Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  Australia Destiny, Book 2

  Power of Pinjarra

  Sandy Dengler

  © 1989 by Sandy Dengler

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomingon, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored ina retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-6255-4

  Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. In the Wake of Harry Readford

  2. The White Knight of Barcaldine

  3. All for a Lack of Lubras

  4. A Pack of Dingoes

  5. Dreams of Other Places

  6. Flowers of Baiame

  7. The Ruins of Fire

  8. The Start of a Business

  9. Gems of Anakie

  10. The Loss of a Gem

  11. The Birth of Dreams

  12. Rogue of the Red River

  13. The Span of Time

  14. Cattle of Pinjarra

  15. For the Son of an Old Friend

  16. The Politics of Ticks

  17. The Owner of Those Cows

  18. The Rescue of a Dream

  19. Just a Taste of Serenity

  20. Fear of Firearms

  21. The Source of Power

  22. Twist of Fate

  23. The Best of Plans

  24. Into the Middle of It

  25. The Wrath of God

  About the Author

  Books by Sandy Dengler

  Back Cover

  Chapter One

  In the Wake of Harry Readford

  1891

  “Mirram and Wareen were hunters, and they were friends. They ranged together through the hills to the west of the sacred Oobi Oobi Mountain where hunting is good. Each evening, when the sun woman left the sky, they would sit before their fire and tell each other all they had done that day. Each was thus as wise as the other, and each was thus as foolish.”

  The world around Indirri, every bit and piece, lent itself to the haunting mystery of the Storyteller’s tale. There is an end to the earth, and an edge to the world, where the sun woman lives; everyone knew that. But you’d never guess it now, for each night darkness spread out into thicker darkness, above and below and all around. No beginning. No end. The stars kept measured pace with the seasons as they always had. Nothing changed, yet all things changed.

  It was logical that the sun woman was also the keeper of fire, for she was powerful among the people of the Dreamtime, and fire is power. Tonight, as every night, three tiny yellow dots of daytime flickered in the constant darkness. The Storyteller’s little fire drew the uninitiated young men. Farther on, the initiated men huddled around their own bit of daytime. A ways off, by a gum tree, the women sat around their own fire burning off the hair of a wallaby. Obviously, women made practical use of that which fueled men’s dreams, for was not fire the essence of power?

  The Storyteller rumbled on. “At night Wareen would find his bed among the rocks because he was one to sleep under the protection of the earth. Mirram would make his place in the open because he was one to sleep under the stars.

  “One night it rained fiercely. Mirram climbed into the rocks and beseeched his friend, ‘Let me join you.’

  “‘No. For you are too wet.’

  “‘Let me join you. The rain is fierce.’

  “‘No. For you were foolish to sleep out there.’

  “‘Let me join you. The sky lights are gone. It is dark.’

  “‘No. You did not honor the earth by entering her embrace before; now when your lights are gone, you must live with that.’

  “Mirram became exceedingly angry, all the more because he was very wet. His anger made Wareen exceedingly angry, all the more because he was very sleepy. They argued, and then they fought. Mirram seized a great rock and smashed Wareen’s face with it. But Wareen threw his spear. It stuck fast in Mirram’s spine—at the end of his spine—right here; see?

  “And so it was that Mirram became the first of all the kangaroos, with a great, bounding tail. And Wareen became the first of all the wombats, with his flat, pushed-in face.”

  Fingerlike tendrils of orange and red laced themselves through the few coals left of the night’s fire. They splashed yellow flickers across the Storyteller’s whole body, and made subtle changes in the colors of his paint.

  Indirri sat silently beside his respected teacher, running the story through his mind twice more. He might not hear it ever again, and yet he must know it word for word. Someday he would become an elder and then he would be called upon to tell the clan’s children how the kangaroo and the wombat came to be.

  Mungkala spoke up. “Where exactly are the hills?”

  “By and by I’ll show you, sometime when we pass near.”

  Mungkala frowned. “It is wrong for friends to argue and fight, true?”

  “True.”

  “But if Wareen and Mirram had not fought, we would have no kangaroos and wombats. Kangaroos and wombats are very good. So good came from the fight that was wrong.”

  Surely the Storyteller would be angry with this upstart. It was a child’s place to listen, not to argue. If Indirri knew that, certainly the Storyteller did.

  But the Storyteller was grinning, and his grin spread into a sparkling smile, his big bright teeth only slightly yellowed by the firelight. “So. A puzzle. And what is the answer?”

  Mungkala shrugged. “Maybe there isn’t any.”

  “Every puzzle has an answer waiting somewhere. Hiding. Not always can men find it, but it’s there. Think.”

  Mungkala was always quick to question, but he was not one to dwell long on a thought. A fly wouldn’t have time to buzz before Indirri’s younger cousin quit thinking. “Do you know the answer?”

  “To this puzzle, yes. Indirri, do you know?”

  Indirri shook his head, suddenly embarrassed to have been singled out from among the four youngsters.

  The Storyteller straightened; story time was over. “You—all of you—spend a little time seeking. Perhaps you can come to me tomorrow with the answer.” He rose in one fluid movement and strode off through the darkness to the men’s fire.

  Mungkala studied the flickering coals. “What if he doesn’t know the answer? What if he’s just trying to get us to find his answer for him?”

  Maybe the Storyteller wasn’t angry at Mungkala’s insolence, but Indirri was getting tired of it. “What if you bring him the wrong answer and he laughs at you? You’d deserve it, that’s what. He’s the oldest in our clan. He’s even older than my great-uncle. Of course he has the answer. He knows everything.”

  Mungkala stood up and stretched. “Know what’s wrong with you? Your head never asks any questions. You might as well be a lubra. You think like one—I mean, you don’t think like one!” And he ambled off toward his sister’s humpy, probably to try to cadge some little snack before sleep.

  So he thought Indirri was a silly old girl, huh? Inside his head Indirri threw sand onto the rising fire of his own anger. Friends and clansmen must not fight. It is wrong to fight.

  But then, how did kangaroos and wombats get to be?

  ****

  Marty had a reputation for good night vision. But in this star-studded darkness he had
to depend on his nose and ears to tell what was happening. Three horses plodded heavily through the unseen Queensland dust.

  “How far are we from camp, Uncle Martin?” Jase’s raspy twelve-year-old voice asked.

  “Five, maybe six miles yet. Two hours.”

  “That far?” Jase wiggled in his saddle; Marty could hear it creak. How did the horses make their way so easily in this blackness?

  Jase pointed off to the west. “What’re those three fires way out there, then—blackfellers?”

  “Likely. No drovers out this way.”

  Marty shifted in his saddle. He had been riding almost constantly for the last twelve hours, not counting half an hour for supper. At thirteen he was as tough as any grown man on the station. He had prided himself on that—until now. He was aching all over from all this saddle pounding. “Know how you can tell they’re blackfellers? Three fires instead of one big one. For people without matches, they sure like their fires.”

  Beside him his father snickered. “Ever heard of Goolagaya?”

  Jase’s saddle creaked again. Jase must be stiffer than Marty; he was almost a full year younger and he’d been on the station only a couple weeks so far. “Who’s he? One of those blackfeller things?”

  “She. An ugly old hag. Lurks in the dark, grabs and eats any little tad who wanders away from the safety of the firelight. She’s one of the big reasons blackfellers are so scared of the dark.”

  “She doesn’t grab whitefeller kids though. Right?” Jase’s saddle creaked again.

  Marty laughed. “Jase, you’re ’most grown up. You don’t believe that stuff, do you?”

  Pop chuckled in the darkness. “Never can tell. Maybe you two boys better stay close to me.”

  Marty forced his mind off ugly old crones and onto better things. “Bet that’s why Turk Moran always has a cigarette lit. Little red dot in the darkness—you know it’s Turk. He’s keeping the old Goolagaya away.”

  “Sure,” Jase cackled—his version of giggling. “Turk’s old, but he ain’t much bigger than a kid. Like Uncle Martin says, you never can tell.”

  Pop’s voice sobered in the darkness. “Jason, I sure hate to see you come along on this, but there’s just no way around it. Too far from home to take you back. It’s going to be some hard riding. Might even get dangerous; Turk’s armed. Don’t know how I’d tell your mum, if something happened.”

  “I’ll be fine, Uncle Martin, really!”

  “You being my nephew, I feel even more responsible than if you were my son. So you stay low. And remember, the ratbag’s no hero, and he’s likely not gonna give up peacefully. You stay clear out of the way.”

  Pop was about right on the distance. Marty couldn’t tell time as well with stars as with the sun, but they rode for hours across the empty flatness. Now and then he would draw his knees up on his saddle pommel trying to get more comfortable. But there was no place—not one place—comfortable on this rock-hard horse furniture. How could Turk Moran even think of doing what he was doing? Crazy Turk!

  The campfire loomed on the horizon nearly an hour before they reached it. Marty slid from his saddle with deep, warm gratitude. Picketing his mare beside Pop’s, he unsaddled her and hurried over to the fire hard on Pop’s heels.

  Nearly two dozen men were gathered round the campfire in the flat darkness, their fronts red-orange and their backs black. A few stood leaning against the water wagon while others sat or leaned on a hayrick parked at the edge of the circle.

  Pop shook hands with a tall, thin man with a marvelous, droopy handlebar mustache. “Good to see you. This here’s my nephew, Jason James, and you know Marty, of course. Jason, Cyrus Bickett. Cy, you musta put the hard word on every station in the district.”

  Cy Bickett grinned. (Anyway, Marty thought the man grinned; the corners of his mouth were buried behind the mustache; you could never really tell with Cy.) “And why not? That bloody galah’s got at least a few cattle off every station round. Here, you three. There’s lashings yet, and it’s extra grouse. Dig in.”

  Jase shoved in close to Marty and glanced at him. The big round eyes spoke questions.

  Marty translated. “There’s lots of good food, so help yourself.” It was an invitation Marty had been dreaming about for five hours. He snatched the top tin plate off the stack. It had been used, so he grabbed a handful of sand and polished it clean. A gentleman with a bushy white beard ladled him a big plateful of kangaroo stew and poured him a tin cup of tea from a billy in the coals.

  Balancing his plate, Pop sat hunkered down by Mr. Bickett and two others, so Marty parked cross-legged beside him and picked the potato chunks out of his stew. He always ate the potatoes first.

  “Martin, we figure Moran’s gunner take about the same route Readford did. He’s got no more than two days on us. If we push hard we should catch up to him not long after he crosses the Barcoo. His cows will only walk so fast.”

  Pop smiled. “His cows, huh?”

  An expletive burst forth and Mr. Bickett glanced guiltily at Jason. “He’s such a flootin’ charmer; he does that to you. Gets you thinking his way.” He wagged his head and the ends of his long mustache swayed. “Can’t be—what?—five-six tall at the most; about the size of this nipper here,” and he nodded toward Jason again. “Weighs less’n a dingo; and there he’s shoving a thousand head of cattle ahead of him. Don’t charm just people; he charms cows, too, to get ’em doing what he wants like that.”

  “Got two helpers with him, don’t forget. Just like before.”

  “Sir? ’Scuse me.” For the first time since sitting down, Jase raised his head from his plate. “I don’t understand. Did Mr. Moran try this once before, do you mean?”

  Marty finished his potatoes and started on the carrot chunks. He always ate carrots next, unless there were turnips.

  Mr. Bickett slurped his tea. “You ever meet Turk Moran?”

  “Yes, sir. Last time I visited Uncle Martin.”

  “Then you know how he’s always yarning. Lot of his yabba comes out of books and magazines. The way we figure it, he read a Bulletin story about how a Harry Readford stole near a thousand head of bullocks, including a white bull, and overlanded them nine hundred miles with the help of two drovers. That was in 1870—’zactly twenty years ago. We suspect now Turk’s got it in his head he’s going to recreate the event and maybe make a quid or two on the deal. Relive the glory days, you might say. Bushrangers and duffers. All that.”

  “But now’s different since we have the railhead over in Barcaldine. Wouldn’t it make more sense to drive his mob the sixty miles to the railroad, sell them and get away quick?”

  “To you and me it would, but not to Turk, I don’t think.” Mr. Bickett poured himself another cup of tea.

  Jase wagged his head. “Sure to get caught and hanged. What a nong idea.”

  “Readford was acquitted. Set free.”

  Marty now had the onions out of the way. At last he was ready to eat the good part—the meat. His Pop grinned. “Readford hid his cows out in that ravine by Eagle Station, then headed south. The men chasing him twenty years ago didn’t know where he was or which way he was going. But we know ’cuz we read the article, too.”

  All at once Jase jumped and sucked in air. What scared him? Marty, sitting beside him, glanced up and almost jumped, too.

  The aborigine before him probably wasn’t much older than Marty. Marty was small for his age—hadn’t gotten his growth yet, Mum said. But this young man would probably be slim and wiry forever. He wore absolutely nothing except for some dots and streaks of white paint. In silence he had popped poit out of nowhere. Now he stood in that same cloaking silence before Pop and Mr. Bickett.

  Ross Sheldon, the hulking pastoralist with the run above Barcaldine, moved into the firelight from behind the hay wagon. Marty didn’t much like Mr. Sheldon, but he couldn’t tell why. The man was powerful, he had money, he was well enough respected. No reason not to like him, as Pop said. On the other hand, the fellow wore these brig
ht brocade vests and waistcoats everywhere, even out here in the flies and bulldust. Marty didn’t much like pompous people who put on fancy airs.

  Mr. Sheldon waved a hand impatiently. “This is Gimpy Jack. Walks with a bad limp, but Syd says it doesn’t slow the boy down any and we should use him. He’ll be tracking for us. Syd says Gimpy can look at a toe print and tell you what the fellow had for breakfast.”

  “Ross,” said Pop patiently, and he sounded bemused, “even Marty here can track a mob a thousand strong.”

  Mr. Bickett set his tin cup aside. “Well, there’s a bit of a problem, Martin. Ross and a couple others mustered some fairly big mobs down south of here. Assuming Turk is taking the same general direction as his hero, he’ll be driving right through there. We want to make sure we stay with his mob and not get off onto someone else’s.”

  “And this blackfeller’s going to track one bunch out of many?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  The next morning Marty was definitely not ready to climb back in a saddle, and he knew Jase’s backside was in even worse shape. Yet, before dawn they were on their way.

  There was a weirdness to all this, an unreality. A score of riders strung themselves out across a ragged line, side by side, so that no man need eat the others’ dust. Still, the pervasive, penetrating bulldust coated them all in a uniform red-beige. They rode on in grim silence—these color-muted men.

  Just being here was strange to both Marty and Jason. These young boys, though companionable, would never be alike. Jase was small like his mum, and skinny, with shiny dark hair and black, black eyes. He looked like a little kid among big, serious men. And Marty, though bigger than Jase, knew he too looked like a nipper.

  It was the weirdness of Turk Moran himself that started all this; Marty knew that much. Turk was small and wiry and wore spectacles halfway down his hawk-beak nose. No matter what the subject, Turk knew more about it than anyone else. Turk was the greatest drover, the greatest gambler, the greatest beer drinker; and yet, Marty had not once seen Turk do any of those things. It was strange the way Turk was always big-noting himself; you couldn’t tell if it was true or false.