by Peter Watt
He no longer cared for the white race he had been born into. His people were now the people of the plain, of the brigalow scrub and the wild places beyond the frontier. The personal execution of the Macintosh shepherd had sealed forever any hope of a way back to the white man’s world of towns and cities, and the company of his family in Sydney.
TWENTY
The Aboriginal shepherd respectfully skirted the two bodies, as he had a deeply superstitious fear of the dead. He squatted reluctantly beside the body of young Joseph Blake.
The body was bloated and decomposing and Young Joe’s hands still grasped the shaft of the spear in his throat. A few feet away, partially in the ash remains of the long-dead fire, Monkey lay on his back in a similar condition. Plump white maggots crawled and writhed from the orifices of his body.
‘Tell me, Goondallie, how many men?’ Donald Macintosh stood behind the Aboriginal shepherd staring at the bodies of his two employees.
Goondallie rose and searched about the ground with his eyes.
‘Two fella, boss. One whitefella, one blackfella. Funny business,’ he frowned, scratching his head, and Donald turned to the two young shepherds who had stood well back from the bodies with sickly expressions on their pale faces. They were ‘new chums’ recently from the shores of England. For them, the lurid stories recounted in the bars of the frontier hotels and grog shanties about sudden death at the hands of treacherous ambushing myalls had taken on a terrible reality. They stared with morbid fascination at the bloated bodies of Monkey and Young Joe, who they had laughed and drunk with only days earlier.
‘Ross, Graham. Get down and bury them,’ Donald snapped angrily as he walked over to his horse to get a water canteen.
The putrefying smell of the bodies left an unpleasant copper-like taste in his mouth and he spat the first mouthful of water onto the ground. Monkey had been clearly shot in the head. At first he had made the presumption that one of the blacks had somehow got hold of Monkey’s gun and used it to kill him. But from Goondallie’s more learned observations, it appeared that a white man might have used the gun.
‘Get the spear out of Young Joe before you bury him. I want to have a look at it,’ he called to Goondallie, who acknowledged his boss with a wave before going about his primitive and grisly operation with a sharp knife.
While Goondallie cut carefully around the spear, the shepherds scraped two shallow graves in the crumbly soil with a shovel. They dug the graves immediately beside the corpses. That way they only had to roll the repulsive remains of the dead men into the holes and not lift them.
Donald had mounted the search for the shepherds when Old Jimmy had returned alone to the Glen View homestead days earlier and was evasive about why Monkey and Young Joe were not with him. He was, however, clearly worried that the two men he had left at the water hole had not returned to the homestead and he was able to lead Donald and the three shepherds back to the last camp site he had shared with his companions.
Now Old Jimmy sat astride his horse well back from his two former and very dead companions, wavering between guilt for having left them to meet their violent deaths alone and extreme relief that he had not been with them.
Donald noticed the old shepherd hanging back and bellowed, ‘Get over here, you sodomising bastard, and tell me what happened. Or I will shoot you off that horse, so help me, God.’
Old Jimmy reluctantly kicked his horse forward and eased himself down out of the saddle to stand contritely before his boss. He had trouble looking Donald in the face. He shifted from one foot to the other, displaying his extreme nervousness to the man towering over him.
‘Why aren’t you lying dead with them?’ Donald roared angrily. ‘Tell me the bloody truth or I swear I will shoot you right now.’
Old Jimmy picked at a sore on his lip and mumbled, ‘We caught a young gin south of here and Monkey there says I should take her up to Balaclava to Mister Bostock,’ he lied. ‘Mister Bostock said he needed a darkie girl around the house.’
‘Yes, Bill would,’ Donald reflected sarcastically. ‘How much did he pay you for the gin?’ he demanded angrily.
‘A fiver, Mister Macintosh. That’s all,’ Jimmy answered truthfully. He knew that there was no sense in lying about the price. Bostock and Macintosh were neighbours who occasionally visited each other.
‘How is it that Monkey let you take the girl when I know damn well that he would have done so himself had he thought of the idea,’ the Scot demanded. He glanced back at the two shepherds sweating under the hot sun with bandannas around their faces to stifle the stench as they scraped out the two graves.
‘He was goin’ to cut the gin’s throat for a bit of fun before we left the water hole in the mornin’,’ Jimmy explained. ‘But I figured I may as well make some money off ’er. It was a shame to waste ’er like that. An’ besides, he and Young Joe had a good time with her, before I rode out. That’s all, Mister Macintosh. On me mother’s grave, that’s all.’
Donald glared at him for an uncomfortably long time while the old shepherd shuffled his feet nervously like a dog expecting a beating from his master. His years under the lash of a penal system had taught him to cower in the face of angry authority. ‘I don’t understand,’ Donald finally said as he pondered on the fates of his two dead shepherds. ‘How could they have been taken so easily, by the looks of things, by just two men?’
Jimmy brightened because he had the answer and felt volunteering the information might ingratiate him with his boss.
‘We were out ’ere a week and never saw a sign of any darkies until a few days back when we came across a couple of old darkie men. We caught one of ’em, but the other got away. Just seemed to disappear into thin air. Anyway, while we had ’im, a crazy old gin attacks us with a digging stick. So we shot her. We had a look around after we . . .’ he paused in his narrative of the events
‘Go on. I don’t particularly care how your devious minds would have found ways to amuse yourselves with some old blackfella’s death,’ Donald said with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘Well, we only found the young gin and a boy later on,’ Jimmy continued. ‘Figured they must have been the only Nerambura left after we dispersed ’em back in November. There was no sign of any young darkie men so we figured we were pretty safe. Didn’t keep watch at nights.’
‘And it got Monkey and Young Joe killed,’ Donald said bitterly. He dismissed the shepherd with a growl of contempt. Jimmy scuttled back to his horse which had wandered a few yards away to graze. Donald wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hat and walked over to the shade of a tree to wait for Goondallie to finish his grisly task.
The shepherds paused to swig from their water canteens as Goondallie broke off the barbed end of the spear. He was careful not to scratch himself as he also had been taught the trick of plunging spears into the carcasses of animals that had died from snake bite. Death from such a scratch was a lingering and painful way to cross into the spirit world of the Dreaming.
He scrutinised the end of the spear and frowned.
He was shaking his head as he walked across to the squatter sitting on a log, puffing at his briar pipe.
‘This fella spear all same spear kill Mister Angus, Boss,’ Goondallie said as he gingerly turned over the barbed head in his hand. ‘Same blackfella kill Mister Joe, kill Mister Angus.’
The Aboriginal’s observation struck Donald with a cold chill as he had surmised that the death of the two Macintosh shepherds was down to some white renegade who had lived with the blacks. But this was a whisper of a spectre rising from the depths of the brigalow scrub to haunt him.
‘Duffy!’
The name came to his lips as a strangled whisper. The Aboriginal shepherd looked questioningly at his boss. He knew fear when he saw it. And what he saw on his boss’s face was pure fear.
Donald stared out to the brigalow scrub, baking under the hot sun, as if he expected to see a white man suddenly materialise, brandishing a gun and screaming ancient Celtic cur
ses on him and his family. And standing beside the terrible apparition of the big Irishman, a tall warrior, with spear and boomerang, grinning at him.
Enid had mentioned in a letter the problems she was having in Sydney with another son of the dead Irish teamster. Of how his beloved daughter had become infatuated with the dead man’s son. A terrible coincidence across time and space. Or was it some kind of myall curse on his family? He rose to his feet and banged the pipe savagely against the trunk of a tree.
‘Hurry up and get those men in the ground,’ he roared. ‘Just throw some dirt on their faces. We will give them a proper Christian burial later. Then get on your horses and get back to Glen View.’ The shepherds exchanged surprised looks. Something had agitated the boss in a big way.
Donald was already on his horse and galloping off before the two shepherds had covered the dead men in the shallow graves. They cast about with fearful looks. Maybe the darkies were watching them even now and were stalking them. They left the bodies unburied, as they did not want to be alone in the bush with their over-active imaginations.
Donald rode hard.
Although Duffy and the black killer had a few days’ start, they were on foot. He knew this from finding the dead shepherds’ horses still in their hobbles, grazing less than a mile away from the water hole. At the camp site, he had noticed that the dead men’s guns and food were gone. But the horses had not been taken because they would be too easily tracked by his Aboriginal employees.
Duffy and the black killer were smart. Even Goondallie admitted to losing their trail not far from the camp. But not smart enough. Donald had a good idea where the two men would have gone, as Old Jimmy would have left a clear trail to track all the way to Balaclava station.
Now it was only a matter of rounding up an armed party from Glen View and going after them. If Duffy was with the black killer, then he would be shot down for the murderer he was. At least now he did not have to show ‘accidental death’ in an inquiry by the authorities. Duffy was now a murderer of white men. A common criminal.
It took a half day of hard riding to reach Balaclava station.
When Donald rode in with his party of armed shepherds, he was met by an angry Bill Bostock.
‘Donald, I am going to horsewhip that damned man of yours for bringing that infernal gin here,’ he raged as he stomped around the dusty yard in front of the tin and bark hut that was his homestead. ‘The damned gin has brought nothing but trouble to Balaclava and all my blackfellas have gone walkabout on me. Seems the last couple of nights they were scared off by some wild myall out there in the scrub. They say he has powerful magic and those damned worthless blacks of mine even helped the girl escape last night. Appears the myall’s name is Wallarie and he threatened to come in the night and cut their throats if they didn’t help.’
Donald rubbed his forehead. He had a bad headache brought on by the hard ride and anxious thoughts that Duffy and the black killer he now knew was called Wallarie might evade him. He eased himself from his saddle stiffly. ‘Fortunately for Jimmy’s hide, I left him back at Glen View,’ Donald said in a tired voice and reached for his water canteen. But he gave the water a second thought. ‘Bill, you wouldn’t have any real scotch, would ye?’
The English squatter nodded. ‘Inside the hut. I have a feeling your ride here has something to do with the gin,’ he said sympathetically.
‘I don’t hold out much hope of you ever finding her,’ Donald replied pessimistically. But he knew Mort might have more luck. It was only a matter of sending a rider to Rockhampton to tell the policeman the news of the confirmed existence of Tom Duffy. And that Duffy and the myall murderer of Angus were well and truly alive and travelling together with a darkie girl they had been able to spirit away from the Balaclava run. He trudged after Bostock towards the bark hut while his men dismounted to seek the scant shade under the verandah of the crudely built homestead.
Old Jimmy sat with his back against a gnarled gum tree under the midday sun. Flies buzzed their irritating song around his head and he swatted listlessly at them. He dozed as he guarded the sheep with their heads bent, chomping at the luscious green shoots that would soon enough wither and die as the ground dried out.
His sheepdog, a border collie crossed with some breed from Rockhampton, dozed at his feet with her long nose on her paws keeping him company in his banishment to the furthermost part of the lease. His punishment was of little concern to him, as Donald Macintosh had let him keep the five pounds Bill Bostock had given him for the young Aboriginal girl, and he had already spent the money on a good supply of rum to help him pass the time.
Old Jimmy’s throbbing head felt fuzzy from the bottle of raw spirits he had drunk the night before. Drinking was the only option available to kill the reality of his existence. The loneliness and boredom had driven more than one shepherd mad or to suicide. But at least he no longer had to fear the long spears of the Darambal tribesmen who had once roamed the territory. Their dispersal had finalised forever their existence as a threat to the Macintosh flocks and it was not likely that the murderers of Young Joe and Monkey would hang around the district with the Native Mounted Police assured to ride in search of them.
The dog pricked its ears and its nose came off its paws. Old Jimmy continued to doze until he heard the low warning growl from the dog, which stood tensely staring past the flock of sheep into the shimmering haze of the still bush. Old Jimmy snapped from his lethargy and blinked. She had detected something out in the bush that only her keen senses would notice and he pushed himself stiffly to his feet, reaching for the old Baker rifle that lay loaded at his side.
The dog exploded with barks as the black figure rose from the tussock grass on the furthest side of the sheep. The frightened shepherd raised the rifle to his shoulder but made the fatal mistake of snapping off his shot without aiming at the naked Aboriginal, who was taunting him with shouts and gesticulations. The heavy lead ball whined off into the bush, smacking into the leaves of a low shrub an arm’s length from the warrior, who turned and displayed his naked buttocks to the terrified shepherd, who was now holding a useless rifle.
From the corner of his eye, Jimmy was shocked to see a big, bearded white man, almost as naked as the Aboriginal warrior, rise from the grass to point a brace of revolvers at him. But he recognised the Aboriginal girl who stood behind the big white man, as she was the one he had forced to walk to the Balaclava station behind his horse with a rope around her neck.
The dog snarled and made a valiant attack on the stranger, but a volley of shots brought her down and she lay quivering on the earth as her life bled away. Tom regretted killing the dog but the courageous animal would have died for her useless master anyway.
Jimmy knew he had no hope of reloading the cumbersome rifle. He had known fear many times in his life but this was a fear absolute in the futility he felt for his hopeless situation. He realised that he was at the total mercy of the man with the twin revolvers levelled on him. The rifle slipped from his nerveless fingers and he felt his bowels void.
‘You . . . you . . .’ Jimmy’s toothless mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping out of water. For a second, he had a flashing recollection of a young Aboriginal boy screaming in agony, and he drooled like an imbecile because he knew God had sent an avenging angel to punish him for his wickedness. He watched with horror as the white man raised one of the pistols and the blast of the big Colt echoed in the hushed silence of the bush. Jimmy screamed and rolled on the earth, clutching at his bloody and mangled groin.
‘An eye for an eye, the Bible tells us Christians,’ the Irishman said softly as he watched the old shepherd writhe on the ground with a bloody stain spreading at the front of his baggy trousers.
‘Oh, God, help me,’ the shepherd screamed, oblivious to everything except his agonising pain. ‘Kill me. For God’s sake shoot me,’ he begged, when he looked up at the man standing over him. But all he saw were pitiless eyes staring down.
‘God will kill you in
His own good time,’ Tom said as he slipped one of the revolvers behind the leather belt around his waist. ‘Before He does, He will want you to pray for forgiveness for what you did to those poor bloody myalls a few days ago,’ he said as he squatted beside the shepherd. ‘You are fortunate that I have given you some time on earth to repent before you pass into the next world. Do not waste your time begging me for mercy because I do not have the power . . . or inclination . . . to give you the forgiveness which you crave.’
Then Tom stood and walked away from the shepherd, who alternately moaned and blubbered as he lay on the ground, clutching the mangled remains of his manhood. Tom walked over to Wallarie, who stood impassively watching the dying shepherd. ‘I will teach you many things about the white man’s ways, Wallarie,’ he said as he held up the gun that he had used to shoot Old Jimmy. ‘How to use one of these and how to ride the best and fastest horses we take from the bloody squatters. I will teach you a lot about the ways that have destroyed your people.’
The tall warrior listened to the words without understanding their meaning, but he understood what he saw in his white brother’s face. He nodded and glanced at Mondo, who stood trembling. Was the white man an evil spirit? Mondo wondered. Or part of the powerful magic of the sacred hill? She cared not for the answer as she knew, with the certainty of a woman, that she would never leave this white man.
Two weeks later the shepherd taking supplies to Old Jimmy found the remains of his body. Donald Macintosh was informed of the discovery and Goondallie confirmed that the shepherd’s death was the work of the same two men who had killed Monkey and Young Joe.
The employees of Glen View avoided their boss for two days as he drank himself into bouts of insane rage, ranting about evil myall spirits. They would hear his Gaelic curses shouted from the bark hut of his residence in the night, and wonder if he had gone mad. But none dared inquire, as their boss was in such a rage that he threatened to shoot anything that came within range of his drunken fury.