Blood in the Dust Read online

  McTavish twisted nervously in his saddle, eyeing the shadows in the surrounding bush. They were all nervous since Paddy’s blunder with the musket last night. Finally, the sergeant’s gaze settled on Barraworn where he squatted on the ground.

  ‘Well?’

  Barraworn’s fingertips traced the outline of a boot print in the soil.

  ‘White fella come this way, boss.’

  ‘What about the other one?’ Toby asked.

  The tracker frowned and moved back and forth across the spoor, searching for any sign of the Aborigine following Anderson.

  ‘No black fella tracks here, boss. Plenty up there,’ he added pointing back towards the top of the escarpment. ‘I can go back up and track him from there.’

  ‘No. Stay with the white fella tracks. He’s the one we want.’

  Even as he spoke, Toby could not help but let his gaze search the surrounding bush. It was disconcerting to know that the Aborigine may now be behind them. But there was nothing to be done about it. They could waste hours trying to find out where he’d gone. Their time would be better spent following Anderson, especially now he knew they were up here. He looked to where Paddy sat forlornly at the tail end of their little column. His brother had stayed out of the way when they broke camp that morning. He knew Paddy was embarrassed and hurting following the discharge of the musket, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  Let him ride at the back of the line for a day or two, he thought. He’ll get over it.

  With Barraworn in the lead, they continued towards the river. In places the going was steep and difficult, the horses forced to squat on their haunches, slipping and sliding on loose scree. In others the slope was densely wooded and barricaded by tumbledown boulders, forcing a long traverse to find a way through. They continued without a break until well into the afternoon. When the ground began to level, Toby could hear the murmur of cascading water. Ten minutes later he glimpsed the river through the trees, no more than seventy paces away and some forty feet below.

  The bush was so dense and low that they were forced to dismount and lead their horses the last twenty paces through a tangle of scrub. Finally, they stood above the rushing waters, the bank close to twenty feet high. Barraworn turned downstream along Anderson’s spoor, and the rest of the party followed on foot, leading their mounts.

  Toby stopped and let McTavish come up beside him. ‘Once we find a way down to the water, we’ll rest up for a bit, let the horses drink their fill. God knows they deserve it.’

  McTavish nodded and moved on past Toby, who waited to relay his instructions to Gatwick and Sloan. The policemen both gave a smile at the welcome news and kept moving, leaving Toby to wait for Paddy. The path remained empty for the next few minutes and he began to worry that something had happened to his brother. He was about to head back along their trail when he glimpsed Paddy a hundred yards along the riverbank, examining the inside of Patch’s mouth.

  ‘He’ll have to put a halter on that horse,’ Toby said under his breath.

  Paddy finished his examination and began to follow along, leading Patch on a loose rein.

  I can’t wait forever, Toby decided. He’ll just have to catch up once we find a way down to the river. He turned and headed off, leading Moonlight back towards the rest of the party.

  From below the edge of the riverbank, Anderson watched the black tracker lead his horse downstream. His guess had been correct; they were looking for somewhere to get down to the water so the horses could drink. Earlier that morning he had found the nearest place was a quarter-mile further along where the bank had collapsed onto a narrow strip of sand. Anderson had laid his spoor for them to follow, then doubled back deep in the bush and crossed to this hiding place, careful not to leave any sign that would alert the tracker.

  His plan was simple enough: he would wait beside the trail until the last horseman came level with him and then spring his ambush, kill the man and take the horse. He would then head upstream and look for a place to cross the river and lie up where any pursuers would be easy targets in the open, should they try and follow.

  The black tracker moved past and he adjusted the heavy saddlebags onto his shoulder. Their weight would be a hindrance, but he dared not put them down. Once he moved, there would be no stopping.

  Almost a minute passed before the second horseman drew level on the riverbank above him. He had chosen a place where he could see for fifty or more paces along the game trail and the third man was just coming into view upstream of his position. The man above him wore a police uniform with sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeve. The police sergeant stopped almost level and turned to look back behind him. Anderson heard him curse and then the sergeant continued on his way. The next two men wore police uniforms also. They were closer together than the first pair and talked quietly to each other as they led their mounts. These two led a packhorse each, and Anderson eyed the bulging packs hungrily.

  For one brief moment of despair he thought the fourth man was the last of his pursuers. The trail upstream remained devoid of any more men and the two policemen were far too close together to allow him any chance of success. As he watched them pass, he cursed his rotten luck. Then the fifth man and horse materialised out of the shadows along the riverbank.

  Anderson let the policemen pass and studied the approaching horseman. He was far enough behind the others to allow his plan to work. The man was young and dressed in civilian clothes. Perhaps from a nearby cattle run, employed as a guide into the mountains? Someone who had a little knowledge of the lie of the land? Whatever the reason for the young man’s presence in the police party, he’d found his victim and cocked his revolver, glad of the rumbling water behind him that would mask any sound of his movements when the moment came.

  The man approached with reins draped lazily over one shoulder, his face shadowed by many days of beard. He carried a musket in his right hand and Anderson eyed the weapon wantonly. It was just the sort of long arm he would need to shoot down any pursuers that tried to cross the river behind him. His gaze drifted to the horse following behind its master like a faithful dog, finely muscled and well proportioned, a mount that looked as if it could run well in rough bush, with the stamina to carry its rider far. Anderson could hardly believe his luck.

  He stood from his position and took one look back down the riverbank. The trail remained clear of any other men. With the revolver held in front of him he stepped out of the bush. Man and horse both continued on their way, unaware of the danger behind them.

  Paddy slipped the bridle from Patch’s head and pulled a halter on in its place. Unless he took steps now, he could injure the horse. When he caught up with the others, he would swap Patch for one of the packhorses and rest the animal’s mouth from the troublesome bit. Although Patch would follow happily along behind moonlight and he could ride on the halter if need be, if the ground became tricky, he would need to have more control over his mount than the halter could offer.

  He slung the bridle over his shoulder and took up the lead rope, tugging it urgently as he stepped out. He had no desire to annoy the others further, following his unfortunate incident with the musket.

  As he walked, he looked down at the river some twenty feet below. The water ran wide and deep, the bank severely undercut and impassable. Ahead he could hear a thundering rush as the river cascaded over a bar of rocks. The narrow game trail stretched ahead. Paddy urged Patch along and they entered a sunlit clearing. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and could see his brother about to lead Moonlight into the bush at the far side of the clearing. Toby was only a hundred yards ahead of him now. He had made up his lost time.

  A shape appeared out of dense bush above the riverbank. At first Paddy thought it was a kangaroo, a big eastern grey that had been trapped against the steep bank by the appearance of men and horses and was now making a bolt for higher ground, but he paused in mid-stride as he realised this was no kangaroo. He watched as the man lifted a pistol and started down Moonlight�
��s flank. He was a big man and a full, unkempt beard obscured his face, but Paddy knew he had seen this man before.

  Anderson.

  Undetected by Toby, the bushranger closed to within three paces and aimed the revolver at the back of his head. In the next moment the man who had murdered Paddy’s parents would take his brother from him.

  His musket was still in its scabbard and would take too long to retrieve. Paddy filled his lungs to shout a warning and instantly the pain flared in the side of his head. Any noise he made died in the back of his throat, little more than a rasping hiss.

  Anderson closed to a pace from Toby, the pistol almost touching the back of his head. Paddy drew another breath and opened his mouth. As he let the air rush through his throat, he felt the blinding agony tighten its grip on his mind. He managed to tense his throat muscles, to tighten his neglected vocal chords to a point where they might make some kind of noise, but the throbbing flared into a blinding pulse of agony. Stars swam in his vision and he felt the tension go out of his throat as his voice was taken from him and that horrible hiss began.

  His eyes wide with terror, the air still running up his windpipe, he felt a deep anger that filled him with the strength only a wild rage can summon. As the anger gripped him, Paddy took control of it and turned it inwards, into the shadowy recesses of his mind where the pain dwelled. The malignant force was powerless to resist.

  With this new-found strength of will, Paddy tensed his vocal chords. His breath ran hard through his throat and his voice boomed out loud along the riverbank.

  ‘Toby, look out!’

  Toby spun around at the warning. He had no time to look for the owner of that strangely familiar voice, for he was immediately confronted by a pistol only inches from his face, the muzzle appearing as large as a cave and the knuckle of the finger through the trigger guard beginning to whiten as it took up the tension. Instinctively, he threw up his arm and knocked the pistol aside as it discharged. A blast of heat from the muzzle singed his face. The ball passed a quarter of an inch from his ear, his eardrum almost rupturing at the roar of noise.

  Anderson’s thumb curled over the hammer and the cylinder rotated as he cocked for a second shot. The Lovell was in Toby’s right hand, but there was no time to bring the heavy weapon up. He let it clatter to the ground, grabbed Anderson’s gun arm and lifted it high. The revolver fired again and the ball shot harmlessly into the sky.

  ‘You little bastard.’

  Anderson’s face was so close that Toby could smell his putrid breath. The dark eyes were filled with rage.

  Holding Anderson’s arm high, Toby pivoted on the balls of his feet and pushed his hip into Anderson’s side. The bushranger realised the futility of trying to use his pistol and let it drop. At the same time he brought his other arm around Toby’s front, reaching for his throat, his fingers clawing as he tried to get a death grip on the younger man’s neck.

  Moonlight reared and plunged, his reins gripped in Toby’s hand. The horse came down on the struggling men, driving them apart. Toby let go of the reins and Moonlight galloped for the nearby bush, leaving them to fight it out.

  Anderson stooped and snatched up the revolver. Shouting came from down the riverbank as Gatwick and Sloan appeared, running fast with their carbines at the ready. Sloan fired, still at full run, and the ball whispered between Toby and Anderson.

  Toby threw himself to the ground as the bushranger faced the policemen and fired three shots in quick succession. Gatwick went over backwards and Sloan stumbled, hit in the leg. Anderson steadied himself for a killing shot at the limping constable, but Toby launched himself from the ground. He hit Anderson’s arm as the pistol fired and the shot went wide.

  Anderson dropped the empty pistol and advanced on Toby like a bear. He let the pair of saddlebags slide down his arm, caught them in his hand and brought them up in a backhanded swing that caught Toby in the chest. He sprawled backwards into the scrub at the edge of the riverbank and Anderson moved in for another blow.

  Rolling to his feet, Toby rushed at the bigger man. They came together with a jarring thump, like a sack of wheat hitting a wagon load bed, jostling crazily as each tried to get a hold on the other. He felt hands clawing at his throat and arched his back to stay out of reach.

  Somewhere in the distance someone was yelling. The others had heard the gunshots and were coming. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Paddy running towards them, musket in hand. All he had to do was hold Anderson for thirty seconds and his brother would be here to help him.

  Anderson gave up trying to get at Toby’s throat and used his size and reach to envelop him in a powerful bear hug. Toby was helpless with his arms pinned to his sides and the breath being squeezed out of him. He threw his head back and slammed his forehead into Anderson’s chin as hard as he could. The bushranger cried out and staggered sideways. Toby kicked as hard as he could, landing blow after blow on Anderson’s shins, but the bushranger seemed impervious to the pain.

  His head tingled as he approached the limit of consciousness. In those last few seconds he panicked and kicked downwards with all his strength, trying to push himself away from Anderson. The bushranger was unprepared for the move. He staggered a few paces with Toby in his arms, twisting back and forth in a macabre dance. The pressure on Toby’s chest relaxed a little and he bent his knees for another thrust at the ground. This time his kick found no purchase.

  Anderson’s eyes were only inches from Toby’s and he saw them widen with surprise as the bushranger realised they were on the brink of the riverbank.

  As he went over backwards in Anderson’s arms, Toby heard his name called by that familiar voice. In the brief moment before he hit the water, he realised it was Paddy. Then the water closed about them, muting all sound. Toby felt himself tumbling as they were swept downstream.

  His shoulder brushed against something smooth and hard, the stones of the riverbed. Ice-cold water numbed his senses. One of his boots was snatched from his foot, sucked away by fast-moving water. Anderson let him go then. Toby felt the arms release him as his eyes adjusted to the murky depths of the river. A vague shadow passed in front of him as Anderson struggled for the surface, trying to drag the heavy saddlebags with him. Then all thoughts of Anderson were pushed from Toby’s mind as he fought for survival.

  He kicked and pulled for the surface as hard as he could. Aching for air, his vision waned to a pale curtain as unconsciousness loomed. His head broke through into sunshine and he drew in two quick breaths as the current spun him about and he saw Paddy running along the riverbank above him. The current carried him up against a submerged tree trunk and he was swept underwater. Slimy wood grazed along the back of his head, then he struggled for the surface again. This time he was able to take several breaths, but the water picked up speed as it squeezed between boulders. Rocks and trees rushed by in a blur and he was tumbled and pummelled, slammed backwards into a partly submerged boulder and the wind was driven from his lungs.

  Toby felt the last of his strength going. His arms were weighed down, as if by lead, each stroke a laboured agony.

  Then, just as quickly as it had started, the cascades ended, and he found himself in calmer water. His foot touched bottom and he pushed upwards, gulping at the air, filling his aching lungs.

  Exhausted, he half swam, half waded for the nearby bank. Coughing, he struggled onto a sandy spit and crawled until he could go no further. He lay there panting and retching up river water, spitting it onto the sand.

  A shadow moved in front of him and he looked up. Anderson came towards him, water dripping from his clothing and hair. He was bleeding from a gash in his forehead and his shirt was torn open across his chest. The saddlebags were gone. He held a rock the size of a loaf of bread in his hands as he staggered towards Toby.

  ‘I lost my gold.’

  Anderson’s voice was little more than a rasp, but it carried a menace that made Toby shiver with something more than cold.

  ‘Because of you I lost
my gold. It’s out there somewhere.’ He pointed at the river with his chin. ‘It’s gone.’

  Anderson took another step and Toby wanted to tell him of all the things he had lost, of the heartache and grief he’d had to endure because of Anderson. But there was no time for such words. Anderson raised the rock above his head and Toby could only stare at the instrument of his own demise, too exhausted to try and evade the blow. He waited for death, watching with a strange detachment as the rock rose to full stretch and the muscles in Anderson’s arms bulged as he prepared to put every ounce of strength into the blow.

  The bushranger gave a little grunt as something appeared in the middle of his chest. Anderson looked down at where a pointed piece of wood projected a foot from his body, a look of utter surprise on his face. Blood trickled from the wound and he staggered, twisting sideways. It was then that Toby saw the shaft of the spear in Anderson’s back, eight feet of it, still quivering from the impact.

  The colour drained from Anderson’s face and his lips trembled. Blood frothed onto his beard as his breath bubbled. Toby watched the mouth work, trying to form words as the bushranger fell to his knees. The long spear prevented him from going over backwards. He let go of the rock and it thudded harmlessly into the sand, fingers clutching at the crude point of the spear, his eyes flicking from side to side, finally settling on Toby. This time he found the last vestige of strength and breath to utter one final word as he collapsed sideways onto the sand.

  ‘Chilbi!’

  At the far end of the sand spit stood a solitary figure, a young Aboriginal man wearing a kangaroo-skin cloak.

  Toby tried to climb to his feet. The movement stirred the Aboriginal into motion and he turned and limped towards the scrub above the riverbank. At the edge of the trees he paused to glance back at the two men on the sand, one dead and one alive. Then he stepped into the shadows of the bush and was gone.