To Ride the Wind

Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin. He now lives at Maclean, on the Clarence River in northern New South Wales. Fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.

Peter Watt can be contacted at
www.peterwatt.com

Also by Peter Watt

Cry of the Curlew

Shadow of the Osprey

Flight of the Eagle

To Chase the Storm

To Touch the Clouds

Papua

Eden

The Silent Frontier

The Stone Dragon

The Frozen Circle

Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt since his first novel was published:

‘I must congratulate you on your very fine series of books, which I have found to be of the highest calibre. Do keep on writing as I for one look forward to each new offering.’

‘I have just completed
Cry of the Curlew
– I loved it. The characters you create become so real, each with their own definite personalities . . . I love reading and learning about history, and I thank you for your writing and for opening up my eyes to the reality of early Australia.’

‘Your books are so well written. They actually transport you right on that page. They make you feel that it is you there. I felt every pain, cried every tear, laughed every laugh, and smiled and loved every minute of it. A writer who can transport you in that way is definitely in my book
the best
and you are that person.’

‘Your books give us some insight into a part of the world we will likely never get to see . . . Keep up the fine work.’

‘I just wanted to let you know how much I have enjoyed your books . . . I really loved the complexity of the plot and the development of the characters as they aged – although I must say that we felt quite a loss when [one of the characters] died!’

‘Your books are just the greatest I have ever read.’

‘I have just finished reading the fifth book in the Duffy series,
To Touch the Clouds
, and as always I find your writing compelling and wonderful.’

‘I was captivated [by
The Silent Frontier
], I couldn’t put it down, and when I had to I was thinking about it and I wanted to pick it up and continue reading.’

‘I can’t get over how good your books are . . . they are amazing and the history is very insightful for a young bloke like me.’

‘We loved [
Cry of the Curlew
] and everything that followed . . . The top bookshelf in our living room is all Peter Watt! Thank you so much for your writings.’

‘Your stories are edgy, a bit sexy, with adventure, history, strong and marvellous characters and some great Australian towns and villains. Can’t wait for your next novel to arrive.’

‘I am hooked on your writing. When reading
Papua
, the characters came alive.’

‘As usual I loved
The Frozen Circle
. The worst thing is that everything else that needs doing gets left until I have finished reading.’

‘[
Cry of the Curlew
] is gut-grabbing. I found myself clenched with trepidation as I was not able to foresee the outcome of each twist and turn of character and event.’

First published 2010 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

1 Market Street, Sydney

Copyright © Peter Watt 2010

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Watt, Peter, 1949–.

To ride the wind / Peter Watt.

ISBN 978 1 4050 3999 4 (pbk.).

A823.3

Set in 13/16 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group

Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

To Ride the Wind

Peter Watt

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For two special women,

my cousin, Virginia, and sister, Kerry.

Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,

Like a chief, to the rest of his race,

With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,

And gleams like a dream in his face –

Like a marvellous dream in his face?

‘The Last of His Tribe’, Henry Kendall

PROLOGUE

Central Queensland

Late Summer

1916

L
eaning forward over the horse’s neck the young man slid his hand to the rifle bucket. The searing air around him held a sinister silence he had experienced before when working as a stockman in the Gulf country of northern Australia. In those places the Aboriginal people still resisted the incursion of the white man and his cattle on their lands. He knew he was being watched – maybe some mysterious inheritance of his own Aboriginal blood had brought on his feelings of unease.

The Winchester repeating rifle was in his right hand but he was careful not to make it obvious that he was aware he was being observed from somewhere out in the arid briga low scrub all around him. His mount snorted, raising her head with ears twitching. She had never let him down before and her actions only intensified his sense of potential danger.

Tom Duffy had ridden many hundreds of miles south to be here. In his mid twenties, the young man was handsome by the standards of any race with his fine looks, olive skin and slightly crooked nose – the latter the result of a fistfight. His deep brown eyes reflected keen intelligence and he had the lean but muscled look of a man used to hard manual work on the vast cattle properties of the north. At first glance he might be mistaken as having Latin blood but on closer inspection it could be seen that he carried the blood of this new race of Australians who had emerged on an ancient continent. Half-caste, the white men called him, but still they envied his handsome features and proud bearing. Although reared in the white man’s world, Duffy still suffered the snide remarks of his European workmates even though they grudgingly agreed on his skills around cattle and horses. Almost a whitefella, they would often comment behind his back.

Tom Duffy scanned the haze of the surrounding low, prickly trees, forcing his focus beyond the immediate stunted trees before him; there was nothing but a seemingly endless view of more scrub. The horse beneath him shifted sideways; she sensed the object of danger before her rider did.

‘You can put the gun away,’ the voice behind him said. ‘If I wanted to kill you I would have done so before you even knew I was here.’

Tom slid the rifle back into its scabbard and turned his horse around to see an old Aboriginal propped against his deadly twelve-foot-long hardwood spear. He had a long grey beard, tribal scars and wore nothing more than a human hair belt with a couple of hardwood clubs tucked in the back.

As the two men’s eyes met Tom noticed a sudden change in the warrior’s demeanour. There was a hint of confusion and, at the same time, recognition.

‘Tom!’ the old man gasped.

The young stockman frowned. This had to be the legendary Wallarie. When his father had told him as a child of the kinsman he had not quite believed the stories. Men did not turn into eagles and fly. They were not able to become ghosts and hunt their enemies.

‘Wallarie?’ Tom slid from his mount to approach the old man. As he strode towards him he could see more gnarled scars on the old man which he took for marks made by bullets.