction. There was constancy in that at least. While the wind continued to push the fire away, Eleanor was reasonably safe where she was, although the lightning still fizzed and popped in the distance.

  A loud crack sounded and something large hit the ground with a deadening thud.

  A branch.

  Tears filled Eleanor’s eyes. She was beyond
scared. All she could think about was running away. Getting as far away from danger as possible. But there was nowhere to go to. Nowhere safe to run. Eleanor’s heart was beating so quickly she thought it might explode. You can do this, she willed, trying to stem the negative thoughts engulfing her. You can survive this. So what if it’s night-time, she tried to reason. Robbie and Hugh are out in this as well.

  Tiredness tugged at Eleanor’s limbs even as the air pushed and pulled about her. She would cover her face with her hands, for all the good such protection would do, but every time she released her grip from the tree trunk the wind buffeted her body. It was best to keep pressing backwards, feeling the solidness of the woody plant which so far kept her safe.

  After a time Eleanor began to realise that she wanted to fight back. She was desperate to do so. That if she’d been able to pummel the storm with her fists she would have done so. She would have fought the night if given the opportunity, bashed it down into a padlocked box so that the thought of it could no longer scare her. She would have battered the cancer that took her beloved father, and shaken her gullibility into submission when it came to men.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ Eleanor yelled into the storm. ‘You can bash and howl and dump all the soil on me that you like, but you won’t win. That goes for you too, Dante. You may have stolen my work, but I’ll write better stories. You’ll see.’

  Overhead, a bright chain of rolling lightning spiralled across the sky. Eleanor watched the spectacle with a lump in her throat. How long had Hugh been away? Two hours? Three?

  ‘This is Webber land,’ she shouted. ‘River Run belongs to us. So do your worst, we’re not going anywhere.’

  Something struck her in the face.

  And body.

  Eleanor cried out in shock. When she touched her cheek it was wet.