Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  ‘Besides, Elsa, he is a friend of Frank’s. It might benefit if you marry.’ Her father was nearly out of breath. ‘To keep this land, you girls have to …’ His voice drifted off again and in the silence that followed, she soon heard a soft snore.

  Bah, Frank. Elsa knew she had no chance to change her father’s mind. Never did have, really. As long as there were men in the family, her father was convinced that she’d be looked after. She wasn’t about to be allowed to administer anything, much less something as important as The Property. Of course, with three older brothers, what were the chances she’d ever have been considered anyway? She shrugged. There was no use fighting for it, not within her family anyway, what was left of it—her voice would still not be heard. Well, she’d always made it heard but would be ignored.

  There was a light shining though, despite the grief. She would have a voice in the upcoming elections this year. Very soon, in April, women in South Australia would have a vote. The colony was the first place in the country where women were legally about to vote—including Aboriginal women. It will be wonderful. Such excitement. And that same day the country would have its first referendum as well: should laws change to allow the introduction of religious education into state schools?

  Oh, it would be a grand thing. Elsa was glad the polling booths would be in Robe township at the council offices, not the old and draughty Courthouse; previous polls had been conducted there and complaints were loud. The candle’s flame flickered as another, more erratic, breeze blew through. Be careful, Elsa. She cupped the flame to steady it.

  The voting business was all very well—and of course she felt invested—but there was much else to consider right now. With her last brother gone, how could she possibly work the farm on her own? Oh, George.

  Would things be better if she’d married and had lots of children and made her own big boisterous family? Apart from Pete Southie, only one other man had offered. She’d sent both roundly on their way. Oh, there was young Henry Benson who had her heart a-flutter at odd times like when he’d smile at her as she walked past his father’s forge, or when he’d stand too close if they were ever in the bakery at the same time, waiting for yesterday’s items that had been reduced. He was too young, only nineteen, and it always made her feel foolish, that reaction of hers to him. Was it time to review? After all, she was getting on now too. At twenty-four, she knew she risked being overlooked in the marriage stakes.

  What if marriage was indeed the only way she could keep the land?

  Disgusted with herself that the thought had even entered her mind—it’d be like selling her soul—she looked down at the letter again. The candlelight wavered and threatened to extinguish. The signature leapt up as if dancing under the sputtering flame. Ezekiel Jones. To have buried her brother, her dear George, in a place of peace and comfort, he must be such a kind and loving man.

  Unexplained warmth settled in her.

  Two

  Zeke Jones watched his eldest, Gifford, walk the horse down the track. It was maybe five miles from his sheep and wheat farm to the little school in Casterton. While at nine years of age, Giff was capable of the walk, his younger siblings, Gracie at eight, and Jonty at six, would struggle. So they were both atop the bareback Milo, a gentle tan-coloured gelding. The horse would wait patiently at the school with the few other horses that would have delivered children who lived far away. Later in the afternoon he would plod home over the flat paddocks then take the rise over the low hill and down to Zeke’s gate, returning with his charges.

  Three dogs, all black-and-tan male kelpies—Itch, Scratch and Zeke’s brother Jude’s dog, Bizzy—danced around their feet, barking and yipping their excitement. Zeke allowed the dogs out of their pen to see the kids off for school. The only other times they roamed free were when they worked the sheep, or when Giff had to give them a run. His kids loved them, but Zeke was not giving the dogs a soft life. Casterton had been producing fine litters of this new breed, small in stature and big on personality. They were bred as working dogs, and their reputation was growing.

  The kids would be home again at last light or so. It was now about seven in the morning, Zeke reckoned. There was much to do, and a few remaining sheep to sell off; the day would go fast. He’d long been hearing of the bonuses the government offered for butter and cheese factories in the colony, so that meant dairy cows were in demand. New infrastructure and the money to pay for it would be needed if he sold out of sheep altogether. Hoping he might’ve somehow missed tallying by a hundred pounds or so, he’d check his sums. He’d stocktake his milled timber again but he knew he only had enough to fence another small yard. When his older brother Jude came back, he’d discuss combining their holdings once more. Zeke could use his input, financial and physical … if only Jude were willing and able.

  As he waited for the kids to get to the gate, he checked the sky. Light scudding clouds skimmed a high breeze. A darker billow above them hinted at rain. Season’s changing, the mornings are cooler. Time to get on with it.

  The kids yelled goodbye, waved at him, and Milo plodded away with them. The three dogs turned for home and suddenly alert, they tore into a gallop back towards the house, charging past him. Following, his mind on his ledger, he stopped short. ‘Jesus, Nebo. Do you have to sneak up on a man?’ The dogs had crowded around his brother who lounged on the verandah post.

  Nebo bent to rough-house the dogs. ‘You said to wait until after your brood had gone off to get their education for the day, so here I am.’ He pushed off the post, ignored the dogs barking. ‘A herd of roarin’ bulls could’ve crept up on you the way you were daydreamin’ into the sunshine after your kids.’

  Zeke flicked a wrist. ‘Boys, away,’ he snapped, and in silence the dogs trotted off, ears sharp, tails wagging. He’d tie them up as soon as he got rid of his brother.

  At forty-one, Nebo Jones was older by three years. Lean and rangy like Zeke, close enough in height, dark haired and dark eyed, they’d often been mistaken for one another—in their chequered past, that had been a problem for Zeke. He was a little sturdier around the chest than Nebo but not by much. Nebo had more angular features, and when vexed he could be gaunt. Haunted was the word Zeke mostly used to describe his troubled brother. Today, he looked more relaxed.

  ‘Did you bring it?’ he asked Nebo and pushed past him into the house.

  ‘Could do with tea and a plate of eggs,’ Nebo said, following through the house and outside to the kitchen. Once inside, he slapped a packet wrapped in newspaper onto the table.

  Zeke turned to stoke the oven. ‘We’ll eat quick. I have work to do.’ He shook the kettle, checking for enough water, and put it on the cooker. Glancing behind at the packet, he said, ‘Is that all it is?’

  ‘He was a lone boy, Ezie,’ Nebo said, a smirk lighting his face. He knew it irked Zeke to be called by his childhood nickname. ‘Didn’t have much on him but a locket with a snip of hair, a handkerchief and three spare buttons.’ He pointed at the parcel. ‘All there, as requested.’

  ‘Surprised it is all there, knowing you,’ Zeke said.

  Nebo pulled a chair away from the table and sat, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. Any closer to Zeke and he’d be in the way, which was probably his intention. ‘Nothing of value in it, nothin’ to interest me. The boys reckoned I shoulda chucked it away.’ The ‘boys’ were Nebo’s no-hoper mates who lived with their women in the bush. Small-time thieves, some said. ‘When you told me you’d written to his family, seemed only proper to bring it in.’

  Zeke pulled a small basket from the mantel and took out eight eggs. He cracked them, dropped the contents into a bowl and tossed the shells into a bucket. Jonty’s hens had performed well. At least something was still working in the right direction on his place. ‘Proper? Good of you. A bushranger, out of time and place, brings in a dead boy’s only trinkets. Must have a heart after all.’

  Nebo rubbed his face with one hand. Zeke could hear the rough scratch of it, thought of his own
unshaven face. He never could come at the great beards some of his friends had grown; too many times had he seen their dinner stuck in their whiskers. Or worse, yesterday’s dinner.

  Maybe Nebo should grow the beard since he called himself a bushranger—that way no one would mistake him, the clean-shaven brother, Zeke, for being a petty thief.

  ‘At least I’m not a reformed bushranger,’ Nebo said. ‘Nothin’ sorrier in my opinion.’

  Zeke snorted but didn’t take the bait. He’d never been a thief, just known to stick up for his wayward brother. And that had got him into plenty of trouble because whenever it happened, it never happened softly.

  Nebo frowned. ‘I don’t care to be shooting lads, you oughta know that. I told you it wasn’t me, or mine. I got a feelin’ that lazy slob Billy Watson mighta known something, but even when I gave him a roughin’ up, he still never said. I just sent him on his way.’

  ‘Billy Watson?’

  ‘That no-hoper tub of useless thinks he’s Billy the Kid.’

  ‘You think he had something to do with this boy’s shooting?’

  Nebo shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. But the poor kid was in a sorry state when I found him, and I just wanted to get him help. God knows, none of us want anyone dyin’ on Jude’s place again.’

  Zeke glanced at him. Not like Nebo to show he cared much about anything except himself.

  ‘If it was Watson,’ Nebo said, ‘I didn’t want him comin’ back for another go but it’s got me stumped why he’d be on Jude’s, anyway. He knows there’s nothin’ there.’ He let out a long breath. ‘The boy’s dead, and I made sure he got a decent burial here.’

  ‘You could have buried him out in the scrub,’ Zeke said, then thought of the boy’s family. He wondered if his letter had got to them. George had said he had a father and two sisters. He grabbed a heavy iron pan and sat it on the stovetop. He spooned lard into it, watched it melt and sizzle, then poured in the eggs.

  ‘’Cept he wasn’t dead then, was he?’ Nebo said. ‘And I wasn’t gonna wait for him to die out there, either. I knew you’d honour the lad, Ezie, is why I brought him here.’ There was no smirk on his face, nor in his voice. Nebo had carried George onto Zeke’s verandah, yelling for help. He waited with George still in his arms (who was sobbing a sister’s name, Nebo told him later) while Zeke and his daughter Gracie hurriedly made a bed inside for the near-dead lad. ‘And you buried him close by Maisie and your other little fella so I knew that’s exactly what you did.’

  Zeke let that go. He wasn’t about to get into that old conversation—argument—with his brother about anything to do with Maisie, Zeke’s dead wife. Any mention of their last child who’d survived birth by only days still tugged at his heart. He had to let that go, too.

  He pushed the eggs around with a large wooden spoon. Reaching up to the mantel again he drew down a cloth-wrapped bundle and threw it on the table in front of his brother. ‘Here, cut some bread.’

  ‘You’re a real homebody, bakin’ bread and all. Bet you got those kids of yours doing all the chores, the laundry and such. If you get them runnin’ this place, you can come to work with me. Better pay.’ When Zeke gave him a look, Nebo said, ‘All right, if not that, Mrs Hartman next door would take them. She’s been on her own a while now, an’ getting’ on. She’s everyone’s granny.’

  Mrs Hartman was only a few years older than they were, maybe their older brother Jude’s age. What would that make her—around forty-five or forty-six? Zeke didn’t bother responding.

  Nebo tore off chunks of bread, still warm from the cooker this morning. ‘What’ll you do with that?’ he asked, pointing at the newspaper-wrapped packet.

  ‘Might wait a while, see if I hear anything from the family.’

  ‘You could just send it on to that same address, anyhow, couldn’t you? Pity I never got it to you before you mailed the letter.’

  Zeke stopped stirring eggs and stared at his brother. ‘Yeah, pity you never got it to me when you landed a near-dead boy on my doorstep.’

  ‘I found it after, by accident, when I went back to Jude’s place, just to check. I swear.’

  Jude’s place was all but abandoned. Judah Jones had lost Anne, his wife, and two daughters to diphtheria nearly five years ago and he’d been roaming around the colony since. He’d come back every so often; Zeke imagined that it was to see if he could bear to stay again, but he never did. Nebo and Zeke looked in on the place from time to time, and the last time Nebo had been there, he found the badly injured lad and had brought him here.

  ‘Check for what?’ Zeke asked.

  ‘For who’d done this to him, left him for dead. Might’ve been some clue. Maybe Billy-bloody-Watson left something behind—if it was him. The kid mighta thrown away other possessions, trying to hide them when he maybe seen someone comin’.’

  There was a moment’s silence when Zeke stared at his brother, searching for answers. ‘Well, wouldn’t have been Jude who shot him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have. Unless he’s really out of his head now.’

  ‘So, that locket must’ve meant something to the boy. You don’t carry a locket with a picture of a lady in it, and a lock of hair, unless it means something to you. As for mailing it, I trust a letter in the post. I don’t trust a packet of jewellery in the post.’ He continued with the eggs as they crackled and spat in the pan.

  ‘Jewellery.’ Nebo barked a laugh. ‘If it was valuable, you wouldn’t have it, I’d have sold it. It’s nothing more than cheap stuff, sentimental at best.’ He tapped his fingers on the table.

  ‘Aye. That’s right. You checked it over first,’ Zeke said, a curl on his lip. ‘Then old sentimental you gave it back to him. After he died.’

  ‘Bah. I’m glad not to be stuck with it. You forget I’m not a soft-heart like you.’

  Zeke grunted. ‘Like I believe that,’ he said. ‘You bring me the boy, then his treasures instead of throwing them away, even though they’re worthless. If that’s not soft-heart, what is?’ He threw a pinch of salt into the pot and stirred. ‘Poor kid was just too far gone for me to save him.’

  Nebo looked a little uncomfortable. ‘It was late when I found him.’ He sat up, cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, looks like Billy Watson has gone to the troopers.’

  ‘About the boy?’ Zeke scooped some eggs onto a plate and slid it across to his brother. He scraped the rest out for himself and then landed the empty pan with a clatter onto a bench—a thick piece of sawn timber. The hot pan seared it, and wisps of smoke arose. He sat down to eat.

  ‘That and other things.’ Nebo loaded bread with eggs and took a bite.

  Zeke’s own chunk of laden bread hung in the air as he looked up. ‘You can get right back on that horse of yours—wherever you’ve left him—and get the hell off my place. The last time there was “that and other things” the troopers came and threatened me and the kids if I didn’t give you up.’

  ‘They were just tryin’ to rattle you. You didn’t tell ’em where I was.’

  ‘Trust me, only because I didn’t know.’

  ‘You wouldna done it.’ Nebo stood and took the boiling kettle off the stove. He poured water into a teapot, threw in a handful of tea leaves from a tin he found on the mantel. ‘But I’m surprised they haven’t got you watched again already.’

  Zeke squinted at his brother. ‘You’d know. I bet you’ve been watching this place for days.’

  ‘True. No troopers around.’ Nebo set the teapot down on the table.

  ‘What’ve you done this time—“that and other things”?’

  ‘I had to do him over a bit.’ He held up his hands before Zeke could yell. ‘Not the kid you buried. Watson. He’s not so smart. Just gave him a roughin’ up like I said before, just a tickle, but I heard he ran straight to the troopers so we had to move camp to be careful. The police are gettin’ more interested—’

  ‘You’re outlawed then?’ Zeke frowned at him.

  ‘Nup, no warrants against me. And until I’m so named, no man
can legally shoot to kill me. Not the police or any other bastard. I’m just a pest but I’m not outside the law.’

  The Felons Apprehension Act 1878 made it possible for anyone to shoot and kill declared outlaws—no need to arrest them, no need for a trial. Zeke figured Nebo knew how close to the wire he could run.

  ‘But they can still shoot you.’

  ‘Not to kill me. I’m safe.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a fool. Shot is shot. Dead is dead. They’ll name you an outlaw, anyway, in due course.’

  Nebo waved him away. ‘I’m not that important. Been no real bushrangers since Ned Kelly, poor bastard. Too many settlers around; too many police now. I just steal a sheep here and there, just for a feed. Get a laugh out of taking the wind out of some blow-hard’s sails … But then, I’ll tell you this, one of my boys took Scotty’s missus off his hands, and that caused a ruckus.’ He shrugged as if to say what could I do?

  ‘What? He kidnapped a woman?’

  ‘No, Ezie, he didn’t kidnap anyone. What in God’s name d’ye take us for, pirates? If I find any nasty arsehole takin’ a woman by force, I’ll put him away without a backwards glance.’

  Their mother, and their father, God rest their souls, had instilled a respect in all their boys for any women in their lives. Zeke knew that Nebo had spoken the truth, but anything else was fair game. Still, he mocked his brother. ‘You—the big, bad bushranger.’

  ‘I steal sheep, I said, a cow maybe. But I don’t steal women. Whoever heard of that this day an’ age?’ He shifted in his seat, looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Any of mine goes there and I’ll kill ’em.’

  ‘You couldn’t kill anybody.’

  Nebo shrugged. ‘You never know.’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘Just let me tell the story, will yer? It wasn’t kidnap at all. It seems the young lady herself, Mrs Tillie Scott, took a shine to my boy Glen Barton—’

  ‘Barton? He did kill someone, though, didn’t he?’