Heart of the Country (6 page)

Yardu kept perfectly still. These sounds had echoed in his head for many cycles of the seasons, ever since he'd first heard them much earlier, in his own country further up the ranges. The noise had terrified his wife so much she'd slipped down the rugged cliff she'd been climbing and fallen to her death, their unborn child dying with her. He had come to visit his cousins to bring her bones back to her country. This was her heart country, where she was born.

Yardu drew himself up, sucked in a breath and began to chant, hoping the spirits from his country would join the spirits from this country and give him strength to avenge his wife's death. He could see his wife walking towards him through the trees. He smiled at her, knowing they were both invisible to this white stranger.

The horse and rider stopped and the man leaned forward, scanning the bush. With a final culmination of the chant, Yardu called to his wife. The white man lifted a large stick and pointed it in his direction. Yardu rushed forward and flung his spear. The white man's stick lurched up. A loud bang reverberated around the bush.

Gulda's hands gripped Yardu from behind and dragged him into the shadows. “Go,” he urged. “We must go.”

Yardu glanced back to see the horse once again dancing in circles. The white man was no longer on its back. Instead he lay spread out on the ground like a kangaroo skin stretched for curing. Yardu lifted his eyes to the sky. He shouted his gratitude. His wife and child had been avenged at last. Yardu gave one last look at the figure on the ground then spun on silent feet and followed his cousin into the bush.

Thomas shifted in the saddle. The pain that shot up his back made him wish he hadn't. The poor horse beneath him was barely more than a bag of bones but it was all he could afford. Beside him the bullocks pulling the dray came to a stop. Ahead of him was the first of the inns that would pepper his journey north. AJ had marked it on his map as a place to feed and water the stock and get a meal.

The rough-built establishment was barely bigger than a hut. A small verandah was propped up at its front with lengths of tree branches. Smoke billowed from the small chimney just above its thatched roof. In front and around were several teamsters from the copper mines, already arrived with their assorted drays, carts and wagons.

Thomas would see to his animals but his own food would be some bread and pickles from his supplies. He was down to his last coins thanks to Seth Whitby's deception and he wasn't planning on parting with them any time soon.

He eased himself down from the saddle. He'd only been on the road a short time yet every muscle and joint screeched in protest.

He lifted his head at the thud of hooves. A horse skidded to a stop in front of the inn and the rider slid from its back with a shout. The man was gesturing wildly.

Men went to him, and raised voices carried across the clearing. He watched for a moment as the men milled about the newcomer, until he heard someone call out, “Constable!” That was sufficient incentive for Thomas to mind his own business. He'd had enough of the law for one day. Anger burned in his chest again as he recalled the way he'd been duped.

He'd taken the constable and Mr Bayne to his dray, but his hopes of a reasonable explanation diminished with every minute that passed with no sign of Seth.

The constable had asked Mr Bayne to send for his stable master. When he verified the horse was Gideon and owned by Charles Bayne, Thomas had finally conceded he had been well and truly tricked and was in real danger of being arrested.

It had been then that a dishevelled man had rushed at the constable, grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him away, babbling something about a dead woman. It had taken some effort to calm the fellow down, partly due to his mad ranting and partly due to the overwhelming stench keeping them at bay. He obviously worked with pigs – and lived with them, if the smell of him was any indication.

The constable had decided he should investigate and that took precedence over the discrepancy with the horse. He'd sent Bayne grumbling on his way and warned Thomas to be more careful about his future purchases, before hurrying off with the pathetic gibbering man in search of a corpse. Thomas had felt both relief and guilt. Some poor woman had lost her life but at least it had taken the constable's attention from him.

Once he was alone, both emotions were short lived as he realised the trunk he'd left sitting on the ground was also missing. He harboured little hope Seth had put it with the landlady for storage. The man was obviously a liar and a thief.

With the last of his money, Thomas had gone back to the bazaar. There had been few horses left to select from. The animal he'd purchased was all he could afford, having spent Mr Browne's money on Treasure.

“Treasure indeed,” he muttered. “It certainly cost me.” He looked at the pathetic creature he had now and the aches in his body gave him cause to lament his foolishness yet again.

He removed the saddle and allowed the horse to eat and drink while he looked after the bullocks. The huge animals would have none of his urging. At the rate they travelled, he'd be lucky to reach the property in a month rather than the three weeks AJ had advised it would take.

It was nearly dark by the time Thomas had tended the animals. The poor light didn't help his temper as he fiddled with the harness. He was trying to work out some way he could attach a rope to tug on and so urge the bullocks forward at a faster pace, instead of the stop-starting ramble they'd had today.

“Where you headed?”

He turned to see a man leaning against a tree. His face under a broad hat was almost completely hidden by a thick grey moustache and long woolly beard. His shirt was brown with grime and his black baggy pants were held up with a piece of rope. Thomas glanced past him to a group of teamsters sitting around a fire. He assumed that's where the man had come from.

“North,” Thomas said.

“North takes in a lot of country. You going far?”

“Several weeks' journey. My employer has a sheep run. A place called Penakie.” Thomas turned back to the rope. He hoped the fellow would go away. He was in no mood to trust another stranger, not to mention the rope needed to be fixed before he lost the light. He wanted to be ready for an early start in the morning and he still had to prepare himself something to eat.

“Can't say I've heard of it,” the fellow persisted. “Your employer own these animals?”

“Yes,” Thomas said quickly followed by, “No … At least, the bullocks are his. The horse is mine.”

“I'm not a horse man myself. You worked with bullocks before?”

Thomas glanced at the rough face. He couldn't see the man's expression but the question sounded genuine. “No.”

“Would you accept some advice from someone who has?”

Thomas hesitated. He was tired and hungry and his confidence in humanity had recently taken a beating.

“These bullocks are trained to walk beside you,” the man continued as he came closer. “They won't be dragged.”

Thomas let go of the rope in his hands and felt an ache across his shoulders. When he had agreed to be AJ's overseer he hadn't realised quite how hard it would be just to get to the property.

“My name's Bert Hawson.” The man thrust his hand out.

Thomas hesitated a few seconds then put out his own hand and accepted the rough grip. “Thomas Baker.”

“We've got a fire going, some food and stories to share.” Bert flicked a look back over his shoulder. “You could be a long time on the road. It's good to seek company when you can get it.”

Thomas hesitated. The smell of roasting meat wafted around him. He accepted Bert's offer and walked beside him to the fire. Thomas reminded himself he was only sharing a campfire, not looking to buy anything.

“We're all headed to the mine at Burra,” Bert said. “We spend a lot of time together so it's always good to meet someone new. This is Tom Baker,” he announced to the group.

Thomas smiled at the shortened version of his name. No-one had ever called him Tom before.

Those grouped around the fire looked up. They were all older men with wrinkled faces and ruddy skin. They welcomed him then fell silent. Thomas's stomach growled loudly. Bert began to laugh and his friends joined in. One man thrust some meat sandwiched in damper into Thomas's hands and another shuffled along the log so he could sit.

They let him take the first mouthful before they began with their questions – where had he come from? Where he was going? He felt obliged to tell his story between mouthfuls of the delicious meat. They offered condolences at the loss of his father though there was no pity in their words.

“You'll make a go of it here in South Australia, Tom,” Bert said. “We've all come from different beginnings to this country but we wouldn't trade the life, would we, mates?”

A chorus of voices agreed with Bert.

Then the stories began, each man giving an account of where he'd been and what he'd been doing since they'd last met. Some stories sounded rather embellished to Thomas but they made him laugh and he was glad of it. They passed a jug of some kind of liquor between them, and when it got to Thomas he hesitated then took the offered drink. His eyes opened wide as the liquid burned its way down to his stomach. The man next to him grinned and slapped his back. There was laughter all round and they continued their story telling.

Thomas was enjoying their easy company but he could feel his eyes getting heavy. He wasn't as adept at life on the road as these men appeared to be. He waited until the next story was finished and the jug was going around again, then stood up.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” he said. “I'd best turn in.”

Bert stood. “We'll be doing the same soon.” He shook Thomas's hand. “Always happy to help a new chum.”

Thomas nodded farewell and made his way back to his own temporary camp. He dragged a blanket and pillow from the dray and crawled underneath. The murmur of voices and the shuffling of animal hooves were the only sounds in the cool night.

Before he knew it, the movement of men and animals around him told him it was morning. He didn't remember shutting his eyes. Thomas scrabbled from the rough bed he'd made for himself and groaned as the aches and pains from yesterday returned, only strengthened by his dreamless sleep on the hard ground. In the dim light of early dawn, he saddled his horse and harnessed the bullocks. The sounds of other men doing the same renewed his enthusiasm for the adventure ahead.

“Ready to go, Tom?”

Bert was beside him, the broad hat on his head. Thomas wondered if he slept in it and looked around for his own hat.

“I reckon so,” he said.

“This might come in handy,” Bert said.

Thomas peered at the stick Bert pressed into his hands. It was about six feet long and smooth, with an even longer plaited leather strip attached to it.

“It's a whip.”

“Thank you.” Thomas accepted the gift, still not sure what he was to do with it.

“I'll give you a quick lesson before I head out.”

Thomas had planned to boil a billy and have some bread and a mug of tea before he left but he could see some of the bullock drivers were already urging their teams away; some headed along the road to the mines at Burra and some back towards Adelaide.

Bert gave a quick demonstration then urged Thomas to try. The long tail of the whip wrapped around him several times before he managed to get the end to go where he wanted it.

“Keep practising,” Bert said. “Remember it's not meant as a weapon. These bullocks are well trained. The whip helps you to give them a reminder from a distance. They're fine animals your boss has supplied. My advice is get to know them. Learn their names. They'll respond to your voice.”

Thomas looked at the bullocks. The two leaders came as high as his shoulders and had long, twisted horns. He hadn't thought of them as anything but beasts to do the work of pulling the wagon.

“You got a firearm?”

Thomas turned back to Bert. “Yes.”

It was somewhere in the dray. AJ had given him brief instruction in its use. He wasn't sure he would remember how to fire it.

“A shepherd rode in last night looking for the constable. Says blackfellas have been stealing their sheep and one of them threw a spear at him. Evidently it's near that Penakie place where you're headed.”

Thomas stopped flicking the whip. AJ had suggested he watch out for natives pilfering sheep but he hadn't said they were dangerous.

“Perhaps you'll accept some more advice from an old man before you go.” Bert didn't wait for a reply. “Reading and writing is one thing, but out there,” he stabbed a finger in the direction Thomas was headed, “out there, you need common sense and patience to survive.”

Thomas found himself staring into the bush. Bert's words sounded more like a warning than advice.

“You're a good man. You listen and learn and you'll be right.” Bert thrust his hand out. “You take care.”

“Thanks Bert.” Thomas accepted the strong grip.

“On your horse, Tom.”

Bert tugged the whip from his hand so Thomas could climb into the saddle. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the bullocks moved forward. He clutched at the reins as his horse turned in a circle.

“The horse will get used to it.” Bert grinned and tossed the whip up to Thomas. “Good luck,” he said as Thomas gained control of his mount and moved away beside his steadily plodding bullocks.

He looked back to see Bert lift a hand in a wave then stride off to his own team. Thomas turned again to the track leading away through the bush; his rear end ached already at being back in the saddle but his spirits, high with anticipation for what lay ahead.

Septimus pulled his wagon into the shade of some large gums. He was pleased to see water in the bottom of the stream below. In the last few hours the breeze that had helped cool him had dropped right out and the late afternoon sun had beat down with more ferocity than he expected for early spring.