Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  No lives lost, man nor beast.

  And in the calm, the redhead man, still on his horse, pointed his rifle at the coachmen. ‘Throw down your guns.’

  His lean friend swung a rifle at the male travellers. A handgun and a rifle were suddenly tossed to the ground.

  ‘Hands in the air,’ he barked.

  All passengers’ hands flew high in the air.

  The driver’s rage erupted. ‘You coulda killed us all, ye madman,’ he shouted, his black beard shaking, his bushy brows twisted over flashing eyes.

  Elsa watched in disbelief from the dirt. Perhaps he has forgone good sense. There is, after all, a rifle pointed at him.

  Redhead fired another round. The boom set more screams coming from women and children inside. The coach horses jumped and snorted. Terror bulged their eyes as the co-driver wrangled the reins for control. The bushranger flicked a hand at his leaner mate, who kicked his horse close enough so he could reach down and grab the reins of the two front coach horses.

  ‘Now, toss over the mailbags,’ Redhead ordered the driver. ‘Anyone with cash and jewellery throw it out now, or I make the next round count.’

  Elsa picked herself up off the ground, hopping, while Rosie still had hold of her. Clinging together, they watched as jewellery and coins were flung out of the coach, sparkling in the sunshine before they hit the dirt road, sinking into the dust, or lying in old wheel ruts.

  The leaner masked man jumped to the ground and grabbed everything he could, stuffing the precious bits into his shirt.

  The driver tugged open the compartment under his seat and pulled out a canvas bag and flopped it onto the ground. ‘You and your strumpets won’t get away with this,’ he blared at the redhead. Then he pointed a finger at Elsa. ‘I’ll remember your look, girlie, that’s for sure. Yer’ll not be hiding that head of hair. Yer won’t get away with this, any of ye.’

  Elsa stared at the driver, mouth agape, stumbling a little as she favoured her sore foot. What? She pushed at Rosie who grabbed her again before she could lurch forward.

  Redhead laughed, his big belly shaking. His fiery beard was visible, straggly, and showing from behind his kerchief. ‘Ah yes, my strumpets. Thanks for your help, ladies.’ He leaned down towards the women. ‘It were all in the timin’, weren’t it?’

  Elsa could hear glee behind that mask. She hopped, gripped her sister to steady herself, her breath hissing as pain shot up her leg.

  Rosie was rigid beside her. ‘Don’t say a word, Elsa. Just shut up,’ she said, squeezing out her words from behind clenched teeth. ‘Shut. Up.’

  Then Redhead shouted to the driver over the high-pitched squeals from inside the coach, ‘Get on your way before my strumpets here go in to pick and choose what else you’ve got hidden.’ Swinging his gun towards a male passenger at the back of the coach, he snarled, ‘Don’t try it. No blood’s been spilled yet, so get on your way.’

  Cries of ‘hurry up’ and ‘get moving’ followed by urgent armwaving hastened the driver into action. ‘No one holds up coaches anymore,’ he cried, shaking one fist in tangled reins. ‘They’ll catch ye, ye bastard.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Redhead yelled, his horse dancing under him. ‘Well, I’ll make it easy for ’em. Tell ’em the name’s Nebo Jones and don’t forget it. Nebo Jones,’ he bellowed. ‘Now get that coach movin’.’

  The driver cracked the whip over the horses’ flanks and the coach lurched forward. Fearful cries from within could still be heard.

  The younger bushranger clambered back onto his horse. ‘You daft bugger,’ he shouted at his mate and took off into the scrub.

  Wheeling his horse about to face Elsa and Rosie, Redhead tipped his hat, which was tied firmly under his chin. ‘Delighted to make yer acquaintance, strumpets. Yer done good.’ Then he too bolted into the scrub.

  Rosie stared after him, ducking the dust and flicking stones as coach and riders departed. ‘Strumpets? I’ll give him strumpets if I ever lay eyes on him again. Lucky we weren’t killed,’ she shrieked, eyes wide, and panic had her voice shaking. She still had an iron grip on her sister.

  Elsa too stared after the redheaded thug, outrage fading as a strange thought hit her. What was the point of being masked if he was going to yell out his name?

  ‘Two rifle shots,’ Nebo whispered in a growl, his stare flicking from Glen to Fred. They’d thrown themselves off their horses and were laying low behind the rise on the other side of the road. He idly flexed gloved fingers, one hand after the other.

  ‘Yeah. Bloody dangerous git,’ Fred said, and spat. He swiped away a flop of hair from his forehead.

  The sky had clouded over again. It was still glary, and they all squinted towards where they knew the coach had been, listening as it departed, sounds fading in the distance.

  ‘Coach’ll be in Casterton in only a coupla hours,’ Glen said. He reached over, grabbed his hat and plonked it on hair already moulded by where it had sat before. ‘We best get going if we’re gonna sort this out.’

  Nebo shook his head in disbelief. ‘But you heard it, too, didn’t ye? You heard some mad bastard yell that it was me who just held up that coach?’

  Eighteen

  Lily, riding hard as she crossed Ezekiel’s home paddock, could see the happy children and the horse as they came down the track from the gate, home from school. She could see Ezekiel marching towards them, and she wondered if he always did that—met them on the track.

  Her thighs hurting brought her back to the moment. It had been a long time since she’d ridden bareback, even as long ago as in her childhood. Gripping Cricket’s sides had come naturally, but she’d forgotten how difficult it was to sustain; she was so out of practice.

  ‘Ezekiel.’ She tried to call, but her voice only croaked. She tried again and this time it was a scream. She waved, crying, calling his name.

  It was his eldest son who saw her. He was walking ahead of the horse, leading with the reins. He waved back, then hesitated.

  Ezekiel turned towards her and waved, too, before he realised something was terribly wrong. He waved his son over, then ran towards her.

  Cricket slowed on her command, and as they got closer to Ezekiel, she could see the shock on his face. Oh God, Judah’s blood is all over my clothes.

  ‘Mrs Hartman, what—’

  ‘Come quickly, Ezekiel. It’s Judah. He’s been attacked.’ She leaned down and gripped his outstretched hand, but she didn’t dismount. ‘Can your boy go for the doctor?’

  She was about to wheel Cricket around when Ezekiel grabbed his reins. ‘Wait. You don’t look too good either.’

  ‘It’s not my blood, Ezekiel.’ She felt her panic rising. ‘Please, let me go back.’

  Ezekiel wasn’t letting go. ‘Giff,’ he shouted, and the boy started at a run, the horse trotting behind with the two younger children bobbing on its back. ‘Gracie, Jonty, hop off Milo, quickly now.’

  ‘Please, Ezekiel, let go of—’

  ‘Mrs Hartman, give me your horse. Giff can go for the doctor,’ Ezekiel said and spoke to his son. ‘Tell him to hurry and get to Uncle Jude’s.’

  Giff swung onto Milo’s back, turned the horse and took off.

  The younger children stared at her.

  ‘Down you get, Mrs Hartman,’ Ezekiel said quietly. ‘Gracie will get you a cup of tea, help you clean up a bit.’ He still had hold of the reins and lifted his free hand towards her, urging her to dismount. His face was creased with worry, and she could hear the urgency in his voice.

  Suddenly tired, she slipped off poor Cricket and caught Ezekiel’s horrified look at the state of her dress. Alarmed, she glanced at the children. The young lad was wide-eyed and silent.

  The girl, perhaps seven or eight if she remembered correctly, was solemn, and curious. She went to Lily and held out her hand. ‘We’ll get you a bit washed up, Mrs Hartman,’ she said, in her steady, soft little voice. ‘I think you’ve swiped something over your face.’

  Oh dear. Lily took Gracie’s outs
tretched hand as Ezekiel clambered onto Cricket’s back.

  He looked down at her and said, ‘Wait here for me. Look after my kids.’ Turning the horse, he kicked him into a gallop.

  Look after his kids. Lily took a glance down at her dress. Judah’s blood had dried on it and where it had darkened, the fabric was stiff. She looked at Gracie who firmly had her hand and was leading her to Ezekiel’s house. Dogs barked and yipped frantically somewhere in the background. She glanced back at Jonty who, after staring at his brother then his father, jogged along beside to catch up to her.

  ‘You’re all dirty, missus,’ he said, pointing at her skirt. ‘Dirtier ‘n’ me.’

  Lily laughed a little, cried a little; the sound of it was pathetic in her ears.

  ‘No one’s dirtier than you, Jonty Jones,’ Gracie said, matter-of-fact.

  He considered that for a moment, tilting his head. ‘That’s true,’ he said with a lisp.

  Jonty sneaked his hand into Lily’s, and she sobbed some more, squeezing the two children’s hands in hers. Then as she walked on wobbly legs towards their house, a few tears flowed for Judah.

  Nineteen

  Frank Putney knew he should have insisted on going out to Curtis Goody’s farm with Pete Southie, but he hadn’t liked the idea of riding out there—especially the way he’d felt.

  Bad enough now having to close the bakery door early—again—because of it. Closing the shop went against his every fibre, even though he knew he needed to do it. The pain in his chest had radiated earlier, and his arm had had a pain in it too, for a while. Another thing he should have done was get himself over to see the doctor.

  Damn that—he knew what he’d be told. Stop eating so much of your good cooking, Frank. He leaned back against the long counter in the shop. Now, admit it, Francis. It might be more than that angina thing he’d been diagnosed with. It’d be a heart attack. Well, may as well face it, nothing would save him from that if it was going to happen. He rubbed his chest, wanting to believe that the pain was easing. Certainly he was breathing better. He took a deep breath to see how it felt. Yes, it was easier. So, perhaps not a heart attack. Don’t think of it as that. Was he trying to bring one on? And who would look after him now if he did become ill?

  ‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie, what a time to have a fit of crotchets,’ he said aloud, brushing a cloud of flour from the timber benchtop. ‘You should be in the bakery where you belong, selfish woman, not running off when I need to catch my breath.’ He looked around at the empty bread racks, at the boxes that held bags of flour. ‘How much money have I lost these last days?’ He shook his head, still rubbing his chest. ‘You could have said you were ill again—I had no idea. God knows I can usually tell when you go off the rails. I thought you’d been well, lately.’ He pushed off the bench and stood with hands on his hips. ‘Oh yes, you said you had niggles—couldn’t have been too important—I don’t even remember what they were. And the shame you’ve brought on us—you won’t be able to hold your head up. I won’t forgive this, you know. When you come back, you’ll have to work so hard at—’ He stopped. He couldn’t hear Rosie’s voice in his head, arguing with him. How could that be? He couldn’t remember the voice of the woman he’d lived with all these years. He scoffed. Well, why would he? All she did was nag.

  Pain bloomed across his chest, deep and unreachable. This couldn’t be good. He shuffled to the door, careful not to make his heart race, but he couldn’t lift his arm to pull the blind over the window. Instead, he leaned back against it, waiting. Again, the pain receded. He took another deep breath. Fear would only make it worse.

  Distract yourself.

  Pete. Pete had gone out to that dump of a farm.

  Come to think of it, Pete had looked a bit green around the gills too. Said he was woozy, bit of a headache. Still, he’d insisted he was fine. He’d said it looked like the place had been cleared out of all the house things. House things, bah. Rags and hand-me-downs.

  Damn it—I should have gone with him. He won’t know what’s important and what’s not. But what if I’m wrong about Rosie and she and that farmy sister of hers have only gone to visit relatives, after all.

  He might be acting too soon. No, no. Rosie would have told him. Then he would have talked her out of it. Dirt-poor the lot of them, especially these days, and likely to want to visit the bereaved and sponge off his bakery, all his hard work—he wasn’t having any of it.

  Bad enough he had to support old Curtis and Elsa after the boys had gone. And those boys—lazy sods, those three brothers. Never got any work out of them, all too busy with that good-for-nothing farm.

  Well, with Curtis gone, and the last of the boys gone—good ol’ George—maybe that farm was going to have some worth after all. Now that only the girls remained in the Goody family, the farm would come to him. Curtis had said—

  Wait. I haven’t seen the will yet. Curtis had said to Frank that he’d look after him—he wasn’t fooled by that. The old boy had got Pete to witness the will probably because he couldn’t read, therefore couldn’t blab, so there’d been no point pressing Pete about it. But what else would Curtis do with the farm but hand it to his son-in-law? Rosie wouldn’t want it—she had her job in the bakery.

  Correction, Frank: Rosie has left her job—and you—and gone. But she’d be back, of course she would. And Elsa; he’d have to put her to work somewhere. He couldn’t leave her on the place; she’d never manage it, the little thing, farmy or not. A woman farmer for God’s sake. Besides, her ideas were too highfalutin.

  There wasn’t any money there either, and it would take some considerable funds to restock it and make it work. So as it would come to him—Rosie’s husband, the only man left in the family—he needed a plan. Can’t be that hard running a few sheep and cows. Once Rosie came back, tail between her legs, he’d show her what was what. That he would.

  He nodded. He liked that decisiveness. He liked being in control. He liked—

  Sightless, his head flung back and his mouth dropped wide open, rigid around a silent scream. A colossal explosion, deep, so deep in his chest, hurled him into the darkness and far beyond pain.

  Pete Southie stood inside Curtis Goody’s hut. The hell? That he’d come back out here to confirm for Frank what Pete already knew and had told him as much—that the Goody women had taken off. It wasn’t just for that, he knew—him being on Frank’s orders and all—Frank needed to know what Frank needed to know. It was always the same with that fella, always wantin’ things done his way. Right or wrong.

  The women had taken off—after they’d put whatever it was in his tea, that much was clear. Last thing he remembered was the woozies. Enough to knock over a bloody horse. He still felt a bit beside himself, as if his brains were on the loose. But his arthritis didn’t pain him quite so much as before—had to be a good thing. He was all right. Could still ride. Walk. The ache in his head was a bitch, but it’d go; he’d had worse after a night on his homemade rum.

  Mischief women. Or just one woman, he reckoned, and laughed. That Elsa. She seemed the quiet one, but she’d be a handful. Had a bit of fight in her, that one.

  It was still hot in the late afternoon, and the dingy hut was stuffy. He pulled off his hat and rubbed his head. Dirt and sweat tangled his hair. He eyed the room. It hardly looked any different to when he’d last seen it. A cupboard drawer had been opened, the chair he’d sat in had been uprighted, the milking stool moved. They musta had something to hide to dose me up like they had. And something to hide from Frank, too.

  Pete snatched a piece of brown paper out of his pocket. Frank had scratched the word ‘Will’ on it for him. Pete could read, not real well, hardly at all if the truth be known, but he could sign his name all right—he’d signed his name on the will as witness for ol’ boy Goody a while back. He should be able to find it even without Frank’s paper. He just couldn’t read all that other curly, flowing, fancy writing.

  And when Frank got the farm, then maybe when Pete married young Miss Elsa,
he too would have his future secured, him being family then. After all, Pete had saved Frank, for sure, from that heart attack he was having in the smithy’s shop.

  Now, where to start looking for the ol’ boy’s will? The girls would’ve been looking too, and chances were they’d already found it. Still, perhaps they missed other things that might have some value …

  He laughed at that too. Nothing else of value here. It wouldn’t take him long to peer inside the sad furniture, or to check over the rotting horse stall not far from where old Curtis had been laid to rest. Not too many places to look—the hut was no better than a fancy humpy. So maybe the young Miss Elsa would be pleased to marry him now. Would be a step up in the world for her after this place.

  He checked the light outside. Even if he found something, he’d have to wait for tomorrow before he reported it to Frank. He knew the baker went to bed early and would get up in the wee hours before dawn to set the ovens firing.

  Better get on with it. Better get back to town for a good kip overnight and an early rise, because Frank would want to know quick, first thing tomorrow. Wouldn’t do no harm to get in good with his future brother-in-law.

  Twenty

  Elsa was on her backside in the dirt, on the roadside, staring at her left foot. She could feel the pressure building in her boot and knew it’d have to come off. If the bone was broken, somehow she’d have to bandage it. Somehow, she’d have to manage.

  Peppin seemed content dragging the injured cart with him a few feet here and there as he found another clump of grass to chew.

  Rosie was on her knees, her hand on Elsa’s shoulder. ‘That was terrifying,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘The coach, our horse dragging the cart. Those men, gunshots.’

  Elsa nodded, out of breath as she caught up with herself. Dear God. That coach could’ve killed us, not to mention the armed men—