When they reached the centre of the road an approaching car suddenly became a pursuing monster striving to strike them down.
The little girl, peering fearfully past Annie’s legs, gave expression to an ‘Oo-oo!’ of consternation. Annie made a quick decision.
‘Back again,’ she cried. ‘Come on. Quick.’
She whirled the little girl round and they sped back to the kerb. When the little girl’s feet touched the pavement she relaxed with relief as if she had suddenly been gathered into protecting arms.
The dog continued quite undisturbed. He stood on the opposite kerb looking across at the girls with an interrogative side-tilt of his head. His mouth was closed. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Why hadn’t they followed him? This was most extraordinary. He would return.
He jumped from the kerb and trotted on to the road without so much as a sideways glance.
From the other side commanding yells from Annie made him lose some of his dignity and panic seized him.
‘Get back there,’ yelled Annie. She had released her hold on the little girl’s dress.
The little girl bent forward from the hips and with her two clenched hands held in front of her joined in shouting advice to the little dog.
A speeding motorist thrust frantically at his brake pedal. The car screeched, skidded obliquely. A tremendous wheel bumped the little dog and he yelped with fright.
Annie leapt from the footpath like a warrior giving battle. Her eyes were wide open and were directed unwaveringly at the dog as if, in all the world, he only existed.
The little sister gave a desperate glance at the traffic then blindly followed.
Tram bells clanged, men shouted; cars, one behind the other, hooted urgently as they ground to a stop.
Annie snatched the little dog to her arms and held him defiantly. She grabbed the hand of her small sister, who had reached her with breathless thankfulness, and strode resolutely to the footpath.
Safe beneath veranda roofs Annie subjected the little dog to a very careful examination. She moved his legs and pressed his back while he licked her hands in gratitude. The little sister watched with a look of concern upon her face.
Annie placed the dog on the footpath and he trotted before them towards a grocer’s shop.
‘And how are you two?’ asked the grocer.
The little sister did not wait for Annie’s reply. She looked up at the grocer as if about to impart news of tremendous importance.
‘We crossed the road we did,’ she said, her eyes shining.
Bushman
My father is eighty years old now, but he walks with a spring in his stride. When he goes out on the sunny days he holds his head like the brumbies he tamed in his youth. He is thin and straight as a sapling and he carries with him, like sunshine, the atmosphere of the wide plains he wandered over when he was young.
I have never seen the saltbush plains, the myall clumps and the claypans he talks about, but they are in my blood.
When my father spins his yarns I hear the sighing sound the wind makes in the belah-trees; I see the distant pines knee-deep in liquid heat; I taste the dust of north winds that hide the leaders of his four-horse team in swirls of stinging sand.
He was a hawker; ‘Bushman’, they called him.
He tells of a late autumn in the eighties. It was morning. The saltbush leaning over the sunken tracks crackled with frost as the heavy wheels of his wagon crushed it into the sand. In two days he hoped to make Wanganella where a convoy of bullock teams loaded for the north would camp for the night.
The Old Man Plain lay behind him; the sun and the silence were around him. On the seat of the lurching wagon he heard only the creak of harness, the soft plodding of his horses’ hooves in the centre track, the knocking of the wheels on the worn axles of his big van.
Next day he crossed Black Swamp and in the evening he pulled into a clearing on the banks of the Billabong Creek. Stunted box and red gum skirted the water. In the half darkness he could see bullocks grazing among the trees. A thick-necked poler moved slowly out of his way, the bell on its neck toning soft sounds of nightfall. The enormous broad-wheeled wagons stood motionless, heavy with stores. Camp-fires flung robes of smoke across them. Before the fires the bullock drivers squatted, unpacking tucker-boxes and brewing billy tea.
‘Good day, Bushman.’
‘How are yer, Bushman?’
They all knew my father.
‘There’s whips o’ feed here,’ cried Queensland Harry of the red beard and moleskin waistcoat. ‘Hobble ’em out and come an’ hop into these chops.’
My father turned his horses out and joined the big man. Michael O’Callaghan, bent like a swamp box, came over to the fire. Paddy, the Fox, was there bending over the johnny-cake in his camp oven. There were others. A big convoy had pulled in that night.
‘How far did you come today?’ asked Paddy.
‘Fur enough,’ said my father. ‘Thirty mile, maybe. I bin on the Old Man Plain for a fortnight.’
‘Shut them bloody dogs up,’ shouted Michael O’Callaghan angrily, turning to look in the direction of a clamorous barking and addressing anyone in the direction of the sound.
‘It’s Bluey and Floss,’ said my father quietly and he turned and yelled out to the dogs tied beneath his wagon.
‘Lay down there.’
I can see his lean face, half turned, lit up by the firelight; the red beard of Queensland Harry made luminous by the flames; and back in the darkness I can hear the jingle of hobble chains and the tearing sound of grass and scrub breaking between the bullocks’ muzzles and the damp roots clutching the soil.
Above the heads of the seated men the white limbs of the red gums seemed to bear the weight of a great overhanging darkness heavy with stars. The trunk of a grey box behind the fire broke the darkness in two.
Other bullockies, their meal finished, walked into the hollow of light and joined those around the fire.
‘Got any white moles with you this trip, Bushman?’ asked Jack Tyne.
‘Yes,’ said my father. ‘I’ll show them to you in the morning. I got some good stuff this trip.’
‘Any of you coves comin’ up to the pub?’ asked a dark youth pausing on the rim of firelight.
‘Ted and The Fighting Groper are going up. I heard them saying,’ said Queensland Harry.
‘The Groper has broached a case of whisky,’ said the youth. ‘He’s well into a billy full. He shoved a knife into the case and smashed a bottle then caught the whisky in a billy.’
‘He’ll be after broachin’ one case too many, that cove,’ muttered Michael O’Callaghan.
‘Well, if there’s no one comin’, I’m off,’ said the youth.
‘He’s trying to do a bit of a spar with the tea-slinger up there,’ said Jack Tyne, nodding after the youth.
‘Why aren’t you married, Bushman?’ asked Queensland Harry. ‘You got a turn-out there any woman would be proud of. Don’t you ever get lonely?’
‘It’s purty lonesome be meself sometimes,’ said my father, ‘but I ain’t never had no time to play up to women.’
‘Do you know the tart up at the pub?’
‘Yes,’ said my father.
‘Know who?’ bellowed a man emerging from the darkness and kicking a log beside the fire. He carried a billy half full of whisky and as he seated himself he peered across the fire towards my father. ‘Hell! It’s Bushman.’
‘How are yer, Groper?’ asked my father.
‘What do you know about women, Bushman?’ went on The Groper as he settled himself more comfortably on the log. ‘You haven’t got enough guts to make a pass at the filly up at the pub; and everyone knows you’d like to put your brand on her.’
He turned to the other men, holding the black billy aloft. ‘Who wants a swig?’
‘Where’d you get it?’ asked Michael O’Callaghan sourly.
‘I brought half a dozen bottles with me.’
‘Every second man you meet these days is a li
ar,’ said my father softly.
The Groper became very still. ‘A-a-a-h!’ he exclaimed menacingly.
He thrust his face towards the fire across which my father sat with his unlaced boots pushed before him and his hands clasped across his knees.
‘Have you met another man before you met me, Bushman?’ he snarled.
‘Yes,’ said my father.
‘I’ve a mind to cross the fire and hop into you,’ said The Groper through his teeth.
‘I’ll meet you half-way,’ said my father and though he sat quietly his voice was as hard as mulga.
‘It’s what I said about the little slut up at the pub that’s got his goat,’ guffawed The Groper addressing the silent men and delighting in the possibility of a fight.
Father sprang to his feet then.
‘It’s a friend of mine you’re talking about,’ he cried. ‘Come out on the grass, you bastard.’
The Groper roared with delight and rose heavily.
‘I’ll see what kind of gristle is in your nose,’ he bellowed.
Queensland Harry had risen with him.
‘Keep cool, now. Keep cool. The Bushman’s no match for you. Sit down.’
The Groper shook off the hand that the red-bearded man had laid on his shoulder.
‘I’ll have a lash at him, runt or not.’
‘Let him go, Harry,’ said my father. ‘I’ve locked horns with better men than him before today. I’ll keep him honest. Come on, you groping dingo,’ he shouted to the big bullocky who was tightening his belt.
Michael O’Callaghan straightened his stoop to reach my fathers ear. ‘I’m tellin’ ye, Bushman, this big feller can go. Ye’d better take to the water. Climb down,’ he advised quickly.
‘It’s all right, Mick,’ said my father. ‘I’ll keep him workin’. He won’t have anything up his sleeve when I’m done with him.’
‘Into him then,’ said O’Callaghan, ‘and I’m backstoppin’ ye, be Jasus.’
They cleared the lighted space of bark and sticks. They piled more wood on the fire so that the flames coloured the red gum trunks a hundred yards away. The hobbled horses stopped feeding and, with their heads held motionless a few inches from the ground, looked towards the excited group of men. The frosty air swayed back from the heat and retreated to the shadows behind the silent trees. Bullock bells rang from the Billabong edge where the darkness sat secure.
The men gathered beside my father and when The Fighting Groper advanced upon him there was only The Groper’s enormous shadow stretching behind him on the ground.
‘Hop in low, I’m tellin’ ye,’ said O’Callaghan as he stepped back, ‘and, for the love uv Gahd, keep out from the thirteen stone uv him.’
The Fighting Groper came in with his big fists weaving before him like mallets. Bushman moved back so that the big man faced the fire then sprang in savagely and drove a right deep into the broad body that grunted an answer to the blow. The Groper staggered but recovered and charged in for a clinch.
‘Fight him off! Keep out!’ yelled O’Callaghan, but Bushman had leaped back, dodging a wild swing that sheared his head and swung The Groper in a half-circle. Bushman saw his chance and drove a right to The Groper’s jaw, but he lacked the weight and The Groper closed with him grunting his satisfaction in a swaying grapple that flung the lighter man into the dark obscurity of his big shadow as they staggered to and fro, each seeking to keep the firelight at his back.
Bushman sank his chin deep on his chest and took uppercut and hook in silence. His lithe, tough body braced itself; his legs, wide spread, took from the earth on which they were planted some of the strength that passes to trees. He tore loose in a sudden flood of power, hitting with hard, straight blows as The Groper followed him roaring for closer contact. His weight smashed through the piston-like uppercuts Bushman drove to his open chin in an attempt to keep him off. Each blow jarred The Groper who, breathing loudly, slogged back with a tornado of blows that staggered the hawker back to the fire’s edge.
‘Keep your hands up.’
‘Ride them out, Bushman.’
‘Get him underneath.’
‘Slip your knee into him.’
All the bullockies were here now. The bloated camp-fire lashed the dark with flame. There was a savage joy in the darkness that closed in on the shouting men when the exhausted flames died down, and was flung back to the trees when dried gum leaves were tossed on the burning wood.
The fighters were slogging toe to toe. Their mouths were open. The red blood was on Bushman’s lips. The Groper swooped on him, flung his head into chancery and smashed his face with powerful lefts. Bushman went down and, as he fell, The Groper twisted, bringing the smaller man beneath him so that he fell upon him with all his thirteen stone.
The Groper would have savaged him then, but they pulled him off.
‘Let up on him.’
‘Come on—give him a chance.’
‘Sink a boot into the big bastard.’
‘Stand back, Groper.’
There were shadows of men that pulled and parted; there was a red firelight on the trees and a shouting and swearing. But my father could only hear the savage barking of his dogs, he said. Then the cold night stung him clear and he got to his feet and cried out to Queensland Harry who had both his powerful arms wrapped round The Groper:
‘Let him come, Harry.’
‘Have a blow, Bushman.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘For the love uv Gahd, spell a while,’ pleaded Michael O’Callaghan, his voice shaking as with sobs. ‘Ye’ll be the dith uv me with yer guts.’
‘Three minutes then,’ said Bushman. ‘It’s me wind that’ll beat him and I’m not lookin’ for a blow.’
He sat down on a log with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
Ted, the Swell, brought him The Groper’s billy from beside the fire.
‘Take a swig. Here—get some of this into you.’
‘Wipe his face, Harry.’
‘Fetch that billy here,’ roared The Groper.
Take it and be damned to ye,’ said Michael O’Callaghan and he seized and hurled the billy at the seated man. It collided with the hand The Groper raised to protect himself and its contents spilled to the ground.
The Groper leaped to his feet cursing.
‘You’re next, O’Callaghan,’ he cried. ‘I’ll towel you up when I finish off this runt.’
He strode forward and Bushman rose to meet him.
O’Callaghan whispered the lesson of his experience in a hurried parting:
‘Trip the cow and, as he goes down, slip your knee up into the belly uv him and take his wind.’
‘Hop in low,’ growled Queensland Harry under his breath. ‘Go for his guts.’
‘Into him, Bushman,’ yelled Ted, the Swell.
Bushman met the big man a flame’s leap from the fire. The open plains had hardened him, the clean wind was in his lungs and plenty of it. He made the pace a cracker.
He stood off and hit out with straight blows that bent the ribs of The Groper swinging haymakers over his ducking head. He kept on the move. He punished him with more body blows; then The Groper, suddenly desperate, came in and drove an elbow into Bushman’s side. Bushman faltered. The Groper shinned him, then raked his knuckles in a glancing blow across the hawker’s face. It tore the lobe of Bushman’s ear. Blood flowed down his neck.
Bushman dropped his code then. He brought his knee up into The Groper’s belly with a powerful heave. As the big man gasped and doubled he uppercut him with a left and a right that pounded the soft mouth into crimson.
‘Paint him afterwards if you want to,’ yelled Queensland Harry. ‘Keep at his guts.’
But The Groper’s nose was spouting blood and he wavered.
‘He’s got a tail,’ exulted O’Callaghan. ‘Finish him, Bushman. Into him, you beauty.’
Bushman yelled an answer and threw in everything he had. He sprang forward and met the panting bullocky square. H
e slugged and smashed him, diving in and out like a kangaroo dog at an Old Man Roo. He sent him reeling back among the yelling men.
‘Slash the cow.’
‘Did you see that?’
‘Jesus!’
‘Hop into him, Bushman. Rip him wide open.’
‘Now!’
Bushman’s right hand flashed to The Groper’s jaw. The weight of his driving body was behind it. The Groper’s eyes swivelled like marbles. In the firelight the whites showed bare to the stars above his back-flung head and he fell like a cross to the ground.
Bushman bent over him for one savage second then the fire left him and he staggered to the log and sank there beside it trembling like a boy.
‘You bloody beauty, you.’
‘Good on yer, Bushman.’
They thumped his aching back. They yelled so that the horses behind the light plunged wildly and wrenched at their hobbles in panic. The bullock bells were suddenly still as if listening.
‘Come up to the pub. Come on now.’
They persisted he drink with them.
‘Bring me back a bottle, boys,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t walk twenty yards if you paid me. All go up and have a drink on me,’ and he handed O’Callaghan a note. ‘Let The Groper in on it,’ he added.
The Groper was sitting up with Ted, the Swell, bending over him.
‘You can go some, Bushman,’ he said painfully. ‘You licked me. I feel like I been through a threshin’ machine.’
‘Just luck,’ said my father. ‘I had the best hand on the night, that’s all.’
They went away then and he was alone. He rose stiffly to his feet and walked to the rear of his van. He pulled out some bags to make up his bed, but he had to stop and rest a while. The night was cool on him like hands and he stood there in the aching silence grateful for its comfort.
He did not see the girl run out of the darkness. She paused uncertainly at the firelight’s edge then came over and stood behind him. He heard her and turned. They faced each other and the camp-fire lit up the faces of them for a score of heart-beats before she spoke.
The Complete Stories of Alan Marshall Page 8