East of Outback (19 page)

“Mr. Brekke, s-sir.” Hannah stammered a moment, torn with decision. “I told you yesterday, and the day before, I’m only the cook and the driver. I refuse to begin any sort of—uh, er—a more personal relationship with you. I can’t call you Nels, like you suggested, and I really don’t think I ought to—”

“Look, do you wanna see a flick, or not?”

“Well, yes, I do, but—”

“Well, that’s all we’re gunner do. C’mon.”

“Uh, well. . . .” She looked at Colin. Brekke jerked her arm suddenly, and they were out the door.

Panic welled up in Colin’s head and chest. He couldn’t handle Brekke alone. He ran to the back room. “Where’s Les and Jack? The two woodcutters who just came in for a game?”

A bleary-eyed pool patron wagged his head. “Met a couple girls and left out the back way. Didn’t even shoot their round.”

Colin jolted back to the main room and out the front door. Night had settled in, making it difficult to discern direction. The meager light from the windows along street-side were not enough to illuminate the way. He peered up and down the broad dark track in vain. Where could Brekke have gone so quickly; a man his size would be hard to miss. He couldn’t have gone far.

A block away upstreet, Max’s Lady stood dozing by a corner pub, barely visible in the gloom. Colin sprinted, covering the whole block in seconds. He didn’t see Max around, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nearby. “Max!” He whistled, “C’mon!” He vaulted into the saddle, twisting the mare’s head around in one motion.

On horseback he’d cover the town in no time—every alley and back street. He started by looking down the alleyways closest to the pub he’d just left. Out of nowhere a leanaway came staggering up the street in front of him.

“Hey, you!” Colin called. “Where’s the picture show? The cinema.”

“Picture show?” The man stopped and shook his head. “Don’t bother, mate. Film’s the same the last four weeks.”

“
Where is it?!
”

“Up that way,” he dragged a pointing finger, “two squares and over one. Can’t miss it. Big corrugated tin sign.”

Colin headed north. Suddenly he dragged the mare to a stop; a familiar roar in the distance behind him told him someone had just revved the engine of the stakeside!
Brekke. It has to be Brekke!
He whirled the mare south again.
If I can just make it in time
. . . .

There it was, rumbling onto main street, sputtering in low gear. Turning away from him, it rounded a corner, and chugged off to the west, spouting gray exhaust against the darkness.

Colin thunked his heels into the mare’s ribs. He abandoned the stirrups, drew his knees up to her shoulders and hunched down into her mane. Instantly caught up in the thrill of the chase, the horse lurched forward, extending herself in a laborious, rocking-horse gallop. Under normal circumstances, Colin could just about outrun this pudgy old mare, but at this pace he might be able to at least keep the truck in sight.

Then from the west beyond town, out of nowhere, headlights appeared. Colin could see the black bulk of the stakeside between himself and the lights. Horns blared, headlights swerved, and both vehicles lurched to a halt.

He could hear voices shouting lustily back and forth. The stakeside door flew open and Hannah leaped out into the glare of the headlights. Someone called to her, then an arm reached out and grabbed her.

It was the rattletrap truck Colin had seen earlier, with the load of ruffians! Hannah was leaping from the frying pan to the fire!

Brekke’s voice boomed above the cacophony, shouting at Hannah and at the young larrikins. The second truck pulled out easily around the stakeside and continued east-bound. Colin dragged Max’s Lady to a halt as the headlights bore down on him, robbing him of what little night vision he’d had.

The rattletrap slowed somewhat as it passed Colin, and he could hear Hannah call something from the back. Still laughing like kookaburras, the three larrikins in the seat motioned to him. “Come along, mate!”

He glanced at the stakeside as it finally jerked into motion. Without hesitation, he spun the mare on her hindquarters and whipped her forward with the reins. The doover truck ahead had no back bumper, no tailgate. Hannah and the blokes were all shouting to him at once now, barracking him on.

The rattletrap truck slowed nearly to a halt, and Colin remembered how once not so long ago the gangly mare had leaped the wide mine shaft with only two narrow boards to aid her. He called upon her now, urging and driving. She gathered herself in a leap, her muscles bunched between Colin’s knees, and flung herself up into the darkness.

Colin heard her feet hit the wooden truck bed. Max’s Lady squirmed beneath him. Without his stirrups, he started to slip; he grabbed a handful of mane, too late. He slid forward and sideways as the mare lurched wildly, shaking him loose.

Rollicking laughter rang in his ears as he fell. Who on earth were these no-hopers who had nothing better to do than to cackle incessantly? Colin cried out as a clumsy horse foot stepped on his leg.

Now the laughter and cheering redoubled itself as Hannah’s exuberant voice called out, “Max! Good, Max! C’mon, boy!”

A solid, warm furry body slammed into Colin’s face. The familiar growl and snarl snapped right by his nose.

They were aboard. They were all aboard, even Max. The rattletrap truck heaved forward, picking up speed as half a dozen men’s voices chattered gleefully.

The stakeside was hot on their heels. If they could just evade Brekke and his designs on Hannah, at least one danger would lie behind them. But what were these ruffians up to?

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

B
AA
B
AA
B
LACK
S
HEEP

“Here you go, Edan.” Mary Aileen refolded the newspaper in order to read it more easily. “Pencil and paper ready?”

“Yair.” Edan didn’t sound all that ready. He shifted on his daytime sickbed, the horsehair settee in the parlor.

“Papa says the nation’s population is about six million. For convenience use six million even. It says here there are over twelve hundred cinemas in Australia now. How many persons per cinema is that?” She listened to the pencil scritch on his pad as he copied the problem.

“Next?”

“This one’s easy. The article reports over sixty films are produced in Australia each year. What is the per capita?”

“How many people per picture, or how many pictures per person?”

“Work it both ways. This is arithmetic practice. Next?”

“Go ahead,” he muttered sullenly. Arithmetic was not his favorite subject.

“On the 9th of June, a train derailment at Traveston, Queensland, claimed nine lives. What percentage of the population died in that tragedy?”

“Come on, ’Leen! That’s too hard! I’m getting Mum to make up the problems.”

“Work on it. See how well you do.”

“I hate percent problems.”

“I’ve noticed.” Mary Aileen stood up and stretched. “You’ve missed almost a week of school, Edan. You don’t want to fall too far behind.” She walked out into the kitchen.

Mum sat in her kitchen rocker, reading the rotogravure.

Mary Aileen plucked an apple from the fruit basket on the table. “Anything in there we can turn into an arithmetic problem for Edan? He’s on portions and percentages.”

Mum frowned. “You’d really have to scrape. It’s amazing some of the things they put in here. What they call human interest stories. Designed to warm the heart, they say.”

“Warming the heart does very little for arithmetic.” Mary Aileen swung a chair around to face Mum and sat down. “Particularly Edan’s heart.” She took a big juicy bite; she loved the crisp apples that came from Bendigo.

Mum pursed her lips. “I detest when men and boys get sick. Even a mere chest cold, like Edan’s. They’re such babies.”

“What sort of heart-warming are you reading about?”

“Well, there’s this item from a Perth paper about a Filipino. Seems he wanted to marry, but couldn’t support a family on his current job. So his white mate offered to lend him a hundred pounds to help him buy into a gold mine in Kalgoorlie. Turns out the white mate’s own uncles robbed him of his stash before he could make the loan. Some local miners who knew them both heard of their misfortune and contributed to a loan fund, interest free, from their own pockets. The man has his bride and his gold mine.”

“Is there a picture, Mum?” Mary Aileen got up to peer over her shoulder. “Oh, quite a nice-looking man, isn’t he. And she’s a sweet-looking lass. Just look at their happy smiles!” She stretched and took another bite of her apple. “Stealing from your own nephew. Sounds like something
my
uncles might do!” She froze at her own words.

Mum’s mouth dropped open as she gazed in disbelief at her oldest daughter. Mary Aileen shook her head. “It couldn’t be, could it, Mum?”

“No. No, of course not.” Mum stood up and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

‘To write a letter to—” She glanced again at the paper and pronounced the name by syllable, “Des-i-der-i-o Ro-ma-les.” She looked at Mary Aileen with haunted eyes. “Just in case.”

______

Colin crooked his fingers and raked his hand across Max’s Lady’s rump, for lack of a curry to brush her with. The scuffs and gouge wounds on her backside and legs were healing well, now that they had bathed in the wholesome light and air. The hair around the scars was coming in white, though. How old was she, anyway? Her teeth revealed “over twelve, less than eighteen,” but the quality of forage affects a horse’s teeth as much as age does. It is difficult to tell once they pass ten years.

“Breakfast, mate.”

Colin left the mare to browse in the bush and walked back to the campfire.

All seven men sat around the fire eating Hannah’s biscuits, and she was hard at work cutting out another batch. Her grimy, blue-striped frock would never come clean, Colin thought absently. He settled down beside Joe Fitzroy.

Joe handed him the tin pan of bacon. “Bacon and biscuits it is, mate, ‘til we get somewhere there’s chickens.”

“Bacon and biscuits are just fine.” Colin helped himself to three rashers.

“Y’need more than that to keep alive.”

“Ta.” Colin took three more. “Hannah and I never really thanked you properly for helping us out last night.” He passed the pan to Pot Dabney on his left.

Hannah nestled the iron Dutch oven into the coals.

“She makes better thick-milk biscuits than Horace ever did.” Pot waved his half-eaten biscuit in the air. “That’s thanks enough.” He popped it in his mouth.

“Jarrah-jerker.” Joe chuckled. “Always happy to pull one off on some jarrah-jerker. We don’t warm up to timber people too much.” He sat in the cold of early morning in nothing but a shortsleeved shirt, yet Colin could see no sign of shivering or gooseflesh. The big man looked powerful, his bulging muscles making his clothes seem tight. His hands were huge. Curious hands. Here sat a hardworking man, yet his burly hands looked remarkably soft, almost like a woman’s.

“Then you’re not foresters. What do you do?” Colin took a big bite of the hard, stringy bacon.

Joe watched him intently. “We eat rabbit the other two meals. If you think the bacon’s tough, wait ‘til lunch. We’re sheep shearers. Headed for Victoria, eventually, with maybe a short cut near Adelaide. Then on to Gundagai, if the truck makes it that far.”

“It’ll make it,” Mike said, reaching past Ray for another rasher of bacon. Mike and Ray looked to be brothers, Colin figured; they shared the same sandy-brown hair and gray-green eyes. And they both sounded vaguely American. “Got us this far, didn’t it?”

“Running on baling wire and Hail Marys. Mike, there, is our mechanic.” Joe wagged a finger toward Hannah. “What’s the story with you two? Black sheep on the run or something?”

“My father will tell you I’m a black sheep, but my mum would say not. So it depends who you talk to. Hannah here is my sister.” Colin took another bite and tried to talk around it, “I’m trying to get her safely home to Sydney. She’ll be thirteen in October.”

Joe wagged his head. “Bit young, I’d say.”

“Not for Nels Brekke. He was the one driving that stake-side you forced off the road. You men saved her. I could never have caught up.”

“Good-oh!” Pot cackled. “Weren’t a real cheery sort, were he? ‘Specially when we crumpled his intentions. Don’t mind a bit that we crueled that bloke’s plans.” Pot’s hands looked unusually soft too.

“Seeing that horse jump into the moving truck was worth the price of admission.” Hungrily, Jackie Jump, a small, lean Aborigine, watched Hannah peek into the Dutch oven. “Never seen a horse do something like that. And that blue dog; he’s a bottler.” Jackie looked around. “Where is he, anyway? Didn’t quit us, did he?”

“He’s nearby. Stays with the mare.” Colin watched Hannah at the oven, too. “Thanks for feeding him.”

“Don’t thank us for that. That meat was so bad we were gunner throw it out anyhow. In fact, the dog thought twice about eating it.” Jackie reminded Colin of Dizzy in some respects—the quick, lithe way he moved, and his tough, wiry build.

Colin pondered the feeble flames dancing about on the coals. “Shearers. ‘Spose we could join up with you, maybe find work on the stations? We’ve a few pounds to help on the trip.”

Joe nodded. “I was just about to ask if you’d like to join us. Ever do any stock work?”

“Just horses at the racecourse in Sydney. Pretty good with horses, actually. That’s all.” Colin smiled. “And I can shuck oysters like nobody’s business.”

“Don’t muster a lot of oysters in Victoria. Racecourse in Sydney. That where you got that jumping horse?”

Colin laughed. “Bought her in Broome last fall. A genuine Texan Yank picked her out for me.”

“Here now! You oughta talk to these two Wooloomooloo yanks!” Joe waved toward Mike and Ray. “Up to putty nine months of the year, but when it comes to undressing a sheep they’re the best there is. Always acting like they’re Americanized—they’re as Aussie as thee and me.”

Hannah giggled. Her eyes—her whole face—sparkled with delight. She seemed totally comfortable with these itinerants, far more so than Colin. Colin would not in a dozen years have thought of approaching these rough-hewn fellows for help last night. Either Hannah was an intuitive, shrewd judge of character or she was very, very lucky.