Cocooned by night, they’d barely spoken since leaving the homestead. ‘Alright,’ she answered quietly. The thumping in her chest suggested otherwise. The reins were slippery beneath the tightness of her grip, Hilda fidgety.
‘You mustn’t let Rex put the wind up you.’ Hugh’s voice was steady, calming. ‘Old codgers like that have particular thoughts, that’s all.’
‘So you don’t believe what he said? You don’t believe it’s possible?’ Did she sound breathy? Unsure? Eleanor hoped not. ‘You don’t believe in spirits?’ The torch went out. She gave an involuntary shudder before realising that the click heard was the sound of Hugh turning it off.
‘I think,’ said Hugh slowly, ‘that anything is possible. When my wife, Vivien, died,’ his voice grew gritty, ‘I could have sworn she was in our house for weeks afterwards. Sometimes I was sure it was the scent of her perfume I could smell. It’s strange, and I’ve never told another living soul this, Elly, however, I felt I had to let her go. So I said goodbye and a couple of days later the house felt empty.’
He was momentarily silent. Eleanor imagined him swallowing, closing his throat to stem the sadness within.
‘I like to think,’ Hugh finally continued, ‘that she came back to say goodbye.’
In the darkness, Hugh was the slightest of outlines. Eleanor wanted to ask how long he’d been married for, what Vivien was like. ‘Maybe she did,’ was her simple reply.
A thudding noise signalled the movement of kangaroos across their path. The horses shied slightly at the disturbance.
‘And you?’ asked Hugh, his voice lightening. ‘You don’t seem to come home much?’
The question caught her off guard. She thought of her stepfather. It just wasn’t the same with Colin at River Run. Eleanor had never quite come to terms with Georgia’s second marriage. But more recently, Dante was the reason for her absence from the property. In comparison to what Hugh suffered, Eleanor’s crisis was pathetic; the stolen novella was only a book and Dante was merely a man without a conscience who’d betrayed her. ‘Well, considering what’s happened this past week, it’s probably just as well I don’t visit much.’
‘It’s not your fault, Elly.’
She gave a weak laugh, thinking of the balcony key, her presence at the shooting and her naivety regarding Chad Reynolds. Coming on the back of the spurious Dante, there was no doubt that she was starting to chalk up an impressive list of disasters.
‘I’m serious,’ he said.
‘I trust people too easily,’ Eleanor answered flippantly, as if it were no great issue. ‘But I’ve learnt my lesson.’
‘The world will be a lesser place if you stop believing in people, Elly.’
‘Maybe.’ But it will be safer, she decided, and far less troublesome for everyone. Eleanor thought of Lesley lying in their grandmother’s four-poster bed, suffering both physically and emotionally. There was enough pain in the world without creating more through poor choices.
‘What do you do in Sydney?’
‘I’m in nuts and bolts.’ It was Eleanor’s standard cocktail party answer. ‘Hardware,’ she clarified when Hugh remained silent. ‘I’m a secretary.’
‘So it’s just something to make ends meet, keep you occupied?’
Hugh made it sound as if she were just filling in time. ‘Pretty much.’
‘I couldn’t do that. I’ve always needed to feel passionate about what I do. I can’t see how you can get any job satisfaction otherwise.’
He was right, of course, but it wasn’t something Eleanor felt comfortable admitting. ‘I like writing best,’ she shared. ‘Short stories, novellas, that sort of thing.’
‘Well then, that’s what you should be doing. If you’re passionate about it, you’ll be unstoppable.’
Eleanor smiled.
‘I have a confession to make. I did show you my ram selection process so you’d put in a good word for me. I’ve been coming up against a few barriers recently, problems that I thought would affect the breeding program.’
‘I figured as much,’ Eleanor responded, assuming the problem was her stepfather, ‘but my mother wouldn’t have offered you the position unless she knew you were capable.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate the vote of confidence.’
Eleanor understood that prior to Hugh accepting the role of overseer at River Run, he’d held the same position on a large sheep stud in western Queensland. On reading his references, Georgia ruled he was the man she wanted for the job. Eleanor could only agree with her mother’s judgement, but she also reluctantly acknowledged that her own opinion regarding River Run’s newly promoted Stud Master had little to do with credentials. Don’t go there, Eleanor warned herself, more than aware of the proximity of the man riding next to her and her recent track record with the opposite sex.
‘Getting back to what Rex said earlier, Elly, about the bush at night, well, you really shouldn’t let him scare you. What he’s suggesting should make a man curious, not scared. Wary, but not afraid. I only mention it again because you acted a little apprehensive about coming out with me this evening.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. And I understand that. This is an old country. With an old people. I’m not a smart man, Eleanor, but I do know that just because we can’t see something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.’ He switched on the torch, illuminating the narrow trail, quail fluttering from the grass. With their direction confirmed, he flicked the beam off again so as not to exhaust the battery. ‘But that doesn’t mean we should be afraid of our own shadows. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Eleanor could hardly admit her paranoia to Hugh.
‘Respect. That’s all this land wants, for everything and everyone in it, seen or unseen. She’s a woman for sure,’ he stated.
‘The bush is a woman?’ Eleanor quite liked the sound of that.
Hugh gave a low whistle. ‘Changes her mind on the flip of a three-penny piece, good to bad and back again. Wilful and lavish all at once.’ His voice was deep, resonant.
They rode on. The horses plodding carefully across the rough ground, the swish of their tails mingling with the breath of air weaving through the grasses.
Chapter Forty-five
The air was dark and still. Only the whisper of leaves and the spiral of stars served to remind Robbie of where he was. There it was again. A scratching noise. A grating sound. It was not coming from a branch above, nor from those around him. He sat up, listening. Disorientated, he waited for his mind to clear and for the sleep that crusted his eyelids to crumble beneath his touch. Robbie guessed it could be any number of animals, a foraging kangaroo or wallaby, a pig digging in the sandy soil, a bird perhaps. Whatever the creature that disturbed him, it was gone, leaving only silence.
Now he was awake, Robbie wondered what to do next. Returning home was not an option. He would only be packed off to school on the next train and probably given another belting as well for his troubles. No, if he returned to the house, it would be to collect a swag, his rifle and some extra supplies. A few clothes perhaps, the pup and old Garnet. He’d go inland to where no-one knew him. To a property where good men were needed. A cattle station. Yes. He could take Bluey then. He’d earn his keep. What station owner would turn down a man with a horse and dog, who owned his own rifle and who knew the ways of the bush?
Okay, Robbie reasoned, he was short for his age and yet to grow a beard of any kind, although the soft hairs on his chin showed great promise. And it was true he was young, but he could easily explain he was simply young-looking, but he was schooled enough to read and write and, if push came to shove, he could fight. He’d be sorry to leave River Run, but he knew he’d be sorrier still if he went to that fancy school in Sydney.
As he planned the next couple of days, a light flickered. He ducked automatically, chastising himself on realising that no-one could see him in the dark. Except that Eleanor knew where the tree was. He’d brought her here. To this very spot.
The light shone steadily. So
meone must have found the Winslows and sent out a search party. Robbie wondered frantically what to do next. He figured that his only option was to leave the tree and hide out elsewhere, until whoever was looking for him moved on. He thought of the swim at dusk, at the footprints he’d probably left in the sand. Jiminy Cricket, he mumbled, annoyed.
Like a crab, he shifted his backside across the wobbly planks and, lifting a branch, peered in the direction of the searchlight. There it was. Flickering among the trees. It wasn’t a torch. A kerosene lantern, maybe. Rex was partial to using those lamps, as was Mrs Howell when the generator broke down. Robbie watched and waited. If the light headed directly towards the tree he would climb down, backtrack along the river to confuse the pursuers, cut into the scrub and then double-back to the tree, once whoever trailed him moved on. Yes, he decided, that was a good plan.
But the light remained distant. An unsteady shine that glimmered brightly before fading to a pinprick and then brightening once again. Something wasn’t right. Not only was the light changing in shape and size, it also appeared to be stationary. Robbie swivelled on the wooden planks, checking directions. The light was further along the river. In the opposite direction to the homestead.
Why would they come that way? he wondered, thinking of his father and Eleanor. They wouldn’t, he was sure of that. The queasy sensation growing in his gut had little to do with the beans and water consumed earlier. No, this was a feeling of things not being right.
Someone else was out here, with him, in the scrub.
Robbie scrambled down from the tree, missed a foothold and fell heavily the last few feet, to land awkwardly on his back. He lay quite still, stunned by the fall and then, momentarily entranced by the heavens, observed the stars as they appeared to dance amidst wind-blown leaves, the Southern Cross angled across the heavens, and near it, the potty in the sky. He rose carefully, gingerly checking each limb and, without further thought, commenced walking towards the unknown light.
Chapter Forty-six
Eleanor trailed Hugh through the mesh of trees hugging the river, the torch revealing living walls of knotty bark and a narrow animal track, kangaroo made. The marsupial’s imprint marked the sandy ground, paws and tail tracking towards the waterway. The riders ducked beneath thick, sticky webs spun between saplings. They brushed away large scuttling spiders and frightened wallabies and rabbits from hidey-holes. At every step, Hugh guided Eleanor, calling out to warn of a fallen bough, a web, or the need to veer left or right. She followed him blindly, focusing on the dismal light that emanated from his hand, wondering at every step how he’d actually got her to come with him out into the night.
‘Are you sure the water is ahead of us, Hugh?’
He tugged on the reins, bringing their journey to a standstill. ‘Smell the air.’
The previous dryness that seemed to crackle around them in the paddock was now replaced with something slightly different.
‘There’s a tonne of water in the river.’ Taking a drink from a waterbag, he passed it to Eleanor. ‘That’s what you can smell. It’s still as hot as blazes, but the slight breeze coming off the river makes a difference.’
She accepted the water gratefully, their fingers touching for the briefest of moments. Eleanor thought of that slight contact as the horses wound through the trees, the gradual slope of the country eventually leading them to the riverbank. Hugh shone the torch across the shadowy expanse of water, the narrow beam highlighting a barely rippling surface.
‘Left or right?’ asked Hugh.
‘Right,’ replied Eleanor.
‘I do like a confident woman.’ He shone the beam on the ground. Boot marks were visible in the sand.
‘Are they small enough to be Robbie’s?’ Eleanor followed Hugh’s line of sight as he turned his horse and began to follow the river’s edge.
‘They sure are.’
A few minutes later, and after a number of false searches, they finally located Robbie’s tree. Hugh picked up the empty tin of beans and shined the torch through the branches. They both called his name.
‘He’s not here.’ Eleanor was crestfallen. ‘How can he not be here?’
Only the rising wind answered.
‘He’s moving again.’ Hugh, squatting on the ground, checked the direction of the footprints. ‘Come on.’
Chapter Forty-seven
Robbie kept on crawling until he was close enough to see the men sitting around the campfire. Edging his way to a fallen log, he stretched out lengthwise so that his body was concealed by the timber and there was a clear view between the hoary roots. They were roasting something gamey, roo perhaps. And he guessed they’d been rough with the butchering, for it was the stink of fur on the air that had helped lead him here. Robbie reckoned he’d walked nearly two miles in search of the unknown light. Certainly his feet were in agreement. And had exhaustion not tempered his enthusiasm, he’d been of half a mind on arrival to confront the men and ask what on earth they were doing on River Run. But he’d squatted behind a tree to catch his breath, finally remembering, with some annoyance, that he had no horse, or rifle for that matter.
While the strangers did. Two firearms.
There were three of them. The two that faced him were rangy looking men with beards. Bear-eaters from the stony mountains to the east, he surmised, remembering comments he’d overheard his father make. The man with his back towards Robbie was slighter in build and yet to speak, engrossed as he was with a length of stick, a chunk of meat speared on the end. With the meat extended over the flames and his companions chewing on their own portions, they talked intermittently. The conversation revolved around a lack of decent tucker, the sour taste of river water and the searing heat.
Roo shooters, he decided. Two rifles rested on unfurled swags.
‘What I wouldn’t give for a decent feed,’ one of the men said, his mouth bunched with meat. ‘We’ve been sitting here for the good part of a week waiting for you to show up.’
A second man with a droopy moustache belched. ‘Steady on, McCormack. The boy’s explained himself and more. Besides, we’ll be leaving with more than we arrived with.’
‘No doubt about that,’ replied the first man, albeit grudgingly. ‘We’d best hightail it out of here afore first light.’
They weren’t a talkative mob, thought Robbie. Not like his home where everyone spoke at once and a person had to put their hand up to be heard. He’d given up on that. No, he’d rather be outdoors where no-one could tell him what to do and if he did want to say something, well, the whole of River Run listened. He lay on his back and stared at the stars as one of the men played a soulful tune on a harmonica. There it was again. The same song the jackeroo sang only a couple of days ago. Even his father hummed it occasionally.
Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above …
Well, you aren’t getting mine, Robbie whispered.
The men settled down for the night, unrolling swags and savouring a last smoke as the yellow flames of the fire wrapped around a burning log. Robbie, mesmerised by the curls of fire licking and stroking the wood, felt his eyelids grow heavy. He drifted in and out of sleep, desperate to stay awake but cursed by tiredness. His plan was to keep an eye on the men until they slept, steal one of the rifles and then wait till morning before surprising them and walking the intruders back to the homestead. No-one would send him to boarding school then.
Near midnight came the barest drop in temperature and a rising wind. A willy-willy gathered dirt and leaves, spinning the earthy debris across Robbie as he slept. He awoke with a start, digging a finger into his eyes and ears in search of the grit that layered his body like a blanket. From somewhere in the darkness came the howl of a dog, matched by a deep, chortling screech of a noise. One of the men was snoring.
From between the chunky timber roots, Robbie could see the sleeping forms of the strangers. The fire was reduced to glowing embers but there was enough light to show the occupants in the clearing and the rifles, carele
ssly left to one side. Satisfied the outsiders slept and with a confidence provided by the moonless sky, very carefully Robbie began to crawl out from undercover of the tree stump. Inch by inch, he crept slowly across the ground, flattening his body on the dirt, his fingers splayed over the earth until he imagined himself a lizard, in pursuit of prey.
The men’s breathing was rhythmic. The snoring continued. Digging the toes of his boots in the ground, Robbie moved closer to where the rifles lay on hessian sacks. Holding his breath, he reached out and clasped the barrel of one of the weapons. The metal was cold as he dragged the firearm slowly across the dirt until it rested safely by his side. Reaching for the second firearm, something in the fire popped and fizzed. Disturbed, one of the strangers stirred, rolling onto his side. Robbie planted his face in the dirt, staying perfectly still for long minutes, hoping for the best.
Dirt edged its way up into his nose. He wriggled his nostrils uncomfortably. It wasn’t worth being discovered, he decided, electing to leave the second firearm behind. Instead he reached out tentatively, searching the dismal pile of stores stacked nearby. He located a box of cartridges among a scant supply of flour and sugar. No saddlebags, he realised, no saddles. The men were on foot as well. Relieved by this knowledge, he edged back from the rim of the fire into the safety of the night. The odds were looking a lot better.
Perched against the stump, Robbie ran a hand across the barrel and stock of the rifle. ‘Jiminy Cricket,’ he exclaimed excitedly, before lowering his voice. ‘A Winchester.’ Robbie did his best Jimmy Stewart impersonation, repeating his favourite line from the movie: ‘That’s too much gun for a man to have just for … shootin’ rabbits.’ He flicked the lever action back and forth and, without thinking, pulled the trigger. The gun went off, flinging Robbie hard against the stump and winding him. ‘Holy cow,’ he said painfully, grasping his shoulder, which took the brunt of the recoil.
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