Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  Alongside, he could hear Giff breathing fast and Milo whinnied. Jude was snoring, a soft even rumble, so maybe he was comfortable after all, having fallen quickly into sleep.

  Nothing was moving at the house—only the flicker of candlelight. He clicked his tongue and flicked the reins lightly. Cricket took it slowly, and Giff nudged Milo forward.

  Closer, maybe ten yards from the house, he saw a window swing open. A rifle propped on the sill, and he heard its bolt slide. He froze. The snoring stopped.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Lily Hartman demanded.

  Zeke nearly let out a sob when he saw that Mrs Hartman had tucked his little kids into their beds. Gracie and Jonty had nodded off, both huddled in Jonty’s bed, after a bath. He learned that she’d sat inside the main house, with his rifle close by—Gracie had found it for her—until near dark. Then together they’d lit all the lanterns and candles they could find.

  ‘I made it a game,’ Mrs Hartman said. ‘I’ll replace them for you, and the lantern wicks.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not necessary.’

  ‘I wanted this place lit up like a beacon.’

  Poor Jude hadn’t walked from the cart too well, leaning on Zeke and Giff. Inside he’d nodded at Lily and given her a weak smile. Once down the short hallway, into Zeke’s room and onto the bed, he’d dropped off into a deep sleep again.

  In the kitchen, Giff almost slurped down the rabbit stew and potatoes Mrs Hartman had prepared, but Zeke couldn’t find his appetite just yet. He kept getting up from his chair at the little table, going back to watch over his younger two, then returning to ruffle the hair of his eldest.

  ‘Mrs Hartman, I can’t thank—’

  ‘Stop,’ she said to him. ‘You’ve thanked me enough. They were fine, and we told stories as we made our dinner. They even helped me rinse off some of this mess,’ she said, holding out an expanse of skirt still stained with remnant blood. ‘When I get home, it might have to be burned. All of it.’

  Even in the candlelight, Zeke could see his brother’s blood in pools and smears all over her clothes. ‘We’ll replace your clothes. You probably saved his life.’

  ‘Then what’s a few clothes?’ She glanced at Gifford at the table. He was staring at the cooker, one eye drooping, then the other. ‘Young man, your sister and your brother left the bathwater. In you get.’

  Giff didn’t baulk. He just nodded, stood up and began to strip off. Zeke herded him to the bath at the other end of the room, drew over the curtain he’d rigged up when Maisie was still alive. Giff splashed for a bit, complaining about the cooled water, soaped up, scrubbed his head and climbed out. He dried off and, wrapped in the wet towel, silently headed for the house. Zeke followed him to the room the boy shared with his siblings and Giff fell drowsily onto his cot, folding like a rag doll. Zeke pulled away the towel and draped a blanket over him. The boy was already fast asleep.

  Emotion welled up. Breathing deeply, he willed his heart to stop its pounding. He rubbed his stinging eyes. He walked out quietly, went to his room and peered inside. Jude was on his good side, snoring again.

  Zeke wondered where his other brother might be. Wondered if he was safe. Too bad. Tonight, Nebo would have to look after himself.

  Back in the kitchen room, Mrs Hartman gave him a small smile. She’d settled in a chair by the stove. ‘I’d rather not travel home tonight, so if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here, in the kitchen.’

  ‘Mrs Hartman, use Gracie’s bed. My kids won’t surface until dawn, and they can take you home on the way to school tomorrow.’

  She nodded, relieved. ‘That would be very good.’

  After she’d gone into the main house, Zeke tamped down the stove and pinched the wicks out. Back inside, he retrieved the rifle, unloaded and reloaded it, and took it to his room.

  Earlier, he’d pulled Jude’s swag from the cart and had taken it inside. Unrolling it now, he threw it on the floor near Jude and after toeing off his boots, sank onto it. Tonight, he’d do without a pillow.

  As he lay back, his thoughts wandered. The horses had been rubbed down, fed, watered and were sheltered in the stalls. He’d checked the dogs, their barks deafening; they were fine, and gradually settled. Mrs Hartman’s cart was parked nearby.

  He’d latched the back and the front doors to his house. Only his window was open and unlatched. If anyone came in the night, that’s the window through which he’d shoot them.

  He closed his eyes.

  Twenty-Six

  Elsa was fuming. It was getting dark too quickly. Nebo Jones must have misjudged the miles and the time it would take to get to where she was supposed to go. The sun was down now, and the last of its glow was just a faint band of light on the western horizon.

  Salty was keen to get going—anywhere—but she held him steady. She’d found the old track’s crossroads and knew that she had to keep going straight ahead, and not turn towards the town. Was it her imagination or could she see the glimmer of houselights? If that was the case, she wasn’t even a mile from Casterton, on the flats, but she’d been told to keep clear of the town. There’d be low hills, and the Glenelg River to avoid.

  Nebo Jones had said if she could see the town, she’d only be two miles or so from where she needed to be. Veer right just after another crossroad, and that would be his brother’s back track. Surely there’d be enough light for her to at least make that. She nudged Salty and he lurched into a loping gallop. She let him go for about a mile, then slowed him up.

  The night was still and light clouds covered the stars. If there was to be a moon of any sort she hoped she’d have a little light from it. Gracious. If not, she’d have to sleep out in the open by herself—she wasn’t too keen on that—but she wouldn’t dare press on in the pitch dark of night. Apart from sending the horse into a rabbit hole and laming him, she could end up so lost that she might never be found, ever.

  She pulled Salty to a halt. She wouldn’t dismount—she couldn’t, she’d never get back on again—so she waited until he settled and then kneed him to a walk. She hunkered down over his neck, whispering to him. His warmth, the solid mass of him, his confident step in the deepening night all made her feel safer somehow. Her face was so very close to the only being she could trust right now. He would stay on the road, wouldn’t he? She knew horses could see a little in the dark.

  His hooves barely made a sound on the track. Every other sound seemed to heighten as the night descended, but Salty’s soft clip-clop in the dust was barely discernible. It was something she was very glad of when she smelled the faint acrid odour of a campfire.

  Oh no. The last thing she wanted was to accidentally come across anyone in the dead of night. What if it was that madman? What if it was those bushrangers?

  She clung to Salty’s neck. Her hands, gripping the reins, twisted in his mane. Her foot was throbbing again, but she was sure it was just because of the pressure of the stirrup. She couldn’t even ease her foot out for fear the stirrup would drop away and she wouldn’t be able to slip back into it. As a horsewoman, she was a really good farm girl, she thought, and almost laughed at that.

  The farm. If Rosie was to stay with her bushman Jones—and it wouldn’t surprise Elsa, certainly if the way they both looked at the other was anything to go by … How did this thing work between people? Surely if she was to go with this bushman, wouldn’t he want the same things that Frank had wanted? So why would Rosie want that? Then again, if Nebo Jones looking at Rosie felt as nice as when Henry Benson had looked at Elsa, why would Rosie not want that?

  A mystery to ponder another night, Elsa Goody.

  If Rosie did decide to stay away from Robe, what would it mean for Elsa? Could she go back and claim the farm somehow? She bit her lip. And Ma and Pa were buried there, on the farm, beside their other two sons. It was home. It was family. She should go back. She would go back.

  The farm was one reason—she didn’t know how she’d deal with Frank after Rosie but there was the other reason for needing to be back
in South Australia—she was not going to miss out on the first vote for women in the country.

  Her eyelids drooped and she shook her head. None of this dozing off business. It was not poor Salty’s responsibility to get her to Ezekiel Jones, the letter writer—who looked after dear George. It was hers, and she needed to be sharp.

  Smoke from the campfire still hung lazily in the night air, the teasing wisps of it bothering her. Was it getting stronger, was she getting closer to its source, or had a breeze picked it up and swung the scent towards her?

  She kept her cheek against Salty’s neck, resting on the coarse scrape of his mane and breathed in the earthy warmth of him. Her hands were still tightly wound in the reins as she patted him with her knuckles.

  That campfire smoke was definitely stronger.

  She was hoping Salty would remain quiet and continue to wander at his leisurely pace until—oh no … She could see the faint glow of the campfire itself. Oh no. Oh no.

  Elsa held her breath, hugged the horse with hands and elbows and knees, hunkered lower on him and prayed he wouldn’t nicker into the quiet night.

  No moon, no moon.

  She whispered to Salty, ‘Stay calm, boy. Calm.’ But she was ready to kick him to a gallop if necessary. Squeezing her eyes tight, willing the silence, willing stealth, they crept along. After a time, her body aching, tense and cramping, she took a furtive peek. The firelight glow was behind them. Her breath still came in shallow puffs, her grip easing a little on the reins.

  Salty swaggered along with a rhythmic gait, still calm, still silent. She kept him walking like that for the longest time—she couldn’t tell how long—until she realised that the smoke of the campfire was no longer floating about her. Had they veered off where they were supposed to? She didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t care. In the morning she could backtrack if she had to. Things always looked better in the morning.

  The air was cool, and the night scents and sounds seemed to have altered. Gone was the dry and peppery waft of scrublands and the gentle whisper of the bulokes, the casuarina, in the breeze. The air was fresher now, as if skimming over open land. She looked up, arms sore, her hands still clasped to Salty’s mane. She couldn’t see anything; no stars lit the sky. Tiny cold sprinkles fell on her face. A light mist was falling.

  Was it an hour gone? Was it two? She tried to sit up straight, but every muscle creaked and groaned. Everything gave her a pain. She needed to stretch and ease out the stiffness.

  And there out of the dark night, a box-like shadow loomed ahead, a darker pitch against the wide night sky.

  A house.

  Salty whinnied. Elsa froze.

  Twenty-Seven

  Zeke woke. He didn’t know why. First thing, he smelled moisture in the air, the scent of rain on dry earth. From the swag, he glanced up through the window at the night sky. Black as pitch, so maybe cloud had rolled in and falling rain had woken him.

  He waited. No rain. No fat drops landing on the roof.

  A horse whinnied. Milo? Cricket? But they were out the back.

  Christ almighty …

  He edged off the thin bedding and crawled to the window to peer out. At first, he saw nothing, then a silhouette. A sturdy beast and a rider, motionless.

  Why hadn’t the dogs barked? Christ, Christ, Christ.

  He sunk back to the floor, felt for the rifle, his hand on the butt. Yes, yes, he could shoot out the window if need be, but who was out there?

  The front door? No, take the back door and go around the house to the front. On the dirt, not on the verandah. No noise, no noise.

  He snatched up the rifle, then thought better of it. What use would it be if he couldn’t see a damn thing? Still, he took it with him as he left his room, Jude’s deep breathing the only sound. The door to his kids’ room was closed over as he passed so he heard nothing from there.

  He walked swiftly, lightly in socked feet and slid the bolt on the back door. The latch scraped when he released it, and the sound boomed in his ears. He held his breath.

  No hooves, no footfalls. No dogs barking—probably good; he’d take this bastard by surprise.

  Dammit—would the door creak as it opened? He couldn’t remember if it did. Why couldn’t he bloody remember if his own back door creaked when it opened? Jesus. He pulled it an inch, two inches. A foot. A little more so he could squeeze through, the rifle snug at his side.

  Crouching, he edged towards the back of the house, feeling his way along the wall, its weatherboards familiar under his hand. At the corner, he stood, daring to move only enough to see across the yard where the horse and rider stood.

  What was he doing, this trespasser, just standing there?

  Zeke’s pulse thudded in his neck. If he moved, chances were he’d be seen. He stared, willing the shadow take a form he could—

  Horse and rider turned away. They were moving carefully, stealthily towards the other end of house. If Zeke moved now, he’d be behind them. He lay the rifle flat on the ground, took a deep lungful of night air, then silently sprinted towards them.

  Twenty-Eight

  Elsa couldn’t work out what to do. Was this the right house, the house of Mr Ezekiel Jones, or had she stumbled across someone else’s house? Should she keep going or just bang on the door, and perhaps risk life and limb?

  Either way, there looked to be not a soul about. There were no sounds of chatter or laughter. No candles burned in any windows that she could see, and why would there be? Surely any sane folk would be in the land of Nod now. A flutter scampered in her belly and once again her hands tingled. But Salty didn’t seem to be worried, certainly not by her indecisiveness.

  What fool’s errand was this? She should have smartly told that Nebo Jones that she’d make her way here by the light of day, and not gallivant around country—unfamiliar to her—in the dead of night.

  The truth of the matter was that her fear had made her tardy, otherwise she’d have been here in daylight. Instructions on how to get to where she needed to be were clear and concise. Even Alice had agreed with that. It was Elsa’s own trepidation—oh, and the threat of some likely murderer who was minding his own business at his campfire—that led her to be cowering in the dark.

  For all she knew, she could be in Timbuktu (although she never really learned where that was. Maybe she should if she survived the night).

  Salty stood patiently.

  The house loomed in the dark almost as some sort of sentinel that she could only catch in full if she turned her gaze away a little. It wasn’t that big when she could make sense of its shape.

  Well, she couldn’t stay out here all night, perched on top of her horse and feeling slightly ridiculous. Or increasingly scared. Not to mention the fact that the heavens might open and she’d get a good drenching. Best to let Salty wander further on in his quiet way and together find somewhere safe and undercover. She tugged the reins and the horse moved off to the right. Elsa bent low on him again, feeling more secure closer to his solid neck than sitting bolt upright. He seemed such an obliging horse—

  An iron grip wrenched her from her seat and flung her from the saddle. She landed hard, sprawled, her hands skidding on the ground. Her sore foot bounced and her cry erupted. Salty reared half-heartedly. His hooves came down not far from her face, which was pressed into the dirt as hard hands dug into her back. They shook her. The horse sidestepped, huffed, and trotted away.

  ‘What are you doing outside my place in the dead of night?’ The man’s voice, irate and low, grated out between clenched teeth.

  Hands bunched in her dress, hard knuckles jammed between her shoulder blades. He kept up the pressure on her back, forcing her to stay down. The grip on her bodice restricted her breathing and as she panted, she tasted dirt and leaves, and strangely hoped she wouldn’t swallow ants or anything. Dogs barked in a frenzy somewhere. Panicked, she tried to wrestle, but he had her pinned tight. And— Oh dear God. Was that his knee on her back?

  He was roughly patting down her leg.
‘I said, what are you doing— Jesus. A dress. You’re a woman.’

  She was let go, a thrust as if he’d suddenly been burned. The knee came off her and he sprang back. She dared not move, not yet.

  ‘Can you get up?’ His voice was gruff, but gentler.

  ‘I’m looking for Ezekiel Jones,’ she puffed in a rush, into the dirt, and tried not to inhale any. Then she pushed herself onto her backside and dusted off her hands. The scrapes stung. Her foot had burst with pain, but she dared not do anything about that just yet. She panted some more times to catch her breath before she’d lash out with fists and scratch with fingernails and—

  ‘I thought you might’ve been a man who’s been seen in the area.’ He squatted beside her, his voice low again but not furious. Just a whisper, an apology of sorts. ‘A dangerous man.’

  ‘Clearly, I’m not he. Are you Ezekiel Jones?’

  Dogs barked incessantly.

  ‘I am. Just a moment.’ He turned and yelled, ‘Itch, Scratch, Bizzy, quiet.’ One last yap, then instant peace.

  The rest of the household hadn’t stirred.

  ‘Well, good,’ Elsa said, tetchy. ‘I was looking for you and I would’ve been here in daylight, except I messed up my timing somehow.’ She could hear herself: indignant, uppity, and scared. She’d been scared, she admitted it. This was not the kind man she’d felt he would be. ‘I didn’t expect to get sat on.’

  He stood. ‘Why were you looking for me?’ His legs were mere inches from her.

  She struggled to get up, couldn’t manage it from where she was, and longed to grab hold of those legs and haul herself upright.

  He must have been able to see a little. ‘You’re hurt. I’m sorry for that. Let me help you. Take my hand.’