Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  Jack’s dark face changed expression from bewilderment to sudden determination. “We’ll do it.” He raised a warning finger. “You take off that vest, hear? Don’t want Indirri spearing the wrong man.” And he hurried out the door.

  “Right.” Marty stripped off the vest.

  Marty’s father paused in the doorway. “I’ll take the Muttaburra road down to Longreach. You go the Aramac way to Sheldon’s place. Better for me to go into Longreach than you.”

  Marty weighed thoughts a moment and nodded. “Uncle Edward, you defend the fort here. I don’t think they’d attack this place, but we don’t know that for sure.” He hastened outside.

  Pearl ran out after him. “Marty? What are you going to do?”

  He stopped and turned. “Try to reach Sheldon in time to warn him. Then find Jase’s lawyer and see what kind of legal smoke we can bung up—maybe even file against Sheldon for murder. Probably have to go through the Rockhampton courts; Sheldon’s bought these out here. If we can get Sheldon out of the area, in jail or otherwise, the situation might simmer down.”

  She ought to let him go. Instead she grabbed his hand and pulled him closer. “I’m afraid. I have such a bad feeling…”

  “Yair. Me, too. Here I was fretting about that cattle duffing charge and now that’s the least of our troubles. This whole district will dissolve in blood if Indirri feels revengeful enough to really cut loose.” He shook his head. “And he’s just about our only chance to stop Sheldon legally.”

  “Marty…” She could feel tears starting, and she didn’t know precisely why. He looked so vulnerable, so easy to hurt. And so many hurtful things loomed large.

  He pulled her against him in a strong hug. “It’s going to work out fine. If you don’t believe me, ask Luke.” His voice softened. “I really believe it will, Pearl. We finally know what we’re up against.”

  She shuddered. “What can I do?”

  “Both Pop and Luke will tell you to pray. Maybe that’s the best thing you can do.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Can’t. I’ll be riding cross-country where the buggy can’t go. And don’t try to return to town alone. The road’s too dangerous.”

  Horses clattered behind her. Marty released her and took his roan’s reins from Jack.

  Jack dipped his head toward the barn. “Goonur’s sending Bohra up to the house here to get some stuff. Then we’ll leave. We’ll find Indirri.”

  Marty nodded grimly. He put a hand on his saddle and paused. His long arm reached out and gathered Pearl in, and he kissed her. A kiss full of promise. Turning aside, Marty vaulted onto his horse and wrenched its head away. She watched them clatter across the dooryard and down the southbound track, shrinking ever smaller. Finally all she could see was the dust.

  She ought be embarrassed by that blatant display of affection, but she was too grateful. A soft, fragile hand took hers. Meg stood beside her watching the dust cloud also.

  Goonur rode up beside them, with horses in tow. Marty’s father grabbed one and rode away down the track. Little Bohra came running, fearlessly leading a horse that dwarfed him in both size and weight. The child has no concept of fear, Pearl observed. As Luke took the horse, Marty’s mum scooped the little one into her arms. In vain Pearl tried to picture her own mother lovingly cuddling an aboriginal child—or any child, for that matter. Bohra called out, but Goonur and Jack were away, galloping off to the north.

  Luke paused beside Marty’s mum, his horse dancing in place. “We’re splitting up. They’ll pick up the track from where they last saw the band, and I’m going southeast toward where we think Indirri spotted Sheldon. Tell Marty and them when they get back.” When his horse’s hoofbeats faded, the last sounds went with them. Silence.

  Pearl took a deep breath. “Now what?”

  “Now we pray.” Meg sounded so matter of fact. “I trust ye’ll join us.”

  The hot tears were threatening again. “I wish I could, with some assurance I’d be heard.”

  “Eh, lass,” soothed Meg, “I hear y’r plaint, for ’twas me own not too long ago.” She drew Pearl’s hand toward the verandah. “Come. ’Tis purely amazed y’ll be, at the wonders prayer works. It wrought a miracle at Sugarlea, I tell ye.” She draped her delicate arm around Pearl’s shoulder. “When this is all done and over, meself has a tale to curl y’r hair. Just wait’ll ye hear what God did at Sugarlea.”

  Marty’s mum rubbed Bohra’s head. “You, too, scamp. We need your prayers as well. In fact, as I understand, God is going to listen to yours first.”

  They were so confident, these women. Their confidence buoyed Pearl in spite of herself. She allowed eager, energetic Meg to lead her into the house to pray—an exercise she had never excelled in. Ironically, the power of prayer was the only power she had to influence what would happen next. All the money in the world would do them no good now.

  ****

  Martin Frobel Sr. cracked hardy on the outside. The world saw a powerful and commanding pastoralist—unshakable in extremity, generous in plenty. On the inside, though, he feared. He feared for young Marty so beset with troubles. He feared for the blacks and the whites as well. He had never voiced his fears, not even to Grace. But he expressed them now to God, with lips that moved without uttering a sound. Surely God, a Father in His own right, would understand. His was not a formal prayer, resplendent with thee’s and thou’s. He simply told God what was on his mind and beseeched help in no uncertain terms.

  He got to Longreach in midafternoon and rode directly to the constable’s office. Edding was out on his verandah having a cup of tea. Martin waggled a finger at him and strode into the office.

  Constable Edding darkened the door, but he stood cautiously in the middle of the room, wary as a rock wallaby.

  Martin perched one hip on the corner of Edding’s desk. “I hear you’re in Sheldon’s pocket.”

  Edding drew himself up. “That is slanderous, sir!”

  “I also hear you’re on the outs with the home office for sticking you out here in the bush when you’d rather be in Brisbane.”

  “What is your game, Frobel?”

  Martin kept his tone low and even. Much depended now upon the tone of voice. “I have eyewitness testimony that about fifteen years ago Sheldon and his monkey-dodgers massacred a family group of aborigines. You know me well enough to know how that sort of thing sits with me. I’ll see Sheldon pay for it, and we have a good run at turning this cattle duffing thing around. He might just pay for that, too.”

  “Now you’re multiplying your slander.”

  “I said proof—or weren’t you listening? Listen. You’re in the wrong pocket, Edding. Sheldon is about to be brought low. He has no power now to help you, and life is gunner get worse for him in a hurry. You can be his lap dog, as you have been, or you can get smart. And unless you get smart, you don’t have Buckley’s chance of ever seeing Brisbane again.”

  He stood up; the desk creaked in relief. “I suggest you look up the incident in question. A man named Hosteen was speared. Sheldon’s version is a matter of public record. See if it mentions defenseless women and children. Hear this, too: two survivors of that massacre are out to destroy Sheldon—sheer retaliation. We get to either Sheldon or the blacks in time or Sheldon’s dead.” He started for the door.

  “What makes you think I know Sheldon’s whereabouts?”

  “I’m telling you what’s happening. And you tell me: who is gunner be held responsible if the blacks decide to avenge themselves on the general white population?” He paused beside the perspiring man in the wool tunic. “You’re a clever fellow. Work it out.”

  Martin walked out into the slanting sunshine. That portion of his mission had gone smoothly. Now he stopped at various pubs, asking for either Sheldon or Jason or both. Jason had left on the train hours after he had first arrived, several days ago. Sheldon? Out on his run, most likely. Not here.

  Martin toyed with the idea of keeping quiet, but decided against it. Taking
a few key friends aside, he explained why he needed to find Sheldon. He took an extra couple hours to write a detailed letter to a friend in Rockhampton and post it. Then he was on his way again.

  ****

  The euro’s tracks led across a dusty glade and up into the rocks beyond those gums. Indirri followed, not that they needed the euro; they needed water. Mungkala’s skewbald gelding was a mixed blessing. On it Mungkala could go nearly anywhere everyone else went. But it drank gallons of water every day. So far the old men were patient with Mungkala, but it was obvious to Indirri that their patience was running low.

  He stood still, listening for flies. Silence, except for a crow in the trees beyond. He moved another hundred strides in a likely direction and listened again. Over there. He signalled to a flash of white in the distant trees and walked toward the buzz.

  Through the trees came Mungkala, that extra stirrup swinging back and forth beneath his skewbald’s belly. He wrinkled up his nose. “There’s not enough water here.”

  “Better than no water.” Indirri scooped the gilgai out, clearing it as much as he could of green slime and mud. The thirsty horse drank it up anyway, slurping it dry, gunk and all.

  Off in the northwest, a nightjar cawed and gobbled. Mungkala pulled his horse’s head up and rode quickly out around the ledges, headed southeast. Indirri made himself very straight and rigid, as if he were just another tree, and waited. Here came two old men through the trees. He watched them and watched behind them. Satisfied, he stepped out as they came near.

  The very old Djirra motioned with his head. “Your wife is persistent. She comes this way, on a horse, and with her that fellow in the bright whitefeller shirt.”

  No woman could be a good enough tracker to so quickly follow trained warriors cross-country. And Gimpy Jack? Too long a station black to have kept any skills he once possessed. Indirri grimaced. “She’s following the horse.”

  Djirra nodded.

  What would happen to Mungkala if Indirri left him behind? Nothing—the same as Goonur and Bohra. Had not Jason himself promised that Mungkala would always have a home and tucker? Jason was a noble man, though he was young. Indeed, the whole reason Indirri set foot on a station in the first place was to find a life for Mungkala. Mungkala was secure now; he didn’t need Indirri anymore.

  Indirri nodded, too. “Let them have the horse. If we stay on the ledges they cannot follow us.”

  Djirra smiled. The old men glided away, two dark shadows moving up across the rocky outcrop. The euro leaped from hiding and bounded off, unmolested. Indirri waited. He must let his eyes watch her one more time. There they were just coming into sight through the trees, riding about twenty feet apart, studying the ground. He watched the tree-filtered sun dapple her warm brown skin and he imagined the velvet touch of it. Her head twisted, looking around, and with his mind’s pictures he gazed into those wonderful blue eyes. Every fiber of her being, body and spirit, called to him. Come to me. Come again to be father and lover. Please.

  And little Bohra…

  With the mightiest of efforts, Indirri ripped himself away from the vision and the memory. Silently he slipped off into the rocks.

  ****

  Marty wasn’t exactly like Daniel in the lions’ den. Daniel was thrown in; Marty was riding in voluntarily—riding into a war zone. The scene here reminded him of the Crimean battlefields he had read about in his old history book—full of bomb craters and ragged snags. He guided his horse through the debris of dead trees and branches, left here probably by starving beasts looking for food. Roos and sheep had eaten the grass and scrub to below ground level, churning the dirt to reach the roots. Even when it rained, if it ever would, this pasturage would not come back. Marty’s paddocks were in bad shape, but rain would turn them green again. Sheldon’s paddocks would not support any living thing again for many years to come.

  He began to pass dead stock with increasing frequency. These sheep and cattle, and more than a few kangaroos, had not died very recently. The flesh had long since rotted and dried up, parched hides wrapped tightly around their skeletons. Everywhere amid the snags here, there hung in the dusty heat that pervasive, penetrating musty smell of naturally formed mummies.

  At last Sheldon’s main station loomed on the horizon, buried within its desolation. Marty was feeling extremely depressed at his surroundings by this time. He would warn Sheldon of the danger. If Sheldon weren’t home, he’d tell whoever was around and continue on south to Barcaldine. From there he would catch the train to Jericho and find Jason’s lawyer. Surely some legal way existed to foil Sheldon’s high-binding schemes and call him to account for that massacre.

  Half a dozen riders were gathered in the dooryard. Sheldon couldn’t be starting an early muster; by the looks of it he had nothing left to muster. Two riders out by the front paddock looked toward Marty as he approached. They pointed wildly at him and shouted to the men in the yard. One of them yanked out a pistol even as the other was pulling a rifle from his scabbard. The pistol wielder aimed with both hands, his head disappearing behind the puff of blue smoke.

  Marty didn’t wait to assess the rifleman’s intentions. He twisted the roan around and dug his heels in. He slammed his reins across the roan’s neck, then—in desperation—against the other side. This was futile. His horse was nearly spent from two days under saddle, and these fellows were probably on fresh mounts. He’d never win this race, let alone learn why he’d had to run it.

  Gunfire opened behind him—the rifle and a couple pistols. So far he was out of range. As his roan raced across an open glade, he glanced back; they were gaining on him! He wouldn’t stay out of range much longer. His horse stumbled. He was in trouble.

  ****

  Harry Bagley was an employee any boss would be proud of. He did what he was told. If something didn’t ring quite true, he told the boss about it right away. The boss would never have known about that stinking abo and the tracking and the beard if Harry hadn’t taken it upon himself to go tell him. Now he was assuming another responsibility for himself.

  The boss had said, “Take care of Frobel’s place once for all. I can’t afford to wait any longer.” By a sudden and unexplained twist of fate, here was the Frobel kid himself walking right in. Harry would take care of him exactly as instructed. The outback would swallow him and no one would ever know what had become of him. The boss had been happy with Harry before—big bonus and everything. He was sure the boss would be ecstatic at this one.

  The kid was a good rider, but they were closing on him. His horse was starting to falter—and no wonder, if he’d just ridden clear down from Pinjarra. Chet and Morry got a few shots off but they were out of range. Frobel’s roan stumbled badly. Another mile or two and they’d have him.

  They lost him around a turn and a rise, but no worries. There was no place he could go. His dust cloud drifted through the trees, betraying his passing. Like English huntsmen after a fox, Harry’s crew rode out through the trees, whooping.

  There went the dust. Frobel had shortcutted the bend and was back on the road. They had the roan in sight now, but wait! It was flopping in the dirt, then struggling clumsily to its feet. Quickly the horse lurched forward, nose and tail high, and cantered off northward, riderless.

  Riders churned in place in wild confusion.

  “He’s gotta be close! There ain’t no place to hide. Chet, you sweep around through there. Morry, swing out that way. When you see him fire once, whether you get a good shot at him or not.” Harry got a second thought. “And watch up in the trees! He mighta climbed a tree!” He watched his crew break up and spread out for the search.

  Then silence. Where was that gunshot? Harry looked at the road all around, but a score of hooves had churned it up so badly no mark or sign was left. Harry couldn’t even see where the horse had fallen.

  He started calculating. Sure as shootin’, the kid wasn’t here. That means when his horse stumbled, Frobel hit the ground running and just kept running. A good runner can go ten, twe
lve miles an hour. That’s half a mile in the time they were wasting here. He was half a mile away at least, and here they stayed, milling around like sheep in a paddock. Half a mile on his way back to Aramac and home.

  Harry Bagley cursed—at himself and at the Frobel bucko. He fired one shot into the air to call in his crew. They would fan out and start searching between here and Pinjarra. The Frobel kid was smart, but not that smart. He couldn’t get far afoot. Harry would find him. Harry Bagley, if nothing else, was a valuable employee.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Best of Plans

  There is an awesome magnificence to the Red River Valley of Canada, a sweeping grandeur. There’s a sense of history about it, too. Studded among the fine modern farms are sheds and buildings and abandoned homesteads of an earlier era. Here along a hedgerow you see a broken, grey wooden plough, long ago supplanted by a steel-share two-bottom wonder of engineering. Threshing machines perform the labor of many even as Sal Pierre-LeGrand on his hundred-acre lot painstakingly scythes his wheat each summer and threshes it by hand.

  There was an awesome magnificence to this Queensland country also. In fact, when it came to sweeping grandeur, this open outback took the prize over any place Luke Vinson had ever been. But there was no sense of history here, no weatherworn link with the past. There was only the present—intense and biting. Stay alive now. Make a life for yourself now. Seize now, because yesterday is gone—what there was of it—and tomorrow is so terribly uncertain.

  He paused his horse to rest it, admiring anew this wonderful country. These lacy, gangling trees would never pass muster in an arboretum next to a good, solid eastern black oak. Still, they stood about here and there and pretended they were a forest. That was one thing this stretch of Australia lacked: a true forest, packed with big, honest, compact trees—trees so dense that rain didn’t reach the ground beneath them.