Albert of Adelaide

by Howard Anderson

  Muldoon had told Albert that as soon as TJ was able, they would go back to Muldoon’s camp by the water hole, and Albert and Jack were to meet them there. The word would be out among the dingoes to watch for them and guide them back across the flats of Hell.

  No dingoes had appeared, and Jack and Albert had been on their own since they had come out of the hills. Each morning Albert would start walking toward the mountain on the far horizon. He knew that the camp he was looking for was between himself and there, but not much more.

  When Albert had told Jack that Muldoon wanted to see him, Jack just said that he expected it to happen someday, and now was as good a time as any. They had moved slowly, not covering much distance each day. Albert was glad for the pace. It gave him time to think, and it gave the dingoes more time to find them. Jack moved ahead in a stoic fashion, favoring his bad leg and keeping quiet about what he expected out of his meeting with Muldoon.

  They hadn’t spoken about the killings at Ponsby Station. Jack had given Albert a gruff thanks and left it at that. Albert had returned the borrowed pistol and considered taking a gun from one of the dead, but thought better of it. What had happened there was done, and he wanted no souvenirs of the event.

  Jack hobbled over from the tripod with the billycan and refilled Albert’s cup. It was late afternoon, and they had stopped for the day in a grove of acacia. A breeze was coming out of the west. It was sufficient to cool the afternoon but not so strong as to kick up any dust. Albert sat leaning against his pack, sipping his tea and hoping the clear skies would hold through the night.

  Jack returned the kettle to the tripod and moved away from the small fire to the sparse shade of a nearby acacia. He sat down in the shade, took a last drink from his cup, and threw the dregs into the bush behind him.

  “So this is Hell.”

  “That’s what the signs said.” Albert looked up at the sky, but no clouds had appeared.

  “Looks pretty much like everywhere else… Sardines?” Jack started digging in his pack.

  “No thanks.”

  Jack found a can of sardines, opened it, and ate half the contents before speaking again.

  “I looked for Muldoon, Albert. Did I tell you that?”

  “No, Jack, you didn’t.”

  Jack thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I could of sworn I said something about it.” He went back to eating the sardines.

  “Muldoon told me that he was afraid of not being famous,” Albert said, trying to keep Jack talking.

  Jack looked over at Albert and shrugged. “That’s because fame was the only thing he ever had, except maybe me and a few cans of fish.” He looked at the can he was holding in his good paw. “Muldoon came out of the desert looking for a place he heard about that didn’t exist. He had to settle for being famous.”

  He got up and wandered into the bush, looking for a place to bury the sardine can. Then he spent a few minutes looking for snakes that might be hiding in the brush, but his heart didn’t seem to be in the hunt, and he soon retreated to the shade of the acacia. Albert spent the rest of the afternoon lying against his pack, getting up only to collect firewood for the evening. Whatever thoughts they may have had they kept to themselves.

  With the coming of darkness they built up the fire and waited for the dingoes to find them. The dingoes should have seen the fire the night before. If they didn’t see it tonight, something had to be wrong. Albert was beginning to think he should have picked up a gun when he had the chance.

  Jack hadn’t said much about coming into Hell when Albert told him where they were heading. He had shrugged and said if it was a good enough place for Albert and Muldoon, it was a good enough place for him. He was a little more curious about the dingoes, whom he had only heard of in whispers. After Albert told Jack what he knew about the dingoes, Jack said that he was glad to hear they were friendly, but that he was going to reload his pistol with lead balls, just in case.

  Albert was surprised at how quickly he had come to accept dingoes as a natural part of his world. Other than their eating habits, which took some getting used to, the dingoes were straight-up creatures. They had proven to be brave and loyal, which was more than he could say for most of the other inhabitants of Old Australia.

  Muldoon had told Albert that the dingoes never left the flats of Hell. If someone was imprudent enough to come to where they lived, the dingoes ate them and that was the end of it. They made exceptions to the rule as it pleased them. Muldoon, Albert, and TJ were the beneficiaries of a dingo logic that required no rule to ever be written in stone.

  The dingoes had also made an exception for Theodore and Bertram when they built the Gates of Hell. The building straddled the line between Hell and the rest of Old Australia, which created a certain territorial ambivalence in the dingoes. In addition, Theodore and Bertram would trade them guns for the coins and equipment they took from trespassers on the flats, and would give them the marsupials that had fallen victim to advertising and the killer possum. As TJ had pointed out, no intelligent animal ever passes up a gun or a free meal.

  When Bertram had proven himself a coward at the fight at the water hole and Theodore had shown that he was willing to kill someone protected by a platypus, the dingoes knew that no good would come to them if they continued to associate with creatures that spineless or that reckless. They warned Bertram and Theodore never to return, and the pair had shunned the Gates of Hell ever since.

  Albert shifted his position against the pack. His shoulder was still sore from the blow he had taken at Ponsby Station, and sitting in one position too long caused it to stiffen up. Jack had been quiet since they’d finished gathering firewood, and he had stayed in the shade of the acacia smoking his pipe and swatting flies.

  When it began to get dark, Jack put some twigs on the coals under the tripod and brought the fire back to life.

  “I tried to stop,” he said suddenly.

  “Tried to stop what?” Albert asked.

  “Setting things on fire.” Jack sat down under the bush and relit his pipe. “I thought that after what happened to Muldoon at Winslow, I’d never set another one.”

  He took a draw on his pipe. “But I was never sure. So I stayed away from towns as much as I could. I’d go in somewhere, sell a map or a rock I’d salted, get supplies, and get out. It worked for eight years.”

  “Ponsby Station.” Albert was pretty sure what was coming next.

  “And then we got to Ponsby Station and I burned the damned place down.” Jack nodded sadly.

  “Not all of it,” Albert said thoughtfully.

  “There is that, I suppose.” Jack stopped talking and took in an occasional mouthful of smoke from his pipe.

  “You set the fire to help me, Jack. You can’t blame yourself for that.” Albert was beginning to feel a little guilty that he had been responsible for Jack’s relapse.

  Jack shook his head. “Every fire I ever set, I set with good intentions. At least that’s what I told myself. The problem is, Albert, if you like a thing too much, you can always find a reason for doing it. I might have been able to get Muldoon out of Winslow without setting fire to the hotel, and I might have been able to get you out of Ponsby Station without burning down O’Hanlin’s place. But a fire was always the first thing that came into my mind, and once that happened I never considered trying anything else. If I had, there’s a good chance Muldoon wouldn’t have been killed and you wouldn’t have a price on your head.”

  “Muldoon’s not dead,” Albert said quietly.

  Jack didn’t hear what Albert said, or if he did he ignored it.

  “Muldoon wanted to fight in Winslow, but I was against it. Winslow was a tough town and a hard place to get out of if things went bad. But Muldoon was famous by then and felt his reputation was at stake. There was a pretty tough kangaroo in Winslow who had challenged Muldoon to a fight, no holds barred. The kangaroo had killed two opponents and was known as quite the wrestler in some parts of the territory. The locals thought hig
hly of him… a little too highly, as it turned out.

  “If Muldoon had let the fight go on for a while, we probably would have been all right. He knew how to string out a match. We had made a lot of money on side bets when we first started. He and I would do an exhibition match every so often and make it look like I came close to beating him. I couldn’t beat him—nobody could—but we were pretty good at selling the illusion.

  “Anyway, when Muldoon walked into the ring in Winslow and the crowd started booing him, I had a bad feeling. Muldoon hated being booed, and he hated having things thrown at him.

  “The kangaroo was late in coming, and the longer Muldoon was in the ring by himself, the worse the crowd got. Pretty soon empty bottles and rotting vegetables started flying out of the crowd. Muldoon just stood there and didn’t flinch even when he got hit.

  “When the kangaroo finally showed, the crowd started to settle down. The kangaroo climbed into the ring and called Muldoon a couple of names. Muldoon didn’t say anything; he just walked over to the kangaroo and broke his neck. I’d never seen anything like that, and I know the crowd hadn’t, either. It took them awhile to come after us.”

  Jack took another draw on his pipe, but it had gone out.

  “We got back to the hotel ahead of the mob, but not by much. I set the place on fire to cover our run for the edge of town. The fire was going pretty good when Muldoon ran back inside.”

  Jack tapped his pipe on his knee for a few moments and then looked over at Albert. “It never crossed my mind that Muldoon would run back into the hotel, but it should have. I knew the medals were important to him, and I’d forgotten he’d left them in his room.”

  “Medals?”

  Jack looked away from Albert and back toward the fire. “I didn’t think they were much. But Muldoon set quite a store by them. He was never interested in the money we made. He’d buy sardines, and maybe a drink every so often, and not much else. But he liked medals, and he liked being carried on the shoulders of the crowd. He was the only one of his kind that ever got here, and I think the medals and the cheers made him feel a little less alone.”

  “What kind of medals were they?” Albert asked.

  “What you’d expect. A piece of pot metal with a ribbon that said ‘Champion’ or ‘Winner’ or some such thing. Some local dignitary would hang one around his neck when he won a fight and tell him how great he was.

  “I don’t know if he believed what they told him—he didn’t put much trust in others. But the medals were different; they were solid. He could carry them with him and hold them long after the crowds had disappeared.”

  Jack picked up a small stone at his feet and tossed it toward the fire. “At least, that’s what I think now. We never really spoke again. But he had a partially melted medal in his paw when I pulled him out of the hotel.”

  “What happened after you got him out?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not much else to tell. He was hurt a lot worse than I was, but I got him clear of the town and eventually got both of us back to our camp. I put him in his tent and nursed him as best I could. A few weeks later I went into a town to get supplies—and when I got back, both Muldoon and the tent were gone.”

  Jack got up slowly and looked out into the night beyond the camp.

  “The Famous Muldoon died in that fire, and that was the only Muldoon I ever knew. A shadow is waiting for me out here, Albert. The shadow of a time long past, and I’m afraid of what I might find.”

  Before Albert could say anything, he heard what sounded like thunder coming from the distance. He stood up and walked over to where Jack was standing. The sky above them was clear, and the stars were bright as far as they could see.

  There was a flash of light on the horizon, and a few seconds later another clap of thunder rolled over the camp.

  27

  Marsupials Forever

  Albert left Jack at dawn, carrying nothing but a canteen, and walked the desert in the direction of the explosions he had seen light the sky the night before.

  It was clear that things were happening on the flats of Hell that did not bode well for Albert and his friends. After what had happened at Ponsby Station, Albert was worried about leaving Jack alone. But it was clear that they needed information as quickly as they could get it, and he was the only one fit enough to act as a scout. He gave Jack the pistol and careful instructions: if a dingo showed up, Jack was to ask questions first and, if need be, shoot afterward.

  Albert kept a brisk pace through the morning and came across a dingo encampment at noon. He searched through what remained of the camp, but he didn’t find anyone still alive. The smell of black powder hung in the air, and brush shelters scattered around the small clearing were still smoldering. The midday sun had already dried the pools of blood around the bodies, and bush flies were everywhere in great numbers.

  It hadn’t been a big camp. Albert had counted only twelve bodies, mostly females and pups. It was hard to tell what had killed the dingoes—the bodies were badly torn, and all of them were missing their ears.

  The camp had been built near a small spring, and the minute Albert approached it he could tell something was wrong. He might not know much about the desert, but he knew something about water.

  There were footprints all around the spring, and none of them belonged to the bodies in the camp. Albert bent down and took a little of the water in one paw. It smelled of cities and had the color of tarnished copper. A few crayfish floated on the surface of the pool along with some dead insects. Whoever had killed the dingoes had also poisoned the spring.

  Albert stood up and wiped his paw on the front of his jacket. Poisoning water was a crime of such enormity that he couldn’t understand it. Water was where a platypus lived. It was the center of his being.

  In some ways, he could understand the killing of other creatures. He had done it himself and could point to reasons, both good and bad, for having done so. He could find no reason in destroying that which was freely given to everyone. The spring was neutral. It had provided life for anyone that came to drink there, even to the ones who poisoned it. There had been no passion in its death, only a sad desire to kill the future.

  He began to worry that some other passerby that didn’t know water as well as he did might stop to drink there. He was looking for something to mark the spring when he heard another explosion in the distance.

  The noise wasn’t as far away as it had been the night before, and Albert thought he could get to the source in a fairly short time. What he would do when he got there depended on what he found.

  He quickly made an arrow of rocks on the ground pointing to the spring and piled the dead crayfish at the point of the arrow. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Albert took a last look at the spring and shook his head before jogging into the bush in the direction of the noise, which was continuing to repeat itself.

  A mile from the dead dingoes Albert located the source of the explosions. A group of marsupials were entrenched around the base of a low hill that rose no more than twenty feet above the desert floor. On top of the hill a group of kangaroos were loading and firing a small cannon. A small figure was directing the gun crew, and every so often Albert could see flashes of light reflected from the goggles it was wearing.

  Albert had never seen a cannon before, but this was obviously a big gun. It was firing large bullets into the bush somewhere beyond the hill.

  Every time a shell exploded, the militia in the trenches would wave flags and cheer. Albert could hear faint cries of “Death to Dingoes” drifting in the wind from the hill, as well as the singing of a song that had “Marsupials Forever” as a chorus.

  The hill gave those on top a good view of the surrounding desert, and Albert was afraid to get any closer than a thick stand of grevillea about half a mile from where the kangaroos were firing the gun.

  He had been crouched in the bush for about twenty minutes when the firing stopped. He watched as the militia left the trenches and headed out into th
e bush toward where the shells had landed. Theodore and the gun crew stayed with the cannon.

  A figure in a plumed hat climbed up the hill from the trenches and stood next to the gun. The figure took off its hat and waved it over its head. The cheering from the gun crew got louder. Albert thought the figure was probably Bertram, but it was difficult to be sure at that distance.

  He turned to head back to where he had left Jack and almost ran into a dingo that had come up behind him. Startled, both Albert and the dingo jumped backward, but after the first moments of confusion things began to settle down.

  The dingo was young, with just a few scars. Albert couldn’t remember having seen him before, but he seemed to know Albert. The dingo pushed Albert back down behind the grevillea and watched the hill for a few minutes. When he was sure that their movements hadn’t been seen, the dingo beckoned Albert to follow him and set off into the bush, keeping clumps of brush between them and the hill.

  The young dingo led Albert away from the hill for some distance before angling back toward the militia trenches. They came to a shallow ravine and followed it to a small grove of acacia not very far from where Albert had watched the cannonade.

  The early afternoon sun was filtering through the leaves of the trees, and the contrast between the light and small shadows made the center of the grove a study in two dimensions.

  TJ was sitting on a log in the middle of the grove, surrounded by half a dozen silent dingoes. The dingoes raised their paws to the young one as it led Albert into the grove, and their salute was returned with the same quiet dignity.

  TJ motioned to Albert to join him. He had on the clothes Albert had washed, and Albert could see a lump in his long johns where they covered the bandages. TJ looked very tired, but he smiled as Albert walked over to the log.

  “Good to see you, partner.”