Blood in the Dust Page 2

  ‘I will, Ma.’ He turned for the door then remembered the horsemen. ‘Might have a few guests. There’s five coves down at the slip rails.’

  ‘Five?’ Ellen gave a startled look. Her free hand automatically went to her hair, brushing several sweaty strands into place. ‘I shall have to put a bonnet on. Tell your father to make it a whole hind quarter if we are going to have guests for dinner.’ She looked at the plate of peeled potatoes and shook her head. ‘I shall be needing some more potatoes peeled, Toby.’

  ‘I’ll let Pa know and then I’ll peel some right away, Ma.’

  He found his father standing beside the carcass of a sheep that hung from a chain fixed to one of the shed’s rafters. The damp hessian cloth had been removed and his father was running a knife back and forth across a steel, using rapid, well-practised strokes. Paddy stood nearby, waiting to help with the hock once his father cut it away.

  ‘What’s up with you, me boyo?’ Sean said as he noticed Toby in the doorway. ‘I don’t hear that axe ringing.’

  ‘There’s five horsemen heading for the slip rails. They’re planning on paying us a visit.’

  ‘Geoff Smith and his boys, back from their stock camp?’ Sean said.

  Toby shook his head. ‘Nah. These fellows rode down off the ridge. Looks like they’ve been up in the ranges.’

  ‘Maybe they’re prospectors,’ Paddy offered.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Toby shook his head again. ‘They look pretty ragged – like they’ve been living rough.’

  ‘They might just be after a good feed.’ Sean set the steel aside and traced his first cut with a finger.

  ‘Ma says to make it a whole hind quarter. Just in case they’re here for supper.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Sean shifted his finger. He went at the carcass with the knife, using fluid strokes. ‘Ready to take the weight, Pad?’ Unlike the homestead, the shed had a dirt floor. To allow the cut of meat to fall would be a travesty.

  Paddy stepped up and took hold of the leg. ‘Ready, Pa.’ Their father made the final cuts and Paddy stood back with the hind quarter in his hands.

  ‘Get that to your mother. She’ll be waiting for it,’ Sean said, and Paddy turned for the homestead, brushing past Toby. Sean watched his son go and then wiped the knife clean on a piece of cloth before placing it in its leather sheath. ‘Now, let’s take a look at these fellows.’

  Toby walked with his father to the homestead and they climbed the steps onto the verandah. The riders were at the slip rails, about three hundred paces off. As they watched, one of the men dismounted, walked to the rails and pushed them open.

  ‘They don’t look like diggers to me.’ Ellen came out of the kitchen and stood beside her husband. She wiped her hands on her apron and Toby noticed she had tidied her hair and now wore a dark-blue bonnet. ‘I can’t see a pick or shovel anywhere on those horses.’

  Paddy pushed his way in next to Toby, working his elbows to make room. ‘Ma’s right,’ he said. ‘Those miners that called in last month had two packhorses loaded with stuff.’

  Squinting against the afternoon glare, Toby studied the horsemen. The two leading the little procession sat straight-backed, heels low in the stirrups in the English fashion, but the three trailing behind sat their mounts in a loose, undisciplined manner. Even at that distance his sharp eyes could pick out broad brows and deep-set eyes.

  ‘I reckon the last three are Aborigines.’

  ‘They could be native police,’ Paddy said excitedly. ‘Maybe they’ve been out chasing bushrangers.’

  Toby elbowed his brother in the ribs. ‘Don’t be daft, Pad. They’d be in uniform if they were police. These blokes are in little more than rags.’

  The men urged their horses through into the house paddock and Toby expected to see the dismounted man push the slip rails closed again, but he simply swung up onto his horse and followed the others towards the homestead, leaving them wide open. There was a herd of two hundred and fifty head in the paddock, waiting to be driven to the butchers’ yards at the diggings. These visitors would cop hell when they arrived at the homestead.

  Beside him, his father straightened, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘Toby!’ His voice came as a low growl.

  ‘Yes, Pa?’

  ‘Fetch the Lovell for me, boyo.’

  Paddy gave a little chuckle at the thought of the drama as their father prepared to confront the men. Toby, on the other hand, felt uneasy. Sean O’Rourke was an emancipated convict and had survived the horrendous conditions of a prison hulk, had been worked to the point of exhaustion on a chain gang and still bore the scars of the punishment lash. There wasn’t much in the world that frightened him, and yet Toby thought there had been a hint of fear in his voice.

  He found the Lovell where it was always kept, behind his parents’ bedroom door, along with the leather pouch containing powder, caps and shot. He knew the weapon was loaded. His father had seen to that after the boys’ return, in case of a chance shot at fresh meat for the stew pot. It stayed that way, propped behind the door, unprimed until needed. With trembling fingers, Toby opened the bag and took out a small copper cap, fumbling as he placed it onto the nipple. He eased the hammer down and, keeping the muzzle pointed skywards, stepped back out onto the verandah, where he handed the musket and leather bag to his father.

  ‘Here you are, Pa. Primed and ready.’

  Sean pulled the hammer to full cock. ‘Good lad!’ He cradled the barrel of the musket across the crook of his left elbow. ‘Ellen, take the boys inside and close the door. Looks like these men are planning on leaving us in a hell of a hurry.’

  ‘Sean, are you sure this is the right way to go about things?’ His mother’s voice had lost its melodic quality, replaced instead with a quivering tension. ‘Maybe your being armed will only provoke them if they mean us harm?’

  Sean shook his head. ‘If they mean us harm, then it won’t hurt to show them we have the means to defend ourselves. They may just be in a hurry, but until we find out for sure, I want you and the boys inside.’

  Ellen nodded and took Paddy by the arm, leading him into the kitchen. Toby hesitated, his nervous gaze flicking between the approaching men and his father. If there was going to be trouble, he wanted to be standing at his father’s side.

  ‘Inside, Toby!’ Sean growled. Toby didn’t move and his father gave him a wink. ‘I’ll be fine, son.’ His voice softened and his hand reached out, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘Do as I tell you.’

  Toby hesitated a moment more then went inside and closed the door. He hurried to the window by the stove where his mother and brother were watching the horsemen ride up from the slip rails.

  The riders were closer now and he could make out more detail. Two white men rode at the head of the little column. The man leading seemed too big for his horse, his large frame filling the saddle, the stirrup straps at full length to accommodate long legs. He had a cabbage-tree hat pulled low over his eyes and a full beard of black, matted hair that reached halfway down his chest. His head turned from side to side as he rode, examining the corners of outbuildings and shadows beneath the trees. When he saw the faces in the window, he paused and his cold stare filled Toby with fear.

  The other white man was thin and short with sickly-yellow skin. He wore a seafarer’s peaked cap pushed back on his head. A broad smile exposed a set of tobacco-stained teeth.

  The other three men were Aborigines, dressed in a curious mixture of animal skins and European clothing. They kept a little distance between themselves and the two leaders, their eyes flicking left and right.

  The white men eyed the musket in Sean’s hands and said something to each other. They separated as they came on, heading for opposite ends of the verandah. Sean had to step back a little to keep them both in sight without turning his head too far. The little yellow man reined in on the left and lifted a hand in greeting.

  ‘No cause for concern, sir,’ he said, pointing at the musket. ‘We’r
e just after some directions.’ He swept his gaze over the front of the homestead. ‘Be glad of some food, too,’ he added, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. ‘Happy to pay you.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you close the slip rails?’ Toby heard his father snap. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got cattle in the paddock?’

  ‘We don’t expect to stay long,’ the other man responded, his voice as deep as mountain thunder. ‘We’ll close them on the way out.’

  ‘If you want anything from me, you’ll ride back down and close them now.’

  The little man lifted his chin defiantly. Toby saw the way his eyes narrowed and knew then that they meant trouble. His next words only served to confirm this.

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  Sean lowered the musket’s muzzle a little. ‘Then you’ll get nothing here.’

  ‘Now, don’t be rash, sir.’ The large man fidgeted in the folds of his shirt, drawing Sean’s attention. He produced a little leather purse and bounced it on the drawstring so the contents jangled. ‘Like we said; we’ll pay you.’ The purse slipped from his fingers and fell into the dust beside his horse. ‘Oops!’

  ‘I don’t want your money. You can turn around and ride away. There’s nothing for you here.’

  The big man raised his hands in resignation. ‘Sorry to have caused you any concern. If you’ll be kind enough to return my purse we’ll be on our way. We’ll close the slip rails as we go.’

  Toby watched as his father stepped off the verandah and stooped towards the purse. A flash of movement drew his attention back to the little man as he pulled a single-shot pistol from beneath his shirt and aimed it at his father. There was a metallic click as the pistol cocked.

  ‘Pa! Look out!’

  His father was half turned away and had one hand outstretched towards the purse, but at Toby’s warning he straightened and raised the musket, levelling the barrel at the little man as a spurt of smoke erupted from the pistol. A wind snapped at his father’s shirt and the concussion of the gunshot rattled the glass in the window. The musket fired a heartbeat later. His father’s arm jerked with the recoil of the unbraced, one-handed shot. The little man took the musket ball in the centre of his chest and fell backwards off his horse. Even as the man fell, his father reversed the empty musket in his grip, holding it like a club as he turned towards the other rider. But the big man had a revolver in his grip and fired before Sean had halved the distance between them.

  Toby’s mother screamed as his father staggered backwards. Sean dropped the musket and clutched at his chest. The stranger extended his arm straight and paused, taking aim down the barrel. He fired again and Sean fell backwards onto the ground.

  The echo of gunshots boomed about the valley, holding Toby in that brief, terrifying moment. Then, through the horror, he became aware of another noise. His mother was screaming again, a high-pitched, keening wail. She held her skirts bunched in both hands to free her legs as she ran across the kitchen. Too late, Toby realised what she was about to do.

  ‘No, Ma!’

  He moved to stop her.

  Ellen reached the door and yanked it open, rushing out onto the verandah, screaming as she ran. The revolver fired again and her scream was cut off. Toby reached the doorway to see his mother on the boards, her skirts thrown up in disarray, her arms reaching for the steps and her husband. Blood pounded in Toby’s ears, his stomach a knot of fear and panic. He moved to where his mother lay, but the sound of the revolver being cocked stopped him short.

  The big man aimed the gun at Toby’s head.

  ‘Don’t bloody move!’

  Toby was torn between wanting to help his mother and fear. His indecision held him fast and probably saved his life.

  The stranger swung off his horse. He tossed the reins to one of the Aborigines and walked calmly up the steps, barely glancing down at Ellen and the growing pool of blood.

  ‘I thought she was you.’

  He grabbed Toby by the arm and turned him back to the kitchen door.

  ‘I thought she was you coming at me with another bloody gun.’ There was no emotion in the voice, no hint of regret, just a simple statement of fact. He pushed Toby inside and turned to the three Aborigines.

  ‘Search the other buildings. Make sure no one else is hiding.’

  The Aborigines pulled clubs from beneath their cloaks and slid from their horses. They rushed between the homestead and the tack shed.

  Paddy dropped to the floor and crawled under the table as the stranger stepped into the kitchen. The man let Toby go, shoving him towards the far wall.

  ‘Sit!’

  Toby lowered himself onto a kitchen chair and watched through tear-filled eyes as the man opened the door to his parents’ bedroom and glanced inside. He then went to the back door and did the same with the boys’ little lean-to room. Satisfied there was no one else in the house he moved to the stove where the remainder of the stew Ellen had prepared for lunch still simmered away. He ladled out a huge helping into a bowl, came back to the table, pushed the hind quarter of lamb aside and sat down, then shovelled stew into his mouth as fast as he could manage.

  One of the Aborigines came to the doorway. ‘No more people here, Warrigal.’

  The man nodded and droplets of stew flew from his tangled beard. He pointed at the pot on the stove. ‘Take it to the others, Chilbi. Eat while you can. The traps may not be far behind us.’

  Without a glance at Toby or Paddy, the Aborigine went to the stove, picked up the pot and hurried back out into the yard.

  The stranger emptied the bowl in moments and pushed it into the middle of the table. He stood and went to the kitchen cupboards where he rummaged around and found a flour bag that he began filling, tossing in bags of sugar and tea, a large tin of golden syrup and a loaf of bread. Then he went into their parents’ bedroom and Toby could hear him pulling open drawers and cupboards. He came back into the kitchen and pointed the revolver at Toby.

  ‘Where does Daddy hide his money?’

  Toby knew his father had at least twenty pounds in a rawhide wallet hidden under the chest of drawers in the room. Beyond his grief and terror he felt a little spark of defiance flare. This man was not going to take everything from him. ‘There isn’t any.’ His voice cracked and didn’t sound as convincing as he’d hoped.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, boy.’ The revolver barrel almost touched Toby’s nose.

  ‘We—we don’t have any money. Not until we sell the cattle in the yard.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He lowered the revolver and shoved the table aside. Paddy tried to squirm away, but the stranger took a fistful of hair and yanked the boy to his feet. Paddy was a big lad for fifteen, but the stranger had no trouble holding him at full-stretch.

  Paddy let out a squeal of terror and closed his eyes. ‘Please, Toby! Make him stop.’

  Toby stood and the man whirled, dragging Paddy by the hair like a child’s doll.

  ‘Sit!’ he roared.

  Toby shrank back onto the chair.

  The man twisted Paddy around so he could look into the boy’s face.

  ‘Open your eyes, boy.’

  Paddy kept his eyes firmly closed.

  Infuriated, the stranger shook him by the hair and screamed, ‘Where does Daddy hide his money?’ He shook so hard that some of Paddy’s hair came away in his fist and he lost his grip. Paddy cried out and fell to the floor. He scrambled for the door on all fours, reached the verandah and broke into a full run.

  Toby ran after him, but the stranger grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and held him fast. He saw Paddy reach the rail and leap it in a clumsy lunge, landing in the dust beyond where he rolled to his feet and kept running.

  The three Aborigines were crowded around the pot, using their hands to ladle stew into their mouths. The one who had come to the kitchen door saw Paddy land in the yard and gave chase.

  ‘Run, Paddy!’ But Toby could see that his brother wasn’t going to make it. The Aborigine caught him in several paces and
the club hissed through the air. The vicious knob of fire-hardened wood struck Paddy on the side of his head. His brother let out a grunt and sprawled in the dust where he lay still.

  ‘You bastards!’ Toby felt his stomach slide with terror and anger. He struggled to get free, but the stranger just chuckled under his breath and pushed him out onto the verandah.

  Toby stopped struggling and stooped towards his mother, but a kick in the backside sent him tumbling down the steps.

  ‘Stay down,’ the deep voice warned.

  He lay on the ground and watched as the stranger went to his horse. He was carrying the hind quarter from the kitchen table and tossed it to one of the Aborigines.

  ‘Take this, Tarrat. If we get nothing else from this place, at least we will eat well for the next few days.’ He then walked to where Toby lay sobbing on the ground and took hold of his shirt front, pulling him to his feet. The stranger held him so close Toby could smell stew on his rancid breath.

  ‘Don’t be fool enough to follow me, boy.’ The dark eyes seemed to burn through him.

  Toby’s head lolled like a drunkard’s as he was shoved backwards. The stranger swung up onto his horse and rounded on the Aborigines.

  ‘On your horses, you black heathens.’

  The Aborigines dropped the pot and ran for their animals, springing lithely onto their backs. One of them gathered up the reins of their dead companion’s horse, ignoring his body on the ground. They followed the white man towards the slip rails.

  Toby stood between the bodies of his mother and father and watched the men ride away. They reached the slip rails and did not pause or look back, riding on until the bush surrounded them and they were gone. He stared after them for a long time, too scared and shocked to move, his gaze fixed on the patch of bushland where they had disappeared.

  His brother’s low groan snapped him out of the trance-like state.

  ‘My God, Paddy!’

  Standing at the starboard rail of the Charlotte Elizabeth, Annie Hocking watched the low, green hills of Australia slip by. This was not her first glimpse of her new homeland, but with the ship on a long starboard tack past the battered headland of Cape Schanck, it was the closest she had come to that mysterious continent at the end of the world. For the past five days a gusting north wind had prevented the ship from entering Port Phillip Bay. After seven months at sea they were forced to tack back and forth across the choppy waters of Bass Strait, a mere sixty miles from their destination, as the captain waited for more favourable conditions.