Wimmera Gold

by Peter Corris

  'These blacks, are they any problem when you get out of town?'

  'I don't take your meaning.'

  'Well, will they attack a traveller? Throw their spears or anything like that?'

  'Bless you, no sir. They're harmless and I doubt you'll see any between here and Bacchus Marsh. They're a dying breed, the blacks. A lazy lot, won't work, and when they do a hand's turn and earn a few coppers it all goes on drink. Bushrangers now, they're a worry.

  'Bushrangers?'

  'Scum who rob travellers on the roads. But I've not heard of it for a good long time on the Bacchus Marsh road.'

  But Lincoln was not heading for Bacchus Marsh, which lay to the north and back towards Melbourne. His route was west past some small holdings with stone fences and on into less closely settled country. The narrow gravel road gave way to a wide track cut through the rough country by wheels and hoofs. It did not inspire confidence. It was more like a Texas or Arizona trail into the badlands than an Argentine pista. As Jem snorted, tossed his head and trotted briskly along the rutted track, Lincoln began to wish that he had his Colt to hand. After a few hours riding, he stopped to let the horse lap at a puddle and graze. He unstrapped the saddlebags and took the pistol out of its holster. Standing beside the track with the sun high and hot in the sky and the birds shrilling around him, his mood changed. He felt a sense of peace and calm creep through him.

  A sudden thudding noise caused him to drop into a crouch and lift the pistol. A smallish grey animal jumped from the scrub onto and across the track—three single thudding bounds and it was gone. Lincoln had never seen movement of this kind before. He gaped in astonishment at the green-grey patch of bush where the animal had disappeared. He laughed and Jem skittered nervously, restoring Lincoln to a sense of purpose.

  'Kangaroo, I guess,' Lincoln said, 'thought they'd be bigger.'

  He remounted and rode on, enjoying the clean air after the city fug. The day was warming up fast, releasing strong and unfamiliar smells from the bush. What had at first seemed drab and monotonous began to take on different tones, lighter shades and mottlings that were restful to the eye. He saw flowers at the side of the track and some creepers snaking through the lower branches of the scrub had small, bright leaves and berries. From his time among the Mescaleros he had learned to distinguish the calls of a dozen or more birds and his ear was attuned to these sounds. Over the intermittent hum of the cicadas he could hear birds but could identify none of them. He decided that he liked the Australian bush but that he had a hell of a lot to learn about it.

  The saddle design was unfamiliar, too, and he knew that it would weary him for the first few days. The sun climbed and he took off his jacket, riding in flannel shirt with a kerchief loosely knotted about his neck, drill trousers and a broad-brimmed Argentine hat. He wore his leather gloves although it irked him to wear a glove on the right hand. The track ran almost due west and, unconsciously, Lincoln fell back on his American experience—when in trouble, head west, away from where the people were.

  There were few enough of them out here. He left the track to avoid a couple of small settlements, easily spotted in advance by the presence of a creek or a crossroad. In the course of his morning's ride he encountered several wagons loaded with hay, a few single riders heading towards Geelong, a shepherd and his dog moving a flock across the track and a man in a dark suit ineptly driving a dog cart—a doctor or a clergyman, Lincoln calculated. Some acknowledged him, others did not.

  Lincoln was cautious with his nods and hat-touching. It seemed to him that there were plenty of places for the bushrangers to hide but very little work for them to do. He was encouraged. He'd seen dusty coaches roll into Melbourne, sometimes disgorging well-heeled passengers. There seemed to be nothing like that out here.

  By noon the heat was intense and he left the road to push through some light scrub down to a shallow creek. He left Jem to drink and lapped up some of the muddy water himself. He tethered the horse, fed him some apples and sat in the shade with his pistol by his hand. He opened one of his tins of meat and ate it off the blade of his knife. He ate some bread and two apples. The bush hummed and buzzed around him. There was no breeze and the heat was intense. Lincoln had heard the thudding noise in the scrub several times and glimpsed the strange, hopping animals which were no longer a novelty. Now, he saw several of them come down to the creek, drink and hop away. He wondered if it was possible to eat them. He placed his handkerchief over his face but the buzzing of the swarm of flies that descended on the meat tin made it impossible to fall asleep.

  He scraped a hole and buried the tin but the impulse to sleep had passed. The horse snorted and flicked his tail at the flies. Lincoln stared at the slowly moving creek, noticing the eroded bends and the remains of a wooden structure running down the bank a little further upstream. He concluded that the stream had been worked by miners, sluicing and panning for gold. It seemed an unlikely spot to yield wealth, but then, the Gila mine was set into the most barren-looking hillside he'd ever seen. You could never tell what the earth would give up. Lincoln wandered along the side of the creek, registering the throaty croak of the frogs and the marks where small creatures had scuttled through the mud. Crawfish, he thought, sure is like parts of Taxas down here.

  Late in the afternoon he saw 'Colac, 5 mile' crudely lettered on a rock at a point where the road forked. He was weary from the ride after so long out of the saddle and the tension of the past twenty-four hours. He judged that he was far enough away from Melbourne to risk entering a country town and he was attracted by the name. Was it another word from the language of the blacks, he wondered. And when would he finally get to see some of these mysterious creatures who seemed to have almost vanished from the face of the land?

  A mile out of Colac Jem went lame. Lincoln had judged the horse to be sound but he was evidently past his best and the long ride had been too much for him. Lincoln dismounted and covered the distance on foot, glad to be out of the saddle. It was almost dark when he entered Colac, a quiet village with a short main street fronted by some imposing municipal and commercial buildings. Lincoln stopped the first person he encountered and requested directions to the livery.

  The tall, tow-headed young man wearing an overall and heavy boots and smelling of cement dust, stared at him. 'Sorry, mister—don't know what you mean.'

  Lincoln pointed to the horse. 'He's lame. I need the livery, where he can rest up, get a poultice maybe.'

  'Your horse is lame?'

  'Right.'

  The youth pointed. 'You want Blaxland's stables. Down that way, first right and second on the left.'

  Lincoln thanked him and led the horse through the streets. He was tired to the bone and stumbled several times as he crossed the roughly paved streets. Away from the main thoroughfare, the town was quiet with lanterns burning in the windows of some of the houses while others were already in darkness. The horse neighed and tossed its head as it limped along. Lincoln cleared his throat and spat into the dust. 'Water and oats for you, Jem, and a beer and a steak for me,' he said. 'Always supposin' I can find this goddamn stableyard.'

  The horse pen-cum-barn, built of split logs with a corrugated-iron roof, was surrounded by a high fence with a gate that carried a faded sign—Blaxland & Son. Lincoln unlatched the gate and conducted the horse into the yard. He tied him to a post and rapped on the door of the barn, encouraged by a faint glow from within the building.

  'Hello, there.'

  There was no response.

  Lincoln kicked at the door. 'I need some service. Hello in there.'

  The door creaked open on faulty hinges and a woman stood framed against the dim light. 'It's late. What d'you want?'

  Lincoln pulled off his hat. 'Ma'am, I've got me a lame horse here and I'm not in much better condition myself. Like to leave the horse for the night, maybe get some doctoring for him, too.'

  The woman was tall and strongly built, wearing a light coloured dress, the hem of which she held up with one hand. She had
a high forehead, a prominent nose and a wide mouth. Her dark hair was tied up at the back of her head. 'That would cost you a shilling for the stall and feed. My son could look at the horse in the morning.'

  That'd be fine.'

  'We could give you a meal and a bed for the night. Three shillings.'

  'Ah, I was kinda hoping for a hot bath and a drink or two. I'm mighty saddle-sore.'

  'You can have a bath and I can send Ned to the hotel for beer. I won't have spirits in the house.'

  'I'd be happy with beer, Mrs Blaxland.'

  'That's settled then. Put your horse in one of the empty stalls and bring your things into the house, Mr … ?'

  'Shelby, Tom Shelby.'

  'American?'

  'Canadian. God save the Queen.'

  The woman laughed. 'I'm Thelma Blaxland, but I was born O'Doherty. I've got no time for the English queen.'

  'Well, I must confess I don't give her a lot of thought myself. It was just a way of speaking.'

  Lincoln unsaddled Jem, led him to a stall and filled the box with feed. He pumped water into a bucket and gave the horse a drink while talking soothingly to him. He examined the lame leg but the light was too dim for him to make a judgment. The woman watched him critically. 'You care about that horse,' she said. 'Had him long?'

  'No, but he's a good honest horse. Your son's good with horses?'

  'He's good with everything. I'll see you up to the house, Mr Shelby. Would you prefer your bath before your dinner?'

  'Whichever's easiest for you, Ma'am.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I don't care whether I have the food or the bath first. You have to heat the water and all. I'll leave it to you.'

  Thelma Blaxland touched her tightly coiled hair. 'Very well. The stove's hot. You can eat first. I'll send Ned to the pub now. You'll be bathing late.'

  Lincoln shouldered his saddlebags. Widow, for sure, he thought. And not a bad-looking one at that.

  24

  The horse was still lame the next morning and Ned, Thelma Blaxland's quick and capable fourteen-year-old son, estimated that the stone bruise would take a couple of days to heal. Lincoln made himself useful around the stables, forking hay, carrying feed bags and exercising the horses. Reginald Blaxland had been kicked in the head and trampled by a half-broken brumby two years before and had died after being a bedridden cripple for six months. He had left his wife and son a moderately successful business at which they both worked hard. Colac serviced a prosperous sheep, dairy cattle and farming district, and the widow Blaxland owned several town lots as well as the half acre occupied by the stables.

  Most of this Lincoln learned when the widow came to his bed on the second night. She waited until her son was snoring and then entered Lincoln's room wearing a blue nightdress with lace around the neck and with her glossy brown hair, newly washed and scented, flowing down over her shoulders and chest.

  It was still hot after a scorching day and Lincoln, covered to the waist by a sheet, was propped up against his pillow reading the Corio Chronicle. He had been anxiously scanning the 'Melbourne Intelligence' section for mention of the hotel robbery. Aware throughout the past two days of the woman's interest in him, he was still surprised by her appearance.

  'Mrs Blaxland.'

  'Thelma, Tessa, they used to call me at home.'

  'Tessa, that's a fine name.'

  She sat on the bed. 'I was married young. I'm not an old woman.'

  In the dim light of the lantern her slightly weatherbeaten skin looked smoother. She had plucked her eyebrows, applied some face powder and lip rouge. Lincoln put down the newspaper. 'That's the truth,' Lincoln said. 'You're fine looking, Tessa.'

  'Not so bad, perhaps.'

  His scarred, gnarled left hand lay on top of the sheet. She lifted it and pressed it against her breasts. His impulse was to jerk the hand away angrily, but he could not remember when he had last been with a woman and her touch was delicious. He could feel the softness of her through the cotton. Gently, he withdrew the damaged hand and caressed her in the same place with the other. Her nipples hardened.

  'The boy?' he said thickly.

  'He's asleep, poor lad. He works hard.'

  'Yes.' Lincoln felt her hand run down his bare chest, smoothing the fine dark hair. He closed his eyes, hoping the hand would go lower. It did; she gripped his growing erection and he groaned as he reached to pull her closer. She slid forward on the bed and he kissed her, taking her strong chin in his mangled hand.

  'Yes,' she said. 'Oh, yes.'

  Lincoln buried his face in her hair. It smelled of apples. He kissed her fiercely. Her breath tasted of cloves. She was almost lying on top of him now with her nightdress riding up. He tugged at it and his hands fell on her buttocks.

  'Jesus,' he said. 'Oh, Jesus.'

  Tessa laughed. 'Stop your blaspheming, Mr Shelby. Where are you? Oh, God. Yes, there. Come on. I'll move up. Oh, oh. Can you? Yes! Ah!'

  They made love four times the first night they spent together and after she left him Lincoln slept, exhausted until midday. She woke him with a cup of tea.

  'I've told the boy you're sick.'

  Lincoln drank gratefully, 'I'm not sick, I'm dead.'

  She laughed. Her hair was tied tightly back and in her severe dress she was again the businesswoman.'You're younger than me, Tom Shelby. You should be ashamed of yourself.'

  'Are you, Tessa? Ashamed I mean?'

  'I am not. I was never much of a one for religion. The animals do what they do and are we all that much different?'

  Lincoln had vague recollections of having read similar sentiments in newspapers. They were at variance with his father's preaching, but not, perhaps, with his practice. He kept his left hand under the sheet and touched her face with the other hand. 'I guess not.'

  'Your horse is sound.'

  Lincoln's mind raced. He was too close to Melbourne for comfort but otherwise in a very agreeable position—taken in under a false name by an obliging woman with her own establishment. His relations with Ted were cordial, so far, and he calculated that the boy could be persuaded to accept him. In the harsh midday light flooding through the thin curtain, Thelma Blaxland was no beauty. Her features were an odd combination of heaviness and delicacy and her shoulders and hips were wide. But she was an amiable woman with some prestige in the town. He moved his hand to her breast. 'Thought I might stay awhile. There's too much work around here for just you and the boy.'

  She leaned forward and kissed him. 'I'm glad. Are you planning to get out of bed today?'

  'I wouldn't, if'n you was to get in here with me.'

  'The boy,' she said.

  'Right. And the horses and the chores.'

  'Tonight, Tom. Tonight, dear.'

  At the end of the week an item appeared in the Corio Chronicle:

  POLICE SEEK AMERICAN ROBBER

  Melbourne—Thursday. Police are seeking Wesley Lincoln, an American who robbed the Spencer Arms Hotel of £150 last week. The hotel manager, Mr James Powell, was bound and gagged and collapsed after he had managed to free himself and raise the alarm. He had to be taken to hospital and has only now been able to talk to police.

  Mr Powell describes Lincoln as 'tall, with a dark beard, aged around 30 with a pleasant manner'. He threatened Mr Powell with a revolver and is evidently a dangerous person …

  Lincoln smiled as he read the article. That shifty little rat, he thought. Lifted more than a hundred pounds himself and laid the blame on me. But that description ain't worth a damn. Powell had also given him plenty of time to get clear. He folded the paper and relaxed in his chair.

  Tessa, sitting opposite him in the parlour, looked up from her knitting. 'What are you smiling at?'

  'You're smiling, too.'

  'I'm very glad you came here. I'm happy.'

  'Ned ain't.'

  'He'll come round. He had great admiration for his father.'

  'What kind of a man was he, Tessa?'

  'He was a good enough man when h
e was sober. Which he mostly was. But he was drunk the night the horse kicked him. Ned doesn't know anything about that, of course. That's why I'll only have beer and sherry wine in the house. My father drank whiskey when he could get it. Drink is the ruin of men in this country.'

  Tessa drank a glass of sherry before her evening meal on every second night and sometimes took half a glass of beer with the food. She treated alcohol the way some people did arsenic—as a deadly poison that could be a kind of tonic if taken carefully in minute doses. This attitude amused Lincoln, who did not care about strong drink one way or the other. He noticed that men in Colac drank a good deal and that some who came to the stables smelled strongly of it, even early in the morning. He had kept himself in the background thus far, saying little, venturing no information about himself and allowing Tessa to account for his presence. Now he would be able to relax a little.

  'Bed, Tom?'

  After the years of wandering, Lincoln enjoyed the settled life in Colac. Weeks went by with no sign of any untoward interest being taken in him and he relaxed into the name and identity of the Canadian Tom Shelby. Increasingly, Tessa left the management of the stables and associated activities to him and Ned and concentrated on keeping house, caring for the garden, small apple orchard and chicken coop and making precise entries in the ledgers. She had a talent for figures and was making money at an impressive rate. She paid Lincoln thirty shillings a week and urged him to put the money in the bank. To oblige her, Lincoln banked a fraction of it but he had never overcome his suspicion of banks even though no one seemed to rob them in this quiet country.

  After a few months, Lincoln sold Jem to a squatter and used the proceeds, plus what he'd saved, to buy a chocolate-brown stallion which he named Jackson.

  'Why Jackson?' Tessa asked.

  'He was a Southern general. Great man.'

  'You're a Canadian. What's all that got to do with you?'

  'Oh, I spent a bit of time down there in years gone by. In Texas mainly.'