‘Simple mistake,’ consoled Dave. ‘No harm’s come of it, that’s the main thing.’
But each of them was thinking that what had very nearly occurred was downright disaster. Luke watched Doggy. He sensed the reply Doggy wanted to make: ‘Simple mistake and it could have cost a life.’ But Doggy remained silent.
‘That was some shot, Doggy,’ said Jacko. ‘Brought him down quick smart.’
‘He didn’t have any choice, you fool,’ laughed Dave. ‘He’d of been lucky to get a second shot before the pig got so close it didn’t matter.’
‘One-shot Doggitt, we’ll have to call you now, mate,’ joked Jacko, cuffing Doggy on the upper arm.
Doggy managed a grin. ‘Yeah, quite a shot, wasn’t it, even if I do say so myself. Come on, let’s see where I hit it.’ He marched off towards the dead body of the beast, Jacko and Dave joining him.
Luke stayed with his father. ‘You all right, Dad? You look awful.’
‘I’m fine, Luke, just feel exhausted and my mouth’s like a desert.’
‘God, I was frightened,’ said Luke. ‘Lucky Doggy was there to save you.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Luke knew that as soon as the words left his mouth because his father’s face darkened, a touch of anger evident. Luke remembered that look. It was the same hard, tense-jawed, stubborn look his father had when he argued with Alison.
‘What Doggy did was pretty courageous, I got to admit, but I’d have been all right, Luke. I wasn’t too worried. I was just about free of the fence, you know and it would have stood between me and the pig. There was time to get out of the way.’
Luke stared up at his father. This just wasn’t true. Without Doggy’s heroic intervention, that wild creature would have carved his father up with its razor-sharp tusks, possibly have killed him. It had been too late for his father to haul himself out of the way. He was kidding himself. Luke knew that was the truth; they all did; so did his dad. The fear which was beginning to leave his father’s body had been real, but as quickly as it faded, Wayne was denying it had ever taken hold of him at all.
His father walked away to join the others around the carcass. They prodded at the body with their boots and carefully examined the damage Doggy’s telling shot had done to the top of the pig’s skull.
‘Lucky shot,’ teased Jacko.
‘Lucky shot nothing!’ shouted Doggy. ‘Considering how much my hands were shaking, I reckon it’s damned near a miracle. Look at it, smack in the middle of the head. Straight into the brain. Strawberry jam.’
Dave noted Wayne’s arrival. ‘Well, it won’t be bothering you any more, old mate.’
‘Nope,’ said Wayne calmly. He stepped forward then and kicked the animal hard in its distended belly, rolling the body over slightly until it flowed back heavily into place. ‘Got what was coming to it, anyway. Come on, I need a beer.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Jacko. No one tried. The truck was brought round from where it had come to its abrupt halt earlier and parked in the shade close to the dead pig. Over the next two hours they sat in and around the back of the truck, reliving the thrill of those few moments and drinking every last beer in the esky. Wayne drank two to everyone else’s one. His trauma had been the greatest, he argued when the others protested, and they could hardly disagree. The empty cans they threw at the carcass, scoring a cheer for every hit. Luke joined in. Wayne made the others laugh as the drama was re-enacted several times in the telling. But Luke detected tiny changes in the story each time, alterations made by his father to take away his own helplessness and diminish the bravery of his saviour. And he was disturbed to realise at the end of it all that his father had not said one word of thanks to Doggy. Not a single word.
Eventually Luke became bored and began to explore the area, first the dead pig and the furrow it had ploughed into the ground as it charged at Wayne; then he climbed the fence to stand on top of the fence post as Doggy had done. It wasn’t easy. He overbalanced and landed back on his feet in the dust several times before he managed the feat. Then, reenacting Doggy’s moment of bravery, he jumped down onto the worn path, reached for an imaginary gun and fired off an equally imaginary bullet. Back in the truck, the men were watching him and cheered and clapped at his performance. With a beer can in one hand and his Winchester in the other, Wayne strode over to join Luke by the fence. ‘Think you could do it?’ he asked his son, extending the rifle part-way towards him.
Luke was unsure whether he meant, find the courage that Doggy had shown, or simply fire the rifle. ‘Do what?’
‘Shoot the pig with this.’ He gave the rifle to Luke.
Luke was too enthralled with the weight of the weapon in his hands to worry about his father’s meaning now. Wayne was inviting him to fire the thirty-thirty. ‘Is it loaded?’ he asked.
‘Yep. Come on, rest it on the fence post here and have a pot at this can.’ He hurled his beer can as far away on the far side of the fence as he could manage while Luke quickly laid the gun across the post before his father changed his mind. He’d wanted this chance ever since his father had shown him the rifle in the rear of his van.
‘Better put a round in the chamber first. Use the lever,’ instructed Wayne.
Luke withdrew the gun and slipped his hand into the long metal loop of the lever. It was quite stiff at first, but once prised away from the body of the rifle it arced its way smoothly, and on the return Luke could hear and feel the satisfying slide and click as the new bullet was forced into the breach, ready for firing.
As he was sighting on the distant can once more, Luke became aware that Jacko, Dave and Doggy back in the truck were shouting something. For a horrible moment he wondered if they were warning of the approach of another pig — or perhaps the apparently dead creature a few metres away was showing signs of movement. But it wasn’t anything like that.
‘Wayne, you can’t let Luke fire the Winchester! It’s too powerful. He’ll hurt himself,’ called one voice.
Another cautioned: ‘He’s only ever fired a twenty-two, Wayne. Watch he doesn’t break his collarbone.’
Wayne Aldridge just waved his hand dismissively at his mates and kept his attention upon Luke. ‘Okay, everything’s the same as with the twenty-two, but there’ll be a bit more recoil, the gun will jolt backwards. Make sure you have it firmly positioned in your shoulder.’ He helped Luke nestle the stock into place. ‘Away you go,’ he said finally.
Luke went through his drill, steadying, aiming along the barrel and gently, so gently, squeezing the trigger.
The gun roared, and in that moment, the whole world flipped over for Luke. The rifle kicked back into his shoulder with such force that he toppled over backwards, ending on his bottom in a cloud of dust and fright and humiliation. Wayne stooped over him, cooing words of concern, but as Luke looked up into his father’s face, he saw that he was unable to keep the smug smile from his face. He had known this would happen: he’d staged the whole incident for a laugh.
Luke was angry, but what could he do? He’d been the butt of a trick, a joke, and something told him that he should accept it and keep his mouth shut. But the realisation of what his father had done hurt him much more than the dull ache in his shoulder where the stock had made its impact. This strange, nameless pain burned deeper inside than anything he had ever known before.
nine
They set out again just after two o’clock, when the winter sun was at its warmest. There was no westerly breeze and no cloud cover to temper the glare, so the day had become very hot, as such days can become despite the season. There was no sign of any pigs, those terrorised by the morning’s adventures having long since gone to ground, and though the truck wandered widely, all quarry seemed to be evading the hunters by clinging to the deepest undergrowth. They saw nothing.
The heat and the beer hastened their frustration. When a large buck kangaroo darted across the truck’s path, startling Jacko, he swore angrily and stopped. ‘Get it!’ he shouted through the window.
<
br /> Luke was in the rear of the truck with Wayne and Dave at the time, and he watched as these two obliged by loosing off a volley in the direction of the unfortunate beast. Both shots missed but they quickly prepared for a second bite. This time the roo cartwheeled as a bullet struck it, but regained its powerful legs and continued to bound away. Another shot bowled it over, but again it recovered.
‘What are you using, rubber bullets?’ taunted Jacko from inside the cabin.
Finally the roo stopped, balancing groggily on his hind legs and tail, refusing to lie down. It had put quite a distance between itself and the stationary vehicle, creating a difficult target. Wayne’s thirty-thirty, though he had shown it to be deadly, was better suited to shorter distances. Here he had to judge how much the bullet would drop, and it seemed this judgment was eluding him. A puff of dust would erupt in front of or beyond the target, signalling each failure. Dave had the better chance, using Jacko’s two-two-two rifle, the accuracy of which was still reliable over that distance. He hit the stubborn roo in the neck. Still it stood erect.
‘I can’t believe you two!’ called Jacko. ‘Couldn’t hit the dunny door if you were sitting inside it.’ He started the engine, which he’d stalled to give the shooters a better chance. ‘Sit down, you two. I’ll do it myself.’ He found first gear and moved the truck off the rough track towards the kangaroo. The poor creature made no effort to hop away, its mind totally absorbed by the agony of its slow death. Jacko closed in, gathering speed; it was then that Luke realised the vehicle was on a collision course.
‘Hey, no!’ he shouted.
But Jacko, furious, took no notice. The roo bar plunged viciously into the animal’s chest, kicking it forward a few metres. Then Luke’s view of it was obstructed by the bonnet, but immediately he heard and felt the dull buffeting as the vehicle ran over the roo. He threw himself towards the tailgate of the truck, and saw the creature emerge from beneath the chassis. Incredibly, it survived this terrible indignity and rose onto its hind legs once more, but Wayne was ready for it. At this distance there would be no problem. He already had the rifle to his shoulder, fiercely maintaining his balance with the strength of his legs alone. It was this concentration which rendered him totally unaware that Luke had rushed to the rear of the vehicle, bringing him dangerously close to the line of fire. The gun cracked and on the dusty dry grass of the paddock the kangaroo finally fell dead.
The bullet had missed Luke by perhaps a metre, and when his father became aware of his position he bellowed his shock and anger at finding him there. The incident had given Luke a sensation that few people experience, which those who share it never forget. He had been in front of the gun as it discharged, instead of behind it, where safety and common-sense tell one to stand. It was not the dread, the fear of death, but the noise, the thunderous crash blown straight into the ears that was etched onto the memory, never to be erased. Surely the most terrifying sound on earth. Luke had stood on the side of the targets, the animals, and heard the bark of death.
He sprawled now in the corner of the truck, watching his father rage. ‘What the hell were you doing! You could have been killed. Haven’t I told you time and time again to keep your wits about you? Look, when a man has a gun in his hands, he can’t keep track of where everyone is around him. You have to look out for your own safety.’ So his father ranted on.
‘I’m sorry, Dad …’ he started to say, but his father kept on shouting.
‘And what were you doing, calling out to Jacko like that, just as he was about to hit the stupid thing? Could have startled him, made him throw the wheel suddenly. We could have all ended up in the dirt, even had the truck roll on top of us.’
‘But it wasn’t fair, running over the kangaroo like that.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, it was only a roo. What does it matter how it gets killed,’ said Wayne.
Luke again said he was sorry, because it was expected and it filled the silence while his father drew breath. But he wasn’t sorry he had called out. It was cowardly to treat the beast like that. He felt an even greater sympathy for the kangaroo, now that he had heard a rifle blast from in front of the gun. But he said nothing, giving way to his tiredness and confusion. He stayed slumped in the corner as the truck bumped and swerved its way back to the track.
The heat, the beer, and the furious chase had slowly dehydrated the hunters. The rough track which led them back towards camp followed the creek for much of its length, bringing them within sight of water a number of times. Their thirst became irresistible and Jacko finally stopped the truck on a wide bend so that they could all descend the few metres to the narrow strip of water. The soil in the creek bed was heavily trampled by all manner of hooves, the thick black mud by the water’s edge thoroughly churned. They sank into it up to their ankles, laughing at Doggy, who managed to find a particularly glutinous patch where his boot was sucked from his foot and he had to retrieve it with his hands, covering himself with muck to the elbows.
As they waited for him to wash it off, the roar of an engine reached them from around the bend in the creek.
‘That’s not your truck, is it Jacko?’ asked Dave.
‘No, I can just see mine through the trees where we left it. Let’s see what’s goin’ on.’
They retreated onto the firmer sand away from the water and marched into the sweeping curve of the creek until the source of the noise came into view. An old Land Rover had found a path down to the creek bed; a rope was stretched taut behind it, trying to drag something free of the water. When he spotted the five hunters approaching, the driver ceased his efforts and climbed out to wait for them.
‘Gidday,’ he said. He was a big man, tall and powerfully built. He wore the dirty cream moleskin trousers that seemed to be a uniform in the bush. Below the knee, his moleskins were caked in the black mud. Under the broad-brimmed hat, the stranger’s face was quite welcoming, but also showed a hint of disapproval. Luke quickly learned why.
‘You must be the blokes been out huntin* pigs last couple o’ days.’
‘That’s us. Got some beauties, too.’
‘Yeh, I heard you. Out last night too, eh? Foxes, I s’pose.’
While they yarned on, Luke wandered around to see what the Land Rover was pulling. There at the end of the rope, a loop secured around its forequarters, lay a sheep. Looking more closely, he saw the sheep was alive, but its hind legs were stuck fast in the mud right up to its tail. The otherwise smooth surface of the mud showed the man’s recent trek out to the sheep and his squelching, laboured return.
The men came round the side of the Land Rover.
‘Tom, this is my son, Luke.’ Luke stepped forward and shook hands. The man, apparently called Tom, shone a warm smile onto Luke’s face. There was an air of gentleness about him that made the boy feel more comfortable than he had been all day.
Tom turned back to the men. ‘You can see what’s happened. Poor ewe has come down for a drink but picked a sticky path. Probably been stuck for days. It’s very weak. No way it’ll ever get itself out now. Hence the rope.’
‘Doesn’t look too healthy to me,’ remarked Wayne Aldridge.
‘It may not survive,’ conceded Tom. ‘Won’t know until I free it and take a closer look. Let me know how I’m doing as I move her forward, would you?’
He returned to the driver’s seat and began to haul the sheep out of the mud which sucked and clawed at it. There were shouts to stop, to haul forward a fraction, to keep her coming, and finally the sheep was free, lying on the loose gravel.
Tom was quickly in attendance, slackening the rope. A frown invaded his face. ‘Look at this. Crow’s been at its left eye, poor thing.’ He soothed and calmed the quivering beast then carefully hauled it to its feet. But the legs did not respond. The limp body flopped back to the ground and lay there, disinterested.
Finally, Tom stood up, his sadness plain to see.
‘Wasted your time?’ said Jacko.
‘Oh, no. Had to be sure, but I’m afrai
d the old dear is beyond hope.’
‘Going to shoot it?’ one of the men asked. It could have been any of them, as they all had the same thought.
‘Kindest thing,’ said Tom. ‘Can’t leave it to be blinded by the crows and suffer a slow end.’ He opened the rear door of his Land Rover and began to rearrange the gear inside, tossing equipment from one side to the other until at last he freed his rifle. This surprised Luke. He had imagined a man like this would keep his gun close at hand.
With the gun leaning against the truck, Tom had to hunt through his junk a second time to find the box of cartridges. He obviously used the weapon rarely.
Wayne, Jacko and the others stood around impatiently. They’re eager for the kill, thought Luke. They’re waiting for it. He felt a little hopeless at the sight.
At last Tom was ready. Purposefully he strode over to the sheep, which waited listlessly, without care. The muzzle of the rifle was lowered to the animal’s head, just behind the ear, barely an inch away from the skull. Wump. It was over. Tom strode back to the cluster of spectators, checking and double-checking that the gun was empty, then he laid it back on the floor of the Rover, where Luke was sure it would quickly be covered with an assortment of tools and equipment.
When he had closed the rear door of the vehicle he turned to the men. ‘Sorry about that. Hate having to do it, but well …’ He held his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders. Luke readily found a sympathetic smile, but when he glanced at his four companions he could see they hadn’t understood what Tom was apologising about.
From that moment, he felt apart from them: uneasy, unhappy, ready to go home.
His duty towards the sheep had distressed Tom, but now that it was over, he nattered on freely. After all, he pointed out, this was his first opportunity to speak to other human beings in nearly a week. After an apparent hint like that, he was immediately invited back to camp to share their fire and their company. Tom seemed genuinely surprised that they should offer; perhaps the remark about his isolation had been no more than a naive observation. It required some insistent persuasion to finally make him agree to join them, but in the end he brought his Land Rover in behind Jacko’s truck, following their dusty trail back to camp.
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