A Changing Land

‘Mungo?’

‘Go get Mister Luke. You tell him –’ Mungo lowered his rifle, wondering how long Angus had been standing there. ‘Tell Luke,’ he hesitated, not willing to bring reality to that which he’d witnessed. ‘Tell him there’s bad blackfellas loose. Tell him –’

‘That my father didn’t come out of the river.’ Angus remained rooted to the spot.

‘Go. Bring him back.’ Mungo helped the boy mount up and then ran back to where he’d left his horse. He still had a job to do and Boxer had told him that no matter what happened to stick with the plan.Thick tree trunks glided by so close that Angus felt the rough tear of bark on skin. He caught sight of leaves, spider webs and low hanging branches. The ground rushed beneath him. There were ant hills, tufts of grass, rabbit holes and logs; a mob of kangaroos was startled into action. His cramping leg muscles spoke of an interminable time in the saddle and the sky now showed a dull pink where once a grey pall had hung. The moon still watched over him although now it hung low in the sky and storm clouds crossed its path. Soon a light rain began to fall.

Angus prayed for guidance, for strength for his horse; winding his fingers tighter about the reins, he lay down on Wallace’s neck. Beneath his body the long extension of muscles flexed as Wallace’s powerful legs sped them onwards. Wallace’s sweat-heightened aroma seeped into his nostrils until Angus began to imagine that he and the animal were one. He muttered a string of indecipherable words into Wallace’s ear, urging him onwards. A glimpse of a cloudy moon dipping through the trees cleared his thoughts.

‘For my father, for my father,’ he repeated. The phrase became his mantra. ‘Go, Wallace, go.’

There was a loud gasping sound, then the horse whinnied and slowed.

Angus slid from Wallace’s back, his muscles thick with tiredness. ‘Maybe we walk a bit.’ Wallace heaved against the reins, straining to be let alone. He was foaming at the mouth, his hide a gleam of sweat. ‘We have to keep going. We have to.’ Angus burst into tears. ‘Damn horse.’ Wrapping his arms around Wallace’s neck he sunk his face into the pungent hair and sobbed. Wallace stood quietly, his head bowed. ‘Damn horse’. Angus drifted back to the chaos of the river and his father sinking below the watery surface. He tugged once again at the reins and digging his heels into the dirt began to drag Wallace. The horse followed reluctantly, Angus groaning at his effort. They fought this way through acres of timbered country, disturbing sheep and cattle, frightening emus and scattering birds. Angus couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They felt scraped of flesh and moist against the heel and toes of his leather boots.

As the sun rose, Angus led Wallace to the nearest stump and remounted. ‘You have to do this, Wallace. I can’t walk any further,’ he spat bile into the dirt. ‘You have to get me home.’

He wrapped the reins about his hands dug his knees in tightly and jabbed the heels of his riding boots in deeply. Wallace answered by rearing upwards. Angus held fast, patting the horse between the ears. ‘Please, for my father. For Hamish.’

They galloped through trees so quickly that Angus lost all sense of direction. It was only for the red smudge of the rising sun that he knew his course remained reasonably true. Wallace nevertheless could not be steered and when the horse veered savagely to the right it was all Angus could do to hang on. Specks of saliva flew from Wallace’s gaping mouth into his face. His hands were blistered from the leather reins and he was sure the soft inner parts of his thighs were red raw. Yet he gritted through the pain. He needed to find his brother. He needed Luke.

Angus woke as Wallace trotted past the stables, cutting through the orchard to Lee’s vegetable garden. He could see trampled plants, heard Lee’s voice rising in agitation, then he was slipping from Wallace’s sweaty back into Lee’s arms. He glanced over the Chinaman’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Wallace,’ he mouthed. His beautiful horse collapsed to the ground.Margaret broke off a wedge of damper and added it to the plate of fried salted mutton.

‘They won’t miss you?’ Luke thought it odd. The girl should be at the homestead. Not that he was complaining. Margaret chewed on a piece of stringy meat, a long black hair stuck stubbornly across her cheeks. The girl picked at a piece of meat deep in her mouth. ‘No.’ Wiping her hand on the bodice of her dress, she walked to the creek’s edge. Having only seen her by the light of the campfire and in the glow of the moon, Luke halted midway in his eating as she stripped. She walked slowly into the creek, her moon-shaped buttocks clenching at the coolness of the water, her back ribboning out from the base of her narrow waist as she stretched, then disappeared beneath the surface. She emerged darkly wet. Water clinging to her shape as she dragged her dress on and returned to sit beside him, her long black hair dripping water down her back, her dress patched with wetness. She picked up the tortoiseshell comb and slipped it into her hair. Margaret nibbled on a piece of damper, watched him watching her. Luke understood the naturalness of her actions. She lived in a realm of unchanging behaviour, where the white man only interrupted what to them was utterly unchangeable. Theirs was a world governed and set out by their ancestors, where everything had its place; the stars, moon, wind, rain, animals and plants.

‘Tell me about when you were little, Margaret.’

Bringing her knees to her chin, her gaze rested on the far side of the creek. ‘We are spirit children.’ She wrung her hair out with a series of twists, the brown creek water forming a sodden pool in the sand at her feet. ‘My brothers and sisters came from many places, but we choose this tribe, our mother. They welcome us, love us and care for us. We have many mothers and fathers; we are all sisters and brothers.’

‘So you were loved by and cared for by everyone.’ For Luke this was a wondrous concept.

‘We would all play here by the crick, sit by our small fires and sing our songs.’

Luke drew a line in the sand with his forefinger. ‘You were lucky.’

‘And you?’ She pointed at him, her brown eyes enticing an answer.

His people were the ones that considered themselves civilised. ‘The same.’

‘After a short time,’ Margaret continued, ‘the women teach the girls how to gather food. We collect grass seeds, dig for the plants that live under cover of the ground, and capture scurrying creatures. Then we marry and wait for our own spirit children.’ Margaret dropped her eyes.

Luke wanted to stay in the warm cocoon of her company. There was a sense of familiarity with her, a wholeness that transcended the boundary between them. She would have to stay here while he went droving once more, however maybe on his return she could join him. He considered the dangers. They would find themselves the unwelcome recipients of taunts and abuse. It would be a hard life for Margaret. He took her slim hands between his, palmed them between his own.

‘They will come looking for me soon,’ Margaret whispered.

‘Who?’ Luke scanned the creek bank in both directions.

Her eyes misted, turned glassy. ‘The man I am promised to.’ Margaret looked at him meaningfully.

A series of images flickered through Luke’s brain. A girl with long dark hair meeting Mungo in the paddock, the same girl promised to an elder, the sullen kitchen maid Martha. ‘You’re not –’ Luke stood abruptly. ‘You’re Mungo’s woman?’ The girl’s wet hair curled messily over her shoulder. ‘Why did you do this? Mungo’s my friend.’

‘I’m not promised to Mungo,’ she almost spat the name, and then sidled nearer to him. ‘If I lie down with you, the son of the Boss, then mebbe they let me be. I can cook for you,’ she stoked up the campfire with a few branches. ‘I’m a good cook.’

‘No,’ Luke said strongly. He ran his fingers through his hair, remembering Mungo’s words by the creek. His friend had decided to leave Wangallon to be with this woman. Had he not told her of his plans? He moved around the campfire, placing the burning timber between them. ‘You have to leave. Mungo will be looking for you.’

Margaret scowled. ‘Mungo has gone with the fox; the white father.’ She spat the words out.

Claire arrived on horseback moments later in a flurry of flying dirt. ‘Luke, where have you been?’ Angus rode with her. She didn’t wait to be assisted down, freeing her feet from the stirrup she dropped to the ground, her long skirts dragging in the sand of the creek bank as she regained her balance. She frowned at Margaret.

‘What are you doing here? Get back to the homestead kitchen.’

Margaret winced at the harsh words and looked to Luke.

At her glance, Claire saw a dark hallway, a dark-haired girl entering her husband’s bedroom. ‘Get out of my sight!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t ever come back to my home, ever.’

Margaret skirted the campfire and took off along the creek, sand spurting out from under her feet.

‘Your father is near death, you must go to him, Luke,’ Claire gasped.

Luke whistled for Joseph. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Claire?’

Angus spoke in a garbled voice. ‘At the big river. He went under, Luke,’ he gulped. ‘I didn’t see him come up. They took cattle, Crawford’s.’

‘Be damned, that man,’ Luke grabbed his hat.

Willy appeared out of the bush, breathless and sweaty. ‘I know a short cut. Boxer showed me.’ He looked from Angus to Luke. It was obvious the boy had been running after Claire and Angus.

Luke rushed to where his saddle sat near the lean-to as Joseph trotted up the creek bank. ‘You should take your mother home, Angus.’ He tightened the girth strap. The boy looked ill and Claire little better.

‘Never,’ the boy answered.

‘He’s ridden half the night,’ Claire argued, patting the dappled mare her son rode.

‘He’s my father,’ Angus replied.

‘Where’s your horse, Willy?’ Luke asked. He didn’t trust Angus being much good to him. The boy looked done in.

Claire dismounted. ‘You can take mine.’

Luke placed his rifle in its holster on the saddle, took his waterbag and stuffed the remains of the half-eaten damper in his saddlebag. He looked about the camp; it was a sorry place seen through her eyes. ‘Sorry, Claire.’ It only took a moment in her presence to be reminded of his love for her. ‘I am sorry,’ he hesitated, ‘for everything.’

‘Go,’ she replied gently. ‘I will walk back to the homestead. It’s not more than three miles. It will do me good.’

Luke hesitated.

‘Luke, bring him back to me. Bring my husband home.’

Luke knew then he’d never have won her. ‘I will. I promise.’

He left Claire by his campfire, her figure growing smaller as he raced ahead with Willy and Angus. He left her knowing that one dream was ending and a new unexpected life was soon to begin. His half-brother looked beat. His trouser legs were torn in strips and dried blood showed through on his skin. It took some coercing to get the truth of the story from the boy as they cantered across the paddock, but by the time Angus finished explaining, Luke expected the worst. This was a theft of life-altering consequences. Even if his father was cunning enough to pull it off, would he survive? Luke had a feeling that men were dead already and his formidable father one of the casualties.Picking up his longneck of beer, Anthony grabbed a glass and walked the length of the homestead to the verandah. He sat tiredly in one of the old squatter’s chairs, poured himself a beer and took a long refreshing sip. A swirl of pink masked the late afternoon sky. It was going to be another lengthy night with another ripping frost in the morning. Through the gauze, the garden was still as the chill of the late afternoon crept from air and ground to meet midpoint a couple of feet above the earth. Anthony shivered. The logical idea would be to go inside and watch some telly in the warmth. However, these day’s his brain resembled a 7-Eleven store – it wouldn’t shut down.

It had taken some time to swallow Matt’s unwanted advice, but unfortunately the man was right. The stories and events of the past spoke of manipulation and the type of tenacity that was single-minded and results orientated. Anthony witnessed firsthand Angus’s obsessive nature regarding Wangallon: The old patriarch’s refusal to hand the mantle of succession to his son Ronald, his dislike of Ronald’s city-bred wife. However, being personally informed that he’d been specifically selected as a future husband for his granddaughter almost ruined Anthony’s fledging relationship with Sarah. The insult of being relegated to stud bull status still rankled. Then Angus tried to bind the family together with his will. Anthony took another sip of his beer and stared at the foam. And now Sarah … well Matt was probably right. It wasn’t her fault. It was genetic.

Stretching his leg out over the arm of the squatter’s chair, Anthony sat his glass on the verandah and drank directly from the beer bottle. He gulped at the yeasty brew, trying to salve more than his thirst. He was lonely and it was a loneliness that spanned weeks. Nothing was the same or as it should be, at least not from his perspective. Every step taken by Sarah to date was akin to her holding a chisel between them. Having tried to meet her halfway by temporarily abandoning the development, he’d been accused of poor financial planning and been spoken to like an employee. Anthony understood Sarah’s need to fight Jim, useless though it was, and now her grieving was done it probably was fair that she become more involved in Wangallon’s management; however, pulling rank didn’t cut it with him.

Anthony didn’t want to work in an environment where his management decisions were continually being queried, and they didn’t need the likes of Matt Schipp acting as understudy to his role. The question was, could he live with everything the way it was? He loved Wangallon. The property was more than his home, yet he no longer believed living one’s life tied to a piece of dirt was all it was cracked up to be. Time changed everything. Sarah’s attitude had changed. They were not a team anymore and he doubted his ability to forgive her for recent events. He couldn’t help it. He still loved her, probably more than he could ever love anyone. Unfortunately he was beginning to see that it was possible love wasn’t enough.

Outside Anthony fed Bullet and Ferret some dog biscuits. Pulling on his heavy jacket he walked down the cement path to the slobbering noise of munching canines. He had a mind to go into town, maybe have a few drinks and a pizza at the Wangallon Town pub. The trouble was that visiting the pub was becoming a dangerous pastime. Anastasia could sniff out a relationship domestic as quickly as any single woman. Last night after closing he hadn’t immediately complained when she’d slipped onto his lap and gently prised his mouth apart with her tongue. Although he’d only succumbed for a few minutes, he’d enjoyed it. He felt for his wallet, ran his fingers through his hair and looked back at the old homestead with the outside light glowing and the scent of smoke layering the air from the kitchen Aga. Forget Anastasia, he mumbled. If it went any further the guilt would kill him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the decent thing to do. You needed to finish a relationship before you started another, even if it was just a fling.

The temperature was beginning to drop as he walked towards the worksheds. There was a sneaky southerly gaining momentum. He hadn’t seen Matt today. Jack reckoned he had a woman visiting. That was all he needed. A bothersome female disrupting Wangallon’s routine. Well he’d give it a week and see how things went. It could just be the excuse he needed to fire the man. Out in the west a layer of pink-tinted cloud travelled in an arrowhead formation to dip at the horizon. Too many hours cooped up during the evening made him maudlin, especially when he was alone. Somehow the house just didn’t seem as hospitable when Sarah was away, or perhaps he was just no good at keeping himself company. Better to be outside. His eyes fell on the motorbike. Pulling his gloves from the pocket of his jacket, Anthony kick-started the Yamaha and with a spurt of gravel, headed away from the homestead.

He wasn’t really sure where he intended to go. It felt great to be free, to have the icy air needling him awake. Soon the brain deadening effects of the beer subsided and the dirt road consumed his attention. A quick spin, he promised himself, figuring there were a few daylight minutes left. The gate out to the western boundary was open and, worried about boxing stock together, Anthony rode on. The next gate was open as well. He swore under his breath, his cursing increasing in severity when he spotted cow manure on the road. ‘That bloody Toby,’ Anthony muttered, accelerating as he continued westward. Obviously Matt forgot to double-check the gates. ‘Typical,’ he said loudly, the wind swallowing his words. ‘No doubt he’s holed up with his woman.’

With the remnants of the day quickly disappearing, Anthony considered returning to the homestead and swapping his bike for the cruiser. He came to a halt on the road, his legs spread wide for balance. The evening star appeared, and although he was losing the light he wanted to ensure the heifers and bulls were still safe in their respective paddocks. He flicked on the bike’s headlight. It wasn’t as if he had anyone waiting at home. When he rode off Anthony was unaware his wallet had fallen from his pocket.

Thirty minutes later he reached the Wangallon River and halted at the bridge. A string of twinkling lights filled the sky, merging to become an arc of light. He leant on one leg, the weight of the bike balanced beneath him. Across the wooden span the far side of the river melted into the darkness as a flash of red and white hide disappeared. Anthony rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘Got you’. He crossed the bridge, aware of the void beneath, conscious of an emptiness that went beyond the space between wood and water. Despite his brain telling him to return home, Anthony rode on through the thick lignum, entranced by the sight of fossicking wallabies caught in his headlight.

At night the country looked very different. It was easy to lose your direction without a track to follow, for the darkness and depth of the landscape tended to distort distances and objects, yet it was also an enchanting time to be out. Anthony braked and, turning off the ignition, swivelled the handlebars from left to right. The beam cut through the dark of the tree-canopied bush, highlighting rabbits, ant hills and a squealing black sow with four little suckers trotting determinedly behind their mother. To his right he heard the familiar bash of heavy bodies travelling through thick scrub. With this sound his trip was rewarded, for the heavy tread of cattle was unmistakeable. Matt and Jack could return in the morning, re-muster the block and then call on the expert Toby Williams to pick up the ones missed. Anthony only hoped the bulls weren’t boxed up.

He restarted the motorbike, passing kangaroos curled among the grass, a cow camped on the road and an owl perched on fallen timber. So taken was Anthony with his early evening adventure that on reaching the newly developed cultivation he continued on riding around its edge. The enjoyment of this night meander surprised him, especially out here on Wangallon’s distant boundary. He revved the bike and leant forward into the wind. His eyes and nose were running from the coldness, the tops of his ears numb. The ground beneath was doughy with moisture and the bike fish-tailed out a couple of times as a line of darkness deeper than the sky rose up in front of him. Anthony felt the change in temperature approaching the tree line. The southerly wind was blocked by the leafy giants and the air grew tranquil and moist. Slowing, he manoeuvred the bike through the timber, cautious of uprooted trees and gaping holes that lay to his left. He could smell the tang of leaves, the earthy heaviness of opened soil and then another scent, the cloying trace of a fox.

His headlight picked out the animal near a hollowed tree trunk. The fox stood with his large front paws grasping the trunk, his eyes focused directly at Anthony. He was a big animal, well fed with a glossy pelt of rusty red. They eyed each other off, each waiting for the other to move first. Anthony revved his bike, the noise reverberating through the trees as the fox crouched in anticipation and then sprung away into a clearing. Anthony followed, catching glimpses of the fox in his headlight as if playing cat and mouse. Each time Anthony accelerated, the fox disappeared, and when he stopped, the cunning animal provided a flash of tail or an inquisitive tilt of his head. ‘You little bugger,’ Anthony grinned, spinning dirt up behind him as the fox dived for a narrow gap between two trees. ‘You win,’ he decided as he accelerated out of a sliding turn, only to lose control seconds later.

The bike continued sliding at a rapid pace. Anthony caught sight of an old rusty barbed wire fence and slammed his foot on the ground, trying to find traction. The burn of his thigh muscle as he pushed his boot into the blurring dirt made little difference, and the bike hit the fence at speed, becoming entangled around his ankle, then he was falling, the heat of the bike’s exhaust burning into his leg. There was a loud clash of metal hitting wood and then the stunned pain of being smashed into a tree, the bike on top of him.

It was pitch black when Anthony awoke some time later. His gloved hands touched cold, hard metal and he pushed at the object pinning him down, struggling with a haze of memory. Sweat glazed his face. Why was he so cold? Where was he? There was an insistent ache pulsating up his right leg, into his hip, and his chest hurt. He patted at his heavy work jacket, feeling strangely weak. There was a dim patch of light ahead and he focused on the relief of seeing, but nothing substantial materialised. This new world was a pastiche of unknown forms. Twisting his body to be free of the unknown weight, the grab of pain brought understanding. There was a bike pinning him down and the ancient strength of a tree walled behind his back. Anthony’s pained clarity forced him to twist his body away from the tree trunk. He squirrelled out from beneath the bike as his useless right leg followed in a squeal of pain.

For a time he lay exhausted in the dirt, his teeth biting his bottom lip as if the movement would take his mind from his leg. He guessed it was broken in at least one spot. Reaching down to straighten it out a little, he was bombarded with pain. He could stay beneath the tree where at least he was protected from the coming morning’s frost or attempt to ride the motorbike home. He crawled painfully to the bike, his nerve endings contorting with pain as his broken leg bumped over uneven ground. If he could strap his leg with a couple of branches and some material he might be able to ride, if he didn’t pass out from the pain. Anthony ran his hands over the motorbike’s frame, touched the twisted mess that was once handlebars and collapsed, vomiting into the dirt. The few retches in him were matched with pain and a light-headedness. Great, he mumbled through chattering teeth. This was no good, just no good at all. He began crawling in the direction of the fence as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The shadowy forms of timber, tufts of grass and trees surrounding him.

Anthony placed one hand after another, dragging himself slowly across the rutted ground. Every movement was agony but he couldn’t just lie there and hope someone would come looking. No one knew where he was. Eventually his search for timber became an odyssey to keep moving, an odyssey spurred by a knowing. He was aware of something deep within him that wasn’t right. It was a sensation that went beyond the excruciating jabs from his leg or the pounding headache that threatened to stop all movement. He was having problems breathing and there was a terrible weakness sucking at his body. At least the pain drew him on, kept him awake and focused. If he could make it to the edge of the cultivation by morning he could rest. Perhaps he could crawl straight across the new cultivation to the bridge. Small steps, he reminded himself, as his face hit dirt for the hundredth time and he spat dry granules from his mouth. Small steps, he repeated, his mind forming the words yet his mouth too tired to speak them.

The dull thud of kangaroos echoed through the trees. There was a slight swish of air through leaves. He sensed open space and relished this slight victory of distance over pain. He grimaced through the final erratic grasps of his hand, his fingers ready to close around newly tilled soil. Instead he reached for loose dirt and looked directly into the eyes of a fox. The animal was very close to him. He sat as if waiting and showed no signs of moving from Anthony’s path when he continued onwards. And continue Anthony did, crawling forward as the animal backed away. Crawling forward in the path of the fox he’d followed so carelessly earlier. Was there a lair ahead, Anthony wondered, some hungry cubs waiting to be fed? He was beginning to expect the worst of the quietly patient carnivore, when the remains of a building rose up from the clearing. He paused breathlessly, his mind scrambling to decipher the unknown structure. His eyes traced the fallen roof and the broken gutters. Most of the house was wrecked. The large verandah was about the only element still intact, although the boards were rumpled like an untidy blanket and saplings grew through the wood like spiky chin hairs. Anthony let out a moan of despair. He had no idea where he was. He was lost.

Giving a weak chuckle at the stupidity of his accident, Anthony burrowed his cheek in the dirt, his breath shallow. He could see the fox from where he lay, sitting on the ruined verandah, his head tilted to one side. There was an ancient hitching post to the left of the animal and wavering trees. The ground grew colder. The increasing chill and accompanying shivering began to surpass the excruciating pain in his leg. He prayed silently, wishing for help, wishing to be found. His breath sent bursts of dirt from the ground near his mouth, the same soil creeping steadily into his nose. Anthony sensed that even with the temperature dropping to zero and a nasty frost looming, exposure wasn’t his main concern. He tried to turn over, however the earth rose up like a billowing sheet and he collapsed. There was something seriously wrong and although he could only guess at the extent of his injuries, his eyes pictured a black and white film running to the end of a flickering negative. When the next river of pain struck him, his fingers gripped at the unyielding dirt. ‘Sarah,’ he whispered weakly. ‘Come home’.Lauren woke late, a thin line of drool forming a wet patch beneath her cheek. A curtain of spindly needlewood leaves obscured her vision and she lifted her legs from where she’d hooked them over the side of the dray, struggling into a sitting position. Her clothes were damp from last night’s rain and her lower back argued nastily with the abrupt change in her position. The old nag still tethered to the dray complained briefly by snorting and striking the earth.

‘Shhh. You’re lucky you’ve still got a job.’ Rubbing away sleep from the corners of her eyes, Lauren dragged the dray free of the obscuring stand of needlewoods. Miles of lightly timbered country spread out in all directions; a flat monotone of space made busy by hopping kangaroos, emus and darting birds. Lauren sniffed at the silence, lifted her skirt and, squatting in the dirt, relieved herself.

Dawn had long disappeared. The sky was a blue haze. There were thin tails of smoke in two directions and a background of grey–blue clouds in another. It was in this direction that she believed the rutted track led. Having followed it till near midnight she figured there were only a couple of hours’ travel left before she arrived at the homestead. She walked in a circle, fanning out from the dray in search of the track. Surely she couldn’t have strayed so far off course, yet there was no sign of her own tracks let alone the one that hopefully led her to Wangallon. ‘Damn rain,’ she cursed, spitting onto the ground. Returning to the dray she swigged down a mouthful of water, swished it around her mouth and spat it out before swallowing a good measure of the liquid. Lauren refused to admit she was lost. It wasn’t possible. Climbing into the dray, she twitched the reins and headed away from the thin streams of smoke. She was positive Wangallon wasn’t in that direction.Two hours later Lauren stopped to check her bearings. There was a dense tree line to her right and the clouds on the horizon were gone. She sipped at her waterbag, wondering if there was a creek or river nearby, for she wasn’t the only one greedy for a drink. Her horse seemed to be getting slower and the wooden seat was bruisingly uncomfortable as the dray bumped across the uneven ground. By noon Lauren admitted she was lost. She stopped under a towering belah tree, certain her horse would drop dead if she didn’t rest. Lying flat in the dray, the sun filtered through the leaves onto her face, the heat pricking at her skin. She supposed she would have to wait it out until the late afternoon and then continue onwards.

‘God’s holy trousers, you’d think someone would live out here.’ There had been such grand images in her head: A homestead rising from amid the wilderness like some ancient monument, a fine building, long and low with an impressive garden surrounded by a paling fence. That’s what she imagined Wangallon to be like. After all, everyone knew the Gordons had money and folks like that knew how to carve a home for themselves in the bush. ‘Much good it will do me now.’ Lauren tipped the waterbag up and moistened her tongue with the few remaining drops. It was turning out to be a real bugger of a day.

It was the soft lowing of cattle that woke her. She’d been dreaming of her mother standing over her, calling her a silly fool as she kicked at her bones polished white by the sun. Lauren licked at her sunburnt lips, barely able to raise any spit. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die. And that would be just her luck. It was fine for her mother to be calling Susanna a slut, but Susanna wasn’t the one lost in the scrub. Susanna wasn’t the one deserving of a better life. The sound of cattle grew closer. Lauren scrambled into a sitting position, wiping at her tears and licking the moisture from the back of her hand. She concentrated all of her attention on the noises about her. There was wind she could hear, the odd bird, a clicking sound in the tree above her, the laboured breathing of the old nag and there, it was a crack. Rifle fire or stockwhip, she wondered? There was a cloud of dust in the distance. Lauren watched the low hanging pall move steadily onwards. Another whack sounded and this time she knew it was the crack of a rawhide whip. The growing sounds of cattle spread about the countryside. Lauren patted uselessly at her sleep-creased clothes and, spitting in her palms, smoothed her hair. Pinching her cheeks red she tugged at the reins, turned the dray and drove the stumbling nag towards the dust.‘Holy frost, Lauren, what are you doing here?’

Lauren gave her best smile as McKenzie rode to where the black stockman had suggested she wait; like she had anywhere else more pleasant to go to.

‘I’ve had the most terrible time of it,’ Lauren sniffed. ‘I came out to join you specially and then, then,’ she gave a little hiccup, ‘I got lost. You wouldn’t have a little water to spare?’ She asked demurely. She accepted the waterbag and, taking two great gulps, was about to swipe her arm across her face when she stopped and dabbed politely at her chin.

The herd of cattle was about half a mile from them. Lauren covered her nose as the wind changed direction and blew sheets of dirt across them. ‘You look like you’ve been up half the night.’ Lauren patted McKenzie on the arm. ‘It’s good to see you.’

McKenzie scratched his head, the action tilting his wide-brimmed hat. ‘I can’t take you back to the homestead, Lauren. Mr Gordon’s given us a job to do. Besides, we’re already two men down, what with Wetherly and Mungo pissing off into the wind. Wetherly never showed and Mungo reckoned he was bringing a cook from the black’s camp but he came back empty-handed and then pissed off. Not that I can’t handle it.’

Like all this meant anything to her. Lauren batted her eyelids. Wasn’t it clear she was in distress?

‘You’ll have to come with us.’

‘What, with that raggedly mob of blacks and a bunch of cows?’

McKenzie pushed his hat back on firmly. ‘That mob is the best herd of beef this side of the mountains.’ He looked at her nag. ‘So you can stay here and die or,’ he gave a crooked smile, ‘you can come with me as my woman. I’ll tell the men we’re married and they’ll see right by you.’

Lauren kicked at a stick lying in the dirt – so much for the big house.

He handed her a tortoiseshell hair comb.

‘Oh McKenzie, it’s beautiful.’

McKenzie unhooked the horse from the dray, tying the reins to his chestnut mare. ‘Got it off Mungo. Said I should give it to Mr Luke and tell ’em that he knew, something like that. Reckoned you’d like it better.’

‘Where are we going?’

Hooking his arm under hers, he pulled her up onto his horse. ‘Sydney.’

Lauren wrapped her arms tightly about his waist and pressed her cheek to the back of his shirt. ‘Ohhh, sounds lovely.’ She never had gone much on Luke Gordon.

McKenzie trotted his horse towards the herd, leading the dray behind him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. His name’s Jasperson.’Hamish broke off some branches, peering through the dense foliage. He couldn’t recall his escape from the river’s currents nor how he’d arrived at this hole of bushy camouflage. His hands were ripped and bleeding, suggesting he’d clawed his way into hiding. There was pain throughout his body, shoulders, back, head and leg. With a gasp he leant against a gnarled tree trunk and surveyed his leg. The shaft of the spear was broken neatly about one handspan out from his flesh. In frustration he bashed his head against the tree trunk behind him, cursing Crawford for his artfully arranged, ambush. It was likely his men had been captured, even killed in last night’s skirmish. He hoped no one had been recognised for that was the prime method of conviction.

Either way he had to presume the worst. Pulling his pocket-knife free of the pouch on his belt, Hamish placed a stick between his teeth and began to slowly prise at the flesh of his thigh. He made two straight cuts, grimacing through the pain, and then grasped the shaft of the spear and pulled it free. Blood gushed from the wound. Spitting the twig free of his mouth, he ripped a length of material from his shirt tail and did his best to tie something of a bandage. Pain radiated through his leg. There was precious little time to salvage his failed plan and there was only one way to do it.

The snapping of twigs halted his ministrations. He pulled back from the noise, his shape merging with the shadowy trees. Hearing the lone whinny, Hamish stuck his head out from amid his bushy cover – the horse was riderless. He staggered over to the rangy brown mare and, coaxing her softly, dragged his body onto the saddle. There was a bloody nulla-nulla, a waterbag and a spray of dried blood patterning down the horse’s girth. Hamish drank thirstily and walked the horse along the edge of the riverbank. The signs of the cattle’s crossing were obvious. Hamish hoped the herd was well away.

About a mile downstream the river narrowed. Tracks marked where riders had crossed from the other side; two men only. Hamish hoped it was McKenzie and Jasperson. He’d seen his old friend Boxer go down during the fracas so the number made sense. ‘Boxer dead.’ He rolled the words around on his tongue, tasting its sourness. ‘Dead because of a bloody-minded Englishman.’ He spat in the dirt, swatting at the flies massing about his bloody wound. He thought of his old friend, envisioned his night black face. Boxer had been with Hamish from the very beginning. Together they’d travelled the breadth of the country they both loved. Boxer advised Hamish when the rains would come, taught him to study the directions the birds flew at sunset if he needed water, showed him where the best waterholes were. More importantly he was a guardian of the old ways, of the customs of his people. His was a great loss.

‘The rainbow serpent came from the mother earth,’ Hamish said clearly, ‘and caused the waterways to form in his wake. Where he rested he made a billabong.’ A wind lifted the branches about him. ‘I hope you’re in that place where the water is still and shady, my old friend.’ To Hamish, Boxer was the last of his kind: a full-blood Aborigine with a bond of love for this land that would remain unbroken, even in death.

Hamish directed his horse down the sandy bank. The horse stepped gingerly off the edge and, with his hind legs partially bent, half-slid down the embankment. Hamish held himself steady, leant back in the saddle and relaxed his body so that he matched the horse’s gait. In the centre of the river, rivulets of water ran across a sandy bar. These were the type of odds he could work with, he decided. Hamish tied a rope from his waist to his saddle and urged his horse into the water. ‘Come on then, lad,’ he coaxed, rubbing his neck.

The bottom deepened quickly, the water reached his thighs and then they were climbing up onto the sandy bank. The horse whinnied softly and snorted. They were stranded on an island. Realising that he had little choice but to go onwards, the horse plunged into the water at Hamish’s urging. This part of the river was much deeper and the horse struck out to swim to the bank. The current caught at them and once again Hamish felt the push of water, felt the horse being propelled sideways. They were carried one hundred feet downstream into the path of a fallen tree, which stopped their progress with a jolt. Hamish grimaced as his good leg was buffeted, the horse thrashing against the timber. Finally the animal gained his footing and, finding traction on the river floor, scrambled out of the water.

Regardless of his exhaustion and the pain of his useless leg, Hamish gave a grim smile. If Crawford could prove the events that unfolded last night, he could destroy everything. Nonetheless there were two things he had in his favour. One was the involvement of the renegade blacks, especially the fur-coated warrior of last night whom Hamish assumed was the marauding Aborigine Wetherly spoke of, and secondly, Crawford would not be expecting Hamish Gordon to pay him a visit.It was midafternoon. Through the tree canopy edging Oscar Crawford’s homestead, the sun was a blinding orb. Luke hid quietly behind a stand of belah saplings and squinted across the short distance between the line of trees and the paling fence surrounding the homestead. The open space provided little cover. If he was going to make a run for it he had to be prepared. He pulled his carbine closer, running his hand protectively across the metal barrel. Overhead, crows called out soullessly. A black sulky remained parked at the front of the house, and he counted three, perhaps four horses. He ducked back under cover, his rifle grasped to his chest.

A number of hours spent searching the riverbank had yielded no clues as to his father’s whereabouts. There were the obvious tracks of where men and cattle crossed the river, but apart from a quantity of manure and trampled undergrowth, there was no sign of any men. A severed rope tied to a tree and two dead beasts, already torn apart by wild pigs, marked what must have been a frenzied crossing. It was only on Willy’s insistence that they’d travelled further downstream. Here along the edge of the river they’d found hoof marks. Willy, holding his palm above a boot print in the dirt, nodded once and pointed across the river. He sensed a white’s energy and considered it strong. Luke left Willy and Angus on the bank as Joseph and he battled the short swim to the other side.

At the homestead there was movement. Men were mounting their horses. There were blacks among them, trackers, he presumed. The sulky was pulling away, the horse trotting along after the riders. At least he hadn’t recognised his father, for Crawford would surely have him bound and parcelled up for the coppers in readiness for his appearance before the magistrate. Luke rubbed his eyes against the glare, pulled the brim of his hat down lower. The thought of his father no longer in charge of Wangallon left him hollow.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.’ The unmistakeable figure of his father was thrown into relief against the white-washed mud brick of Crawford’s homestead. He was moving slowly, edging along the side of the building. ‘Damn him, what the hell does he think he’s doing?’ Luke let out a low groan as his father disappeared through a window. Luke blinked twice in disbelief and then, crouching low, began to run towards the homestead.Closing the window Hamish lifted his rifle, hoping it was dry enough for action. If not he had a nulla-nulla jammed through his belt. If he were accused of the crime, Crawford would ensure he was jailed. Unable to rely on Luke to safeguard Wangallon until Angus came of age left Wangallon at the mercy of any number of prospective buyers, including Crawford. He walked across the polished floorboards, his injured leg was weakening and the blood loss had not lessened. Through the partially opened door he looked down a long hallway to where a black stockman was standing with William Crawford, his father and Wetherly.

‘Damn nuisance that magistrate, telling me to leave it in the hands of the police. Time was when a man’s word was good enough. By the time they catch up with the mob they’ll probably be mixed up with a thousand of Gordon’s. Wants proof, he says, before we can charge the likes of Hamish Gordon. Tells me he’s in receipt of a letter of complaint from Gordon about that damn water business last year. Warns me, me, to ensure my own doings are without tarnish. I’ve a mind to ride out there myself, confront Gordon and take him into Wangallon Town myself.’

‘Mebbe he’s dead,’ the stockman announced.

‘And maybe not,’ Oscar yelled. ‘Just because you find a man’s horse drowned doesn’t mean he’s dead.’

‘He was speared, Father,’ William reminded him, ‘and not by our men. Some renegade savage had the pleasure.’

Oscar brushed worried fingers through his hair, ‘True, true. I should never have got the magistrate involved. Should have handled matters myself,’ he mumbled. ‘Anyway, at least it’s a spear. We can’t be held accountable for that.’

‘I wonder if I could impose on you for payment,’ Wetherly enquired.

‘Payment? Yes, of course payment. You had better make yourself scarce, Wetherly. Here.’ Crawford shook hands and Wetherly deposited a sum of money in his coat pocket, walked briskly to his horse and galloped off.

‘Now, you lads go about your normal business and we’ll see what transpires.’

William and the stockman walked out onto the verandah. A few minutes later Hamish heard horses trotting down the dirt path, then the room began to spin. He clutched at his wound, waiting for the dizziness to pass, his rifle sliding to the floor so that the wooden butt struck the boards noisily. In an instant the door was flung wide.

‘So you come to us, Gordon.’ Oscar looked considerably pleased with himself. ‘You’re not exactly dressed for a visitation, old man.’ He confiscated the rifle. ‘Had a bit of a night of it, haven’t we? I must say I find it interesting the way you manage your affairs.’

Hamish leant against the doorframe for support. ‘You’ve no need to concern yourself with that.’

Oscar laughed, ‘Oh, but I do. Some years ago it was common knowledge you were sleeping with the blacks, under your own roof no less,’ Oscar tutted. ‘Not really the gentlemanly thing. But now I hear you were speared by one.’

Hamish winced at the pain that crept through him. ‘Only because your men couldn’t get to me first.’

Oscar coloured. ‘That is an unprovable accusation, while the theft of my cattle is easy to verify.’

‘You have no proof,’ Hamish was beginning to feel feverish, although his clothes were still damp. ‘Although I do have proof that my cattle, fifty head or more, have been wandering on your land since well before Christmas,’ Hamish lied smoothly. ‘I have also informed the relevant authorities about the diversion of the drain.’

‘A clever tactic, I’ll grant you that, Gordon. It will not help you though. My trackers will have your men rounded up before the police arrive.’

Hamish laughed. ‘And my men will tell the constabulary that marauding blacks herded your escaped cattle onto my land.’

Crawford spluttered. ‘The thing is, Gordon, your reputation condemns you. Especially now you are wounded and standing here in my house uninvited. I know of your early dealings in Ridge Gully, of the pedigree of your first wife’s family.’

Hamish struck out with his hand and, even with his strength failing him, managed to wallop Crawford such a blow that the portly man crashed against the wall. A painting fell to the ground. ‘That is the second time in as many months that you have caused offence. There will not be a third, you foppish turd.’

Oscar ran a hand over the livid mark on his cheek. ‘I’m betting your dear wife doesn’t know of your messy history.’

‘We’ll have it out now,’ Hamish limped after Oscar as he walked to the verandah. ‘With my wound we should be evenly matched,’ he snarled.