by Darry Fraser
‘Elsa!’ Rosie screamed and, in fright, scrambled back, plucking at her sister’s sleeve.
Three men on horseback had sauntered out of the scrub onto the road.
Elsa shrugged her off and stared. Oh no, more trouble—all wearing loose bandanas around their throats. It was another strange thought, like the last she’d had as that fat bushranger galloped off. What had that been—being masked and—
‘Ladies,’ one man greeted and lifted gloved fingers to his hat. ‘You both all right?’ He looked over his shoulder to the scrub on the other side and back again. His gaze flicked from Elsa to Rosie, who promptly scooted a little further away. His stare remained on Rosie.
Interest flared in his dark eyes. Oh no. ‘Yes,’ Elsa answered curtly.
Another man said, ‘Looks like you might need a bit of work on your cart.’ Unruly hair flopped across his eyes. He pushed it back and lifted his chin towards Peppin, who had been grazing calmly, not the slightest bit bothered by the presence of the other horses. Now Peppin was glancing back, as if at the split shaft of one of the poles which was still attached, as if acknowledging what the man had said. The man sidled his horse alongside, murmuring low. He leaned over, patted Peppin’s rump then dismounted and began to inspect the long poles.
‘We can manage,’ Elsa croaked, still with her wary eye on the man who’d tipped his hat. A quick glance at her sister and she could see Rosie was just as transfixed with him.
The man, hands clad in scuffed leather, flicked the reins and his horse stepped closer. ‘Can you get up?’ he asked Elsa. He stopped, and slid to the ground.
Elsa shook her head. ‘Our horse stomped on my foot. I think there’s a bone broken.’ He nodded but his gaze was back on Rosie.
The blond-haired man dismounted and pushed back his hat, revealing dark blond hair that resembled a thatched roof. He stood, hands on his hips, checking the road left and right and peering into the bush on the other side. He brushed flies away and over his shoulder said to Elsa, ‘Heard gunshots, and a coach charge off. Trouble?’
He knew very well there’d been trouble. Elsa began tightly, ‘There was—’
‘We were driving along,’ Rosie erupted, ‘minding our own business and the blasted coach came roaring up behind us, spooking our horse and—’
‘Let me help you up.’ The man with the gloves bent to Rosie and offered his hand, his voice kind, his smile friendly.
As soon as his hand encased her sister’s, and Rosie was gently tugged to her feet, she was struck dumb. Her eyes were only for the dark-haired man and Rosie, as long as Elsa had known her, had never, ever been struck dumb.
The man with Peppin called over. ‘I should be able to strap this with something here then fix it proper-like once we get back to camp.’ He was pointing at the split pole. ‘I reckon I could repair it, or build something new.’ He patted the horse again. ‘And the horse is unhurt. Should be no problem.’
‘Camp?’ Elsa was querulous. ‘We’re not going to some men’s camp—’
‘Elsa, shush.’
Astounded, Elsa stared across at Rosie who was now on her feet. Her sister, still gazing at the man who had her hand, smiled at him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m—’
‘Rosie, help me up,’ Elsa snapped, sure her starry-eyed sister was going to tell this stranger who they were. Her foot was throbbing like the blazes.
‘—grateful for the help.’ And she was still smiling. Rosie?
The blond-haired man had been surveying the road. He jogged over to the other side and peered at tracks in the dirt. ‘Looks like they headed off this way.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Rosie said, managing to detach herself from that gloved hand to offer her arm to Elsa. ‘As soon as they’d picked up all the things the passengers had thrown out, they rode off in a hurry. And not that long ago, either.’ She gave the dark-haired man a tentative smile as Elsa tried to get up. ‘At least we know the name of one of them. We can let the troopers know.’
‘What did he look like?’ the man at the tracks asked. And when Rosie gave him a stare, he said, ‘Beg pardon. My name’s Glen Barton.’
Elsa was struggling to stand until Rosie’s man helped pull her up. Annoyed, she said, ‘They both wore masks.’ As soon as she’d made the remark, Mr Barton then removed his bandana and wiped his face with it before casually tucking it in his pocket. ‘But one was a big man around here,’ she said, holding her arms out in front of her, hopping a little to balance. ‘With red hair,’ she continued and looked at the man by the cart. His bandana was also disappearing down his shirtfront, his hand shoving it inside.
‘He said his name was Kneebone Jones,’ Rosie said.
Elsa sputtered quietly at her sister. ‘It wasn’t Kneebone, Rosie.’
Mr Barton let out a bark of laughter. ‘Kneebone,’ he cried, highly amused. He called across to the man at the cart with Peppin. ‘Hey, Fred. Kneebone Jones held up the coach.’
Fred nodded, wide-eyed and looking very concerned. ‘He’s a terror, for sure, that Kneebone Jones.’
‘Aye, all right, lads, very funny,’ the dark-haired man said. He turned to Elsa. ‘Our womenfolk back at the camp can look at your foot. That way, Fred over there can take his time working out how to get your cart on the road so you can be on your way.’
Rosie let out a breath. ‘Oh. Your womenfolk?’
Elsa couldn’t believe her ears. Did she sound—was she disappointed?
He turned those dark eyes of his on Rosie. ‘The boys’ wives,’ he said and nodded at Glen and Fred. ‘And there’s Wally back there, too, with his wife. Seven of us altogether.’ And then he smiled at her again.
Elsa suspected Rosie could add up without asking the obvious. Her sister, satisfied, returned his stare, and then she smiled too, her cheeks blooming with colour.
All this smiling—Rosie, for heaven’s sake.
Elsa nudged her. ‘Help me to the cart, would you?’ And together they shuffled over. Elsa perched on the step and rubbed her ankle, which didn’t do anything to ease the throbbing. The boot would have to come off, and soon, and that was that. But until she knew what was happening, she was reluctant to remove her footwear, especially not to reveal her feet to these men. That was simply not done.
Fred was peering into the back of the cart. ‘Have you got an old whip I could unravel, or any rawhide? I can tie something around the pole and maybe, if we’re careful, we can keep the horse harnessed and just walk him back.’
‘Leather straps in that box,’ Elsa said, pointing it out. Better the pole was repaired than not. ‘How far is your camp?’
‘Less than an hour.’
The dark-haired man addressed Elsa. ‘And who might you be, miss?’
At first, Elsa thought not to answer. Then, she thought it wouldn’t matter if she hung on to some security. ‘Miss Elsa Conroy. And this is my m—’
‘Sister,’ Rosie said quickly. ‘I’m her older sister.’
‘Miss Conroy,’ he addressed Elsa. ‘Perhaps if you can climb into the cart, we’ll head off for camp.’
‘Would you take us into Casterton where we can find a doctor and lodgings?’ Elsa asked. A reasonable request, surely.
The three men fell silent. The dark-haired man looked at the other two. Fred shrugged. Glen raised his eyebrows then shook his head.
Rosie took Elsa’s arm, steering her to the back of the cart. Elsa pulled her arm away. ‘But I think going into Casterton is a very good idea,’ she said.
Rosie kept her voice low, ‘Elsa, that’s a bit ungrateful—’
‘Ungrateful? We don’t know these people,’ Elsa shot back, just as low.
‘We don’t know any people outside of Robe,’ Rosie spat.
The dark-haired man, with his eye on Rosie again, said, ‘We won’t be taking you into Casterton. Not now, that’s certain. And when your cart’s fixed, we’ll just give you directions.’
‘Why is that?’ Elsa demanded, while easing herself up into the cart, backside first. As soo
n as she was in, her boot would be coming off.
Glen walked with Fred’s horse and his own and fell in alongside the cart. ‘Because, Miss Conroy,’ he answered Elsa, ‘once that coachload of people gets into Casterton, they’ll start talking their heads off and it’ll be all over the town and the district that Nebo Jones bailed it up.’
‘Quite right,’ Elsa muttered. ‘He’ll get his comeuppance.’ She tugged at her bootlaces.
Fred walked to his mount and handed the reins to Glen then headed back to Peppin. To Rosie he said, ‘You’ll have to go on foot, miss,’ and began to lead the cart slowly into the scrub. It juggled over the stiff clumps of dried grass on uneven ground.
Rosie leaned over the side to Elsa. ‘Have you forgotten that the coach driver also accused us of being part of the hold-up, our being strumpets and all?’
Elsa shut her mouth.
The dark-haired man said, ‘Nebo Jones didn’t bail up that coach.’
Elsa laughed, her bravado returning. ‘Oh, here we go. I heard him bellow as much.’
‘That may be,’ he said, mounting and nudging his horse to walk behind the cart with Rosie. ‘But that’s not his name. If it’s who I think it is, his name’s Billy Watson. I am Nebo Jones.’
That’s what Elsa had been thinking when the bushrangers who’d held up the coach galloped off—why would they cover their faces with bandanas, or kerchiefs or whatever they were called, only to have one of them shout out his supposed name for all to hear? It made no sense, so perhaps this Mr Jones here was telling the truth.
As the cart trundled along in the midafternoon, Elsa pulled off her hat to fan her face. It kept the flies away, momentarily at least, but loose wisps of her hair became annoying. There was nothing but her hat to keep it in some sort of order now so, aware of the sun beating down, she slapped it back on her head.
Mr Jones. A common enough name. That was also the name on the letter advising of George’s death. The letter writer’s name, Jones, would really have been his right name—you wouldn’t sign a letter like that and not tell the truth of who you were.
Perhaps this Mr Jones, playing up to my sister, has just picked out a common name to disguise his real identity. Best keep your wits about you, Elsa Goody. Someone had to here, and it didn’t seem like it would be Rosie. It appeared her sister’s wits had evaporated. She was showing signs of being fairly taken by the so-called Nebo Jones—all eyes a-fluttering, and still smiling, what’s more. How could that be so? She’d only just left her husband of many years. What about the deaths in the family? It was beyond Elsa’s power of reasoning. Although … Elsa could see Mr Jones as he conversed with Rosie. Dark, wavy hair, a little unkempt, his face without a shave for possibly a couple of days. He looked like he was a man on the land, or at least someone who spent a good deal of his time outside. His face and neck and his forearms were sun browned, and his eyes crinkled deeply when he laughed. There was a lively look in them, certainly when he gazed at Rosie.
Elsa didn’t get the feeling that this was the letter-writing Mr Jones. Pleasant looking, I suppose, though nothing to set the world on fire. Not that Rosie could marry again even if she wanted to—not right away, anyway—but what were this man’s intentions? What were his prospects?
Intentions. Prospects. For goodness sake. A long stare at each other and I have my sister married off to a stranger.
A stranger with a strange name, Nebo. Then again, you don’t hear of Ezekiel too much either, the other Mr Jones’s name. Would they be related? Now was not the time to ask; she’d keep things to herself. Hopefully, Rosie would, too.
As the cart bobbed along, Fred was talking to Peppin as if they were old mates. When she sneaked a look, he’d been stroking the horse’s mane and patting his neck. He’d whispered sweet somethings into Peppin’s flicking ears, and the dear faithful old horse seemed to love it. And Mr Barton and this Nebo Jones person were chatting affably to Rosie. Chatting, as if on an afternoon picnic. They’d moved ahead, so Elsa was now behind them in the back of the cart, watching the receding road.
‘Looks like a good horse you have here, miss.’ Mr Barton’s voice.
‘We do. He’s wonderful,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ve had him since a foal. He’s getting on a bit now.’
‘Wise and reliable, then. He seems very sensible and looks like he’s been well looked after.’ Mr Jones’s voice. Elsa imagined he had turned to smile at Rosie. ‘So, where have you come from today?’
Oh no. The inquisition.
‘Today? Well, somewhere between here and Penola.’
At least Rosie seemed to have the good sense to stop there and not to divulge anything—
‘Penola?’ Mr Jones again. ‘You’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere to end up here on this road.’
‘We were heading to Casterton to—’
‘To speak to a lawyer on a matter in the Victorian colony’s jurisdiction,’ Elsa said loudly over her shoulder. She could almost feel Rosie’s glare, but at least her sister had shut up.
Chat rolled on about the weather, about the land in the area needing drains, the crop prices falling. Elsa knew about all those things but refrained from joining in. Rosie knew about bakeries and therefore wasn’t offering too much, except for ‘Imagine’ and ‘Is that right?’
Elsa was happy to be ignored. While she nestled into the bedding with her ear on Rosie’s contributions to the light conversation, she bent her knee and took to her boot again. No one would see if she slipped it off and checked her foot. As she loosened the laces a little more than she had earlier, she realised that once she removed the boot she might not get it back on again. She had nothing to strap her foot and decided to wait until they arrived at camp—where this Wally and the wives were—for help. At least with the boot not tied so tight, her foot felt some relief. She tried to relax. And closed her eyes for only a few moments …
‘Not far now, miss,’ Fred called.
Elsa snapped awake. The sun was low, so she’d dozed for a while. The odour of wood-smoke somewhere close curled around her and she sat up, groggy, twisting to see what was ahead.
Mr Barton had ridden off and the horse’s hooves sounded hollow on the hard earth.
‘D’ye hear that, Nebo?’ Fred stopped and stood high in the stirrups. ‘That’s mad yells from the camp.’ He kicked his horse and took off.
Nebo stopped his horse. ‘Jesus.’ He stared after Fred.
Rosie leaned over the side of the cart to her sister. ‘Do you hear it?’
Elsa nodded. The hairs on her forearms were standing up as she stared back at Rosie. Mad yells—yes, they were—rolling over and over, the wails of someone in extreme distress.
Twenty-One
Zeke flung himself off Mrs Hartman’s horse, threw the reins off and hurled towards Jude’s open door.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he hissed at the sight of blood on the floor. There was a trail under his feet. Another trail was headed in the opposite direction out the back door. Then he saw the knife. His brother’s boning knife, dull under red smears.
Jude? Where—
A cough. Out the back door. Then he heard a voice, wheezing, ‘Dammit.’
‘Jude, it’s me, Zeke,’ he called out, sidestepping the drying blood. He edged to the back wall, now not sure it was his brother outside, and not sure if whoever it was had a gun. Just then his boot landed on something soft. He’d squashed a pie of some sort. ‘Judah?’ Taking a breath, he sidled into the doorway and chanced a look outside.
Slumped with his back against the wall, there was Jude; his face was white but he was alive. He was breathing. There wasn’t any more blood streaming from him.
‘Took your time.’
‘I just knew you’d say that.’ Zeke dropped to his knees. ‘Where’s the cut?’
‘On this side, lower back,’ Jude said between breaths. ‘Hope he didn’t nick anything important. Bled like a bastard.’
Zeke eased an arm behind Jude’s shoulders and pulled him forward. ‘Mrs Hartman strap yo
u up?’ He could see the blood had stopped running, and that the patch of cloth, while soaked, had also begun to dry off.
Jude nodded. ‘Fine job. Nice pies, too.’ He held an uneaten pie on his lap.
‘Naught wrong with you if you’re thinking of your stomach.’ Zeke studied the cloth stuffed against the wound and the belt wrapped around his brother’s waist. It should stay there until Giff brought Dr Smith. ‘What are you doing outside?’ He helped settle his brother as comfortably as he could, then slid down against the wall until he was on his arse beside him.
‘Didn’t want to stay sat in me own blood. Managed it, bit weak, but I feel all right.’
‘Like I’m convinced of that. Giff’s gone for the doc.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know who did it?’ Zeke asked, swiping a forearm under his nose.
‘The dead boy’s pa.’
‘Curtis Goody?’
‘That’s him,’ Jude wheezed. ‘Bastard came back, crept up on me sayin’ he knows George had money and papers that belonged to the family. He said he was gonna go look for George’s belongings, that maybe they’d been hid somewhere. Accused me of stealin’.’
Christ. He’s looking for something? Zeke had already taken Goody to where George was buried. On his own property … Would he want to go there again?
It’d have to wait. Zeke wouldn’t leave Judah, not at least until the doctor had come. Still, he’d left his two younger kids at his place, on their own with Lily. But if Giff got the doc, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be here. Maybe a half-hour at the most. He checked the sky. Still plenty of daylight, three or more hours. As soon as his boy arrived, and the doctor reckoned Jude was all right for an hour or two, he and Giff would head home.
First thing Zeke’d do was notify the troopers. Wrong. Second thing. The first was making sure his kids were all right. After the troopers, then he’d go after this bastard himself. Jesus, what was the rest of the family like if this was the father? But he hadn’t picked up anything nasty about them from George: not about his father and especially not about one of his sisters from the way the lad had sobbed for her. Zeke wished he’d caught her name properly.