Blood in the Dust Page 6

  He reined in by the hitching rail, tied his horse and patted a little of the dust off his clothing before going inside.

  A clerk sat on the far side of an expansive counter. He looked up as the bell over the door rang and immediately leaped to his feet.

  ‘Mr Pelham, sir!’

  The clerk hurried to the little trapdoor that closed off the counter and flung it open. Before Pelham had taken three steps he was at his side.

  ‘Please, let me take your coat, sir. I had no idea you were calling on us today. It looks as if you’ve had a long journey. Can I offer you some refreshment?’

  ‘That would be marvellous, thank you, Roger. A sherry, please. Make it two, for I am sure Mr Stratford will not have me drink alone. Is he available? I have a matter of some importance to discuss.’

  Roger took Pelham’s coat and hung it on a stand, ushering him through to the back of the counter area at the same time. ‘I shall inform Mr Stratford that you are here, sir. I am sure he will receive you straight away.’

  ‘Good man!’ Pelham patted a little more dust from his clothing and watched the clerk’s back as he practically ran towards a side door and gave a discreet knock.

  ‘Mr Pelham to see you, sir.’

  ‘Show him through, man. Show him through,’ a voice bellowed.

  Roger beckoned Pelham to the office and gestured him through the doorway. ‘I shall see to those sherries right away, sir.’

  A rotund man stood from behind the desk in the office and waddled towards Pelham, his hand held out. ‘Henry! What an unexpected surprise.’

  ‘Hello, Richard. How are Amelia and the children?’ Pelham shook the offered hand.

  ‘Oh, they are fine, fine.’ Stratford beckoned for him to sit. ‘I trust Mavis and your boys are well?’

  ‘Ticking along just nicely.’

  ‘Is she with you? Roger hasn’t left her in the outer office? I’ll tan his hide if he—’ He cut off as Pelham waved a hand to quiet his concerns.

  ‘No, she’s not with me. I came alone. Rather urgently, I might add. I have a matter of some importance to discuss.’

  ‘Intriguing. You must tell me.’

  A knock sounded at the door and Roger entered bearing a tray with two glasses of sherry. He served them to Pelham and Stratford. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Stratford waved him towards the door. ‘Close it on your way out. There’s a good chap.’ He waited until the door snibbed closed before turning to Pelham. ‘Now, Henry? What do you wish to discuss?’

  Pelham sipped his sherry and let the warmth settle into the pit of his stomach before speaking. ‘There has been somewhat of a tragedy near my property above the Coliban River.’

  ‘Goodness, Henry. Whatever has happened?’

  ‘To put it rather bluntly, Richard, murder has happened.’

  ‘Murder!’ Stratford’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Well, actually yes. Two of the bank’s debtors. Mr Sean O’Rourke and his wife Ellen.’

  ‘O’Rourke? O’Rourke?’ His eyes searched the ceiling. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’ He walked to the door, opened it and bellowed, ‘Roger? Bring me the file pertaining to—’ He looked at Pelham for confirmation, ‘Sean O’Rourke?’

  ‘That’s the chap,’ Pelham confirmed.

  They sipped their sherries and waited until Roger had deposited the file and left. Stratford opened it and delicately turned the pages. ‘Initial loan amount of three hundred pounds. Offered up a property five miles north of a place called Bunyong Creek as collateral, as well as a few horses. Money was to be used to establish a herd of cattle, breeding bulls and cows from the sale yards in Geelong. Also for supplies and building materials to improve the said property.’ He turned to another sheet of paper. ‘Payments made are all regular and on time. Coinciding with the sale of cattle at various yards around Melbourne and Geelong. The principal has been knocked down by a third already. An amount of two hundred and five pounds, four shillings and sixpence outstanding, not taking into account interest, of course.’ He looked up at Pelham. ‘Would that all the bank’s debtors were like this fellow O’Rourke.’

  Pelham placed his glass on a side table. ‘Alas, dear Richard, he is no more. All that is left behind are two young boys. I doubt they will be able to meet the repayments.’

  ‘Then the bank will have no option but to foreclose and seize the property.’

  ‘Yes, one more property to add to the bank’s portfolio,’ Pelham said. ‘This one is so far back in the ranges it will be of little interest to any serious investor. New settlers won’t want to pay over two hundred pounds for a partly-established property. Not when the governor is making land available for next to nothing.’

  ‘I can see why you made the trip down here, Henry. Thank you for advising me of the situation.’

  ‘I came to do more than advise you, Richard. I came to null the bank’s loss.’

  Stratford looked at him across the desk, his eyes narrowed. ‘But how?’

  Pelham smiled. ‘The property borders my own and may be of some use to me. There is a spring there of sorts, a source of permanent water. If I can develop it, it may negate the need for me to keep herding my cattle down to the river each summer.’

  ‘You want to buy this property after we foreclose? Is that it, Henry?’

  Pelham waved a hand dismissively. ‘Foreclosure is such a drawn-out and tedious process, Richard. I am proposing to buy out the debt owed by this O’Rourke fellow. The eldest boy is nineteen. The law dictates that I must offer him the chance to pay out his father’s debt. If he fails, then I shall seize the property as my own. He gets his chance to carry on with the family property. If he succeeds, I get my money back. If he fails, I get a permanent water source in the mountains. Either way, the bank negates its loss.’

  Stratford stood and moved towards the door. ‘I shall have Roger draw up the necessary documents while we partake of another sherry.’

  Chilbi stood in the shadows and watched the distant treeline across the valley. There was no sign of their pursuers, but he knew they were there. Two days ago, Warrigal had sent him back along their spoor to check for signs of pursuit, as he suspected the boy from the Djarriba settlement was following their trail, seeking revenge for the killings. Chilbi had found no boy, but instead one of the blue men Warrigal called a trap, along with a tracker from another tribe.

  ‘Are they still there, Chilbi?’ Warrigal Anderson spoke in Jannjirra from the back of his horse.

  ‘Still there, Warrigal. They follow down the creek there. Soon they will cross and follow up here.’ In the beginning, Chilbi used to marvel at the fact that Warrigal could not see the signs for himself, but he had learned to keep his mouth shut on such matters. To question the big white man often brought a fist or booted foot.

  Anderson shook his head. ‘Kill a man and they follow for a day or two. Kill a woman and they never give up. That tracker the trap has with him is good, but you are better, my little black heathen. We’ll cross onto the ridge and make our way onto the escarpment.’

  Chilbi turned towards the rising ground Warrigal had indicated and a smile crossed his face.

  ‘That’s right, Chilbi,’ Anderson said, ‘We’re going back up to your tribal lands. The ground here is rocky and we aren’t leaving much of a trail, but we can’t afford to lead that trap bastard up there. I’ll take the horses. Tell your brothers to hide the spoor until we are into the passage. Make sure nothing is left for the Djarriba tracker to follow. We’ll hide out for a while then come back to continue the war.’

  Chilbi passed the reins of his horse to Warrigal as Yawong and Tarrat slid from their saddles. They tied their horses into a string that the big bushranger led forward, then they moved back along their trail to erase all sign of their passing.

  McTavish held the reins of both mounts and let the horses drink their fill while Barraworn squatted in the trickle of water and topped up the canteens. He had his jacket undone, one
hand resting on the handle of his horse pistol. Here the bush was thick and dark, the perfect place for an ambush, and his eyes flicked to every sound in the undergrowth.

  Barraworn finished filling the canteens and stood. He handed one to McTavish, and the sergeant took a long swig. ‘It’s no’ a good malt whisky, laddie, but it slakes the thirst none the less.’ He slapped the stopper in before looping the strap over the pommel of his saddle. ‘Now, tell me. Where did these rogues get to?’

  Barraworn turned and wandered down the creek bed. Every few paces the tracker stopped and squatted in the water. McTavish watched him work and marvelled at the tracking skills of Aboriginal people. Anderson and his gang had obviously entered the water in an attempt to throw off pursuit. To McTavish, the creek and surrounding bush appeared untouched by the hand of man and he never would have thought four men and five horses had been anywhere near this place, but Barraworn found clues in out-of-place stones and bent grass stems that only he could see. These people certainly knew the land in which they had lived for thousands of years. At one place, Barraworn paused longer than the others and changed the direction of his meanderings, crossing to the other bank.

  ‘Them fellas cross here, boss.’ He pointed up along the ridge line. ‘Gone up that way.’

  It makes sense, McTavish thought. The spine of the ridge was sparsely wooded and would make for easier riding. ‘How long ago?’

  Barraworn examined the ground once more and came to a decision. ‘Soon after sun-up, boss.’

  McTavish tossed the reins to Barraworn. ‘Lead the way.’

  They crossed the creek and headed up the rising ground of the ridge line. McTavish left his hand on his pistol. He had a carbine in a leather bucket strapped to the saddle, but the weapon would be unwieldy in the closely pressing bush and hard to ride with. The thought kept crossing his mind that they were outnumbered. The O’Rourke laddie had said there were three natives with Anderson, though apparently only the white man carried firearms. The natives seemed to prefer clubs and spears. He had been in the colony long enough to know that these weapons were deadly in the right hands.

  Around noon they reached a point where the ridge changed direction, switching back on itself and climbing into the north. Barraworn dismounted and searched for the spoor, so McTavish pushed his hat onto the back of his head and looked up along the ridge line. About a mile away the land rose steeply in a boulder-strewn escarpment, seemingly reaching the clouds. The ground looked impassable to a man on foot, let alone anyone on horseback.

  Barraworn crossed the narrow piece of open ground and squatted by the scrub near the far side. He had a frown on his face as he traced a hand around a hoof print. He took a pace, looked at the ground again and shook his head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ McTavish asked.

  ‘Tracks gone, boss.’

  ‘What do you mean gone?’ He could see the look of superstitious awe on Barraworn’s face, the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Plenty tracks back there, boss.’ He pointed back in the direction they had come. ‘Five horses. Four got fellas on them. Black fellas get off their horses here.’ His arm shifted to a point some five yards ahead of McTavish. ‘Tracks go here.’ He pointed at the ground at his feet then looked up at the sergeant. ‘No more tracks, boss.’

  ‘What do you mean no more tracks? They have five horses with them. It’s impossible to hide the tracks of five horses.’

  Barraworn shook his head. ‘No more tracks, boss.’

  McTavish swung from the saddle and looped his reins over a branch. Pulling the carbine from its bucket, he crossed to where Barraworn waited.

  ‘The ground here is stony and hard. They must have covered what little spoor they left. They’ve been following the back of this ridge up to now. Let’s go forward on foot for a bit and see if we can’t pick them up again.’

  Barraworn shrugged and moved off with McTavish following. Every few paces the tracker squatted on his haunches and examined a piece of ground. But every time he would look up at McTavish and shake his head.

  ‘No more tracks, boss.’

  McTavish shouldered the carbine and pointed back towards their own horses. ‘Let’s head back and scout the sides of the ridge. They can’t just vanish. There will be some sign of them somewhere.’

  For three hours they tried every possible direction from the last trace of the spoor, but each time the search turned up nothing. McTavish was starting to feel a little of the dread that was evident on Barraworn’s face. It seemed four men and five horses had vanished from the face of the earth.

  The sun was well into the west by the time he admitted defeat. ‘Okay, laddie. It would seem they have given us the slip.’ He looked up at the escarpment, now a looming shadow to the north, like the ramparts of some giant castle. ‘If they’ve gone up there, it will need more than the two of us to find them. Lead us back down to the creek. We’ll camp there tonight. Tomorrow we’ll head back to Bunyong Creek. My superiors can decide what to do about Mr Anderson and his band of thugs.’

  ‘Hellooo the house.’

  Toby and Paddy were cleaning up after dinner when they heard the hail from the yard outside. Paddy shrank back against the wall, a look of terror on his face. Toby eyed the Lovell leaning beside the kitchen door. The firearm was loaded, but not primed. He decided that if someone meant them harm they would not yell from the yard and announce their presence.

  Walking to the door, he carefully pulled it open and peered out into the darkness. Two horsemen sat their mounts just below the verandah rail.

  ‘Good evening, Toby,’ a familiar voice said. ‘Sorry to call so late.’

  ‘Mr Pelham?’

  The more portly of the two figures lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Yes, Toby. George has escorted me over.’ The hand gestured towards the other rider and Toby recognised the bulky figure of George Grey.

  ‘Please, Mr Pelham, come in.’ Toby pushed the door wide and waited while the men dismounted and looped their reins over the verandah rail. ‘Paddy?’ He turned to his brother. ‘Boil the kettle. Some tea for our guests.’

  Minutes later, Pelham and Grey sat at the kitchen table with steaming cups in front of them.

  ‘I just got back from Melbourne a few hours ago.’ Pelham shook his mane of silvery hair. ‘I simply had to know if there is any word on the hunt for those scoundrels.’

  ‘I haven’t seen or heard from McTavish since the morning after the murders,’ Toby admitted. ‘Presumably he is still on Anderson’s trail.’

  Pelham shifted in his chair and gave a little cough.

  ‘There is something I need to discuss with you both,’ he said. ‘It pains me to have to raise the matter, especially given the circumstances.’ His eyes darted about the room, unable to settle on either brother. ‘You see, boys, your father died owing a considerable amount of money. A little over two hundred pounds to be exact. I wasn’t going to mention it now,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘but you boys need to be made aware of the facts.’

  Toby slapped his hand onto the tabletop. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said out of shock.

  Grey stood from his chair. ‘Are you calling Mr Pelham a liar?’ His hands came up, reaching for Toby.

  ‘It’s all right, George.’ Pelham waved his stockman back into the chair. ‘They are going to want proof whether they think I’m a liar or not. I know I would if I found myself in their position.’ He reached into his frock coat and pulled out a sheaf of documents tied together with a red ribbon. Some of the papers were dog-eared and yellowed with age. Others appeared more recent, the parchment the colour of fine china and festooned with official-looking stamps.

  ‘When your father and mother came down to the Port Phillip district from New South Wales they were emancipated convicts,’ Pelham said. ‘They were freed of their shackles, freed of their debt to society, freed of everything except the stigma of their convict past. Your father managed to obtain this land, to gain title by some means I’m not privy to. But that was all he had, just a p
iece of land so far back in the hills it had been overlooked by others. Certainly, it has much potential. You have good water here, some splendid pastures and fertile soil to plant in. But to work the land properly, to get good stock and the right seeds to plant takes money. Your father had none. There was nothing with which to buy decent cattle or build little more than a native hut.’ Pelham shifted his weight in the chair.

  ‘Your father was a very smart man,’ he continued. ‘He had the land and he could see the potential. All he needed was some money to start to build on that.’

  Toby had an uneasy feeling building in the pit of his stomach. Why had Henry Pelham come to their homestead in the late evening to talk about money? He was, by far, the richest man in the district. Why was he concerned with their father’s financial affairs?

  Pelham shuffled through the documents and found what he was looking for, smoothing it out on the table in front of Toby.

  ‘This is an original loan document for a sum of three hundred pounds.’ He swept his hand towards the bottom of the page. ‘As you can see it has been duly notarised and witnessed by a stipendiary magistrate. I’m sure you will recognise your own father’s signature.’

  Toby stared at the document. His father would not have been considered a literate man, but he could write a few words and was able to sign his own name. In sanded ink, scratched out in a familiar scrawl was the signature of Sean O’Rourke.

  ‘You may have been old enough to remember when things started changing here, Toby? When your father had the money to improve this place?’

  Toby remembered the little ramshackle hut with its dirt floor. He remembered the few unbranded wild cows his father had chased out of the scrub as he attempted to put together a herd, and how they had eaten possum stew and when flour and tea and sugar had been luxuries. And he remembered a time when it all suddenly changed. His father had taken him to Geelong and bought up a good herd of breeding cows they had driven back to the farm. There had also been sheep and a couple of milking cows and building materials for the homestead. Then had come the horses, including the mare that was the mother of his own beloved Moonlight. The pantry had gone from sparse to overflowing with food.