Dawn drifted down through the hole in the roof. Luke opened his eyes. For a long time he lay, heavy-lidded and sleepy in his ferny bed, savouring the unfamiliar experience of waking in his own time, in his own place. With drowsy satisfaction he reviewed the previous day. He was finally free. Now all he had to do was figure out what came next. Perhaps he’d stay here for a while, let any search die down before moving on. One thought still nagged. He’d lost Bear. The big dog would be long gone.
Luke jumped up, shivering, and grabbed a stick to poke the fire. His shoulder hurt where the bullet had grazed him; a bullet meant for Bear. Thank God it had missed its mark. Hot coals hid under grey ashes, and with the help of a little kindling he coaxed a flame to life. Luke squatted by the fire for a few minutes, warming his hands, then picked up the cast-iron pot and pushed out the door. He should have saved some rabbit for breakfast.
Morning lay shrouded in a cloud that had crept, ghost-footed, down from the range overnight. Moisture dripped from each leaf and flower and twig. He prayed it would clear to a fine day. Rain, before he fixed the roof, would make life here very difficult indeed.
Luke stepped onto the grass to empty his bladder. What was that? A movement at the northern end of the clearing stopped his breath. This was it; they’d come for him.
A mob of wallabies emerged from the mist. Luke exhaled, feeling a little foolish. The idea of wallaby stew took over from his fear, making his stomach clench and his mouth water. The animals cocked their heads, then bounded as one for the forest. Something had startled them. Bear? Luke edged round to where the mob had vanished in the trees. It was hard to get his bearings in the grey blanket of cloud.
His foot connected with something heavy. It rolled away a little. A useful rock for the chimney restoration project, perhaps? His hands found it on the foggy ground. It felt smooth and hard. Luke picked it up. Then, with a gasp, he dropped the object. A bleached white human skull bounced against his foot, gaping eye sockets staring up at him. Luke stepped back. All round, emerging from the mist, lay more scattered bones. A human femur bore tell-tale teeth marks of some wild animal. He gulped and picked up the skull again to examine it. Apart from a few missing front teeth it was intact. Was this the original owner of the hut?
Luke tried to convince himself it was good news. He had nothing to fear from a dead man. But a lingering sense of horror remained. His thoughts turned, despite himself, to dark scenarios. Foul play. Murder. Or did the man fall ill far from help? Did the devils, tigers and wild dogs come for him prematurely, feasting on his living flesh, while screams echoed unheard off the granite tors?
Luke swore aloud. What use was he when his imagination regularly scared the wits out of him? He forced himself to collect the bones into a pile. At the very least they deserved a proper burial, and although he knew nothing of such things, he would do his best. Using the axe head and a stout branch he tried to dig a grave in the stony ground. Time and time again, tree roots and shale caused him to start over. He had to move further and further into the open, where the earth was more yielding and the ground clearer of roots. The task seemed to take forever and, all the while, the skull stared accusingly from atop its stack of bones.
He’d made good headway when, behind him, a dog barked – too high-pitched for Bear. Luke froze. A man appeared from the forest, rifle raised. At his heels ran a crossbred terrier, yapping furiously. Luke dropped his tools and raised his hands. Competing emotions ran riot through his brain: disappointment, despair, apprehension – even relief. Whatever happened next, death or capture, was out of his hands.
Minutes ticked by and the standoff continued. Finally the man lowered his gun. ‘And who might you be, young fella?’
Surely this man knew he was an escapee? Ragged prison clothing, if nothing else, gave the game away. Perhaps he was playing some cruel game of cat-and-mouse by feigning ignorance?
‘I asked your name,’ said the stranger. ‘Have you no tongue in your head?’
Why on earth didn’t he just get on with it? Luke resolved to force his hand, reaching for the axe head lying on the ground. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder. It angered him, made him bold.
‘You bloody well know who I am,’ he said. ‘So take me in if you can, or shoot me, but don’t waste my time.’
The stranger laughed. ‘A word of advice, son. Don’t jump to conclusions. You go round announcing yourself a fugitive to the wrong folks . . . you’re asking for trouble. Me? I take people wholly as I find them, and I ain’t got nothing against you so far. So what say I lower me gun and you step away from that sorry-looking axe head and we have ourselves a friendly talk?’
As a sign of good faith the stranger placed his rifle on the ground and stepped aside.
With nothing much to lose, Luke approached him with an outstretched hand. The stranger grinned and Luke took a good look at him – fifty or so, grey beard, untidy silver hair sticking out from under a broad-brimmed rabbit-skin hat. He wore a blue serge shirt and loose moleskin trousers held together with a leather belt. The garb of a trapper, or perhaps a prospector. Cautiously they shook hands.
‘Angus. Angus McLeod. What say we retire to that hut? If there’s any chance someone’s gunning for you, lad, you’d best keep out of the open.’
They passed the pile of bones, topped by the watching skull. Angus doffed his hat and made the sign of the cross.
‘Rest in peace, Clarry.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I did. A good bloke, was Clarry. Bit of a hermit. Built this place and lived up here the best part of forty years. Must’ve been seventy if he was a day, but still fit as a fiddle. I’d drop by twice a year, buy his skins, sell them in town. Never saw another soul, did Clarry. Abbott’s foreman let the old man stay in return for watching the sheep sent up here for spring pasture. Clarry protected them from them native wolves. Vicious brutes. Kill thirty sheep a night, they do, just for sport. Follow a man for days through the bush just waiting for a chance to rip out his throat while he sleeps. They drink blood, y’know, like damned vampyres. Used to be plenty around here, but they’re thin on the ground now. Old Clarry snared a fair few in his time – my word, he did.’
‘How can you be sure that’s Clarry?’ asked Luke.
‘Who else would it be, way out here? But there’s a surer way of telling.’ Angus lifted the skull, indicating the gap in the teeth of the upper jawbone. ‘Clarry had his top front teeth knocked out in a bar fight. Never could say his s’s after that. Yep. This is Clarry all right, no mistake.’
‘Abbott’s foreman, you said? You don’t mean Henry Abbott, do you?’
‘One and the same. Holds every piece of good ground hereabouts. King of the wool kings and owner of the richest mining leases. King Midas, they call him.’
Luke’s blood ran cold. Henry Abbott. The man who’d raped his sister, torn his childhood and family apart. Owner of this land. Owner even of the tumbledown shack that Luke wanted to call home.
In a daze, he followed Angus and his little terrier inside the hut and sat down on the plank of wood rigged up as a makeshift bench. The dog smiled and wagged his tail. Luke patted him. The dog climbed onto his knee. Angus, looking around, gave a long drawn-out whistle.
‘Somebody’s given this place a right going over. Stolen everything not nailed down. Likely done Old Clarry in as well. I know what they was looking for, lad, and I don’t reckon they found it, neither. Clarry had a fortune hidden away somewhere. The tight-fisted old bastard made good money from trapping, and he hoarded every penny. Lived off the land, save for what provisions I brought him after selling his skins. Clarry didn’t keep his loot here, though. Stashed in the bush, he told me. Guess nobody’ll ever know now.’
The little shack took on a more sinister feel as Luke tried to digest this new information. Its owner hadn’t peacefully passed from old age. There was robbery at least and maybe killing as well. And all in the place where every blade of grass, every clod of earth, even the bleached murdered bones themselves belonged to the hated Henry Abbott.
A long silence ensued. ‘Seems like I’m doing all the talking here, young fella.’ Angus took off his hat. ‘Your turn.’
Luke pushed the dog from his lap, stood up and moved over to the fireplace, shuffling from foot to foot. What to say? Angus would be able to tell a lot just by looking at him. He wore the sparse beard of youth and, even by bushmen standards, was filthy and bedraggled. Coarse government-issue prison clothes. Hands blistered and calloused. Hair oily and matted. Soles near worn out of his shoes.
‘Son, you as much confessed to me you was running from the law,’ said Angus. ‘The look of you confirms it. What I want to know is how and why. Seems to me it might make for an entertaining yarn.’
When Luke started talking, he couldn’t stop. He told Angus everything. From his happy childhood in Hobart to the nightmare of Rebecca’s rape, from his unjust sentencing to his years of brutal incarceration, from his spur-of-the-moment escape to his discovery of the hut, and then his plan to give old Clarry a decent burial.
Angus gave a whistle, rose to his feet and stood for a long while, staring at the fire.
‘That’s some story. Abbott put you in this spot, you say. The same Sir Henry Abbott that owns this town? That owns this here hut we both be standing in?’ Angus whistled again. ‘Blimey, so you’re the fella that knocked his teeth out? Fair dinkum, son, there’s a fair few folks round here’d give you a medal for that. Clarry used to have a good laugh about his own gap-tooth grin. If it’s good enough for his lordship, then it’s good enough for me. They say Sir Henry’s nose was never quite straight again, and that he always smiled with closed lips to hide the flash of gold caps in the front.’ Angus fell into a fit of chuckles. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing – Abbott doesn’t have many friends around these parts.’ He put on his hat. ‘I suppose you could use a feed, son. Then maybe afterwards we can see about giving old Clarry that funeral, like you planned. Right kind of you, that was.’
A wave of relief swept over Luke, threatening to turn his legs to jelly. He sat back down.
‘That’s right, take a load off. See if you can’t spark up that fire, and me and Scruffy here’ll go and get the tucker.’
Luke gave Angus a long, grateful look.
‘One more thing,’ said Angus. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Luke. Luke Tyler.’
Angus doffed his hat. ‘Pleased to meet you, Luke.’
Feeling a little steadier on his feet, Luke stoked the fire. Soon a fine blaze crackled in the hearth. Angus returned with wallaby steaks, damper and a juicy apple each. It was an ample lunch and for the first time in a very long time, Luke ate his fill. After feeding Scruffy the scraps, Angus beckoned for Luke to follow him outside.
At the back of the hut stood tethered an enormous red-and-white bullock, bearing three large packs overflowing with skins and tools.
‘Meet Toro. Stronger than any horse, half the cost and twice as amenable.’
Toro bellowed a welcome. Luke rubbed the friendly beast between his sweeping horns, while Angus unfastened a shovel and pick from the pack saddle. ‘Let’s give Clarry that decent burial you was talking about.’
With the help of the right tools, they were able to bury Clarry within the margin of the trees. ‘No need to advertise,’ said Angus. ‘If folks in town don’t know what’s happened to Clarry, then we’d best try to keep it that way. Wouldn’t do for the law to come poking about now, would it?’
They gathered stones and built a rough cairn to mark the spot.
The spring sun was as high as it would rise, when Angus, with hat in hand, stood with Luke and Scruffy before the grave. Bowing his head, he haltingly recited a few words from the Bible.
‘Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
Or ever you formed the earth and the world,
Even from everlasting to everlasting,
You are God.
Amen.’
Luke gazed up at the snow-dusted peaks, which formed a dramatic backdrop to the sacred scene. He’d lost any faith he might have had, but a sense of wonder overcame him all the same. In that moment he saw something divine in the mountains presiding over his freedom and in the sheltering forest. Luke’s eyes filled with tears and, for once, all fear left him.
Angus stayed for the rest of the afternoon. Fetching clothes from one of his packs, he threw them to Luke. ‘Here. Do me a favour. Burn them lice-ridden rags you’re wearing, along with that bracken bed you slept in last night. And while you’re at it, go down to the creek and wash the bugs out of your hair. I’ll not be lending clobber and blankets to any flea-infested convict.’ Luke grinned and caught a bar of carbolic soap as it whizzed through the air at his head. ‘And it’s probably more than me life’s worth letting you get your hands on this here cut-throat razor, but apart from helping to delouse you, a haircut and shave’ll help disguise you. I’ll wager even your own mother wouldn’t recognise you then.’
Luke flinched at the suggestion. After all this time, his mother may well not recognise him. He headed down to the creek, carrying his new trousers. Stripping off, he stood naked in the icy water, washing months of grime from filthy skin. Lock by lock, he cut off his lousy, matted hair and watched the tufts sail downstream. He shaved his scalp and face with the blunt blade right down to skin, leaving red welts like a rookie shearer, then scrubbed his head with the harsh stinging soap till it burned.
Luke stepped from the cleansing stream onto a sunlit rock, feeling reborn. He’d endured the tormenting itch of lice for so long it had felt normal. Finally free from its crawling irritation, the contrast was startling. He raised his eyes to the mountains and was struck by a realisation. He’d endured fear for so long, it too had felt normal – intrinsic to his being. The presence of the quiet peaks gave him courage.
Luke put on his new trousers. Heading back up to the hut, naked to the waist, he met Angus coming down to replenish his waterskins.
‘Christ,’ said Angus. ‘Someone’s given you a flogging or two in your time.’
Luke shrugged. His back was covered in an old wickerwork of raised scars. His sore shoulder was red and inflamed.
Angus took a closer look. ‘A bullet winged you then, did it, lad? That looks right nasty. Come back up to the hut and I’ll bandage it. Clean it up with a little iodine as well.’
Luke shot Angus a grateful smile. The shoulder now ached constantly.
‘I thought they’d banned floggings,’ said Angus as he tended the wound.
‘Not everybody’s read the rule book. Solitary’s worse. I once spent thirty days alone in a cell without windows. Sends you mad. Does something awful to your brain until you’re sure you’d be better off dead. I’d rather a good whipping any day.’
Angus gently squeezed his arm. ‘That’s all behind you now, lad.’
He supervised the burning of Luke’s clothing, then, leaving some provisions and a blanket, he said goodbye. ‘You’d best be lying low for a few weeks. Not many people know about this hut, nor is it easy travelling between here and Hills End. You should be safe enough, though keep your wits about you.’
Luke buried his face in his hands, dreading the thought of being alone again.
‘Don’t you worry, son. I’ll not let you down, nor give you up to the coppers neither. I’m off to Hills End now, but I’ll be back when I reckon any hullabaloo’s died down. Of course, that might take a might longer than usual, considering it was you what knocked his lordship’s teeth out.’ He chuckled and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I’ll guarantee there’s a reward posted, and a big one too. But generally these things die down pretty quick. There’s plenty of ne’er-do-wells in Hills End and the normal go is no questions asked. When things settle, I’ll fetch you. Come gold panning with me, if you like.’
‘I’d like that, sir,’ said Luke, overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘I’d like that a lot. How can I thank you?’
‘By taking care, son, and keeping out of sight.’ Angus doffed his battered hat. ‘It’s been a grand pleasure.’
With that, he untied his unusual packhorse, hoisted Scruffy onto Toro’s broad back and set off down the mountain.
The trio wended their way from sight. Luke stowed away the contributions from Angus and headed out to set his snare. Despite the bandage, his shoulder throbbed painfully, and despite the cooling day, he felt a little hot behind the eyes. He’d meant to go fishing, but weariness defeated him. Instead he collected fresh ferns and firewood for the night and returned to the hut. He made a billy of tea, ate a little salt-beef and damper. Then he lay down under the clean blanket and fell asleep.
Sometime in the early hours as his fire lay low, little more than pale embers, Luke woke to Bear’s mournful howl. Resounding through the still night, it swelled in power until it caused the very hut to quiver. It echoed off the tors, rebounded in the gullies, filled the vast wilderness.
Luke thrilled and shivered at the sound. The great black dog, so instrumental in his flight to freedom, was calling to him. The cry became the howl of his own heart. Luke drifted off to sleep, certain of a bond that couldn’t be denied.