‘Share the rewards a little bit. Maybe some jobs, contracts for Aboriginal companies. It wouldn’t hurt for them to share the spoils. Put some wealth back into the community instead of sending all the profits offshore.’
Kavanagh had been eating her beans, listening quietly. She stood now, stretching her legs and yawning. ‘I can’t imagine a big mining company letting you twist their arm like that,’ she said. ‘They’ll know every lease in this region and when it expires.’
Dussell started pulling at his beard, looking at Muddy. ‘The big companies get sloppy,’ he said. ‘Don’t keep an eye on things, the bureaucracy gets blind. Gives an opportunity to the little guy.’
‘To jump their claim?’ said Kavanagh.
‘All’s fair in love and war.’
Kavanagh had her hands on her hips now, staring at Dussell. ‘That why you’re wearing a gun? Don’t tell us it’s for snakes.’
Dussell fidgeted with the holster, looked down at the ground. Kavanagh pressed her advantage. ‘When we came into the Ironclad you were suspicious of us. I saw you looking at the mining company logo on our truck, snooping around the tailgate checking our stuff. That why you refused to take us back into town? You reckon we were here to peg this claim too?’
‘Not barefoot in the middle of the river bed,’ said Dussell. ‘I got no idea who you are, but I didn’t want you back in the pub telling everyone where you’d seen me. I don’t know what your argument is with that Maori and his offsider, but I see two guys like that in town in fancy suits and I start to wonder why they showed up this weekend. I start to wonder whether you or them are working for Alan McCann.’
Ford looked at Kavanagh and wondered if the look of surprise on her face was mirrored on his own. ‘McCann owns the iron ore lease?’ he said, under his breath.
‘We got all excited when he went bankrupt,’ said Muddy. ‘Thought those receivers might sell off the lease. Maybe one of the multinationals take it over, someone we could deal with. But it looks like he’s going to weasel out of it.’
Ford was still saying McCann’s name quietly under his breath, trying to make the connections, when Bronson stepped out from the shadow of the rock and into the light of the campfire. He looked down at the kangaroo tail laid out in front of Emily and shone a torch on the blackened meat.
‘That’s the most miserable hangi I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘I could smell it from the other side of the ridge. Wondered what the fuck you were cremating.’
TWENTY-THREE
Bronson stepped closer to the fire and looked at Ford, then at Kavanagh. ‘Why don’t you all step closer to the light,’ he said. ‘It’s cosy here and I can keep an eye on you all.’
Dussell’s right hand went to the holster on his hip and fumbled with the flap. Bronson watched him struggle, his mouth breaking into a half-smile. He folded his arms and waited for Dussell to get the Webley free of the leather. The old man lifted the revolver and held it level with both hands, the flames of the campfire reflecting in his spectacles as he looked down the barrel. Bronson was openly grinning now. ‘You saw your barman pull a gun on me and thought you could be a hero too?’
‘How long you been hiding behind that rock?’ said Dussell. His voice was calm but the barrel of the gun was shaking.
‘Not quite long enough to hear what I was listening for,’ said Bronson. ‘Don’t worry about the gold lease. I know about that. Thought I’d better show myself before midnight, before you got any ideas about pegging it.’
‘Where’s your Chinese buddy?’ asked Dussell, his voice breaking now.
Bronson’s grin returned. ‘He’s around here somewhere. Who knows, he might be dressed in black and lurking in the dark like some psycho ghost ninja.’
‘Ninja are Japanese,’ said Ford, stepping in front of Kavanagh.
‘I’m real ninja, me,’ said Muddy. ‘Why d’ya think those fellas dress in black? Everyone wants to be black. At least, they want to be black until the cops arrive.’
‘Is that right?’ said Bronson. ‘Whatever. Wu taught me a few tricks about the stealthy approach, how to sneak up on people. You need to keep looking over your shoulder with that little bastard around.’
Dussell took the bait and turned his head to look behind, and the big Maori took three quick steps forward and put his left hand palm down on the barrel of the gun, pushing it down and away, pointing it towards the fire, and when Dussell tried to snatch it away the revolver discharged, a column of flame erupting downwards, the report echoing across the valley.
‘Motherfucker!’ hissed Bronson, yanking the gun free of Dussell’s grip and transferring it quickly to his other hand. He looked at the palm of his left hand, turning it to the light. ‘You burned me, you daft old cunt,’ he said, spitting on his hand. He raised the revolver. ‘This thing’s a bloody antique, same as you. Thank fuck the thing didn’t go off when you were pointing it at me.’ He held the Webley loosely and turned to Ford, waving him aside with the barrel so he could see Kavanagh. She sat with her back to the rock, her knees pulled up to her chest, the blanket wrapped around her.
‘Why don’t you open that blanket, sweetheart. Ease my mind that you’ve not got that pistol under there pointing at my balls.’
Kavanagh shook her head. ‘I’m unarmed.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you,’ said Bronson, motioning with the gun for her to stand. Kavanagh groaned and got slowly to her feet, putting a hand on the rock to steady herself and letting the blanket fall. Bronson curled his finger at her, made her step towards him, and then circled his finger in the air for her to turn around. She stood with her back to him and sighed, holding out her hands limply. Bronson stepped up behind her and put his mouth close to her ear. ‘Now where have you stashed that little automatic?’ He kept the old revolver pointed at her as he ran his free hand over her body, down her legs and up the inside of her thighs, around the waistband of her jeans. He breathed in her ear again. ‘Hey girl, you need to unclench a little right now. You always this tense? Where is it?’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘No gun and no phone.’ Bronson caught Ford watching him and smiled. ‘This a problem for you?’ he said. Ford shifted uneasily, kept eye contact. ‘The way you’re looking at me, those are the eyes of a jealous man. Did you get your dick wet last night?’ He put his arm around Kavanagh’s waist, ran his hand up her belly and cupped her breast. ‘Don’t sweat it, man. There’s nothing here to interest me. Hell, even the little Macau chicks have more flesh on their bones than this one. You like all this gristle?’ Ford took a step forward but Bronson stopped him with a shake of his head. ‘Getting protective now? You’re punching way above your weight with this one. Better take care. Get the wrong side of her and she’ll rip it out by the roots.’
Ford tried to keep his face blank, not wanting to reveal anything, but realised his inaction had told the Maori something after all. Bronson moved his hand to Kavanagh’s other breast, kneading it, waiting to see what Ford would do. When Ford looked away, Bronson said, ‘There you go. You’re really a man that looks after his women, aren’t you? Where’s that daughter of yours? You the kind of father leaves her in someone else’s care?’ Ford stared down into the flames of the fire.
Bronson moved his hand to Kavanagh’s shoulder and walked her back to the rocks, pushing her down to sit beside Muddy and Emily. She wrapped the blanket back around herself and glared at him. He had the Webley swinging loose from his hand, upside down with his finger through the trigger guard. ‘Every day I been in this country somebody’s been pushing a gun in my face. Whatever happened to that Australian friendliness I’m always hearing about?’
‘Up here it’s FIFO,’ said Muddy. ‘Fit In or Fuck Off. You don’t like it, you’re free to leave.’
‘The Chinese in Macau sent me here because they thought I would fit in to this redneck fucking wilderness,’ said Bronson. ‘Thought I’d be less conspicuous than a posse of Cantonese. They think I have an Australian accent, recko
n I’m some sort of Aborigine. You can try and explain the difference between a Maori and an Abo but we’re all just hak gwai to them. All brown skin the same. Once they’ve made up their mind there’s no changing it. All that shit about saving face. Have to keep your mouth shut so you don’t hurt their feelings. Just nod and smile. It would be nice to be in a place like this where a man can speak his mind, if it wasn’t for the fucking heat and the flies.’
He turned the revolver on Ford, motioned for him to raise his arms, then patted him down. When he reached the patch pocket on his thigh he felt the bulge there. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
Ford thought about the bag of diamonds and was grateful he’d put his cigarettes in the same pocket. ‘Smokes,’ he said, and held his breath until Bronson dropped his hands and stood up. ‘You got any matches? I’m gasping here.’
Bronson frisked Muddy and Dussell. ‘I like to know who’s in this and who’s a spectator. No phones? Not one of you?’ he said, then turned his attention to the Webley. ‘How do I unload this death trap?’ He found the release catch on the frame and thumbed it. The top half of the revolver broke open and the spring-loaded ejector flipped the cartridges out of the cylinder, the metal turning in the air before pinging off the rocks and scattering across the ground. The last cartridge bounced off a rock beside the fire pit and spun gently into the flames.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Bronson under his breath and leapt sideways away from the fire, squatting down in a crevice between the rocks, his back to the fire. Dussell moved just as quick, pushing Ford away from the flames and the two of them dropping flat in the dirt, hands over their heads. Only Emily seemed calm, her eyes moving to watch the panic in the others, Kavanagh and Muddy rolling sideways and lying curled up, hands protecting their heads. Emily then looked into the fire, a small smile on her face as the round went off, throwing a jet of sparks into the sky and sending the bullet screaming off into the night.
Bronson was first on his feet, gun still in hand. He looked at the others, sprawled around the fire. ‘Since you’re down there together, why don’t you all sit against the same rock as the old girl there?’ He waved the open gun, herding them, then bent to pick up the remaining bullets and stashed them in his pocket.
‘So much for your stealth tactics,’ said Dussell.
Bronson closed the revolver and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers, buttoning his jacket over it. ‘I don’t think there’s anybody in a ten-kilometre radius that doesn’t already know you’re here, sitting on a hilltop with a fire burning.’
‘Gotta have fire,’ said Emily, picking meat off the kangaroo tail in front of her, putting it in her mouth and licking her fingers.
‘I don’t think anyone needs your cooking, darling.’
‘Not just for cooking,’ she said. ‘Bad spirits in this place.’ She smiled at him, her lips slick with grease.
Muddy jumped to his feet. ‘She’s right, bro,’ he said. ‘There’s a ginnawanda roams these hills.’ He went into a low crouch, feet planted wide, stepping carefully towards Bronson, his arms raised and hands curled into claws, eyes staring wide. ‘A featherfoot. No wind tonight. He likes that. You can’t smell him coming.You wanna be careful, bro.’
Bronson laughed. ‘You’re about as scary as the old man,’ he said. He put a hand on Muddy’s shoulder and pushed him back down beside Emily.
‘Wallabung not scared of you,’ said Emily, and Dussell looked at her and smiled. ‘You know what that name mean? String from kangaroo. He tough. Tougher than you.’
Bronson ignored her and looked at his watch. ‘You just sit quietly and we’ll be done in an hour or so.’
‘You’re pegging the claim?’ said Kavanagh.
‘What I’m doing is keeping an eye on this little barbecue.’
‘Whitefella take this country from us first time. Now black man take it from us second time,’ said Emily.
‘Relax, sister,’ said Bronson. ‘It’s not my fault you people never got a treaty. Mistake you made was never getting hold of muskets before you started making deals with the pakeha.’
Emily scowled at him. ‘I oughta slap the black off you.’
Bronson walked to the far side of the fire and jumped up onto a rock to get a better view down the valley. Ford stood up to see where Bronson was looking. There was a vehicle coming up the valley, the lights sweeping the dry gully, the engine straining.
‘That your partner?’ said Ford.
Bronson didn’t turn to him, but kept watching the lights. ‘He dropped me at the end of the valley when we saw the fire. I walked in. Found another way to fuck my suit and shoes.’
‘You doing this for McCann?’
Bronson ignored him. He put a foot up higher on the rocks and examined his scuffed shoe and the frayed hem of his trousers. ‘What’s this fucking spiky grass that spears right through your pants?’
‘Spinifex,’ said Ford. ‘You need denim.’ He looked towards the Land Rover and Muddy’s Toyota, gauging the distance.
‘Don’t think about it,’ Bronson said. ‘I immobilised them on my way up the hill. You can run if you want to, but you’ll just die tired. There’s a lot of country to go missing in out there.’
Ford watched the vehicle lights progress along the valley until they were at the turnoff to their camp. The vehicle stopped, the engine was cut and the silence of the bush returned.
Kavanagh came and stood beside him, shivering in the blanket, and together they watched as the car’s internal light came on and both doors opened. The ute was too far away for them to see anything more of its occupants than two indistinct silhouettes in the black bowl of the valley, but Ford recognised the movements of the passenger immediately.
Kavanagh leaned in towards him and spoke quietly, her head turned to his ear, her eyes watching Bronson. ‘This is what you’ve been trying to shut out of your head all weekend,’ she said. ‘She’s down there. Your wife is working with these guys. Maybe all along.’
Ford shook his head, watched the headlights go out on the vehicle, and then the internal light as both doors slammed shut. Two flashlights came on, and one turned in their direction and flashed three times. Bronson took a long Maglite out of his jacket pocket and returned the signal.
Ford had experienced the sucking feeling in his chest before, the knowledge that he had been made a fool, failed to see what was in front of him. He watched the flashlights travel slowly up the far side of the valley, hoping that she would get caught in the beam and he might see her clearly, know for sure that she was here. The lights stopped at the top of the ridge and were both pointed down at the ground, two small circles of light in a dark landscape.
‘Is that my wife?’ asked Ford.
‘Don’t chew yourself up about it,’ said Bronson.
‘You forcing her to do this?’
‘You’re a little slow on the uptake, buddy.’
‘Then I need to talk to her.’
‘Now isn’t the time. Let her finish what she has to do.’
The torches were moving again now, along the top of the ridge.
‘I’m not going to let her take our daughter,’ said Ford.
‘You’re reading too much into this. By the time you get back to town tomorrow all this will be over. She’ll want to talk to you then.’
‘You know I’ll fight for this.’
Bronson laughed. ‘It’s nice that you’re showing a little spirit. I like that in you.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Ford.
‘No, you’re staying here. You make a move to follow us and I’ll put you down. Just accept what’s happening here. Fate is doing the hard work so you don’t have to.’
The torch on the far ridge flashed again and then started moving down the hill towards the vehicle. Bronson returned the signal and set off down the road towards the junction. Ford took a step to follow him but Kavanagh had her hand on his shoulder, the nails digging in. She pulled him backwards and her hand dropped and found his.
‘You ca
n’t stop them,’ she said.
Ford turned to look at her, only one side of her face dimly lit by the distant fire.
‘Grace is safe where she is,’ she said. ‘Saxon won’t give her up.’
Ford squeezed her hand and looked down the valley to watch the red tail-lights of the ute move away down the gully.
TWENTY-FOUR
Muddy and Dussell had set up a spotlight on a pole cut from the branch of a ghost gum so they had light over the engine of the Land Rover. They ran it off the battery from Muddy’s Toyota, the only thing still functioning under its hood. It had taken them an hour by torchlight to work out the extent of the damage Bronson had wrought on their vehicles. The Toyota had fared worse, Bronson stripping out the wiring from under the dashboard and shorting out the engine-management system. Bronson had been more old-school with the old Land Rover: severing all the spark cables, removing the distributor cap and slicing the fan belt. He had also punctured all the tyres on both vehicles.
Muddy had decided they stood a better chance of getting the Land Rover running. The wiring hadn’t been touched, such as it was, and among the milk crates stacked in the back were several boxes full of salvaged spare parts.
‘I’ve had this old thing for forty years,’ said Dussell. ‘I cobbled this thing together from three wrecks I found, plus bits of others I salvaged over the years. Never let me down yet. And if it has, I can fix it myself in the bush.’
Ford had helped them with the tyres, working the jack as they got off each wheel in turn and patched the punctures, thankful that Bronson had only used the tip of a knife to pierce them and had not slashed them. Now that they were under the hood and Dussell had started working on the engine, Ford left them and climbed the hill back to the campfire. The flames had gone, leaving only the orange glow of the embers. There was some orange light in the east, too, outlining the crest of the ridge on the far side of the valley, but not enough to extinguish the stars. Emily was lying on her side, wrapped in her swag, snoring gently. Kavanagh was still wrapped in the blanket, back to the rock, watching Ford approach. She didn’t say anything when he sat down beside her and lifted one edge of the blanket to pull it around his shoulder. She leaned against him and put her head on his shoulder, looking up at the stars.
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