Dust on the Horizon
Read Dust on the Horizon Online
Authors: Tricia Stringer
Tricia Stringer is the bestselling author of the rural romances
Queen of the Road
,
Right as Rain, Riverboat Point
and
Between the Vines
, and the historical saga
Heart of the Country
, the first book in the Flinders Ranges series.
Queen of the Road
won the Romance Writers of Australia Romantic Book of the Year award in 2013 and
Riverboat Point
was shortlisted for the same award in 2015.
Tricia grew up on a farm in country South Australia and has spent most of her life in rural communities, as owner of a post office and bookshop, as a teacher and librarian, and now as a full-time writer. She now lives in the beautiful Copper Coast region with her husband Daryl. From here she travels and explores Australia's diverse communities and landscapes, and shares this passion for the country and its people through her stories.
For further information go to
triciastringer.com
or connect with Tricia on Facebook or Twitter
@tricia_stringer
Queen of the Road
Right as Rain
Riverboat Point
Between the Vines
THE FLINDERS RANGES SERIES
Heart of the Country
Dust
on the
HORIZON
For Steven
Contents
1868
In the bottom of the dry creek bed, the heat pressed like a weight on the motionless figure sprawled beneath the branches of the massive red gum. The sun had burned his pale skin to red and sucked the moisture from his body but the boy was still alive. He had crawled to the shade to gain some respite from the relentless rays and to conserve his energy for one last look. There was a mouthful of precious water in the bag on his hip and he was taking a gamble. At stake was his life.
He had been following the meandering creeks through the hills for three days. Each time he thought he'd found a way through, he had been confronted by steeper, more impassable hills and he had been forced to retrace his steps and take another course. The land that stretched out behind him was parched. There was little water for the few sheep that had managed to survive the blistering hot winds and evade the wild dogs.
The remaining hardy stock had become impossible to shepherd and he had given up all hope of saving any of them when, somehow, they'd ended up higher into the ranges than he'd been before. He'd been about to turn back and leave the sheep altogether when he'd found a small waterhole that hadn't dried up and his spirits had lifted.
Then, in the late afternoon, he had seen several kangaroos and a flock of screeching birds. They had to be getting water nearby. He'd left his horse to try to climb a rocky outcrop for a better view of his surroundings. A startled kangaroo had bounded away and scared his untethered horse off, with his swag, food and extra water tied to its saddle. All he had was his water flask. He'd fallen to the ground in despair, thinking it was the end. Just in front of him something sparkled. His hand curled around the rock and his eyes closed.
The sun lowered in the sky as he gathered his strength for one last attempt. He would probably never be found anyway. If he was going to die he wanted to do it looking out over this ruthless land he'd been born in and loved. He staggered to his feet and drained the last precious drop of water into his parched mouth.
Ahead of him the tall sides of the narrow gorge glowed red. The creek bed in front of him was choked with old gums, young saplings and an assortment of timber debris, washed there in some previous time of flowing water. Above him a flock of screeching birds flew in and disappeared inside the gorge.
The boy stumbled on towards the impeding bush. He clasped the rock in one hand and rubbed at his eyes with the other. Black dots swirled in front of him. He peered closer. There was a gap, a path though the saplings. He pushed on through the overhanging leaves and his tattered boots sunk into the ground. Cold registered in his seared brain. He looked down. Damp grit encased his boots. Several sets of animal tracks indented the sand.
Up ahead he glimpsed a glint but he didn't dare hope. He sucked in a feeble breath and, with a final push, surged forward. Beneath his feet the soft sand gave way and he fell headfirst into the pool. The flock of large white birds rose from the surrounding trees screaming their protest.
On the ridge above, a shadow moved and took the shape of a man. Binda had been motionless for some time. And even though he no longer feared the figure sprawled below him, the young Aborigine had thought it best to be cautious.
Hunting alone, Binda had been terrified the day before when a huge four-legged animal had crashed through the trees like a wild monster. Once the bush around him had settled, Binda had resumed his hunt for kangaroo, only to be startled again by strange footsteps crunching on the ridge above him. Binda had followed the young white boy ever since, watching him become more and more helpless. Stories were told around the campfire about the pale-skinned men who trampled the bush and spoiled food and water with their animals and the large loads they carried but Binda had never seen one until now.
He took small silent steps down the ridge. Now that life had finally left the intruder, Binda couldn't walk away. He was curious to get a better look and he knew if he didn't move the body the rotting flesh would spoil the waterhole.
The setting sun glowed on his glossy skin as he made his way down the ridge. Once he was in the creek bed he knew he could blend with ease into the shadows if he needed to but he was no longer afraid. Binda was thinking about the elaborate story he would have to tell around the campfire. He would be able to describe in great detail what a white man looked like. He pushed through the last clinging branches at the side of the waterhole and froze. His eyes opened wide in surprise and then fear surged once again through his veins. At the edge of the pool, the sand showed the signs of the intruder but the body was gone.
1881
Jack Aldridge's feet left the ground and his head tilted sideways. He flew out the door with the help of strong hands on his back, and landed sprawled face first in the mud.
“Don't come back again, you black trash,” Smedley's voice boomed behind him. “Unless you've got more money to lose, Jackie Boy.”
Raucous laughter echoed in his ears then the door slammed shut and he was in darkness. Jack dragged himself to his feet and leaned against the slimy wooden board wall of a storage shed. He looked down at his last set of half-decent clothes. They were coated in mud and whatever other filth trickled along the lane between the storage sheds at the port. He put one dirty hand to his jaw and moved it from side to side, then he ran his tongue over his teeth. Nothing broken. He slammed his fist into the wooden wall. The pain of it barely registered.
Smedley had fleeced him. Jack could have beaten the cheating bastard to a pulp on his own but the other card players had rallied around, all whites, and one of them had a knife. Jack stood up to his full six feet and looked back at the door. He'd get Smedley another time when the man didn't have helpers. They'd cheated him of his money, beaten him up and tossed him in the street like rubbish. Hatred burned deep in his chest. It rose to the surface easily after years of being treated like something people stepped on.
Jack made his way along the lane and turned into the dark road. A fine sea mist hung in the air, enveloping Port Augusta in its salty tendrils. The shadows of the huge wool stores loomed above him, black against an even blacker sky. No moon tonight, but further down the street there was a lamp outside the Flinders Hotel. He made his way in that direction and went round the back to the stables, found a trough with some water and scrubbed his face and hands. There was nothing he could do about his clothes but at this hour of the night he doubted anyone would notice. He removed his boot and pulled out his last stash of coins; enough to buy some liquor and help him forget his useless state for a while.
When he left the hotel several hours later, the only thing he felt was the anger still smouldering in his chest. In spite of the liquor he'd swallowed his strides were steady as he made his way along the back streets to the house he hadn't seen for several years.
He stopped when he reached it. The two-storey building was made of wooden boards and had a picket fence at the front which leaned at a precarious angle. It was hard to see much about the state of the building in the darkness and no welcome light shone from the windows but he suspected nothing much would have been done to it in the four years since Ned had died.
Briefly his thoughts softened at the memory of the man who'd been the only father he'd known. He gripped the wobbly fence post and pushed the image of Ned away. In Jack's world there had never been any place for sentimentality. Ned was gone, but Jack hoped Ethel still lived here. The old woman was the reason he'd come back to the port. There had been several jobs taking him to various parts of Victoria and then back to South Australia but they hadn't lasted. Someone always found fault with his work. Now he was in desperate need of money and a place to stay. He doubted Ethel would have much cash but he was sure she could provide the information he needed to unlock another source of income for him. He stumbled on the verandah step, crouched down and felt for the rock. It was still there. He lifted it and retrieved the front door key.
It took him a moment to get the key in the lock and a jiggle to get it to turn but finally he was inside.
“Stay where you are.” A bulky figure loomed from the door to his left.
“Mam, it's me.”
There was a gasp. “Gawd sakes, is that you Jackie Boy?” She reached a hand towards him but he pushed past her in the narrow hallway and made for the tiny kitchen at the back of the house where he hoped there'd be a fire.
She followed him, lit a candle and held it up close to him. “What have you done to your face and what's that smell? You been rolling in cow shit, Jackie Boy?”
Anger filled Jack's brain. How he despised the name Jackie Boy. It had been used as a taunt so many times it stirred instant rage when he heard it.
“Jack,” he yelled in her face. “My name is Jack.”
“Settle down. I've got tenants upstairs you know. Paying customers.” Ethel poked a finger in the air towards the ceiling then she poked him. “Anyway don't get yourself in a twist. It's only a term of endearment from your old mam who hasn't seen you for four years.”
