A Far Country

by John Fletcher

  ‘A cart will slow you down too much,’ she protested. ‘Leave me and get away while you can.’

  ‘I’ve already said I’m not going to leave you,’ he told her, ‘so you might as well save your breath.’

  Moving like an old woman she sat down again on the edge of the bed. ‘There’s a small cart in the barn,’ she said.

  He went out to the barn. Sure enough, there was a cart. He fetched Tommy. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he told the horse, ‘you’ll have to pull something for a change.’

  With the horse between the shafts he went back to the house. He filled the largest container he could find with water, stowed it in the cart. He took a side of mutton from the meat safe and put that in, too, with some stale damper from the kitchen. He went back for Alison. She was sitting where he had left her. Her eyes were shut; she seemed barely conscious. He picked her up carefully and carried her outside.

  The sun was far down in the sky as he carried Alison to the cart and laid her inside it. He looked down at her drawn face, black rings around her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for hurting you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’ll drive as carefully as I can but I can’t promise not to jar you at all.’

  She smiled faintly without replying. He climbed on the driver’s bench, put his rifle beside him and flapped the reins. ‘Walk on,’ he said to the horse.

  Until the last he had been afraid that Blake would come back and catch them but once they were among the trees he began to breathe more easily. In an hour it would be dark. They had managed to give him the slip, after all.

  He spoke over his shoulder. ‘We’ll keep going as long as we can, then rest up ’til morning. A good rest and we’ll both feel better.’

  She did not answer. He glanced back at her. She seemed to be asleep.

  He kept the cart moving as long as he could, stopping only when it was too dark to see the way between the trees. He turned to check on Alison. She was still asleep but her forehead was hot to the touch and she was shaking with fever. Gingerly he felt her legs through the bandages. They too were hot, burning.

  He was sick with worry. He was alone in the bush, far from any possibility of help, with a sick woman in urgent need of treatment. There was a very real danger of her dying yet he could not even light a fire to warm her for fear the flames might draw Blake to them. He thought of climbing into the cart and cradling her in his arms but did not do that either, afraid of waking her, of adding to her pain. He loved her and was frightened for her and could do nothing to help her. He sat on the ground, his back against the wheel of the cart, and the time passed very slowly. He needed sleep if they were to make good time in the morning but did not dare sleep in case Alison woke and needed him.

  After an hour he got up to check on her. She seemed the same. He was about to sit down again when her eyes opened.

  She looked up at him. ‘Hello, my love.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Thirsty.’

  He fetched the container and helped her drink. ‘How are your legs?’

  A wry smile. ‘I know they’re there, all right.’

  ‘Would you like me to put water on the bandages?’

  ‘Do we have enough?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  With dry country ahead they most certainly did not have plenty but he was determined to make her as comfortable as he could. He poured water carefully over the bandages. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Still sore?’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘Make sure you do. I brought some mutton,’ he said. ‘Want any?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You must keep up your strength.’

  ‘I’ll have some tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you want to sleep some more?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to lie here and talk to you. Unless you want to sleep?’

  ‘We’ll talk,’ he said.

  For a while she lay silently, then said, ‘Tell me where we’re going.’

  He had no idea where they were going but now was not the time to say so. He said, ‘We’re going up the peninsula to the head of the gulf with the sea on our right and the hills on our left.’ He carried on talking, drawing a picture of the route they would take to Melbourne, a route that he had never travelled but telling her about it all the same, using his imagination to describe the lakes they would pass, the green and golden hills, the flocks of multi-coloured birds living in the trees. She listened to him like an obedient child, eyes fixed on his lips, and he went on inventing stories of their journey that he knew would never happen and not caring until at last she said, ‘What house shall we have when we get there?’

  So he told her about that as well, how it would be large and comfortable with a garden full of flowers and a thatched roof to keep them warm and safe in winter.

  ‘And fruit trees,’ she told him. ‘Don’t forget the fruit trees.’

  He was still talking when, at last, she closed her eyes and was at once asleep. Carefully he disentangled his fingers from hers. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand and was relieved to find her temperature was down. He returned to his place by the wheel of the cart, leant back with the rifle across his knees and fell asleep also.

  The horse woke him, whickering softly. Jason opened his eyes to the grey light of early dawn. He stood, rifle loose in his hands, and looked about him. The horse whickered again and Blake stepped out of the trees twenty yards away, his rifle already raised to his shoulder, the muzzle pointing at Jason. Too late, Jason remembered how good Blake had always been in the bush.

  ‘Gotcha, you bastard,’ Blake said. Without lowering the rifle he walked slowly forward. When he was ten yards away he stopped again. He lowered the rifle to his waist but the muzzle was still on target, Blake’s finger was on the trigger and Jason knew that he would not be able to move even an inch without Blake killing him.

  ‘Put your gun down,’ Blake said. ‘Very carefully.’

  He did so, leaning it against the wheel of the cart.

  ‘Now move away from it.’

  He did that, too. There was a loose piece of rock lying three yards away. If he could get to it, if he could throw it, if it was on target … He knew he had no chance of reaching it.

  ‘Stop.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I kill you?’ Blake asked.

  So they were going to play games. Rage was building. At himself for letting Blake catch him off-guard. At what would certainly happen to Alison if Blake got her back again. At the fact that he could see no way out of the situation.

  ‘If you’re going to kill me, get on with it,’ he said. ‘Don’t just talk about it.’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to kill you,’ Blake told him. ‘The troopers are on their way. They’re going to lock you up for the rest of your life. I reckon that’ll be a better punishment than killing you. Try to steal my wife?’ His voice grew shrill. ‘I’ll see you rot in gaol a hundred years!’

  ‘Is that so?’ Jason took two steps to his left, forcing Blake to turn to keep him covered.

  ‘Sit down,’ Blake ordered. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  ‘Why?’

  Two more steps. If he provoked Blake too far he might shoot him anyway, but if he could draw him close enough …

  Blake moved swiftly, not towards Jason but to the cart. He yanked a pistol from his belt and cocked it, aiming down into the cart. ‘I said sit down.’

  Jason stood motionless, fists clenched at his side.

  ‘I’ll shoot her if you don’t.’

  ‘Then you’ll hang.’

  Blake shook his head, grinning. ‘You went for me, I defended myself, she got in the way of a bullet. No-one will know the difference.’

  ‘I’ll tell them the difference.’

  Blake’s grin widened. ‘Who’s goin’ to believe a gaolbird like you?’ His voice sharpened to a lash. ‘Now: sit down!’

  Jason co
uld not risk Blake carrying out his threat. He sat as ordered.

  Blake prowled closer, the pistol still ready. Jason knew he was as helpless as ever yet had to do something.

  He took a deep breath, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Now.

  ‘Alison!’ he shouted in mock alarm. ‘Don’t!’

  For the second he needed Blake’s eyes wavered. Quick as thought Jason yanked off one of his boots and flung it. The boot hit Blake in the face and he staggered. The pistol was no longer on target. Jason’s legs bunched beneath him and he flung himself after the boot, crashing with full force into Blake’s chest. Blake staggered backwards, he dropped the gun, but his arms seized Jason in a bear hug and Jason winced at the power in Blake’s shoulders. He twisted sideways and thrust out a leg, trying to throw him, but Blake moved with him without breaking his hold and forced Jason back until his spine creaked. Jason tried to knee him but Blake blocked the blow with a thigh like a tree trunk and applied greater pressure, forcing Jason back another inch. The breath sobbed in Jason’s throat as he strove to break the hold before his spine snapped. He clenched his right fist and lashed out blindly, using it like a hammer, and felt Blake’s nose crunch as he struck home. For a second the deadly pressure eased. A second was all Jason needed. He twisted again and slammed the side of his hand with full force into Blake’s neck. The hold was broken. Blake staggered back, gasping for breath, and Jason flung himself at him again. Off balance, both men fell, grappling and lashing at each other. Jason’s strength was going now but Blake must be tiring, too. He made a supreme effort, rolling over so that Blake was beneath him, and sank both hands into Blake’s thick neck. Got you, he thought, but Blake jackknifed, catching him by surprise and throwing him clear. Before Jason could recover Blake was on him. A fist like a hammer stunned him, knees pinned his arms and Blake grinned triumphantly as he snatched his knife from its sheath and lifted it, blade gleaming in the early sunlight. Frantically Jason tried to throw him off but it seemed nothing could move Blake’s massive bulk.

  There was a sharp sound. Looking up into Blake’s face, Jason saw his eyes widen in astonishment. He coughed. A trickle of blood appeared between his lips and ran down his chin. The knife dropped. Strength gone from his suddenly flaccid body, Blake slid slowly away from Jason and fell to the ground. He lay on his side, his legs straightened convulsively, he was still. An open eye stared sightlessly at the dust. Unable to understand what had happened Jason staggered to his feet and saw Alison, his rifle in her hands, the smoke still fuming from its muzzle.

  He ran to her. Her face was white as bone; she swayed as he gathered her in his arms. ‘He was going to kill you,’ she said, ‘so I shot him.’

  She was shaking uncontrollably. Jason held her tight. ‘You saved my life,’ he said into her hair. ‘Again.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked presently.

  ‘He’s dead, all right.’

  ‘I didn’t want to kill him,’ she wept into his chest. ‘I wanted to stop him, that was all.’

  ‘It was the only way you could stop him. He’d have killed us both, otherwise.’ He helped her to sit down. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m a lot better,’ she said, ‘but I wish I hadn’t killed him.’

  Jason looked down at her, feeling strength flowing back into his body. ‘I don’t want to rush you but we should move on,’ he said. ‘Those troopers may be on their way. If they are they’ll have heard the shot.’

  ‘Blake must have his horse somewhere,’ she said. ‘It can’t be far. I’ll ride. That way we’ll make better time.’

  He was doubtful. ‘It’s too soon—’

  ‘They’re my legs and I tell you they’re much better. I want us to get away from here as quickly as we can.’ She smiled up at him and put her hand on his. ‘Do you think I’ve gone to all this trouble just to have the troopers catch you?’

  They found Blake’s horse twenty yards into the bush. ‘You’re sure your legs will be up to it?’ he asked her, still worried.

  ‘Of course.’

  He reloaded his rifle and returned it to its holster. He fetched Blake’s two guns. The pistol he thrust into his belt, the rifle also into its holster. He cut up the meat and loaded it with the damper and water into their saddlebags. He helped Alison mount. Finally he took his own horse out of the shafts and mounted as well. He smiled at her. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  They rode north through the thinning scrub.

  Half an hour later they reached a wide patch of open land. Long ago there had been a fire here and the scorched remains of dead trees stuck like broken bones out of the grey soil. Ever since they had left the cart and Blake’s dead body, Jason had been filled with the strangest of feelings. He could not get used to the idea that he was alive. Blake had been about to kill him, had had the power to do it. Jason, in those last seconds, had accepted its inevitability, and then it had not happened. Because of Alison, he told himself. Because she had killed Blake first. That was true, of course it was, but the sense of wonder and disorientation remained. He could not get away from the idea that he ought to be dead and the feeling was like living in a dream.

  They had seen and heard nothing of the troopers. He did not even know if there were any troopers. They were acting as though the pursuit were hard behind them yet for all he knew Dawkins had not returned from Burra Burra.

  He’ll have come back, all right, he thought. He won’t have forgotten the fight we had. He’ll want to get even for that. But where he is, whether he is a mile behind or a hundred miles, that we have no means of knowing. Without the gunshot they would never find us, he thought, but it was too late to think of that. Without the gunshot he would have been dead.

  Some instinct made him rein in at the edge of the burnt ground. There was no reason to suppose that Dawkins would be here rather than anywhere else but, if he were here, he would see them clearly as they crossed. He looked both ways but could see nothing. The open ground continued in both directions as far as he could see. He had a bad feeling but there was no help for it; if they wanted to continue north they would have to cross the open ground and hope there was no-one there to see them do it.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said.

  They rode out into the open. At this point the burnt area was half a mile across and they had not crossed more than a third of it when he heard the sound of shouts and, a moment later, the distant crack of a rifle.

  ‘Go!’ he shouted to Alison and put heels to his horse. Side by side, they galloped towards the far trees. There were more shots but they were far away and seemed to represent no immediate danger.

  ‘We’re going to make it,’ he yelled to her, unsure whether she could hear him, ‘we’re leaving them behind.’

  The persistent dream that had troubled him all morning had vanished. He could see the distant line of trees drawing steadily nearer, feel and hear the pounding of the horse between his thighs, sense the wind in his face. He was filled with exultation. They would escape and start afresh and perhaps, just perhaps, the dreams and stories he had dredged out of his imagination the previous night would come true.

  Not perhaps, he told himself. They will happen. I know it.

  The shelter of the trees was only two hundred yards away. He looked towards them, full of triumph at their escape, and saw two blue-clad figures ride out of the bush ahead of them.

  For an instant he could not believe what he was seeing, then swung his mount to the left, forcing Alison to do the same, and rode flat out for the trees with his body and his horse between her and the two troopers.

  There was a shot. Another shot.

  A hundred yards, now. Less.

  A third shot and this time he heard the pluck of air as it whistled past. He lowered himself as flat as he could in the saddle, his head far down the horse’s flank, hearing only the heaving gasp of the horse as it stretched itself over the final yards to safety. Then there was a sharp blow under his ribs and he was suddenly cartwheeling through the air to land with
a crash on the ground.

  For a moment he lay half-stunned, then his head cleared and the pain came, a terrible burning pain that stole his breath and threatened to stop his heart.

  His eyes were shut against the pain but opened as Alison, who must have dismounted and come back for him, tried frantically and unavailingly to lift him, to carry him into the trees that were now so close.

  ‘Leave me,’ he said, ‘you can’t manage it.’

  Tears were pouring down her face. ‘I will,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘I will!’

  ‘I’m too heavy for you. Besides, it’s no good.’

  She stared at him, face working. ‘You don’t know that!’

  ‘The bullet went up into my chest,’ he told her. ‘I can feel it. I’m all broken inside.’ He knew he was finished; knew, too, that he had only a few moments before the troopers arrived. ‘You must go back with Asta,’ he told Alison. ‘Stay with her. She’ll look after you.’

  Her face was swimming before him as he spoke and his voice sounded strange in his ears.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave me,’ she said.

  He tried to smile. ‘I love you. I’ll never leave you.’ He took a deep breath. His chest felt as though it were filling with blood. Now he had only a minute, perhaps less, but there was still something he wanted to say. ‘You told me yourself,’ he said. ‘On the cliffs. You said a part of us would always be there. And that place would always be a part of us.’ She was receding from him as he spoke. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to speak at all but he made a final effort, determined to say what he had to say to her. ‘Go there,’ he told her. ‘And I … will be there for you. Always.’

  Now she was no more than a pinpoint of light, shining still but diminishing swiftly as he watched. He tried convulsively to grasp her hand but could no longer feel it. He tried to speak but there was nothing left to say. He took a deep breath. His head fell back.

  Alison looked down at him. To the end, despite his terrible hurt, he had been there, as he had promised. There for her. There for their future.

  Gone.

  She saw him with devastating, blinding clarity. A sheen of dust across one cheek, a few specks sullying the fixed and open eye. She was filled with a choking flood of terror, rage, denial.