The Cedar Cutter (32 page)

‘Just the natives' fires, flood and bloody redcoats.'

‘Redcoats will be gone soon. Most of them are handing in their commissions and heading for the goldfields, or they're being sent to Van Diemen's Land.'

‘And good riddance to them.' Slinger tethered the horses and removed the packs, then clambered up into the cave after Carrick. He reached out to the remnants of the fire. ‘No one's been here for a day or two. No sign of Billy Boy either.'

Carrick heaved a log under the overhang of the cave and brought it down with a crash, breaking the dead timber into small pieces, then crouched down and eased a packet of Congreves from inside his shirt. He lit the fire, hardly able to summon the patience to wait until morning. The sooner they started the sooner they'd finish. After ten years his patience had worn right through.

Slinger dragged the remains of the cold mutton from the saddlebag and offered him some. He shook his head. ‘Tea first.' The thought of eating the cold, greasy mutton turned his stomach. He was getting soft. It didn't take long for a man to appreciate the comforts of home.

Pulling a flagon of rum out of his saddlebag, Slinger settled down, gnawing on a bone, more like one of the wild dingoes than a human. He wiped the fat from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. ‘Once you've got your King Polai, then what?'

‘I told you. I'm going home.'

‘Why would you be doing that? Waste of bloody money if you ask me. You must have a fair bit stashed away by now. You could set yourself up right and proper. Or head off to the goldfields. Make a fortune if you've got some money behind you. And then there's Roisin. She'd help pass the nights. Help you leave the old country behind.'

‘You stick with your affairs and I'll stick with mine. I've got business to sort out.'

‘What kind of business?'

‘The unfinished kind.'

‘You're tighter than an emu's arse.'

‘Here.' Carrick nudged the flagon of rum closer to Slinger. ‘Get some of that into you, then get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. I want to be in there before the sun breaks.'

‘Nothing else to do.'

Carrick unrolled his piece of canvas alongside the fire and lay down, covering his face with his hat. Ireland. Give it six months and he'd be there—less if he picked up a fast ship. As sleep claimed him, he waited for their faces to fill his mind, but all he saw was Roisin, her face in the moonlight, hair spread across the pillow. Fidgeting, he sat up and removed a stone pressed against his back. Smooth and round its colours flickered in the firelight. He spat on it, wiped away the dust, then rubbed it on his shirtsleeve and slipped it into his pocket. One for Ruan. Another treasure. Maybe he'd take him panning for gold, find a bit of real treasure. God he'd miss the lad. Was already missing his mam.

The grey misty dawn held the promise of a fine spring day. Good cutting weather. He stoked the remnants of the fire, stacked some more wood onto it and set the billy to boil. Excitement swirled in the pit of his stomach. He'd waited so long for this. Not just the tree, knowing it signalled the end of his time in Australia. All the waiting, all the planning. He'd finally have the bugger and he'd stick him. An eye for an eye, like the good book said. None of this turning-the-other-cheek rubbish. The bastard would die. Just the way he'd promised when he'd stood in the dock. He scratched at his shoulder then measured the tea into the billy, shoving his boot into Slinger's recumbent form. ‘Oi! On yer feet. Time to make a move.'

‘Fuck off.' Slinger dragged the canvas over his head and burrowed deeper, like a wombat hiding from rain. The empty rum flagon rolled across the ground. Carrick grinned. That'd make him work faster. He'd finished his ration in one night. No more grog till they were done. Tapping the billy, he stared at the leaves as they settled. Shame he'd not be here to teach the lad a bit about the bush, too. There'd be plenty of time when he got back. A man needed to know the way to survive, and the heritage of the country of his birth.

‘On yer feet. Here.' The tea slopped over the edge of the tin mug as he thrust it into Slinger's hand.

‘Okay! Okay! Give me a minute. You're bloody keen.'

‘Stop whingeing. This'll line yer pockets for a year or four and buy some pretty ribbons for that girl ye're so keen on.'

Slinger took the tea, sipped it and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Where the hell did that rum come from? It's a shit load stronger than Maisie's usual brew.'

‘Maybe you drank a load more. No more until the tree's down.' Carrick rolled his bed into a compact bundle and secured the ropes, then kicked over the traces of the fire. ‘I'll saddle the horses.'

Following the wallaby tracks, they led the horses deeper into the valley. It was decent land; make a good grant, especially if it did front the Wyong River—give direct access to the coast—great for shipping cedar. Shame there wasn't any left. Boat from Sydney, smaller one down to the reaches of the Wyong River and you'd be there quicker than the days it took to travel to Morpeth, though the whole bloody world would know where you'd been and where you were going. No, he'd done it right. Taking the route over the mountain to Morpeth and keeping the stands a secret. He gave a harsh bark of laughter.

‘Now what?' Slinger grumbled as he kneed his horse closer and ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch.

‘Nothing much. Just thinking it's a top piece of land. Someone could do well here. Shame there's no timber left.'

‘Reckon the stand we cleared belonged to this grant, too?'

‘Aye, without a doubt.'

‘Sure no one's been through here since we were here? The track seems clearer.'

‘Don't think they have. Seen any surveyor's marks?'

‘Nothing in the trees.'

‘Keep yer eyes peeled for cairns.'

‘For what?'

‘The piles of stones they use to mark the corners of the grants.' Not that it mattered whether they'd surveyed the land or not. This was illegal whichever way it was looked at. It was private land now and they had no right to be on it. ‘Give it another half hour and we'll be there.' Carrick pointed down to the valley floor. ‘Creek's down there. Yeah. And look up.'

As he spoke the sun breached the hills and sent a swathe of light down to the valley floor. The tangle of undergrowth cleared a little as the track wound down to the creek. The thick branches of the huge tree supporting the ever-present tangle of vines cast shadows, interspersed with patches of filtered sunlight, across the uneven ground.

Carrick drew to a halt and dismounted. ‘We'll leave the horses and the gear here and decide where to make camp.' He tethered his horse and moved up the bank. ‘Slinger? You coming?'

‘Someone's been here. On the bank, footmarks.'

‘It'll be Billy Boy and his mates.'

‘Billy Boy and his mates don't wear boots like these.'

As the words drifted up to him, Carrick's skin puckered and the hairs on his neck rose, making his skin prickle. He turned and ran his finger across his throat.

Slinger nodded, acknowledging his sign, and crouching low they crested the rise.

Above them the giant cedar loomed, a sentinel guarding the forest, its buttress roots stretching like fingers anchoring it to the land. He tipped his head back and followed the trunk into the canopy, the pink tips of the new leaves and beyond to the patch-worked sky. Only the occasional cry of a whip bird broke the church-like stillness of the place. Not a leaf stirred. The thick absence of sound niggled at his skin. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. Something was wrong.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

He jumped clear in the air and whipped around. Slinger grinned at him. ‘King Polai got you, has he? Having second thoughts?'

‘It's a magnificent beast, it'll break my heart to take it down.'

‘You've said that before. Think of the money. If we don't take it some other bugger will. You're right, it's over two hundred feet. We'll have to peg it, build a couple of platforms, no way we can cut through that trunk low down. No chance of doing it in a week either, 'specially with no rum.'

Clambering across the buttress roots, Carrick reached out his hands and pressed his palms flat against the rough bark, spreading his pale and insignificant fingers wide against the dark-pitted bark. Step by step he measured the width of the trunk. The wood at the heart would be the deepest red, worth a fortune.

He continued sidestepping, counting as he went, craning up to the canopy. Beneath his fingertips the tree's heart beat fast, the sap flowing through its veins like blood through a man. It'd build a perfect home for Roisin and Ruan, down by the brook. He'd manage with less money, get back quicker.

Twenty spans and still not even halfway around the trunk, his foot caught and he slid, grappling the bark for purchase as he toppled backwards. Too busy counting, too busy imagining her breathing heart, a home and hearth. Damn it. His ankle turned and he slumped, letting his body roll over the roots until he settled in the leaf litter.

As his momentum stilled, he started to struggle to his feet when his fingers closed around—

He catapulted up, the muscles in his stomach tightening and loosening like a nervous fist. Wide, staring eyes. Slack mouth and the stench of voided bowels. His stomach heaved and he twisted away, willing the vomit back down his throat. ‘Slinger!'

‘Jesus fucking Christ. The bugger's dead.'

Carrick closed his eyes and forced some air into his starved lungs.

When Slinger prodded the body with his foot, it rolled and tumbled down the embankment. ‘Christ, the smell.' He clapped his hand across his nose and mouth. ‘The bugger's had it. Wasn't expecting it. No doubt about that.' He peered down at the corpse. ‘Taken a bullet in his back.'

Willing his galloping heart to steady, Carrick skidded down the embankment. Shot in the back. Hadn't even known it was coming. Murdered by a sodding coward.

Slinger booted the body over and peered down at the waxy face. ‘The overseer. The bloke that chased us off. Thought you said he wouldn't be back. It's the bloody natives. Billy Boy and his mates. He said it was a bad place.' Slinger paced up and down, throwing his arms this way and that, his face flushing first red then white.

‘Slinger get yer act together—that's a bullet hole in his back. The natives don't use guns. It'd be a spear in him if they'd done it.' More importantly, why was the overseer alone? There'd been two of them last time, the overseer and the mug hiding behind the tree with the gun. He stood up and gazed around, the shock seeping away as he envisaged the scene. He wouldn't have been alone. No sign of a struggle. Not a fight. Someone he trusted or someone who'd followed him. There was no sign of horses, just the footprint on the creek bed.

Slinger stood with hands on his hips gazing down at the body. ‘It doesn't make sense. Let's get the hell out of here. He didn't kill himself, so there's got to be someone else around. Come on.' Slithering and slipping, he toppled down the bank. ‘You can keep your bloody tree. I want no part of it. It's bad luck. Bad place.'

Carrick settled the overseer on his back, his eyes roving the area. No matter who did it or how it happened the man deserved a burial. ‘Slinger.'

Slinger had already untied the horses and started up the track. ‘Are you coming or not?'

Carrick dragged himself to his feet, his thoughts spinning. ‘If we're not going to take him out, the least we can do is bury him.' He needed to get out of the place, see the sky. Stop and take time to think. He bent down, closed the man's eyes and arranged his arms, settling them across his chest. They'd heard no gunshot; the man couldn't have been dead more than three or four hours. Sometime last night, or early this morning before the sun was up; any earlier and he'd be stiffer than a cedar split.

‘Stay right where you are, gentlemen.'