East of Outback (4 page)

“Mmm.” Colin sprawled on his spine awhile, in no hurry to either move or think. The ubiquitous flies buzzed all about, pesky armies of them. “So whatya gunner do, mate?”

Dizzy jerked his shoulders, a spastic excuse for a shrug. “Dunno. Wisht I could go home, eh?”

“Maybe you could get a job when Captain Foulard starts building his new boat. Shouldn’t take too much money to get to the Philippines.”

“Philippines? Ain’ going to no Philippines. Tha’s the wrong d’rection, Col.”

“Everybody in Australia who speaks Spanish comes from the Philippines, I thought.”

“Si, only I didn’. Guess I’m the only Tejano in Australia, eh?”

“What’s a Tay-hahno?”

“Texas. ‘Murrica. Gonzales, Texas, is where I’m from.”

Colin gaped. “You mean like cowboys and that?”

“You bet!” And for the first time in weeks, Dizzy’s face lit up a little. “Ain’ nobody better with a herd or a gun. Tejanos—we’re the best shooters, best riders, fastest, smartest cattle drovers in the world. Hafta be. We got the fastest, smartest cattle in the world. Half-devil, them Texas range cattle.”

“So why are you over here?”

And the light faded. “Ain’ the same no more, Col. Lotsa Anglos coming in, messing up the place and claim they’re civilizing it. Hardly no longhorns left—just them whiteface cows. Stupid beasts, comparing ‘em to longhorns. Lotsa rules and laws, didn’ use to be. So I come over here, to get rich punching cattle, or maybe mining.”

“Punching cattle?”

“Sí. Cowpuncher. Cowhand. Never knew you people don’ even talk English. Ringer. Drover. Tailer, if it’s horses.”

“And you ended up tending divers.”

“Big money, they said.
Mucho dinero
. Said I got a gift for it. Did pretty good, too, first coupla years. Miss the horses, though, Col, and the cattle. Tejano, y’know? Ain’ no sailor.”

“Me either.”

“Ride much?”

“Used to when I was growing up. My father owns some racehorses. He got started in it with an old trainer named Clyde Armbruster, ‘bout the time he and Mum married, and they got lucky. I used to pony racehorses at the track for Clyde. Great fun for a lad growing up.”

“Come along a minute, eh?” Dizzy lurched to his feet.

Colin followed, with nothing else pressing to occupy his time. Dizzy led the way down through the broad avenues to the north end. They were nearly there before Colin realized they were headed for the stable.

Did he think the flies were thick downtown? Colin thought that if this livery were somehow put on a huge balance and weighed, the flies would weigh more than the horses.

Besides the flies, horses, and Dizzy, Colin saw only one other living thing in the place, and he took an instant dislike for it. A blue-gray brindled dog lay beneath the paddock rails. Here was perhaps the ugliest old dog Colin had ever seen—scrawny, ragged, with a salt-and-pepper muzzle. It bared its teeth and growled.

Dizzy wagged his head. “Owner here calls him Max.”

“Doesn’t seem very friendly.”

“He jumped me once, the last time I came. I ask the owner why he keep a vicious dog around, eh? He says Max ain’ his. It jus’ hangs around here.”

“Can’t be doing much to improve business.”

“Tha’s what I told him, after I didn’ get the job.” Dizzy crossed briskly to the paddock, the corner farthest from the surly dog. In one smooth, flowing motion he hopped onto the top rail and hooked a leg over.

Max lurched to his feet and stepped out into the sun, his back bristling. He must have decided the effort was too great in this heat. He flopped down in the shade again, regarding the two with suspicious, steely eyes.

Colin climbed up beside Dizzy. The paddock held perhaps a score of horses. None looked fit to butcher, let alone ride. Their spines, ribs, and hipbones protruded, covered with dull and ragged hides. “Hatracks, Diz, the whole lot of them.”

Dizzy pointed. “Tha’ ’un there, see’m? Tha’s one nice horse; put a little meat on him, y’know? Probably knock him down to two pounds, eh? Maybe one-ten.”

“What? Buy him? Then what?”

“Get ’im out onna track, take it easy; let the horse fatten up. Ride down maybe to Kalgoorlie, maybe stop in between, find a job. Ain’ no good work here, and I ain’ sailing the sea no more, y’know? Done with that, Col. Rather die inna desert than drown inna ocean.”

“And you will, too. Know what they call the track between here and Kalgoorlie? Madman’s Track. Guess why.”

Dizzy twisted a bit to face him squarely. “You gotta remember where you are, Col. You in with seafaring people, and they the ones named that road. They think anybody who don’ sail in boats is crazy. Me, I think anybody’s crazy who
does
. Now who’s the madman, eh?”

Colin laughed. “What’re you gunner buy it with?”

“Tha’s a problem. Thought maybe a loan, y’know?”

“Mmm. I’ll think about it. If I get a couple quid I’ll think about it.”

“Me, too. Maybe I get lucky, earn enough to buy a horse and do some real traveling, eh? Been too long floating on that miser’ble ocean.”

Colin couldn’t have said it better himself.

They wandered back into town, and long before they reached Sheba Lane and parted, Colin knew what he would do. Should Captain Foulard come through with his promised gift, Colin would buy two or three horses and join Dizzy, on an odyssey to adventure.

Curious, that Dizzy should mention Kalgoorlie. True, it was an important gold mining area, and thus a good place to seek work. What Dizzy did not know was that Colin’s two uncles owned a mine there. Surely his father’s brothers would hire on a couple of swagmen, especially if one of those swagmen were a nephew.

The news swept through the town end to end—instantly—Captain Foulard had his seven thousand pounds, the price of the finest pearl to come out of Broome in years. That night at his favorite pub in the Port Cuvier Hotel, the captain laid a twenty-pound note on the bar and instructed his chums to drink it up. Colin watched the festivities from afar, from the rail of the veranda on his little room across the street, afraid to become a part of that happy mob, but wishing desperately that he were.

The next afternoon when he woke up, the captain made good on his promise, both to Colin and to Sake’s widow. Colin didn’t tell Dizzy how much the captain gave him. He simply said he had enough now to buy a couple of horses, if the price was right. He let Dizzy, the Tejano with the penchant for horses, choose their two mounts. Max the mangy dog threatened mayhem, but the owner drove him off with a pitchfork.

Just one week after the petulant sea decided not to kill him after all, deigning instead to toss him onto Eighty Mile Beach, Colin Sloan loaded everything he owned on a horse worth less than his boots and rode off seeking adventure down the Madman’s Track.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

T
HE
M
OUTHS OF
B
ABES

Through the darkness of the manse shed crept a small form. Above that form loomed black iron and the smell of oil. Tiny hands threw an end of clothesline rope over a back axle and swiftly, deftly, knotted it. The silent form withdrew.

With a heady thrill of anticipation the bishop threw open the shed doors. White light burst into the dank darkness. For a moment he mentally reviewed the steps; magneto, choke, throttle, crank. He arranged the controls. He inserted the crank, gripping it with his thumb behind the bar lest it kick back and break his arm. The automobile dealer had warned about that.

Kishugga. Kishuhuhuhgga. Kishugugugugga. Kuhchuchuchuchu
. . . .

Ebullient, the gentle man leaped into the leather-upholstered driver’s seat as rapidly as his cassock would allow. He adjusted things until the marvelous internal combustion engine dropped from a ringing, howling thunder to a more stately, pulsing roar. He pressed the appropriate foot pedals, and the bishop’s magnificent new Ford touring car, the finest the world had to offer, lurched forward and out into the brick street.

He drove into Bathurst Street first, careful to maintain the appropriate demeanor, avoiding any suggestion that he had slipped into the sin of pride. He was God’s servant driving one of God’s tools. That was all.

People smiled and waved. They laughed. A few of the less well-bred pointed in an unmannerly fashion. The bishop turned into busy George Street.

Automobiles were becoming plentiful in 1925. Ten years ago the bishop would have expected a lot of attention. Today he fully anticipated being noticed, of course, for he had once preached against the horseless carriage as being a vehicle of vanity and folly. However, it puzzled him somewhat that he was garnering so
much
attention. Ah, well, it’s not every day you see a prelate rolling about in such high fashion.

He had no business to attend today, so he made no stops. He simply wanted to ascertain, before the church made the final payment, that the vehicle performed as promised. He tested the motor car out on Market Street and Elizabeth Street. Then he drove through Hyde Park simply to enjoy the shade of the huge arching gum trees. The noise was a bother—that constant chug-chug-chug drowned out everything else. But that was a small price to pay for its obvious convenience and maneuverability. Yes, this touring car was certainly far superior to the horse-drawn carriage. Just look at the stares of all these happy people! He was certainly making an impression.

As he turned eventually into Bathurst Street and home, the two youngest Sloan children waved at him from the corner. What a cherub that little Hannah was! Her dark, glossy hair cascaded in ringlets down her shoulders. No doubt she’d start wearing it up soon; if she had not yet entered her teens, she would shortly. She looked so sweet and innocent, it seemed a shame she had to grow up, particularly in this vile and evil age. She giggled, bright-eyed, as he passed.

Her brother (was Edan his name? The bishop could not quite remember) stood beside her, gaping in what looked like disbelief. Strange lad, that. Like the girl, he had his father’s looks, but he was quiet, even ordinary. He was either a deep thinker or a bit dull. He certainly lacked his sister’s sparkle.

Backing up was going to be tricky. Fortunately, the bishop didn’t have to. He would simply park here beside the shed and have a few of the vicars push the vehicle inside by hand. He began turning things off. Sudden silence thrummed in his ears. Cautiously he climbed down out of the seat. A satisfactory jaunt, completely satisfactory. He was smiling broadly.

Then the smile evaporated as quickly as it came.

Realization splashed chilling shame upon the hot fires of the bishop’s pride. He knew now why so many people smiled and pointed as he passed. Someone had wired together a very old, very dead sheep skeleton. Those bones had rattled along, six feet behind the touring car, the whole length and breadth of Sydney. Without the bishop’s knowledge, someone had attached them by a length of clothesline rope to the car’s back axle.

______

Hannah Sloan shooed a fly away from her face as she perched on the front stoop waiting. He’d be home any time now, unless he had some sort of business meeting downtown. She sat up straighter, listening. Here came the Austin! She could pick its motor sounds out from all the other sounds of the busy street.

Papa pulled the black Austin deftly to the curb. The motor died with a choke, and he came bouncing out of the car with a lad’s vigor, his newspaper tucked under his arm. His dark, dark hair, his slim waist and broad shoulders spoke well of his youthful appearance. Only the gray at his temples protested,
Well, maybe not so young as once
. Colin shared his father’s good looks, though his complexion was not so dark. Where was Hannah’s big brother now?

She hopped to her feet. “Hello, Papa!”

A grin broke across his face, and he wrapped her up into a smothering hug without dislodging his paper. “How’s the Hannah lass today?”

“Extra fine, Papa. We had half holiday from school; the plumbing went crook and flooded the halls, so we all came home.” She followed him through the doorway.

“When I was your age, I would have given anything for a holiday like that. Now that I know better, I say ‘too bad!’ School is important.”

“So the headmaster says, Papa. That is because you and the headmaster need not learn sewing. You cannot imagine how tedious is sewing!”

“Something a girl has to know, though.” He hung his hat on the hall tree. Usually he tossed his paper onto his overstuffed chair before heading for the kitchen. Tonight he kept it tucked under his arm.

Did the paper say anything about the bishop’s drive this morning? A twinge of worry darkened Hannah’s immediate future.

She followed. “When I sew I’ll have a sewing machine, like Mum. I won’t ever put in a seam by hand. Old Miss Broaditch teaches us hand sewing. Medieval sewing, Papa!”

He stopped suddenly and turned. He was grinning impishly. “Go ahead. Say it.”

She grinned, too. “Because Miss Broaditch is left over from medieval days.”

“What?!” Mum—tall, slim, beautiful Mum—stood in the kitchen doorway staring. The sunshine from the kitchen windows made a sort of halo behind her soft auburn hair. She wore her hair in a short bob like most other women did, but it didn’t lie quite flat. “I didn’t hear that, did I?”

“Of course not.” Papa gave her a hug and a surreptitious pat on the backside. Mum’s cheeks flushed a bit. She glanced at Hannah, who pretended, as always, that she hadn’t noticed. He sniffed. “What’s for dinner, Sam?”

“Lamb left over from the dark ages and potatoes from a peck Chaucer dug at Canterbury. The child is supposed to be learning respect, and you’re abetting insolence.”

“Chaucer didn’t have potatoes; they’re New World, and she’s growing up just fine.” Papa opened the oven door slightly, the better to appreciate the aroma of the succulent lamb.

Mum shook her head in dismay. “Hannah, call Edan and Mary Aileen to the table. Dinner’s ready.”

“Yes’m.” Hannah hurried out the door, just as Edan came down the hall. “Edan, go tell Mary Aileen to come to the table. Mum says.”

He turned and headed back the other way.