by Peter Watt
‘You have to get out of Rockhampton, Luke,’ Solomon said as he pushed past him. ‘The traps are after you.’
‘Goddamn!’ Luke swore. ‘What in the hell for, Sol? Why do they want me?’
Solomon went across to the window and peered out cautiously as if expecting to find a lurking police officer on the other side.
‘They seem to know about you making an exchange of gold for money,’ he said, turning away from the window, ‘and they suspect me as well.’
‘Goddamn Darlington!’ Luke snarled. ‘The bastard must have gone to the traps after I saw him this afternoon.’
‘Mister Darlington . . . Kate’s solicitor . . . You went to see him . . . Why?’ Solomon queried as he could not think of any good reason for Luke to see Kate’s solicitor.
‘It doesn’t matter, Sol. What matters right now is that my going to see him might put you and Judith in a bad position if I stay around,’ Luke said as he quickly recovered his clothes and few personal possessions in the near darkness of the hotel room. ‘Tell me what happened. Have the traps spoken to you yet?’
Solomon placed himself by the door, which he held ajar to watch for anyone who might approach down the hallway.
‘A Constable Richards came down to the store and asked to talk to me,’ Solomon said. ‘He didn’t beat around the bush. He said that he had information that you and I had been involved in an unlawful gold transaction. He said that he wanted to know where you were staying and I naturally said I didn’t know. He got angry and started making threats, in front of Judith and Deborah, that he would lock me up when he caught you.’
Luke knew Solomon was very worried and he knew the little man’s fear was not for himself. He gripped his friend’s shoulder to reassure him.
‘The traps aren’t about to catch me, Sol,’ he said as he thrust his Colt into the belt of his trousers. ‘So he won’t be able to carry out his threat, I will be out of here before you reach the front door.’
‘I’m not frightened for myself,’ Solomon replied. ‘But I’m frightened for Judith and Deborah. Oi. This Constable Richards is a bad type. I hear he is not a straight policeman.’
‘My horse is at the back of the hotel,’ Luke said as he hoisted his saddle onto his shoulder along with his bed-roll and rifle. ‘It won’t take me long to hit the track south. By morning, I should be thirty miles from here.’
‘Where are you going? New South Wales?’ Solomon asked.
Luke shook his head and replied thoughtfully, ‘I think it is time I went home to see the sequoias, old partner. And it is better you know nothing else.’ He hesitated and Solomon could sense that his friend was struggling to say something important. Finally he continued, ‘Could you tell Katie I will be back again some day. Tell her I love her.’
‘I will. God go with you, Luke,’ Solomon said as he grasped Luke’s callused hand in both of his and then grabbed Luke in a short bearhug, patting him on the back. ‘Be careful, my friend.’
Luke slipped through the bedroom window and onto the verandah. He suspected that Solomon might have been followed by the police, who could be waiting in the hotel for him to come down.
Making his way cautiously, he came to the end of the hotel where there was a dark alley beside the building. Luke slung his saddle into the alley beside the hotel before climbing down a verandah post.
He had guessed that the police would expect him to come out the back way after Solomon had made his visit to warn him. A couple of drunken patrons leaving the hotel saw the American slide down to the street.
‘Can’t pay the bill, matey?’ one of them said with a laugh.
‘Something like that,’ Luke grinned back as he picked up his saddle and strolled as casually as possible down the laneway between the hotel and a butcher’s shop. The smell of sweltering meat was strong in his nostrils as he left the laneway and entered the backyard of the hotel, treading warily in the shadows cast by the building.
He was extremely aware that he was most vulnerable now if the traps had followed Solomon and he half expected to hear the police command him to ‘Stand in the Queen’s name!’ But no challenge came.
In the stables, he steadied his mare and threw the cloth over her back as she stood patiently waiting to be saddled. Poor work by the traps, Luke thought. They only had to follow Solomon to find me.
But Luke was wrong.
Constable Richards crouched in the shadows at the rear of the hotel where he was concealed by a dray and he observed the American saddle his horse. He smiled grimly to himself and was satisfied that the man he was watching was unaware of his presence.
Richards raised his revolver to take an aim on the American fugitive as Luke led his horse across the yard. But the policeman was frustrated by the lack of light as he followed the vague shapes of man and horse down the sights of his pistol until Luke stepped momentarily into a pool of light cast from a hotel window above the yard. The policeman had a clear shot and he knew that he could not miss, so close was the American to him.
Slowly Richards lowered his pistol.
Luke swung himself into the saddle and carefully picked his way into the alley beside the hotel. The constable smiled as the bushman rode cautiously out of the yard. Probably heading for Brisbane, he ventured as a guess. Or maybe even further south. It didn’t matter where he was going, so long as it was a long way from Rockhampton.
Constable Richards had earned his money. A large amount for such a simple job, he thought. Darlington must have a lot at stake to pay fifty quid. All he had to do now was report back to the solicitor and tell him that the American had left town.
By sunrise, Luke was twenty-five miles closer to California. And as he rode with the rising sun at his elbow he carried the memory of a single kiss and a love that could never be.
By the time he had reached the Brisbane River days later, Hugh Darlington had presented Kate with one thousand pounds to invest in her company. The young woman was overwhelmed by his magnanimous generosity and he made a point that he did not expect Kate to repay him until she was ready. He also added that no interest was required on the capital, as the money was a token of his love for her.
Solomon felt very uneasy lying to Kate and the young woman’s expression seemed to melt away, exposing the pain of confusion and despair for the feelings she could never reveal to the world, let alone herself, for the American. ‘He loves you very much, Kate,’ Solomon mumbled as he shifted uneasily in the cool shadows of his store.
Kate turned and stared at the rectangular patch of burning bright light that marked the doorway to the building. There were words that could be said but Kate bit back on her lip. It was obvious Solomon knew more than he was prepared to say about the mysterious and sudden disappearance of Luke. But to press him would only cause her friend more pain in divided loyalties.
Without a further word, she walked towards the rectangular patch of light and out onto the street. The American was gone from her life for good and it was probably meant to be. Men like Luke Tracy were not to be confined by the definitions of streets and houses. They were men born with a wild spirit that took them to the desolate places others called hell.
She fought back the tears as she walked towards her office. No, he was gone. And she had a business to run. There was a visit to Townsville scheduled and an inspection of the estates old Harry had left her in his will.
She lifted her chin and her steps took on a purpose as she continued to walk along the dusty street of the frontier town. Besides, she told herself, Luke was just a very good friend whom she held in particular esteem . . . nothing more. The thought echoed with an unconvincing ring in her heart.
Luke stood on the wharf gazing at the flotilla of small coastal steamers and sailing ships anchored in the channel of the muddy tidal river.
The remaining money from the gold transaction had purchased him a ticket for a sea voyage to San Francisco and he was going home to walk once again among the majestic sequoia trees and smell the heavy scent of pine. But
he knew part of him would remember the pungent antiseptic scent of eucalyptus and be lost forever on the vast brigalow plains beyond Queensland’s frontier.
A coastal steamer with big paddlewheels, slime-streaked sides and a tall funnel blowing plumes of black smoke edged towards the wooden wharf. Luke watched the ship arriving from Sydney with little interest, as his thoughts were lonely in a way that made his world seem small. The one thing worth fighting and dying for in his life he would never have.
He sighed and watched the gangplanks rattle down the sides of the ship when it docked. And he watched, without seeing, the passengers disembark with their meagre luggage gripped tightly in their hands. Around him people waiting for friends and relatives surged forward to hug, cry, babble and laugh as they met their loved ones.
The American stood back and hefted his bed-roll and saddle onto his shoulders. The ship would soon be cleared for the round trip to Sydney when it had taken aboard coal for the boilers and rations for the passengers. As Luke had nowhere to stay in Brisbane, he decided to board the ship early.
When it appeared the last of the passengers had disembarked, he pulled his ticket from his trouser pocket and strode towards the gangplank. An old man, in company with a young and pretty girl nursing a baby, stood looking pathetically lost at the foot of the gangway.
Luke took little notice of them until he was close enough for the man to say, ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know of any good lodgin’s in Brisbane Town?’
Luke broke his stride and dropped the saddle and bed-roll at his feet. A sudden whiff of lavender caught his attention and he realised that the young girl with the large strawberry birthmark on one side of her face must be wearing the perfumed water.
‘I’m sorry, pardner,’ he replied politely and his attention went to the young girl nursing the baby. She must be about twelve, he thought idly, and he guessed that the baby was her younger brother or sister as it lay asleep in a soiled swaddling cloth. ‘I don’t come from around these parts.’ Luke also noticed the signs of advanced consumption in the man. Its debilitating effects had aged him beyond his years.
‘Thank you anyway, sir,’ the man replied with a weak smile for the tall American’s courteous reply. ‘I suppose someone will know a place for me an’ my daughter that don’t cost too much.’
For some strange and inexplicable reason, Luke suddenly felt a surge of pity for the pathetic trio. He sensed that some terrible tragedy had caused them to uproot and travel north. Was it that he remembered his own young wife and daughter who had so tragically died in Brisbane of the fever many years earlier? Or was it that the scent of lavender water reminded him of Kate and her tragic trip to the colony of Queensland? For whatever reason, he found himself impulsively reaching into his pocket to retrieve the last of his pound notes, which he thrust towards the old man.
‘This will get you a decent place to stay until you get things sorted out,’ he said gruffly. ‘Call it a loan until I see you again.’
The man stared at the crumpled pound note in amazement. Then he glanced up into the eyes of the tall stranger, whom he guessed was a Yank from his accent.
‘I doan know what to say, sir,’ he choked. ‘I never know’d such generosity in all me life.’ Although Harris carried the money Granville White had given him for his silence, he was shrewd enough to know it would not go far in supporting his daughter and grandson. The one pound given to him by the Yank was a lot of money.
‘Nothin’ to say,’ Luke replied. ‘Just make sure you get a good place for your young ’uns for a while.’
The man took the proffered pound note and tears came to his rheumy eyes. ‘Me name’s Harris, sir . . . an this is me daughter, Jennifer. An’ this ’ere is her young ’un Willy,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Mebbe one day I can do a good turn fer you.’
Luke nodded, but he doubted that he would ever see the trio again and excused himself so that he would not have to suffer a profusion of gratitude from the man with consumption. He hefted the saddle and bed-roll onto his shoulder and brushed past them to board the coastal steamer for Sydney.
FORTY-FOUR
The shimmering heat distorted Tom Duffy’s sight picture as he propped his rifle against the rough bark of a gnarled tree and set his sights on a scrawny steer. The steer stood oblivious to the fact that within a split second of hearing a sound like summer lightning, it would feel the deadly thud of a heavy lead bullet tear through its shoulder to rupture its big heart.
Tom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The blade sight settled in the V notch and squarely on the point of aim on the steer. The beast was about a hundred yards away and Tom silently cursed the oppressive heat haze rising off the plain for causing the glimmering shine on the metal foresight.
Fifty paces or so behind him, Wallarie stood in the sparse shade of the spindly brigalow trees holding the reins of their two horses. But as he waited patiently, he was acutely alert to the subtle nuances of the bush around him. They were at the southern extremity of the Gulf Country that bordered the territory of the fierce and dreaded Kalkadoon tribesmen, whose traditional lands lay just a little further south in the ancient and eroded mineral-rich hills near the tiny frontier outpost of Cloncurry. The huge warriors were an ever-present threat to white settlers and foreign Aboriginals like himself.
The stillness of the late afternoon exploded.
The steer buckled at the knees and slumped forward, collapsing in the red dust where it rolled on its side, kicking feebly as its ruptured heart pumped blood into the cavity of its broad chest.
Tom grinned behind his bushy black beard and hefted the smoking Snider rifle on his shoulder. ‘Good tucker tonight, Wallarie,’ he said as the Aboriginal bushranger led the horses forward.
‘You bloody too slow to kill ’im cow,’ he said with a cheeky grin on his bearded black face. ‘Bloody cow grow too old to eat ’im now. Waitin’ you to kill ’im.’ The Irishman took a playful swipe at his friend with his free hand but Wallarie ducked and danced away, causing the two mounts he led to skitter nervously.
‘Bloody ungrateful blackfella,’ Tom chuckled as he turned to stride towards the steer now lying dead in the red dust. ‘You couldn’t have done any better.’ Even as he made his statement, Tom knew that the Aboriginal, who had once been a renowned young hunter among his people, was probably a better shot with both rifle and pistol than he.
He had taught him well and the Aboriginal hunter’s instincts had done the rest. Wallarie was highly intelligent and, without his knowledge of the bush, Tom fully appreciated that he would have been long dead from either a trooper’s bullet or as a victim of an unforgiving land. In a sense the two men had taught each other their respective ways and that had made their unusual partnership a force to be reckoned with.
It had been the Aboriginal’s keen tracking skills that had brought them to the steer and Tom’s European rifle had ensured their prey would provide a pleasant change from kangaroo meat in the cooking fire.
For nearly five years they had lived off the land with occasional raids on isolated homesteads, ambushes on travellers and even the rare trip into a tiny frontier town to purchase the highly sought supplies of tea, sugar, tobacco and flour with the money taken in the raids and ambushes. Tom would go alone to the towns so as not to draw attention to himself by travelling with his Aboriginal companion.
And in those five years Tom Duffy had fathered three children to Mondo.
The birth of the children had taken his little group from three to six and the beef they were about to take would ensure his babies would not have distended bellies from hunger.
There had been times in the years past that he had found himself reflecting on what he had lost – a life as a European, his family and any certainty of a future. Life was now living from day to day with nature. His Garden of Eden was a strange place where his Eve was black and the devil tempted him with memories of his life before he had crossed the line. With a wry smile he thought about his Eden and wondered what he woul
d choose if given the chance to once again inhabit the European world of his youth. His answer was in the present memory of his children and the woman who loved him. What he needed from his European world he took anyway by force of arms. He answered to no man. Unlike Adam he had not been exiled from Eden – he would always be a part of the red earth and silent spaces.
Tom slid the lethal Bowie knife from the side of his knee-length riding boot and knelt in the dust beside the dead steer. He wondered if he should thank the spirit of the steer that had strayed in the bush. The fleeting thought made him smile, but he did not have a chance to reflect any further on his Aboriginal-acquired spirituality.
‘Get out of here, bloody quick,’ Wallarie hissed as he flung himself into the saddle of his mount. Tom did not hesitate. He slid the knife back in the side of his boot and snatched the rifle lying beside him.
Astride his horse, he turned to Wallarie.
‘Bloody horses comin’ this way,’ Wallarie growled as he flung his arm to the south. ‘Many bloody horses comin’ quick.’
Tom swung around in his saddle and glimpsed a thin pall of dust rising low over the scrub. He knew that Wallarie’s exceptional hearing abilities had picked up the horses long before he saw the dust that their hooves raised. Troopers . . . stockmen . . . it did not matter. All men on the frontier were enemies to the bushrangers.
He spurred after Wallarie.
Overhead, billowing towers of thunderhead clouds massed as a herald to the coming of the monsoonal wet season. If the rain came it would give them a temporary respite from their pursuers as it turned creeks into rivers and rivers into raging seas to cover the plains.
Five horsemen reined to a halt beside the carcass of the dead steer.