Miles Off Course (28 page)

At sunset they poured the rest of the crate into the hollows of the tree and doused the base. Edna took control and insisted they retreat as far as possible along the stream. She ran the length
of the chain through the water.

“How are we supposed to light it from here?” Rowland asked.

“I have an idea,” Simpson said, heading back to the firepit and dragging Edna and Rowland with him via the chain. He stretched out towards the fire and extracted a burning
faggot.

“Would you like to do the honours, Miss Higgins?” He offered the flaming branch to Edna.

“Good Lord, don’t give it to Ed,” Rowland warned. “Her aim’s abysmal.”

“That’s hardly fair!” Edna protested.

“You shot me,” Rowland reminded her.

“It’s very ungracious of you to keep bringing that up.”

Simpson threw the torch himself.

Rowland blanched and Edna put her hands over her face as the tree caught and exploded into flame.

Simpson cheered, and put his big arm around Rowland. “How’s that for aim, Rowly?”

Rowland laughed. “Hell of a blaze though,” he said, sizing up the flames. “Moran and his boys will be back if they notice.”

Simpson shook his head. “It’s too dark to see the smoke. If one of them happens to spot the flames they won’t do anything till morning anyway… They’re usually well
and truly pickled by now.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Rowland asked, as he watched the tree which was now engulfed.

“A couple of hours at least. Make yourself comfortable, mate…”

And so they sat there by the edge of the stream. The fire threw enough heat that they were not cold despite the evening chill. Simpson took the opportunity to unwrap the bandages around
Rowland’s arm and wash out the wound.

“You don’t want it to get infected, Rowly,” he said, as he poured the icy stream water over Rowland’s arm. “Had a dog once with this tiny little nick on its
paw… got infected and we had to shoot it in the end.” He sighed. “Bloody good dog too.”

Rowland craned his neck to look at his arm. It was slightly inflamed and bruised, but other than the gash Simpson had incised, and the impression left by Edna’s teeth, it didn’t look
too bad. With any luck Simpson wouldn’t have to shoot him any time soon.

It took most of the night for the tree trunk to burn down to a level that would allow them to simply lift the chain over the stump, then another half-hour of pouring water over
that part of the chain to ensure it was cool enough to lift without injury. All in all they were free before dawn.

They clambered, still shackled together, towards the cave in which Moran’s men had stored the tools. It was about a hundred yards away and reaching it in the dark was a stumbling
challenge. It took Simpson several minutes to smash through the chains with an axe, and then more carefully to remove the shackles entirely.

“Right.” Simpson glanced up at the lightening horizon. In the daylight the smoke from the now smouldering tree stump was obvious. “Let’s get going before Moran turns up
to investigate the smoke.”

“How long will it take us to get to Pocket’s Hut?” Rowland asked, as Simpson passed swags out from the cave.

“Not sure, at least a day…” Simpson slung two swags over his shoulder. “Can you take one, Rowly?”

Rowland nodded, taking the third swag on the shoulder of his good arm. They gave Edna a canteen and what food remained.

“Shouldn’t we take more water?” Edna asked. The single canteen seemed a paltry supply for the three of them.

“There’re streams all over this country,” Simpson reassured her. “You don’t want to be carrying any more than you have to… we have a fair way to go.”
He glanced at Rowland and frowned. “If you have trouble with the swag, Rowly, toss it. We’ll make do.”

“I’m fine,” Rowland muttered. “We should get going. O’Shea’s Hut is only about an hour’s ride from here. They could be here any moment.”

Simpson agreed. “This way.”

Clyde dismounted, and signalled for the others to do likewise. He’d brought six men with him; the other six had already started to search for Simpson… or his
remains. Despite Rowland’s refusal to seriously consider the possibility, Clyde thought it likely that the Sinclair’s head stockman had perished. For some reason Rowland, and it seemed,
Wilfred, had a loyalty to the man that was hard to fathom. Still, to Clyde’s mind, the ways of the landed gentry were often odd.

Milton and Sarah Brent were safely back at Rules Point. Clyde had stayed just briefly before he set out to do as Rowland had asked.

He could hear several voices within O’Shea’s Hut, and there was a number of horses tethered outside. Clyde smiled. If anything could bring cattlemen back to the home pasture it would
be the presence of Edna.

The door was opened, to Clyde’s surprise, by Moran.

“What are you doing here?”

Moran’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The hut burnt down, didn’t it? We were worried about you all… figured you would have tried to get to O’Shea’s.”

Clyde nodded slowly. It seemed reasonable, but still he was uneasy.

“Where’s Rowly—Mr. Sinclair?” Clyde asked, scanning the room.

“You mean he’s not with you?” Moran’s voice was startled.

“We lost a horse and had an injured man.” Clyde said alarmed. “He and Miss Higgins came here.”

Merrick rose from the easychair. “Well, they didn’t arrive. We haven’t seen them, have we boys?” He looked around at the men in the room, who all nodded and murmured in a
show of consensus.

“This is terrible!” Moran exploded. “This is not friendly country for a couple of city kids lost on their own.”

“I doubt they’re lost,” Clyde said, a little irritated by Moran’s reduction of Rowland and Edna to children. Neither was he convinced by the stockman’s apparent
show of concern.’

“I guess the boys and I better go look for them.” Moran sighed. “They’re bound to be somewhere between here and Rope’s End. Why don’t you wait at Rules Point,
Mr. Jones? My boys know this country. We’ll find them.”

“We might as well join the search while we’re here.” Clyde’s response was guarded. He’d caught a glimpse of something pinned to the wall behind the Cassidys. He
recognised the drawing—he had seen the painting which Rowland developed from it, but this was not the time to show his hand.

“Fair enough,” Moran said congenially. “Why don’t we split up? We’ll cover more ground.”

Clyde agreed. “We might head back to Rope’s End… or what’s left of it. Maybe they found trouble on the way here.”

“Righto.” Moran seemed satisfied with the proposition. “We’ll fan out from here.”

And so an uneasy agreement was reached. Clyde took his leave, and his own men, to begin the search for Rowland Sinclair and Edna Higgins.

R
owland rested his head back against the smooth bark of the snow gum. They had been trudging through the scrub for hours now. Simpson had finally
allowed them to stop for a while.

“Hope you know where you’re going, Harry,” Rowland said, as Simpson built a fire.

“I’m keeping well away from the trails in case Moran’s boys are looking for us,” the stockman replied.

“They’ve probably decided to let us die hopelessly lost in the wilderness,” Rowland sighed.

“We’re not lost.”

“So you keep saying.”

“You can’t always go places directly, Rowly. I had a dog once, lazy blighter, always went in a straight line… was trampled by a cow in the end—had to shoot
him.”

“You’ve had a lot of dogs, Mr. Simpson,” Edna said, sitting beside Rowland.

Rowland smiled. “They don’t seem to last long though, Harry.”

Simpson threw a stick at him. “Don’t be smart, Rowly! I like dogs.”

“Do you think Mr. Moran knows we’re free yet?” Edna asked, rubbing her arms. Now that they had stopped, it was cold.

“They might,” Simpson replied. “Hopefully they think their time is better spent finding Glover’s gold than us.”

“You know,” Rowland said regretfully, “I do believe I forgot to sack them.”

“I didn’t,” Harry Simpson replied. “It was how I ended up chained to that tree. When I realised they were rebranding my cows, I went straight in and sacked
them…” He shrugged. “Probably wasn’t all that well thought out, really.”

“I didn’t fare much better,” Rowland admitted.

Simpson handed him the hessian sack which Glover had left them. It still contained some biscuits, and a box of sultanas.

“If I had a rod, I’d catch us something better than this.” Simpson poured water from the canteen into a billy and added a generous fistful of tea. “Some of the best
fishing in the country here.”

When the billy had boiled he swung it in a circle to settle the leaves and set it off the fire. “Give it a couple of minutes to cool.”

Rowland looked critically at the sky. It had turned a greenish grey. “We might not have a couple of minutes, Harry.” The clouds had gathered with extraordinary speed.

Simpson glanced up and nodded. “You’re not wrong, Rowly.” He frowned. “Try and drink some tea.” He wrapped the empty hessian bag around the billy and handed it to
Edna. “We’re about to get wet.”

The rain, when it started, was an inundation. There was no introductory drizzle, just an immediate downpour. It seemed to fall in icy, almost horizontal, sheets, making it difficult to see. Very
quickly the ground became slippery and they were soaked. Rowland pulled Edna to him as they stumbled after Simpson.

Despite its ferocity, the deluge was not expended. The rain became hail and the landscape was soon netted with rivulets and streams.

They ploughed on through the mud, trusting that Simpson knew where he was going.

The hut was small, a rudimentary construction that appeared so unexpectedly that Rowland was still surprised when they staggered through the door and stood dripping and shivering on the uneven
floor of the single room.

“Damn it!” Simpson began building a fire in the stone fireplace. A stack of dry wood and kindling had been left on the hearth.

“Where are we?” Rowland asked, as he removed his sodden jacket.

“Lonesome Hut,” Simpson replied. “Only really used in emergencies.”

“Like now,” Edna shivered. “We’re lucky it’s here. I’m so cold…”

“Maybe,” Simpson replied, frowning.

Rowland pulled a blanket from his swag. Rolled up in the oilskin, it was only a little damp. He handed it to Edna and knelt beside Simpson who was coaxing a flame from smouldering kindling.
“What’s wrong, Harry?”

“This is the closest hut to the cave,” Simpson said, pulling back as the fire caught and jumped suddenly. “If Moran’s men are looking for us, they’ll check here. I
wouldn’t have brought you here if there’d been any other shelter nearby.”

“Oh.” Rowland glanced upwards as the hail pounded and clattered on the iron roof. “Hopefully this storm will slow them too. We’ll leave as soon as it eases.”

Simpson piled logs upon the fire. “Let’s try and get as dry as possible in the meantime,” he said.

They rolled out the swags and removed as many wet clothes as decency would allow.

Edna laughed at Simpson’s obvious embarrassment as she removed her sodden breeches under the blanket. Rowland placed them with the steaming jackets and muddy socks before the fire. He
watched the sculptress thoughtfully as she tried to wring the water from her hair. She’d wrapped the blanket chastely about her body. The firelight cast her in a warm, gentle light that gave
her beauty an earthy timelessness—like a Degas, her figure seemed to emit its own glow. He wondered briefly if his notebook was too wet to allow him to capture her.