A Changing Land (40 page)

Crawford lifted the rifle.

Hamish didn't wait for the shot to be fired. He rushed at
Crawford, brandishing the nulla-nulla, immediately the sharp crack of gunfire echoed and Hamish felt hands pushing at him, slamming him into the wall. He looked across to see Luke, thrown backwards by the closeness of the shot, lifeless, his red blood staining the wooden boards.

With an almighty roar Hamish crossed the short distance to a stunned Crawford and, grabbing his pudgy neck, wrapped his hands about his throat. He lifted the Englishman into the air, oblivious to the torture of the added weight on his injured leg. He held on as the man spluttered, dropped the rifle and didn't let go until Crawford's eyes bulged and the stink of a bowel release stenched the air. The man fell to the ground, dead. Hamish stared at the corpse. This was not his first murder, but it was one that could lead to the undoing of his family.

He staggered back to Luke, gently turning him over. The bullet had gone clean through his shoulder. Luke, momentarily stunned into silence, looked up at his father's ragged face. Hamish gave the briefest of smiles before collapsing.

‘Father.' Angus ran to his father's side.

‘Holy frost, Angus,' Luke growled, leveraging his body up into a sitting position. ‘Can't you do one thing you're told?'

The boy ignored him. Hamish was breathing heavily, Crawford was dead. Luke wondered how the hell he was going to get everyone out of here.

‘Angus, you got your horse?'

The boy nodded between his tears. He was stroking his father's face. Willy popped his head up from the end of the verandah. ‘Mebbe take my horse.'

There was the sound of running feet. Luke reached for his own rifle, pointed the barrel towards the doorway. Willy ducked out of sight. A beak-nosed man and three black faces showed themselves before screaming and running in the opposite direction. Luke sat for some minutes, considering unfeasible options. Flies settled on
his wound, and massed also about his father. He pulled himself closer to where Hamish lay. His father's clothes were muddy and torn; there was a bloody wound to his thigh.

‘Horses,' Willy yelled. ‘Two.'

Luke rested his rifle across his legs. Payback was coming.

‘Burn the place.' Hamish's voice cut strongly across his thoughts. Luke watched his father lift a bloody hand to Angus, cup his boy about the neck and draw him close. ‘Burn it,' he growled.

‘Do it,' Luke agreed. ‘Willy, go with Angus. Start a fire. A big one. Stack all the wood you can find in the kitchen and light it up.'

As the men galloped to the homestead gate, Angus picked up Crawford's rifle and ran behind the house with Willy. Luke guessed that the rather flashily dressed white man was none other than Crawford's son. The boy had drawn a pistol and with a black by his side, ducked behind a tree.

Luke cocked his rifle, pointed it in the two men's direction. ‘Stop there.'

‘Where's my father?' A pronounced English voice called.

Luke looked at Crawford's prone body, then at his father's still heaving chest. ‘Dead.' Through the trees to the left of the homestead, black maids were running off into the bush. Luke leant his head against the cool of the mud brick wall. There was no way of getting out of this predicament, it was either fight or see his father jailed for murder. Crawford's son and the black began to walk towards them. Their boots crunched dry dirt. Luke wiped his sweating hand on his moleskin trousers, took hold of the rifle more firmly. His hands were shaking.

Crawford's son scanned the verandah, pointing his pistol at Luke's chest. ‘I'll see you hang for this.'

The impact of the shot drove William Crawford backwards. He fell squarely on his arse before falling down dead.

Angus dropped the rifle, a determined look on his face.

‘Whitefella business.' The black stockman backed away, holding his hands high in surrender.

Luke let him go. No one would take his word. He turned to stare at his unflinching half-brother.

‘Is it done?' Hamish turned his neck to where William Crawford lay.

Luke helped his father into a sitting position. ‘Yes, Father, it's done.'

Hamish clutched at Luke's good shoulder. ‘Throw the bodies in the fire and then get me over the river, Luke. I need to die on Wangallon.'

Luke checked the wound on his father's leg. The trousers were soaked through with his blood. ‘You won't be dying, Father.'

Hamish gave a weak chuckle and placed his hand on his elder son's shoulder. ‘This time we both know better.'

Sarah arrived home as a weak sun struggled amid cloud for midday prominence. Her flight had been delayed from Sydney by fog and she was overtired, with a boot load of groceries to unpack. Struggling up the back path with plastic shopping bags twisted around her fingers and Frank Michaels' package squeezed under her arm, she dumped the bags on the kitchen table, her blood supply nearly cut off. The kitchen was freezing, the sink empty except for one plate and two empty longnecks of beer. Sarah held her palm over the black cooktop, the Aga was cold, which was unusual considering they always kept the slow combustion stove lit during winter.

Outside she loaded the wheelbarrow with kindling and split logs from the wood pile at the back gate. Some feet away Bullet sat patiently in the dirt. ‘Hey,' Sarah called to him, expecting his usual ferocious excitement. Instead Bullet looked briefly over his shoulder, gave a single bark and rushed a few hundred metres away from her. ‘Bullet, come here.' The dog obeyed reluctantly,
accepting her petting before dashing off again and then turning towards her. ‘Hey, what's up? I'm sorry I've been away.'

Bullet whined. Some feet away Ferret was sunning himself like a Florida retiree. He was lying on his back, his four paws extended in the air, his head lolling to one side. He opened one eye at Sarah's voice and then clambered unsteadily to his feet, the black tubing making his gait stiff and ungainly. Bullet looked at his mate once and then stared straight ahead.

‘I get it. Anthony wouldn't let you go with him?' She scruffed him between the ears. ‘Well, how about you and I go for a ride later.' Bullet gave a series of barks, walked a few paces away from her and whined. ‘Later,' Sarah promised.

With the Aga stoked up and burning well and the groceries unpacked, Sarah made a quick coffee. Spending another evening alone as she'd done last night was a quick fix for her anger, especially when Shelley's lecture on the importance of her relationship with Anthony had eventually, albeit reluctantly, seeped in. Shelley was right, of course; Anthony and she could fight and moan and groan, however they'd supported each other for a long time. The very least she could do was respect their relationship by not remaining angry with him. There wasn't any point; yet clearly neither was trying to bridge their disagreement with affection. ‘There must be a way around this.' Draining her coffee mug, Sarah poked another split log into the Aga. There was steak for dinner, tinned mushrooms and frozen French fries: Anthony's favourites. ‘One fence at a time,' she decided, opening the paper bag on the table and unwrapping the Bible Frank handed her yesterday. They could start with dinner and then attempt reconciling their differences; she needed him and she couldn't believe Anthony could still be angry with her. After all, there was fault on both sides.

The bible's black leather cover was cracked with age, the pages edged in gold. Sarah flicked through the pages and then read the neat printing on the inside.

Wangallon Station – 1862

A folded piece of paper slipped to the floor.

‘Are you there, Sarah?'

Inserting the loose page back inside the Bible, Sarah closed the book and sat it on the kitchen bench.

Matt was being accosted by Ferret, who could now manage a running walk that resembled a three-legged man with a single crutch. Sarah wondered briefly how much the head stockman needed to know about events in Sydney, before deciding to tell him everything as she pulled on her riding boots. ‘It'll be a court job,' she finally revealed after a rather abbreviated listing of events. There was little point in not telling him; he was her grandfather's man.

Matt grimaced. ‘Sorry to hear it.'

‘Well, you know what they say, Matt, it's not over till the fat lady sings.'

‘I guess. What do you need me to do?'

They walked companionably to the back gate. ‘Nothing. We wait and see how things unfold. Everything going okay?'

‘Pretty much. All quiet on the western front,' he said, glibly nodding in the direction of Boxer's Plains. ‘Toby's walked the cattle down Marshall's Lane. The feed's pretty good actually.'

‘And Anthony?' Sarah asked. Not wanting to rush a showdown, yet knowing it was going to happen sooner rather than later.

‘Haven't seen him. Actually there's something I wanted to talk to you about. I was hoping you'd give me a bit of leeway. I've got a friend staying and was wondering if it was all right with you if she moved in. Permanent like,' Matt scratched his head. ‘That is, while it lasts. Want to have a look at the steers?'

‘Sure.' Sarah lifted Ferret into the back of the tray as Bullet
jumped in. She climbed into the Landcruiser beside Matt. ‘What's her name?'

‘Tania. She was my missus before I came here.'

‘True love eh?' Sarah grinned.

Matt cleared his throat, moved through the gears more than necessary. ‘Yeah well, at the moment it's working.' He thought of the last two nights. A man could die of exhaustion when it came to Tania's appetites. He'd have to try a bit of restraint otherwise he wouldn't be able to function properly. As it was he'd forgotten to double-check the gates after they shifted the cattle from Boxer's Plains to the route, and only remembered to do the job this morning. Just as well too. They were all open and it looked like some idiot on a motorbike, probably a hoon from town, had been the cause.

The cattle were feeding into the wind; the curve of their bodies above the oats obscuring their heads and legs so that they resembled a herd of Stone Age animals. Ferret barked delightedly, limping from one side of the tray to the other and snapping at the two ramps they crossed. In contrast Bullet sat at the rear when they headed east and on their return he faced the west. Sarah patted him when they stopped at a gate. ‘What's the matter, boy?' They were near the woolshed where an avenue of aged peppercorn trees stood sentinel above the long drafting race. Bullet jumped from the back of the Landcruiser and, ducking through the wooden fence, ran across the yards. ‘Great,' Sarah muttered as they continued home. ‘Something's wrong.' Bullet was running up the road and then veering towards the west.

‘He just hasn't been for a run for a while.' Matt inspected the dash of the Landcruiser, digging through a layer of Coopers notebooks, screwdrivers, pens, a carton of bullets and a bag of melted chocolates; the object of his search.

‘I don't know. I think I should follow him.' Sarah watched Bullet become a speck in the distance as Matt turned north through the house paddock boundary gate and stopped at the machinery shed.

‘The ranger from the PP Board is coming out this afternoon to check on Toby. I said I'd meet him out on the route to discuss numbers. I was hoping to put out another couple of hundred head. You want to meet him?' He offered Sarah a chocolate from the perpetually heater-melted and winter-refrozen selection.

‘No thanks, don't want to deprive you.' The chocolate looked like squashed sheep droppings. ‘Think I'll leave you to it.' Her decision not to go was based on letting Matt do his job and had nothing to do with Toby Williams.

‘Righto. By the way, Tania can garden if you're interested.'

‘Sure I'm interested.' Sarah doubted Matt would take any rubbish from a woman and he certainly wouldn't recommend someone if they weren't capable, male or female.

‘I'll bring her over next week some time.'

‘Sounds good. Well I might go find Bullet before it gets late.'

‘You need anything from Wangallon Town? Jack and Tania are going in to get a few things later.'

‘No thanks. We're fine.'

Sarah drove out through the house paddock gate with Ferret for company. The local radio station was playing a run of hits. Between Smoky Dawson and Dean Martin she was more than ready to start opening gates, even with the nippy breeze. She scanned the bush, expecting to hear Bullet yapping away at a roo or an emu. A year or so ago he'd often bailed up odd unsuspecting wildlife, however with age came maturity and the novelty of the chase appeared to have worn off. She drove on, stopping to open a third gate. In the dirt in the middle of the road she stooped to pick up a wallet. It appeared to have been run over for it was flattened into the dirt. Sarah recognised it instantly as Anthony's. A fizz of worry spiked through her. Turning off the Landcruiser's ignition,
she cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Anthony? Coo-ee?' Her voice echoed hollowly. ‘Bullet? Coo-ee?' A distant bark answered. Ferret pricked his ears and barked in reply.

A kilometre further on Sarah found Bullet waiting patiently on a fallen log. The dog jumped in the tray and they drove on, their progress slowed by the opening of gates, and Sarah stopping to call out Anthony's name. She couldn't understand how Anthony's wallet came to be in the middle of the road, or why her stomach was feeling increasingly as if it were lined with stone. At the last gateway there were cattle hoofs, quad bike tracks, relatively recent Landcruiser tracks, which appeared to have circled back towards the homestead and … Sarah touched the motorbike track which led through the gateway: Anthony on a motorbike, out this far? It was possible, she supposed. This was the paddock Cameron died in and she gave an involuntary shiver as she thought of Bullet's agitation, the lost wallet and the stone cold aga she'd arrived home to. ‘At least I have a track to follow,' she reassured herself as she drove past the ridge, over the river and into Boxer's Plains.

‘I should have guessed,' Sarah mumbled as the vehicle bumped out from between the lignum and trees to where the cultivation began. She stopped the vehicle, expecting to hear the rumble of heavy machinery; instead the rustle of leaves and Bullet's low whine were the only audible noises. The cultivation spread out before her like a chocolate slice, bordered by the browns and greens of timber. Along its edge the bike track was obvious in the soft soil. It must be Anthony, Sarah decided, but it didn't seem to be particularly auspicious catching up with him on this part of Wangallon. They needed to meet somewhere neutral. ‘The United Nations building perhaps,' she quipped. Yet for all her sarcasm, things still didn't seem quite right.

Bullet let out a long howl, which set Ferret off, and together the dogs made such a cacophony of noise that birds, kangaroos,
an emu and five head of cattle bounded from the scrub behind them. Sarah experienced a falling sensation, as if she'd entered a deep hole, and then she heard a faint voice, a voice she knew better than her own. She accelerated in a screech of soil and engine revs to drive madly along the edge of the cultivation. The vehicle bumped over logs, careered around trees, the tyres falling down potholes and tree holes, even becoming airborne at times. She gripped the wheel tighter, oblivious to the shower of articles falling from the dash and Ferret's yelping as she sped over the rough track. She manoeuvred the vehicle through the pushed timber yet to be formed into burnable heaps, and skirted the untouched impenetrable areas. With a desperate yank of the steering wheel Sarah side-swiped the rear-vision mirror off the driver's door as she angled between a belah tree and the upturned roots of a mighty gum.

Even before the mangled bike appeared at the base of the ironbark tree, Sarah knew that some form of payback was being extracted from her family. Something unmentionable had occurred out here many years ago and the spirits of those affected were seeking retribution. Why else had the 1909 diary entries ceased? Why else were people against any development out here? God, even Toby Williams had an opinion on Boxer's Plains. It may only have been a gut feeling on her part, however it was strong.

Sarah slammed her foot on the brake, screeching to a halt as the trees closed in, obstructing any further passage. Anthony's bike lay near an immense tree, a run of rusty wire entangled around the rear tyre. She ran to the bike. Bullet passed her in a flying leap, jumped two logs and ducked through a maze of saplings, leaving Sarah to reconcile the mangled mess of the bike and the drag marks which led further into the dense timber. She ran then, as fast as she could across the uneven ground, noticing that the thickness of the trees began to thin until suddenly there was a
wreck of a partially burnt house in front of her and a fox. Bullet was snuffling the animal as if greeting an old friend. Sarah knitted her brows together, then she saw Anthony, sprawled, face down in the dirt.