Blood in the Dust Read online

  Paddy opened his mouth to speak, to ask, ‘Who are you?’, but the fire pooled into the middle of his head. He tried to fight through it, drew a breath and tensed his vocal chords, but the intensity forced him to close his mouth and eyes. Slowly, the agony withered to a dull ache until finally he was able to open his eyes again.

  The man stood over him. He straightened the spectacles on his nose and squinted through bloodshot eyes.

  ‘It was a close run thing, my boy. A few times there I thought I’d lost you.’

  Paddy’s eyes flicked about the tent, like a caged animal searching for a way out. He felt the panic rising again and tried to sit up, but the man pushed him gently back onto the bed.

  ‘You’re in no danger, Patrick. I’m Doctor Collier. Your brother Toby brought you to me the day before yesterday. You’ve had a severe blow to the head.’

  Toby? Toby brought me here?

  Paddy relaxed a little. He settled back onto the pillow and watched as the doctor examined his head then lifted the bedclothes to listen to his heart with a tube-like device.

  ‘How are you feeling, Patrick?’

  Paddy opened his mouth to respond and the glowing embers in his head flared into a raging inferno once again. The sheer intensity of the pain inside his head made him writhe in agony.

  ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’ The doctor placed a calming hand on Paddy’s shoulder. Eventually, the pain subsided and he stilled his wild thrashing.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’ the doctor asked, and Paddy shook his head. Keeping his mouth tightly shut was the only thing that would stop the pain from coming.

  That evening Toby rode into Bunyong Creek and found Paddy sitting up in bed in the doctor’s tent, slowly sipping at a bowl of broth, his head wrapped in a clean bandage. He wore a borrowed nightshirt and looked up and smiled as Toby stooped under the fly.

  ‘Look at you, eating in bed like a lord,’ Toby said. ‘What a life.’

  Paddy offered a weak grin and continued slurping from the spoon.

  ‘What’s the matter, Pad? Cat got your tongue?’

  The smile slipped from Paddy’s face. He shrugged and kept on eating.

  Doctor Collier came and stood beside Toby. ‘I’m very pleased with his progress. You can take him home in the morning.’

  ‘That is good news,’ Toby answered. ‘We are burying Ma and Pa tomorrow.’ He raised his voice to include Paddy in the conversation. ‘I’ve found a priest who will consecrate a piece of ground at home. They will be buried on O’Rourke land, Paddy. I thought up on the ridge where we’ve already cleared. They liked walking up there. What do you think, Pad?’

  His brother looked at him and nodded. Toby turned to the doctor.

  ‘Why won’t he answer me? Have you given him something for the pain that stops him from talking?’

  Doctor Collier removed his spectacles and polished them on the tail of his shirt. He took his time, and Toby felt his spirits slide as he realised the doctor was gathering the right words for some bad news.

  ‘He hasn’t spoken a word since he regained his senses,’ the doctor said, placing his glasses on his nose and hooking the frames over his ears. ‘Oh, he’s tried, but each time he opens his mouth to say something he clutches at the side of his head as if in great pain. That blow to the skull has unsettled something in your brother’s brain – or his mind – something associated with the power of speech.’

  Toby felt his chest constrict and shuffled uneasily on his feet. ‘Will he get better?’

  The doctor shook his head doubtfully. ‘I can’t say. The human brain is a strange organ. Science has only just begun to delve its mysteries. Whatever agony is preventing your brother from speaking may heal over time, or—’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘Or he may be mute for the rest of his life,’ Toby finished for him, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Young man, he is very lucky to be alive. That blow to the head might have killed him. He is able to function in all other respects. The fact that his power of speech is gone, or inhibited, is a small price to pay considering the circumstances.’

  Toby realised the doctor was right. Paddy had been near death when he’d brought him into town. He was lucky to be alive, and Toby was lucky to have him. Paddy was the only person he had left in the world now.

  ‘Will he be well enough to attend the service tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course,’ the doctor said. ‘Just don’t leave him standing for too long. And watch his head. That area will be very susceptible to injury until the bone knits. If he were to fall and knock it, well . . .’

  ‘We’ll be careful, won’t we, Pad?’

  Paddy looked up and nodded.

  ‘I’ll be back to fetch you first thing in the morning, matey.’

  Paddy smiled at his brother. The silence grated at Toby and he hurried from the tent to where his horse, Moonlight, was tethered to a tree. He stood for several minutes, stroking the animal’s neck and staring off into the distance as he contemplated how much his life had changed in just a few days.

  Toby stood beside local storekeepers, Hans and Helga Gutten, who had driven out from Bunyong Creek in a buggy to attend the funeral. Geoff Smith and his three boys had come in from the stock camp. They wore black frock coats over their work clothes. Like himself, they possessed no other clothing for special occasions. They had helped him dig the double grave on the ridge and then donned the coats moments before the service got underway. Mrs Smith and Susie had somehow found enough flowers in the parched countryside to make a wreath that now sat at the head of the grave.

  Much to Toby’s surprise, their neighbour, Henry Pelham, also attended, accompanied by his head stockman, a swarthy fellow by the name of George Grey. The pair stood a little apart from the other mourners and seemed more interested in the surrounding land than the ceremony, leaning close and whispering quietly.

  Toby paid no interest to the words of Father Dalgleish. Nor could he look at the two canvas-wrapped bodies in the grave. He settled his gaze on Paddy, who stood beyond the grave beside Mrs Smith, his head swathed in bandages. The woman had a motherly arm around Paddy. Tears streamed down his face and his mouth hung open as if he were about to wail in despair, but no sound came. Paddy had not uttered a single sound since Toby had fetched him at first light.

  Toby had no tears himself. He hadn’t cried since the night of the murders. A deep hollowness sat in his gut – a feeling as though part of him was missing. Though the crying had stopped, he doubted the emptiness would ever be gone.

  Heat haze shimmered on the high ground. Father Dalgleish did not dwell on his words. He rattled through the service and finished with a hearty ‘Amen’, snapping his leather-bound Bible closed to signal the conclusion. As the little gathering turned to wander back down to the homestead Toby went to where the shovels stood waiting. Geoff Smith cut him off.

  ‘Me and my boys will take care of this, Toby. You go and see to your guests.’

  Toby nodded his thanks and followed the others.

  Down at the homestead he wandered about aimlessly, uninterested in the food Helga Gutten and Mrs Smith had prepared for the wake. He accepted offered condolences with a humble nod of his head, but found it hard to maintain any sort of meaningful conversation. Geoff and his boys eventually wandered down from the grave and Toby found himself standing with his neighbour, leaning on the verandah rail, looking out over the pond and the valley.

  ‘McTavish get on the job quick enough?’ Geoff asked.

  ‘Left at first light the very next morning,’ Toby said.

  ‘Not a bad fellow, McTavish,’ Geoff said. ‘Hits the grog a bit every now and then, but he has a good sense of duty.’

  ‘He seemed keen to get on the trail. Barraworn had a good set of tracks to follow.’

  ‘Here’s to them catchin’ the bastards.’ Geoff raised his cup of tea in a toast, but before either of them could take a sip they were interrupted by a raised voice from the far end of the verandah.


  ‘I asked you a question, young man. I would like an answer. I know you are grieving, but that is no reason to forget your manners.’

  Toby turned to see Henry Pelham looming over Paddy. The boy stood before the grey-haired man, wide eyed with fear.

  Toby hurried along the verandah and stood beside his brother. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pelham. Paddy was injured in the attack.’ He gestured at the all too obvious bandages. ‘He can’t speak, but maybe I can answer your question?’

  Pelham looked from Toby to Paddy and back again. He held his head tilted back, nose lifted high as if there were some sort of offensive smell in the air. His eyes flicked to the watching faces and his expression immediately softened a little, but there was no hint of apology in his voice when he spoke.

  ‘Yes, I’ve read of cases like that happening after a blow to the head. Especially in children. But I think the instances I read about were in much younger children.’ He gave Paddy a dismissive look before speaking to Toby. ‘I merely asked the boy about your pond. It’s fairly brimming with water. Does it ever dry up?’

  ‘No, Mr Pelham, it has never dried up. Not in my lifetime.’

  ‘I see,’ Pelham said. ‘Thank you. That is all I wanted to know.’ He turned and walked down the steps to where his stockman, Grey stood beside the sulky. They discussed something for a minute or two, their heads inclined close together. Every now and then they glanced towards the pond. Grey turned away and walked towards the water and Pelham came to the bottom of the steps.

  ‘I shall have to be going now, Toby. You have my deepest sympathy for your loss.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked to the sulky. Grey saw him standing by the vehicle and hurried back from his examination of the pond. Without looking back at the people on the verandah they drove away towards the slip rails.

  ‘Thinks he’s Lord Muck, that one,’ Mrs Smith said, watching the sulky go.

  Toby nodded slowly as he watched the pair at the slip rails where Grey climbed down and slid them open. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something more than the soul-wrenching grief eating into his guts.

  Geoff Smith gestured at the pond with his teacup. ‘He’s jealous of that spring there,’ he said. ‘I can understand why. We’ve been in the grip of a drought for the past four years and that spring hasn’t dropped an inch. I wish my place had permanent water like that. I think ol’ Pelham is having the same problem. Even though he fronts onto the Coliban River, the ground is too steep to get his stock down to the water.’

  ‘Pa was lucky with this place,’ Toby said. ‘The squatters have got all the good waterfront properties along the big rivers. Most of the creeks lower down are dry. If it wasn’t for the spring feeding that pond we’d be in a spot of bother, especially this high in the ranges. What’s the water like at your place?’

  Geoff gave a little laugh. ‘We’ve still got some. Mostly trapped in deeper pools, but the creek hasn’t flowed for over a year. It’s pretty mucky and the sheep have a hard time reaching it after the cattle have churned up the banks. We’ve been bucketing some into troughs.’

  ‘That’s certainly doing it the hard—’ He was interrupted by someone tugging at his elbow and turned to see Father Dalgleish.

  ‘Where shall we bury the other fellow?’ the clergyman asked.

  Toby stared dumbly at the man. He had forgotten all about the body of Jack Tanner wrapped in damp calico and lying in the tack shed. As far as he was concerned the bushranger did not deserve a decent burial. His body could be dumped out on the ranges for the dingos and crows to feed on for all Toby cared, but he doubted the good father would see it that way.

  ‘You can bury him anywhere you like, Father,’ Toby said. ‘That is, anywhere but on O’Rourke land,’ he added a little callously.

  Paddy hummed a tune in his head as he worked, careful not to enrage the fire in his mind. When he had a full load of white quartz stones, he returned to the grave and used them to add to a border he was making. He couldn’t stand the fact that the grave was unmarked. There was nothing to distinguish it from a vegetable garden or a place where the kangaroos had dug for roots, churning the earth over in their efforts. This little patch on the ridge held special meaning for him and he wanted it defined as such.

  He had nearly completed all four sides when he noticed Toby climbing towards him. A little shiver of dread ran through his body. He knew his brother would try and make him talk. Toby had tried to get him to say something almost every night in the week since the funeral, but Paddy was afraid of the fire.

  He could understand why Toby wanted him to get his voice back. Before the murders the homestead had been filled with noise. Their mother had always sung while she cooked or cleaned, filling the humble structure with her lilting voice. Sometimes their father would join in and the boys would be given a duet that usually ended with all four of them erupting into fits of laughter.

  The evenings were the worst. Where once their father had told stories of Ireland or his days on the chain gang as a convict, now he only had Toby’s voice to listen to, while poor old Toby had no one.

  Paddy wanted to talk and had tried to do so, if only to placate Toby’s fears. But each time the fire had begun in his head, building as he tried to form words with his mouth. If he persisted, tried to fight through it, then the fire would engulf his mind and star his vision. Sometimes his wound ached for no reason, but if he tried to speak, the agony was almost enough to kill him. The only way to keep the pain in check was to stay silent.

  ‘You’ve been busy.’ Toby walked up and stood beside him.

  Paddy smiled and nodded.

  ‘Good job, too, matey. It needed doing. Maybe we should make a wooden cross, just to make do until we get the cattle to the diggings and some money in the purse. Then we’ll find a stonemason and have a proper headstone made. What do you think, Pad?’

  Paddy nodded again, a broad grin lighting his face. In the past few days Toby had learned to ask yes or no questions so that Paddy could answer with a simple nod or shake of his head. They were learning to communicate quite well, despite the one-sided conversations.

  ‘Let’s go down and find some boards. We can get the cross done before dinner time. Then we have to decide what to do about the cattle. We can’t leave them penned up like this, they’ve eaten down all the grass. Soon they’ll start to lose condition. We have to either take them to the diggings or down to the sale yards in Geelong.’

  Paddy nodded again as they wandered down the hill together. Most evenings Toby spoke about his plans for the farm, which were really their parents’ plans. As the eldest, he had taken on the mantle of responsibility, which suited Paddy fine. Since Toby had turned eighteen, Paddy noted that their father had been including him more and more in decisions about the running of the property. Though neither brother attended the little class Mrs Gutten ran in the back of the store any more, Toby had been the one who excelled at numbers and had often been called upon by their father to add up a bill of sale or calculate the value of a mob of cattle at the sale yards.

  ‘You know, Pad,’ Toby said as they descended the ridge, ‘We can do this, you and me. We can run this place and make a good living, just the way Ma and Pa did.’

  Paddy smiled and felt a little of the hollowness ease from his soul. His big brother had always been his hero. Since the moment he could walk he had followed Toby like a faithful puppy, wanting to be just like him. And Toby had always been there for him, to help him with an onerous chore or to convince their father that he wasn’t a baby any more, that he could be trusted to chase down a bolter from a mob of cattle or was big enough to learn to shoot the Lovell. Paddy knew his inability to speak grated heavily on Toby. But he also knew his brother would stand beside him and help him through this problem – however long it lasted.

  They reached the shed and rummaged around for a few minutes before they found a pair of boards. Paddy used some nails to hammer them together, then they carried their makeshift cross back up the ridge
. They had forgotten to bring a shovel to dig a hole and the ground was far too hard to dig by hand so they collected more lumps of quartz and built a cairn of stones to support their creation. When they had finished they stood shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the grave to admire their hard work. The cross was a little lopsided and the arms weren’t quite square, but it was better than nothing. Paddy decided that their parents’ final resting place now looked like a proper grave. The late afternoon sun cast a shadow that extended across the hillside.

  He felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll get a proper headstone, Pad. I promise. Just as soon as we sell the cattle.’

  They turned back towards the homestead. ‘C’mon,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll let you cook me dinner.’ He punched Paddy in the arm and ran on ahead.

  For a moment their grief and sorrow were forgotten. They were two boys again, looking for fun. Paddy let Toby get a few paces ahead then picked up a lump of dried manure that he hurled after him, hitting him between the shoulder blades.

  ‘Good shot,’ Toby yelled, and began searching the ground for ammunition of his own.

  Paddy didn’t want to jar his head by breaking into a run. Instead, he dodged Toby’s missile with a short sidestep, and would have yelled, ‘Hah, you missed me.’ But he didn’t want to awaken the fire.

  There was only light traffic as Henry Pelham turned into Collins Street, but even that had lifted a pall of dust into the air. He had been on the road for three days and nights. There was a hotel at the far end of the street that he always used when in Melbourne, but that would have to wait. The object of his journey was much closer. He waited for a laden dray to pass and guided his horse to the far side of the street, to a two-storey wooden structure with bars behind the window. A sign above the verandah proclaimed it to be The Colonial and Providence Bank of Victoria.