The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  Silence.

  ‘You mean, ahhm, a … reservations fee?’

  Janice smiled warmly. ‘Precisely.’

  The round eyes stared thoughtfully into space. ‘Perhaps … a pound? For each claim?’

  ‘Sounds fair.’

  His eyes refocused on her. She smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that,’ he decided at last. He pulled a pad of forms towards him. ‘What did you say your names were?’

  Two days later the missing men had not returned and Janice went to claim their new licences. Within an hour they had moved onto the first site.

  By evening they were three feet down and had found nothing.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Matthew objected when Hamish said as much. ‘We’ve still got to put the spoil through the washer.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Hamish said. ‘And we may find the odd speck when we really go through it. But it don’t look good. What I hear, it’s the top layer contains nuggets, often only a foot or so below the surface. We’ve seen nothing like that.’

  ‘Maybe we missed something.’

  ‘We missed nothing. You can bet on that.’

  They dug down through the top soil and underlying soft red clay but after that it got more difficult. They had to drive through conglomerate so hard it was almost impenetrable before reaching the gold-bearing blue clay. Not every shaft found blue clay. Or gold.

  This one didn’t. At twenty feet, they abandoned it.

  One claim down, one to go.

  They decided, defiantly, to go out to eat at the hotel, a large canvas tent some distance from their claim.

  ‘You know how expensive it is,’ Janice said. ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘To hell with the money,’ Hamish said. ‘We draw a blank this time we’re wiped out anyway. Let’s do the thing in style.’

  If you could call chops and damper style.

  They left Jack to guard the tents and walked through the warm and dusty evening to the hotel. Expensive or not, the dining room was almost full but there was an empty table against the far canvas wall of the tent. It was hot as Hades and blue with smoke. Bearded men laughed and shouted or ate ravenously and in silence.

  Matthew got hold of the waitress. ‘How about something to drink?’

  She gaped at him adenoidally. ‘No alcohol allowed on the goldfields. You know that.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ he said amiably. He indicated the other diners. ‘What are they drinking?’

  ‘Most of ’em’s tryin’ a new drink they call Blow My Skull Off.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Rum, spirits of wine and opium. Oh, and a dash of cayenne pepper.’

  ‘But of course no alcohol.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind. Tell me,’ he asked seriously, ‘does it kill many people?’

  She rolled vacuous eyes. ‘Might do, I suppose.’

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘Two and six a glass.’

  ‘Two and six? That’s more than the meal.’

  She giggled. ‘Gives you more of a kick, too.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Maybe we should try it. Sounds like something we shouldn’t miss.’

  They ate the meat and damper and drank the Blow My Skull Off which came close to doing just that.

  ‘It’s the cayenne pepper does it,’ Matthew decided. ‘Gives it a bite.’ And ordered another round.

  When they left the hotel they lurched along like ships with their cargo shifted. As always, the night was loud with a wild cacophony of yells, screams, the repeated sound of gunfire.

  ‘Murder Flat,’ Matthew muttered. ‘Tha’s what they call this place. Jer know that? Murder Flat. Reckon they’re not wrong, either.’

  They arrived at the claim. Their neighbour’s dray was in its usual place but on the far side of the claim was a waggon they did not recognise. Their tents were no longer standing. Someone had cut the guy ropes. The canvas had collapsed over their contents.

  Matthew stopped, swaying and blinking. ‘What the hell …?’

  NINETEEN

  They had stacked their tools in preparation for an early start in the morning. Now they were gone. And where was Jack?

  They stood in the shadow of the dray, watching the open space between the claims, the oblongs of the collapsed tents. Somewhere a man’s voice was raised in a volley of oaths. A woman’s voice answered. There was a shot, a scream, silence. The canvas cover of the dray flapped.

  Matthew was sobering fast.

  ‘That’s where they are,’ he said, pointing his chin at the waggon on the far side of the abandoned first claim. ‘Waiting for us.’

  ‘We don’t know anyone’s there,’ Hamish said. ‘Or why they should be there at all.’

  ‘I can feel them. Got your gun?’

  Hamish shook his head. ‘I left it in the tent.’

  ‘So did I.’ Matthew beat his clenched right fist softly against the open palm of his left. ‘No chance of getting them without being seen.’

  ‘You reckon it could be practical jokers?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Invading another man’s claim isn’t a joking matter.’

  ‘But who would do it?’

  ‘Who had the claims before we took them over?’

  ‘The Hendy brothers? But their claims had lapsed. We took them over fair and square.’

  ‘Remember what Janice said about them? Rascals like that don’t think like the rest of us. As far as they’re concerned these claims belong to them. My bet is they’ve decided they want them back.’ He bent and picked up a discarded piece of four by four timber. ‘This’ll do some damage.’

  ‘So will this.’ Hamish moved his hand and Matthew saw light gleam on a steel blade.

  ‘That looks businesslike,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Bowie knife. Carried it all the way from California. Saved my life more than once over there.’

  Matthew turned his head. ‘Where’s Janice?’

  ‘I guess she must have slipped away somewhere safe,’ Hamish said. ‘Just as well. We don’t have time to worry about her at the moment. What I reckon we should do is—’

  Something trailing a stream of sparks suddenly soared through the darkness and landed beside the shadowy outline of the newly parked waggon. It fizzled for a second and then exploded with a flash of light and a violent crack.

  Hamish gripped Matthew’s arm. ‘Blasting caps,’ he hissed.

  The first explosion was followed by a second and then a third, the blasting cap rolling beneath the waggon before erupting in a cloud of acrid smoke. They heard the sound of cursing and coughing. Two figures emerged from the shadows, hands beating the air.

  ‘There they are!’ Matthew shouted. ‘Let’s go!’

  They launched themselves across the intervening space. It was only twenty feet but felt like half a mile. The men were choking and gasping but not helpless. Matthew saw the glint of light on the barrel of a gun as one of them raised his arm. He swerved, seeing flame leap from the muzzle, feeling the air slap his ear as the round whistled past. Before the man could fire again Matthew was on him.

  He swung the baulk of timber horizontally. It struck home. The man cursed, recovered, leapt. He was all over him, arms, legs, teeth, wrenching and gouging. They fell together, rolled cursing across the ground in a cloud of dust, striking rock, stones, pieces of what might have been more timber, nothing to use as a weapon, no chance to seize it if it were, the night air filled with the roar of Matthew’s breath, his opponent’s breath, the tangled, fighting limbs.

  No light then, suddenly, a burst of brilliant red and gold as the man’s thumb found his eye. Matthew jerked his head away, heaved convulsively at the body trying to pin him to the ground and felt his own legs slip out into space.

  An opening in the ground. The shaft of the number one claim.

  He jack-knifed frantically. They rolled across the ground between the claims, tangling themselves up in the ruined
tents, muscles straining, breath exploding in their throats.

  They crashed sickeningly against the wheel of a dray and for a moment Matthew lost his grip. Slippery as a fish, his opponent wrenched his arm free. Matthew saw light flash on steel as the knife went up and began its slashing descent. He lunged desperately, managing to grab the man’s wrist. He twisted it hard. The knife skittered away across the ground but the man was by no means beaten. His hands closed around Matthew’s throat. Matthew bucked but could not dislodge him. The grip tightened. Red lights flashed across his retina as oxygen was cut off from his brain. He knew he must finish it if he was to survive. He made himself relax, saw the grin of triumph as the man tasted victory and then slammed his knee with all his force into the unprotected crutch. The man’s face curdled, breath came whistling from his straining mouth and, miracle of miracles, the iron-hard fingers relaxed their hold. Matthew gathered himself and hurled the man away.

  He followed, flashing lights replaced by blood-red rage. There was no fight left in the man but Matthew seized him and hit him one, two, three, four times, holding him with one hand and hitting him with the other, fist clenched, feeling blood spatter hot on him. The man was down now, and out, well and truly out. Matthew drew back his boot and kicked him in the face so hard it nearly took his head off.

  ‘He’s going to kill him,’ Janice said at Hamish’s side.

  Hamish had no idea where Janice had come from but thought she was right. He had finished his man with one good punch and since then had been watching as Matthew and the other man fought it out. At the start he had been ready to intervene but after a time it became obvious Matthew needed no help. Now there was the possibility that he might kill the rascal. The man no doubt deserved it but it seemed a bad idea to let him finish the job.

  He grabbed his friend’s shoulder. ‘Enough!’

  Matthew picked up the man’s head and slammed it on the ground with a sound like an axe hitting a tree.

  ‘I said leave him,’ Hamish shouted.

  Matthew took no notice. Hamish snatched up the piece of four by four that Matthew had found and brought it thudding down on the back of Matthew’s head. Matthew’s eyes rolled up and he fell forward across the body of the man he had so nearly killed.

  *

  Matthew had been right, it was the Hendy brothers. They had ridden in an hour after the three of them had gone to dinner and had found that someone had been trespassing, as they considered it, on their claims. Never ones for ceremony, they had gone through the tents, helped themselves to what they found of value, and tossed the rest down the shaft of number one claim. They had slashed the guys and then lain in ambush under the waggon they had brought with them from Bathurst.

  ‘What you do it for?’ Hamish asked Jud Hendy, the elder of the brothers. He had tied him up good but Jud still struggled like a wildcat against the rawhide around his wrists.

  ‘Monk an’ me get free, we’ll kill you for this,’ he hissed. Jud Hendy was not a big man but had an evil glint in his eye. Hamish was thankful he’d sunk him with one lucky punch before he’d managed to draw the blade he carried in his boot.

  Monk was beyond causing trouble. Beyond talk, either, and likely to remain so for quite a while—if he survived at all. Hamish reckoned it would be touch and go, by the look of him.

  Jud Hendy spat. ‘We was goin’ to blast the lights outa anyone dumb enough to think they could rob the Hendy boys and git away with it.’

  ‘Nobody robbed you. You lost the claims when your licences ran out.’

  Jud Hendy was not impressed. ‘You’re a liar. As for that big mate of yours, ’e fair killed Monk. I’m going after ’im when I get loose from here.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re getting out of here?’ Hamish asked, sounding surprised.

  ‘’Cause you ain’t got the guts to hang the pair of us is why.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Hamish said. He turned his head and looked at Janice, silent at his side. ‘How’s Matthew?’

  ‘Big headache but he’s all right. Pretty sore at you though.’

  ‘It’s that damn drink he bought,’ Hamish said. ‘I ain’t feeling too chipper myself.’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s sore because you hit him with that lump of wood.’

  Hamish looked at her admiringly. He had inclined to the view that women on the diggings were a menace; now, however, he was changing his mind. She had got the information out of the blacksmith that had helped them get started. She cooked and kept the place tidy—after the pigsty of the California fields he knew how important that was. Now she had saved them again by running to Pete Saul’s smithy and waking him up. Pete’s blasting caps had swung the fight their way.

  ‘What are we going to do about these two?’ Janice asked Pete, who had stayed behind to help them clear up.

  ‘Ain’t none o’ my business’ he replied, ‘but the fact is these fellers set out to kill you. They’re bad rascals, the pair of them. The worst.’

  Jud Hendy snarled, baring his teeth. ‘Watch your mouth, old man. Things could happen, you git too lippy.’

  Pete looked at Hamish. ‘Got a mad dog, talkin’ to ’im don’t help. Only thing is shoot ’im.’

  ‘We’ll see what Matthew thinks,’ Hamish said.

  A lot of their gear, among other things, had been at the bottom of the abandoned shaft but some of it was still missing.

  ‘We’ll search their waggon,’ Hamish decided.

  Jud Hendy struggled, cursing a foul streak, but Hamish took no notice. With Pete to help they rummaged quickly through the waggon’s contents.

  ‘Pretty damn filthy,’ Hamish said. ‘Can’t expect no better, I guess.’

  They found a couple of shovels, a bucket and a panning dish that belonged to them. They also recovered Matthew’s rifle, Hamish’s Colt revolver, still in its holster, and his gun belt.

  He buckled the belt around his waist. ‘That’s better. I was feeling kinda naked without that gun.’ He showed the various implements to Jud Hendy. ‘Where I come from, stealing’s a hanging offence.’

  ‘Maybe we’d better search them too,’ Pete suggested.

  Hamish hesitated. ‘I doubt we had anything small enough to fit in their pockets but I guess it won’t do no harm.’

  He went over to Jud Hendy who began to struggle violently. ‘You keep away from me. I won’t be searched by no Yankee bastard.’

  Hamish said, ‘You don’t sit still, I’ll fetch you a crack you won’t forget.’

  Jud was still for a while but when Hamish got to the poacher’s pocket in his coat he began to struggle again. Hamish clipped him once over the ear to shut him up and fumbled deep in the pocket. He drew out its contents, inspected them and whistled.

  ‘Come and have a look at this,’ he said to Pete.

  ‘Probably stole it,’ Pete suggested.

  Jud snarled. ‘We never bloody stole nuthin! You did! You’re the bloody thieves, not us!’

  Hamish couldn’t make out what he was talking about. He was about to ask him but did not because at that moment Matthew turned up. He had a number of ugly scratches on his face and bruises around his neck.

  ‘Recovered?’ Hamish asked.

  ‘Not too bad unless I swallow.’ Gingerly, he touched the back of his head and scowled. ‘I owe you for this though.’

  ‘A man’s first murder should be something special in his life. It seemed a pity to waste it on trash.’ Hamish’s face sobered. ‘I got bad news, Matthew.’

  Matthew looked at him.

  ‘Your dog.’

  The muscles of Matthew’s face did not change but Hamish saw a shadow move somewhere at the back of his eyes.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Matthew said. It was not a question.

  ‘He must have gone for them when they started on the tents.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Knife.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘At the bottom of the shaft. They cut his throat and threw him down w
ith the other stuff.’

  The eyes flinched but the voice was as calm as ever. ‘Where is he now?’

  Hamish gestured at a patch of ground ten yards away where a heap of clay from the workings had been piled. ‘I reckoned you’d want to see him before we buried him.’

  Without a word Matthew got up and walked across to the heap. Janice made to follow him but Hamish stopped her with a look.

  Matthew Curtis knelt in the dust beside the body of his dog. The way he was lying concealed the ugly gash in his throat although the black and white fur was smeared with blood. Matthew made no attempt to move him.

  Jack had kept Matthew company over so many lonely days and nights. He had been a good friend. Matthew bowed his head and wept for the dog and for himself.

  He went back to the faces watching him in the firelight.

  ‘The question is what to do with these ruffians,’ Hamish said after a moment.

  Matthew stared coldly at Jud Hendy. ‘What choice have we got?’

  ‘Not much. They’re dangerous men. This one’s been telling me all night what he’ll do to us once he’s free and I believe him.’

  Matthew looked at the tight face, the mad glare. Hamish was right. All the same, fighting a man in hot blood was different from hanging him in cold.

  ‘Let’s vote on it,’ he said.

  ‘They’d have killed both of you if they could,’ Janice said. ‘I say hang them.’

  ‘Do that there could be trouble,’ Pete warned. ‘If the cops hear about it.’

  ‘You’ve helped us, Pete,’ Matthew said. ‘We’ll always be grateful. But it was us they tried to kill, not you. The best thing you can do is to go back to your smithy and forget all about it.’

  ‘By now the whole camp knows what happened.’

  Matthew said gently, ‘What happened, yes, not what’s going to happen. That’s between us and God.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pete stood awkwardly, stretching. ‘Maybe I’ll lie down for an hour, at that. A man gets old, he needs his rest.’

  ‘You plannin’ to let these bastards murder us?’ For the first time Jud Hendy’s voice was scratched with panic.