Blood in the Dust Page 36

  ‘They don’t look like gunshot wounds,’ Toby said, eyeing one of the dead horses. ‘These animals were killed by spear.’

  There were human footprints around the horses, made by bare feet, and something else which made the skin prickle on the back of Toby’s neck.

  Another footprint lay in the dust. Unlike the others, this print had been made by a booted foot, the impression perfectly clear. Toby squatted and tentatively traced its outline with a fingertip. The man who had killed his parents had stood on this very spot not too long ago. He felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Was it fear, or something else? In his mind he was outside the homestead at Bunyong Creek, his shirtfront in the grip of a dark stranger who had just gunned down his mother and father.

  ‘Don’t be fool enough to follow me, boy!’

  Beside that print he found another and another. They retreated into a gap in the boulders and he stooped to follow them through.

  ‘Careful,’ McTavish cautioned. ‘There could be anything in there, laddie.’

  Toby cocked the Lovell and stepped into the opening. The walls were covered with many rock paintings: animals, birds and men formed by dots or childlike lines, some looking so fresh it seemed they had only been painted yesterday. Seven paces carried him through and he found himself standing on the edge of a natural amphitheatre. The far wall was a cliff face. Boulders stretched away at either hand, the ground covered with small rocks and tufts of spindly mountain grass. Here and there trees had gained purchase in gaps between boulders, their growth stunted and malformed by their precarious position.

  McTavish stood beside Toby. ‘Looks as if they’ve gone, laddie,’ he said, glancing into the shadowy interior of the overhang.

  ‘Yes, but how long ago were they here? We should get Barraworn in here to have a look. He can tell us when they left.’

  ‘You’ve got no chance of getting him anywhere near this place. Did you see his eyes when he spotted those paintings on the rocks?’ McTavish said, then, without waiting for an answer, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll find the freshest set of tracks leading away, and those will be the ones we’ll follow. We’re close to the bastard now.’

  Toby went to the remains of a campfire and placed his hand on the grey ashes.

  Stone cold.

  McTavish moved up beside him. ‘Like I said, laddie, they’re gone.’ The sergeant sniffed at the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

  A smell of putrefaction came from somewhere close by. ‘Maybe from the dead horses. No, the breeze is blowing the wrong way.’

  ‘Seems to be coming from over here,’ McTavish said. He crossed to an overhang of rock in which many stones had been piled up. ‘Yes, it’s definitely strongest here.’ The sergeant stooped and pulled a few rocks away, then jumped back.

  ‘My God!’

  Toby thought the sergeant had flushed a snake from beneath the stones, but as he moved closer, he could see what had caught McTavish off guard. A human hand protruded from beneath the pile of rocks, the hand of an Aborigine.

  ‘Is this a burial ground or something?’ McTavish asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Toby replied. ‘Let’s dig a little deeper and see what we find.’

  They shifted more rocks from beneath the overhang. The smell of death became overpowering and brought a cloud of flies buzzing about, but they worked on in silence.

  ‘A young buck,’ McTavish said, once the makeshift grave had been revealed. He stepped back to where the air was a little sweeter.

  ‘He was shot,’ Toby said, studying the wounds.

  ‘But why? And look at the clothing – a strange mix of civilised and native garb. This fellow has spent some time down among the settlements.’

  ‘Do you suppose he was part of Anderson’s gang?’

  ‘Certainly looks that way to me,’ McTavish replied. ‘It would seem our friend did not want to share the proceeds from the gold robbery. There’s nothing more we can learn here, laddie. Let’s cover him back up and see what trails Barraworn has found for us.’

  They piled stones back over the body and it occurred to Toby that this was hard work. ‘Anderson didn’t shoot all of his men,’ he mused aloud.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s not the type to gun down a man and then take the time to cover the body so that dingos can’t get at him.’

  ‘I see what you mean. We may have an ally out in the bush looking to do our job for us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Toby said. ‘But we must remember we are the strangers in this place. The survivor of this slaughter may not be too pleased to see us here.’

  They finished covering the body and, as they moved back to the entrance, Toby found another pile of stones in a narrow crevice. ‘Another body, do you suppose?’

  ‘I don’t know, laddie. Let’s take a quick look.’

  Once more they shifted away stones.

  ‘Two packsaddles,’ Toby said when they had removed enough to see what lay beneath. He clambered over rocks to untie one of the flaps and examine the contents.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  A gold watch on an expensive-looking chain rolled out of the pack and onto the ground. Toby thrust his hand inside and brought out several rings, a few gold sovereigns and about thirty-five pounds worth of banknotes.

  ‘What is it, laddie?’

  Toby thrust the contents under the policeman’s nose. McTavish eyed the small fortune, his bushy eyebrows raised in surprise. Toby’s hand contained the equivalent of two years’ pay.

  ‘These two packsaddles are full of more of this,’ Toby said.

  ‘Anderson’s ill-gotten gains. Too heavy for him to haul out of here without horses.’ McTavish lifted the other flap and riffled through the contents. He tossed several leather pouches to Toby.

  ‘From the escort gold?’

  ‘Some of it, I think. A few of these contain coins,’ Toby said. ‘There are a few with jewellery in them, but most have nuggets and gold dust.’

  ‘Then he still has some of the escort gold with him. Whatever he thought he could carry out of here.’

  ‘Unless he’s hidden that somewhere else. Not putting all his eggs in one basket so to speak,’ Toby mused. ‘Maybe he’s coming back with new horses to collect the lot.’

  ‘That’s possible, laddie,’

  ‘What are we going to do with it all?’

  ‘It’s far too bulky to take with us,’ McTavish said. ‘Let’s cover it back up. We can come back for it later. Right now we need to travel as fast as possible.’

  Sloan, Gatwick and Paddy were standing by their horses near the opening when Toby and McTavish emerged. Gatwick was smoking a pipe and looked rather concerned.

  ‘That bloody tracker of yours will not come anywhere near this damned place, Sergeant, and I can’t say as I blame him. It gives me the creeps, it does.’

  ‘Not to worry, Constable,’ McTavish gave him a cheery smile. ‘We’ll be moving on as soon as he gives us a direction to go in. Where is the good fellow, by the way?’

  Sloan pointed to a distant shape in the trees. ‘Over there. He won’t come any closer than that. Says there are evil spirits at work.’

  ‘Yes,’ McTavish said, as he took the reins of his horse. ‘We have seen their work inside.’ He swung up onto the back of his horse, leaving Sloan with a puzzled look on his face.

  They rode over to where Barraworn sat his horse a respectful distance from the boulders.

  ‘What have you found for us?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘White fella go this way, boss,’ Barraworn said. ‘Maybe two, maybe three days ago. Black fella follow along behind.’

  ‘So it would seem your theory about a survivor is correct.’ McTavish tipped his hat at Toby.

  ‘Survivor?’ Gatwick asked.

  ‘I’ll fill you in as we ride, Constable,’ McTavish answered. Then to Barraworn he said, ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  At sunset Anderson found a place to hide among some rocks where the ground was hard and stony and h
e knew his trail couldn’t be followed. He dared not light a fire. Late that afternoon, he had stumbled across a small spring and had spent a little time mixing water with his meagre supply of flour to make up a dough which he had then eaten raw. It was bland and tasteless, but had mostly stilled his hunger pangs.

  He backed into a gap between two large rocks and made himself as comfortable as possible, propped facing the opening. Attack, if it came, could only be from that one direction, and he drew the revolver from his belt and placed it ready for use on his lap. Satisfied he had done all he could, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  At dawn, he crept carefully from his sleeping place. The valley was still shrouded in darkness, but the heights on the far side were beginning to lighten as the first tentative rays of sunrise played against them. Behind him, the mountainous interior loomed. To the west, a band of high cloud stretched from horizon to misty horizon, too thin to promise rain.

  Anderson placed his revolver into his belt, hefted his calico bag and the precious saddlebags over his shoulder, and set off once more along the edge of the escarpment. The line of cliffs stretched on and on, an unclimbable barrier. No wonder the Jannjirra had remained isolated for so long, he thought. But the line of cliffs was not continuous. About two miles away a spur descended into the valley, reaching almost to the river.

  His spirits lifted as he realised this might be a way off the escarpment at last. Adjusting the saddlebags on his shoulder, he moved on.

  Following the spoor wasn’t easy. There was no trail left by horses, and the bushranger seemed to be employing anti-tracking techniques as he travelled, making use of every patch of rocky ground or watercourse to mask evidence of his passage. Often Barraworn was forced to dismount and cast back and forth hundreds of yards to the left and right until he regained the trail and they could follow on. At one place the trail entered a creek and they lost time searching for the place where Anderson had left the water.

  ‘Do you suppose he knows we’re onto him?’ Sloan asked, as he and Toby searched the creek downstream from where Anderson’s trail entered the water.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Toby answered, without looking up. He studied a patch of reeds at the water’s edge, looking for a snapped or bent stem that might indicate Anderson had come this way. ‘He can’t know we’re up here. I think he’s trying to put off whoever speared those horses.’

  Sloan opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could speak a low whistle came from upstream.

  ‘C’mon,’ Toby said, splashing water in his haste, ‘Barraworn has found something.’

  They returned to the horses and rode up the creek to where the rest of the party waited. Barraworn squatted in reeds beside the far bank, shaking his dark, scraggly head as he examined the ground.

  ‘You found something?’ Toby asked.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Barraworn nodded. ‘One fella, same one at horses, he got white fella boots on. Another fella, him black fella, boss. Follow along-a white fella, but him hurt. Use a spear to help him walk.’

  He pointed to several little plug marks in the dirt and the story that the tracks told became clear. Bare footprints led across the soft earth beside the creek, and beside each left print was a corresponding depression made by the end of a walking stick or spear that the person was using like a crutch.

  ‘It seems the fellow who killed the horses is injured, but has not given up the chase,’ McTavish said.

  ‘Yes, but what will he do when he realises we’re up here? Will he allow us to keep after Anderson or will he try and stop us?’ Toby responded.

  ‘Surely he will see we are after the same thing,’ Gatwick said. ‘We all want to catch up with Anderson.’

  ‘He may not see it that way, laddie,’ McTavish responded. ‘To him, any stranger may be the enemy. We are in his tribal lands uninvited after all.’

  ‘But he’s hurt,’ Toby said, ‘and he’s making no effort to conceal his tracks. He’ll lead us straight to Anderson if he’s able to keep up. We can overtake him and keep well out of his way. Once we’re past him he won’t be able to get near us.’

  They moved off once more with Barraworn in the lead. Toby’s words proved true; the native’s tracks were far easier to follow than Anderson’s. He began to wonder if the injured Aboriginal might lose interest in the chase and lead them away from their quarry, but each time he questioned Barraworn about Anderson’s spoor, the tracker was able to point out the bushranger’s trail beside that of the native.

  Sunset found them on the edge of the escarpment. Paddy looked into the valley, a sea of shadow, a bottomless void sucking at the riders as they traversed the rim. A cool breeze came out of the north-east and he pulled his jacket from the bedroll behind him and shrugged it on, trying to ease a little of the stiffness from his back and legs at the same time. He could not remember having ever spent so much time on horseback. They had taken eight days just to reach the plateau and another five to cross it, riding from first to last light. No cattle drive or muster had ever taken that long, not without a break here and there. As he looked at the wild country to the north he supposed they would be another three to four weeks in the bush.

  At the head of the party, Barraworn dismounted and led them to a patch of rocky ground. He paused every few seconds to study a seemingly inconspicuous piece of earth or rock. Finally, he stopped outside a narrow opening between two boulders and looked back at the others.

  ‘White fella, him sleep here last night.’

  Toby nodded. ‘Be too dark to follow soon. I suggest we rest up here for the night. We’re not far behind the bastard now. No fire, no smoking in the open. If you feel the urge to light a pipe, make sure you’re screened by the boulders.’

  Wearily, the men swung from their mounts and began to make camp. Paddy removed Patch’s bridle and examined the horse’s gums.

  ‘Bit-sore?’ Toby asked, as he led Moonlight to where they were positioning the horse line. Paddy nodded and Toby took hold of Patch’s head so he could see for himself.

  ‘Just a hint. See how it looks in the morning. You may have to ride on a halter for a day or two.’

  Paddy grimaced. With a halter a rider had only a fraction of the control of a bridle. But he would do what was necessary to prevent further injury to his horse.

  ‘You and I have last watch tonight, Pad,’ Toby said over his shoulder as he moved away. ‘Eat something and get your head down – and don’t forget to un-prime your musket before you curl up in your blankets with it.’

  Paddy nodded to show he understood. He let go of the horse’s mouth and moved to where his musket sat in its scabbard, the hammer uncocked and resting on the percussion cap. He yawned as he pulled the weapon from the scabbard. In his tiredness he forgot that his right hand was still covered in saliva from the horse’s mouth. He curled his wet thumb over the hammer and pulled it back. The hammer had almost reached the half-cocked position when his thumb lost its grip. The musket discharged in a brilliant muzzle flash that lit the campsite. Luckily for Paddy, he had the weapon pointed at the ground, but he felt the bottoms of his legs blasted with dirt as the ball struck somewhere under Patch’s belly. The horse reared in protest and Paddy only just caught the lead rope in time to prevent him bolting away into the darkness.

  Men swore and whirled about as they looked for the direction of this unseen attack. McTavish drew his pistol and dropped into cover behind some rocks. Gatwick struggled to pull his carbine from its scabbard, dancing in a circle with his panicking horse, while Sloan and Barraworn had their weapons up and pointing uncertainly into the darkness.

  ‘Are we under attack?’ McTavish carefully lifted his head.

  Toby noticed the smoking musket in Paddy’s hand as his brother fought to calm the frightened horse. ‘It’s all right. There’s no attack. Paddy’s musket went off.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Gatwick roared. ‘You frightened two years off my life, young fella.’

  Out in the valley, echoes boomed off cliffs like a peal
of distant thunder. The sound rolled on and on for miles until it dissipated into the darkness. McTavish got to his feet and uncocked his pistol. ‘That was unfortunate. If Anderson didn’t know we were after him, he does now.’

  Paddy finally got Patch under control and stroked the animal’s neck. He kept his eyes steadfastly on the horse, for he had no desire to see the anger in Toby’s eyes.

  Before the confusion of echoes muddled any chance of singling out the original sound, Anderson realised the gunshot had come from the escarpment above him. He was halfway down the spur with the river only a few miles away. Tomorrow he would reach it and follow it back into the settled districts. But, with the dying echoes still rumbling down the valley, his mind worked in other directions.

  He was certain Chilbi had not fired that shot. He hadn’t left the native with any firearms or even a single pinch of gunpowder. The shot had come from someone else. There were white men up on the plateau, and white men meant horses. If he was able to steal a horse from them, he could go back and retrieve the gold.

  Whoever was up on the escarpment would be making camp for the night, waiting for first light before attempting the descent. He considered climbing back onto the plateau and setting up an ambush, but it had been a long and tiring day just climbing down to where he was. There was no way he could reach the rim before sunrise. The men up there must be chasing him. There was no other reason for them being there. Somehow a pursuit party had picked up his trail and followed him into the mountains of the Jannjirra.

  If they are chasing me, they will catch up tomorrow. Then we shall see if I can’t get my hands on a horse or two.

  Through crisp, clear air, Toby could see the silvery surface of a river as it snaked through the valley. In several places the waters were disrupted by a white bar where the river tumbled through rapids. Wild forest continued unbroken on either bank, a dense blanket of green that stretched as far as the eye could see. The far wall of the valley was capped by two hundred feet of sheer cliff face, the rock taking on an orange hue in the dawn light. Ahead of him, a spur dropped steeply, a tree and boulder-strewn ramp that would eventually take them down to the river.