The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  Pat’s pistol was suddenly in his hand, not pointing at anyone, not yet, but there.

  Charlie stared uneasily at it. ‘No need for that.’

  Pat grinned, confidence swelling. ‘Reckon I’ll be the one saying what’s needed and what ain’t.’ Suddenly he raised his pistol. The muzzle ranged hungrily over Charlie’s shirt-front, three yards away. ‘Best put yore gun on the ground, Charlie. Nice and easy, like. Just so’s there’s no more misunderstandin’s, eh?’

  Charlie licked his lips. Give in to Pat now, he was a dead man. No one could back down from a challenge like this and live. But Pat had the gun raised, finger taut upon the trigger, and Charlie hadn’t.

  ‘No need for that,’ Charlie said again.

  Pat did not bother to answer but instead gestured with the muzzle of the pistol.

  Charlie cursed and threw his pistol in the dirt. Pat leaned forward and took it up, eyes and gun still focused on Charlie’s big body.

  ‘Reckon she’s mine after all,’ he said. ‘You kin ’ave a taste, too, Billy Boy. If there’s anythin’ left by the time I’m through wiv ’er.’ He grinned, reflections from the firelight dancing in his mad eyes. ‘You’re a bit of a problem, though, Charlie. Wot am I goin’ to do wiv you?’

  And fired.

  The crash of the gun, the swirl of burnt powder smoke, filled the clearing.

  Throughout the ride Andrew had not been feeling as good as he had pretended back at camp but he’d had no thought of turning back. He would not have it said that he had stayed behind while his wife was in danger.

  I am riding on the Lord’s business, he thought. Words from the Book drummed in his head to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

  Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away: and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God.

  Aye, he thought, lips drawn back from his teeth. Let them all perish. They have struck me and mine. Let them perish.

  They had crossed the river at the rock shelf.

  ‘You think they came this way?’ Andrew had asked Grant.

  ‘Sure to. I told you, they got a bolt-hole south of the river.’

  ‘But why here?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the best place.’

  After that, south of the river, things had gone much more slowly. The tracker had led, leaning low out of the saddle, eyes fixed on the ground as he trotted slowly through the trees. Extraordinary how he could pick up tracks, Andrew had thought. The ground itself was barely visible.

  Now they were an hour from the river. Andrew saw the tracker raise his hand and reined in his horse. Grant was at his shoulder, Andrew beside him.

  The tracker pointed. ‘Him fire,’ he said.

  At first Andrew saw nothing, then he moved his head and saw the faint prick of orange between the trees.

  ‘Have to go in on foot,’ Grant said. His voice was so soft Andrew had a problem hearing him three yards away. ‘Bush too thick for horses.’

  ‘How do we know it’s them?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘No one else in this area.’ He detailed three of the party. ‘Pete, Doug, Vince, I want you to work your way around the back. Make sure they don’t see you. The rest of us will go in from the front. Any we miss may try to skid out that way. Don’t shoot until you know what you’re shooting at. I don’t want to stop a bullet because one of you blokes got too excited to see straight.’

  ‘How many are there?’ one of the boys asked.

  ‘There were three attacked us,’ Andrew said.

  Grant nodded. ‘I doubt there’s more. This country couldn’t support more than three.’

  The men disappeared silently into the shadows.

  ‘Give them five minutes, we’ll go in our selves. Keep well spaced out, it’ll make it harder for them to hit us,’ Grant said to Andrew.

  Suddenly there was the distant sound of a pistol shot, sharp and unexpected.

  ‘Damn those clumsy fools of mine,’ Grant said furiously. ‘Someone’s spotted them.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s get after them.’

  At the sound of the shot, Lorna curled herself tighter, arms crossed in front of her, hands hugging her ribs, legs drawn up. Her eyes were screwed shut.

  She did not know what had happened. She did not want to know. Here, in the blackness behind her eyelids, she was safe. Nothing could happen to her, here.

  Nothing could happen to nothing.

  Tears squeezed between her closed eyelids and ran down her cheeks.

  She did not move.

  Charlie saw the decision in Pat’s eyes and threw himself sideways in the split second before the gun went off. The shot missed.

  Charlie landed on his feet, knife in his hand, blood running unnoticed down his sleeve where the ball had creased him. A blink of time as Pat fought the realisation that the man he had killed at a range of less than three yards was not dead after all, nor even out of action. In that blink, Charlie leapt. He grabbed Pat by the hair, hauled his head back and plunged the knife into his chest. The blade went home with a meaty thwack. Pat’s body heaved convulsively then became still.

  Charlie turned snarling on Billy Boy, backed up on the far side of the fire. The blooded blade shone red in the light.

  ‘Wanner try yore luck, too?’

  ‘You killed Pat,’ Billy Boy mumbled, shocked eyes staring. ‘What you do that for?’

  It was a stupid question and Charlie did not bother to answer. ‘Mebbe I should kill you, too,’ he said. ‘Get meself some new boys.’

  Had Billy Boy made the slightest movement Charlie would have done it, the killing rage still burning in his veins. He still might. They stared at each other across the red flicker of the dying flames. Pat’s body lay to one side, eyes staring. There was a lot of blood.

  Billy Boy eased his empty hands wide, knowing how close he was to death. ‘Easy, Charlie,’ he whispered. ‘Easy, mate.’

  Slowly Charlie’s breathing eased and silence returned to the tiny clearing. In the silence they heard a commotion of running men.

  ‘They found us.’ Charlie transferred the knife to his left hand and snatched his pistol from his belt. ‘Git out the back,’ he hissed. ‘Afore they gets ’ere. I’ll bring the girl.’

  Billy Boy, in a quagmire of terror, knew that by going back for the girl, Charlie was putting them both in danger.

  Leave the bloody bitch. There’s plenty more.

  He wanted to say it but there was no time. He turned and fled crashing through the bush.

  For a precious second Charlie paused, head cocked, listening to retribution descending on him. There was no time to go anywhere, do anything.

  His lips drew back over his blackened teeth, his eyes glared red with the firelight in them. He screamed, ‘All right, you bastards, let’s see ’ow you go against a real man.’

  Pistol in one hand, bloodied knife in the other, he flung himself through the doorway of the hut.

  Lorna whimpered as the figure of the man came plunging into the hut. She sat up.

  ‘What is it?’ Trembling, knowing he would protect her but frightened all the same.

  He stumbled, groping. ‘Where the hell are yer?’

  ‘Here.’

  He turned at her voice and came and crouched down beside her, his face turned towards the door. The faint light shone on the stubbled cheeks, the glaring eyes.

  ‘What—?’

  He dug his fingers hard into her arm, cutting off her words. ‘Shut yer mouth!’

  They waited, side by side in the darkness, watching the rectangle of faint light where the doorway was.

  She did not know what was out there. All she knew was she feared it. She wanted to curl up again, shut her eyes, hide from everything that lay beyond her clenched eyelids.

  Pat has gone mad, she thought. We are waiting here for him to come in after us. Charlie will kill him and then all will be well again. There was comfort in the thought. Charlie’s presence took from her the need to think, to do
anything herself.

  A thud of feet outside the door. In the faint light, Lorna saw Charlie’s lips drawn back over his teeth as he raised his gun.

  The shot, the blinding flash of light, made Andrew stagger as he crowded the doorway at Grant’s shoulder. There was another shot, another flash, as Grant fired back. The twin concussions set his ears ringing but they were inside the hut now. There was a movement somewhere in the darkness in front of them and Grant fired again.

  Silence, then a sound detached from reality, a thin high keening. They could see nothing.

  ‘Get a light,’ Grant said sharply.

  Andrew brought a brand from the fire and raised it, the flame spluttering and smoking. They stared appalled at what the flame revealed.

  One of the bushrangers lay unmoving in a corner of the hut. The light reflected off his open eyes. The front of his shirt was black with blood. The other figure, thin and frail, dressed in some kind of flimsy white clothing flecked with red, lay curled tight against the rear wall.

  Andrew’s heart lurched sickeningly. ‘Lorna …’ He sprang forward, hand outstretched. ‘Merciful God …’

  Lorna moved. Her head emerged and her hand. Her eyes were blank, staring. Her hand held a pistol that swayed and juddered in her grasp. He saw her finger joint whiten on the trigger.

  He was on her. He wrestled the gun out of her grip and put his arms about her as she tried vainly to fight him off, raining blows upon his chest with her puny fists.

  ‘My God, girl,’ he cried to the roof over their heads, ‘what have they done to you?’

  They had brought a rope but no hanging was needed.

  Pat was dead before they got there. Charlie Smith had died in the hut, chest blown away by Grant’s ball. His own ball they found wedged in the wooden framework of the door. It had passed directly between Grant and Andrew without touching them.

  ‘There can’t have been inches between us coming through that door,’ Grant said. ‘Reckon we were lucky.’

  Billy Boy ran into the three men guarding the rear of the huts. They killed him before he had the time to draw his gun.

  They brought the body in and threw it down beside the others. Andrew stared at them. ‘I dinna ken what the law would say.’

  ‘We are the law.’ Grant turned to his boys standing in a circle about the dying fire. Somewhere beyond the close press of trees dawn was breaking and a wan greyness had begun to filter into the clearing. ‘Dig a hole and bury them.’ To Andrew he said, ‘You’d better stay with your wife.’

  Neither Andrew nor anyone else knew what to do about her.

  After that first outburst of frenzied violence she had lapsed into silence. She lay in a corner of the hut on a dirty scrap of sacking, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped about her body. She stared and stared. When he spoke to her, she did not answer. She seemed unaware of anything going on about her.

  Book Two

  The Run

  A land so inviting, and still without inhabitants!

  Major Thomas Mitchell (1836)

  TEN

  Early in the morning, two weeks after crossing the Murray, they came to a place where the ground fell away before them into a wide, deep valley. Between the trees they looked out at an expanse of land bordered at its far end by a line of hills. No smoke rose above the trees to indicate the presence of other settlers. A few birds flew through the bush but that was all. The valley dreamed in the sun, empty and enticing and so beautiful.

  Andrew stood at the point where the land fell away. His eyes drank in the sweet curve of the hills, the miles of timber, the dark shine of the river running through the valley bottom. He turned to George, standing at his elbow.

  ‘What d’ye think, George?’ Voice excited, hungry.

  ‘Looks good to me.’

  Andrew knelt and sifted the dusty soil through his hands. He looked up. ‘Soil’s thin. But it’ll be good for pasture, won’t it, George?’

  ‘Should be, with the river down yonder. Mind you, she’ll get a lot o’ rain, this close to them ’ills.’

  Too much rain brought footrot but Andrew did not want to hear that. ‘It’s well drained. See.’ Again he sifted the soil. Falling, it left a smear of dust in the air. ‘Nae water will stand long in that.’

  He stood up. ‘What do ye think, George? It’s your decision, too, mind.’

  They both knew the decision had been made.

  George nodded slowly. ‘Reckon she’ll do.’

  Andrew stared with shining eyes at the prospect before them, at the future that he could see so clearly, embodied within the hills and valley at their feet. ‘I reckon she will, an’ all.’ Exuberance overcame him. He seized George by the shoulders and shook him, laughing out loud. ‘Look at it, George! There must be fifty thousand acres there.’

  ‘More,’ George assured him. ‘Double.’

  ‘And all ours!’ He sobered. ‘This is a great day.’

  ‘Some glad to ’ave somewhere at last,’ George agreed.

  Andrew knelt, closed his eyes and lifted his hands and shining face to the heavens. ‘Lord God,’ he prayed, ‘ye have brought us out of the darkness into the promised land. Grant that we do not forget this day. Grant that we labour fruitfully in this place to your glory and the betterment of ourselves and our families. May we prosper and be fruitful here and never be unmindful of your goodness to us. Amen.’ He stood, dusting his knees. ‘Let’s get down there and see what the land’s like closer to the river. I want to start work on a shelter before the day’s oot.’

  The slope was gentle and the dray negotiated it without difficulty. Within two hours they were camped beside the banks of the river and the flock was already spreading out across the valley floor. Along the riverbank trees overhung the water. There were reeds and the grass was lush.

  Andrew and George walked along the bank, Andrew throwing his hands repeatedly in the air with excitement.

  ‘We shall call it Montrose,’ he said.

  ‘Sounds good.’ George knew well his opinion had not been asked.

  ‘Plenty o’ water, George. Must be four feet deep. More, in places.’

  He climbed down the bank, dipped his hand into the water and drank. ‘Cold,’ he said.

  ‘D’come from they mountains,’ George said, pointing. ‘Reckon we’ll get snow yur?’

  It was a startling thought after the long journey across the thirsty plains to the north.

  ‘Nae matter if we do. There’ll be nae heavy drifts so far down the valley. A wee sprinkling willna hurt.’

  ‘That may.’ George pointed at the branches of the trees overhead. They were clogged with debris from past floods. ‘That muck be ten feet over our ’eads, easy.’ He cast an appraising glance across the land bordering the river. ‘Floodwater that high, I reckon ’twill reach half way up that slope yonder. We’d best not be buildin’ too close to the river, Andy.’

  Andrew looked dubious. ‘Yon’s a long step for carrying water.’

  ‘Better’n ’avin’ to swim for it later.’

  They found a knoll, closely covered in trees, a quarter of a mile from the river. The summit of the knoll was twenty feet above the flood plain. They would be safe there.

  ‘We’ll camp by the river for now,’ Andrew said. ‘It’ll be safe enough. There’s been nae rain for days and it’s a lot handier for fetching water.’

  They picked a site thirty yards from the river where a group of trees cast a patch of shade that would shelter them from the midday sun. The men left the women unpacking the dray while they returned to the knoll with shovels and heavy axes. Minutes later, the valley resounded with noise—axes biting into wood, the groan and crash of falling timber.

  Mary and Lorna erected the tent while Matthew tried importantly to help them. They laid a fire and began to prepare a meal: the normal routine at the end of a day’s trail. It was hard to take in the fact that this time was different from the others, that they had arrived at their destination and would not be striking camp tomorr
ow and heading on into the unknown.

  ‘I’m gunna like it ’ere,’ Mary said.

  ‘Aye.’ Lorna pushed her hair back. ‘It’s pretty enough.’ But so far from anywhere. So much on our ain. They had already proved they weren’t capable of protecting themselves.

  Lorna seemed much better now. She did all the things she had done before the bushrangers had ambushed them. She talked to them all. Gaily, at times. Too gaily, perhaps. She helped Mary with the chores. She threw off any suggestion she should rest. Not knowing her, a stranger would have heard her laughter, observed her gaiety and never realised that anything had happened. If anything had. She never spoke of it, not a word. She seemed to have done what Mary wished so much she could do—put it out of her mind. But Mary was not a stranger, or had not been for now Lorna’s eyes were opaque and Mary hardly knew her.

  ‘You mustn’ think there’s blokes like that behind every bush, you know,’ Mary said, catching Lorna’s tone.

  ‘Thank God for it.’

  Andrew had shot a roo the day before. Mary fetched the joint that remained and began to cut it up. ‘I was that frightened for you,’ she ventured.

  ‘I was concairned, myself.’ Lorna’s voice, her expression, gave nothing.

  ‘There ’asn’t been a chance to talk till now. You wanner tell me what ’appened?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  Mary’s silence showed what she believed.

  Lorna’s eyes blazed. ‘I tell you—’

  Mary put down the knife. She seized Lorna’s hands in her own. She could feel them shaking, Lorna’s whole body shaking. ‘All right …’ Soothing. ‘I thought maybe you’d feel better if you let it out, like. Tha’s all.’

  Lorna stood, head averted. The too thin column of her neck rose above the worn dress. Mary put out her hand and caressed it. ‘Nuthin’s changed as far’s I’m concerned. Nuthin.’

  Lorna’s lips were trembling, her eyes screwed tight.