NINE

You are alone. Violated and abandoned. Without hope. You tried to stop them. Failed. Tried to escape. Failed. Tried to fight. Failed. You never wanted to come to this savage land but came anyway, not out of a sense of love or fear or duty but because you were conditioned to do what you were told. Conditioned to obey. That was what brought you from one side of the world to the other, brought you into the silence and menace of the bush—because your husband had a dream which you neither shared nor wanted but which you accepted because it was your duty. Part of the contract, implied but fundamental, was that you could trust him to protect you. He had not. He had failed you. And here you are. Violated and alone.

 

The hut door stood open to catch the breeze, only there was no breeze. The forest was dark and breathless, shrill with the crazy monotony of insects.

Outside the hut, the three men sat on the litter-strewn ground about the fire, drink-smeared laughter batting the evening air as they swilled the third of the six stolen bottles of grog. Inside, Lorna lay curled on the scrap of sacking that Charlie had thrown on the dirt floor as a bed. She had not sucked her thumb since she was a child. She did so now, knees raised protectively to her chest.

Charlie had taken over the hut for himself and Lorna as soon as they arrived at the camp. Taken her over too. The others were supposed to have shared her but had not. There had been hard looks about it, hard words too, but for the moment they had gone along with it. It was still Charlie’s mob.

Lorna’s blonde hair, sweat-stained and dirty now, hung in streaks over her face. She could not be bothered to push it away. It was too hot for anything like that. Earlier she had found the energy to strip down to the nightgown she had been wearing beneath her clothes. It hadn’t helped much. She was still hot, her skin slimed with sweat. She had thought to strip off altogether but had not, afraid Charlie would not like it.

Charlie’s likes mattered. As long as she pleased him, he would protect her from the others. From Pat in particular with his high cheekbones and mad, pale eyes. Charlie had hit her, but only once, at the beginning, to make her obedient. Pat was not interested in obedience. If he hurt her it would be because he enjoyed it.

She had discovered there was no depth to which it was possible to fall that did not carry terrors of falling still further. She hoped, believed, prayed that Charlie, stinking, coarse and filthy, would protect her from the abyss. He had covered her three times since she had fought so hard to prevent him. That she accepted. She belonged to him. He had not beaten her or cut her or done any of the thousand things he could have done had he wished. She had not fought him since that first time.

Neither of the others had visited her. If Charlie permitted it they would come. She did not care as long as she remained under his protection. He held the power of life and death over her. She would crawl in the dirt if he demanded it. She could do nothing. Was nothing.

She stank. Of sweat, dirt, sex. She cared nothing for that, either.

‘I am nothing,’ she said to the hot and fetid air.

 

‘I’m comin’ wi’ ye,’ Andrew said.

George had expected to find him dead or close to it yet here he was, the same Andrew as always, with nothing to show for the blow but an ugly-looking gash over one eye.

‘Someone’s going to have to stay here,’ Grant said. ‘We can’t leave Mrs Curtis by herself.’

‘She’s my wife,’ Andrew said, his intensity singing like a tightened wire.

George watched the faces of the men about the fire. They were young, for the most part, but their faces were hard and experienced—bushmen’s faces. If anyone could track Charlie Smith and his gang, they would do it. They’d ridden hard. Now they had eaten and drunk, wasting no time, and were ready to go on.

Grant wanted to get after the gang now, while it was still dark. He claimed his black tracker could follow them, even at night. The sooner they found them, the better Lorna’s chances would be.

George reckoned he’d done his share; besides, the squatter was right. Mary should not be left alone. Lorna was Andrew’s wife and Mary was his. His place was here.

‘I’ll stay,’ he said.

Grant nodded. ‘We’ll get on, then. I hope we bring her back for you.’

The men mounted. The light shone on the coats of the horses, the men’s eyes, the oiled steel of the guns. Within minutes, the sound of the hooves died in the quiet darkness.

 

Pat’s pale eyes glared in fury. ‘I picked ’er meself. She was for all of us. You said so.’

‘That was then.’

‘So you ’as ’er and Billy Boy and me goes without. That it?’

‘Somen like that.’

‘I ain’t puttin’ up with it.’

Charlie’s big fingers hung close to his pistol. ‘Put up or ride out, I reckon.’

‘I told you already, I got a score to settle with ’er. I want ’er.’

‘Well, yer can’ ’ave ’er.’

Pat’s pale eyes gleamed. ‘We’s ’eadin’ for a fall-out, you ’n’ me, Charlie.’

‘Yer tol’ me that, a’ready.’ Contemptuously. ‘An’ I said I’d bury yer, you try anythin’.’

Pat showed teeth. ‘Maybe I’ll bury you first, Charlie. Ever think about that?’

Light from the fire flickered in their eyes as they watched each other.

‘Easy, mates,’ Billy Boy said uncomfortably. ‘Don’ let’s fall out about it, eh?’

‘Let ’im ’and the girl over, then, like we said. I wants my turn at ’er and I’ll bet you does too.’ Pat’s eyes did not move from Charlie’s face.

‘Wot you think about it, Billy Boy?’ Charlie asked. His eyes, too, did not move. A flame sprang up as a log collapsed in the heart of the fire. ‘You another one sayin’ I should ’and her over?’

‘Mate, I dunno.’ Billy Boy wasn’t one for big confrontations. Reluctantly he added, ‘That’s what we said.’

‘God rot it, all right, then,’ Charlie said furiously. ‘Don’ reckon I can fight the pair o’ you.’

Pat was suspicious of so easy a victory. ‘Best be sure you means it, Charlie.’

‘It’s only a woman, after all.’ Charlie smiled coldly, knowing it was about a lot more than only a woman.

Pat’s pistol was suddenly in his hand, not pointing at anyone, not yet, but there.

Charlie stared uneasily at it. ‘No need for that.’

Pat grinned, confidence swelling. ‘Reckon I’ll be the one saying what’s needed and what ain’t.’ Suddenly he raised his pistol. The muzzle ranged hungrily over Charlie’s shirt-front, three yards away. ‘Best put yore gun on the ground, Charlie. Nice and easy, like. Just so’s there’s no more misunderstandin’s, eh?’

Charlie licked his lips. Give in to Pat now, he was a dead man. No one could back down from a challenge like this and live. But Pat had the gun raised, finger taut upon the trigger, and Charlie hadn’t.

‘No need for that,’ Charlie said again.

Pat did not bother to answer but instead gestured with the muzzle of the pistol.

Charlie cursed and threw his pistol in the dirt. Pat leaned forward and took it up, eyes and gun still focused on Charlie’s big body.

‘Reckon she’s mine after all,’ he said. ‘You kin ’ave a taste, too, Billy Boy. If there’s anythin’ left by the time I’m through wiv ’er.’ He grinned, reflections from the firelight dancing in his mad eyes. ‘You’re a bit of a problem, though, Charlie. Wot am I goin’ to do wiv you?’

And fired.

The crash of the gun, the swirl of burnt powder smoke, filled the clearing.

 

Throughout the ride Andrew had not been feeling as good as he had pretended back at camp but he’d had no thought of turning back. He would not have it said that he had stayed behind while his wife was in danger.

I am riding on the Lord’s business, he thought. Words from the Book drummed in his head to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away: and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God.

Aye, he thought, lips drawn back from his teeth. Let them all perish. They have struck me and mine. Let them perish.

They had crossed the river at the rock shelf.

‘You think they came this way?’ Andrew had asked Grant.

‘Sure to. I told you, they got a bolt-hole south of the river.’

‘But why here?’

‘Why not? It’s the best place.’

After that, south of the river, things had gone much more slowly. The tracker had led, leaning low out of the saddle, eyes fixed on the ground as he trotted slowly through the trees. Extraordinary how he could pick up tracks, Andrew had thought. The ground itself was barely visible.

Now they were an hour from the river. Andrew saw the tracker raise his hand and reined in his horse. Grant was at his shoulder, Andrew beside him.

The tracker pointed. ‘Him fire,’ he said.

At first Andrew saw nothing, then he moved his head and saw the faint prick of orange between the trees.

‘Have to go in on foot,’ Grant said. His voice was so soft Andrew had a problem hearing him three yards away. ‘Bush too thick for horses.’

‘How do we know it’s them?’ Andrew asked.

‘No one else in this area.’ He detailed three of the party. ‘Pete, Doug, Vince, I want you to work your way around the back. Make sure they don’t see you. The rest of us will go in from the front. Any we miss may try to skid out that way. Don’t shoot until you know what you’re shooting at. I don’t want to stop a bullet because one of you blokes got too excited to see straight.’

‘How many are there?’ one of the boys asked.

‘There were three attacked us,’ Andrew said.

Grant nodded. ‘I doubt there’s more. This country couldn’t support more than three.’

The men disappeared silently into the shadows.

‘Give them five minutes, we’ll go in our selves. Keep well spaced out, it’ll make it harder for them to hit us,’ Grant said to Andrew.

Suddenly there was the distant sound of a pistol shot, sharp and unexpected.

‘Damn those clumsy fools of mine,’ Grant said furiously. ‘Someone’s spotted them.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s get after them.’

 

At the sound of the shot, Lorna curled herself tighter, arms crossed in front of her, hands hugging her ribs, legs drawn up. Her eyes were screwed shut.

She did not know what had happened. She did not want to know. Here, in the blackness behind her eyelids, she was safe. Nothing could happen to her, here.

Nothing could happen to nothing.

Tears squeezed between her closed eyelids and ran down her cheeks.

She did not move.

 

Charlie saw the decision in Pat’s eyes and threw himself sideways in the split second before the gun went off. The shot missed.

Charlie landed on his feet, knife in his hand, blood running unnoticed down his sleeve where the ball had creased him. A blink of time as Pat fought the realisation that the man he had killed at a range of less than three yards was not dead after all, nor even out of action. In that blink, Charlie leapt. He grabbed Pat by the hair, hauled his head back and plunged the knife into his chest. The blade went home with a meaty thwack. Pat’s body heaved convulsively then became still.

Charlie turned snarling on Billy Boy, backed up on the far side of the fire. The blooded blade shone red in the light.

‘Wanner try yore luck, too?’

‘You killed Pat,’ Billy Boy mumbled, shocked eyes staring. ‘What you do that for?’

It was a stupid question and Charlie did not bother to answer. ‘Mebbe I should kill you, too,’ he said. ‘Get meself some new boys.’

Had Billy Boy made the slightest movement Charlie would have done it, the killing rage still burning in his veins. He still might. They stared at each other across the red flicker of the dying flames. Pat’s body lay to one side, eyes staring. There was a lot of blood.

Billy Boy eased his empty hands wide, knowing how close he was to death. ‘Easy, Charlie,’ he whispered. ‘Easy, mate.’

Slowly Charlie’s breathing eased and silence returned to the tiny clearing. In the silence they heard a commotion of running men.

‘They found us.’ Charlie transferred the knife to his left hand and snatched his pistol from his belt. ‘Git out the back,’ he hissed. ‘Afore they gets ’ere. I’ll bring the girl.’

Billy Boy, in a quagmire of terror, knew that by going back for the girl, Charlie was putting them both in danger.

Leave the bloody bitch. There’s plenty more.

He wanted to say it but there was no time. He turned and fled crashing through the bush.

For a precious second Charlie paused, head cocked, listening to retribution descending on him. There was no time to go anywhere, do anything.

His lips drew back over his blackened teeth, his eyes glared red with the firelight in them. He screamed, ‘All right, you bastards, let’s see ’ow you go against a real man.’

Pistol in one hand, bloodied knife in the other, he flung himself through the doorway of the hut.

 

Lorna whimpered as the figure of the man came plunging into the hut. She sat up.

‘What is it?’ Trembling, knowing he would protect her but frightened all the same.

He stumbled, groping. ‘Where the hell are yer?’

‘Here.’

He turned at her voice and came and crouched down beside her, his face turned towards the door. The faint light shone on the stubbled cheeks, the glaring eyes.

‘What—?’

He dug his fingers hard into her arm, cutting off her words. ‘Shut yer mouth!’

They waited, side by side in the darkness, watching the rectangle of faint light where the doorway was.

She did not know what was out there. All she knew was she feared it. She wanted to curl up again, shut her eyes, hide from everything that lay beyond her clenched eyelids.

Pat has gone mad, she thought. We are waiting here for him to come in after us. Charlie will kill him and then all will be well again. There was comfort in the thought. Charlie’s presence took from her the need to think, to do anything herself.

A thud of feet outside the door. In the faint light, Lorna saw Charlie’s lips drawn back over his teeth as he raised his gun.

 

The shot, the blinding flash of light, made Andrew stagger as he crowded the doorway at Grant’s shoulder. There was another shot, another flash, as Grant fired back. The twin concussions set his ears ringing but they were inside the hut now. There was a movement somewhere in the darkness in front of them and Grant fired again.

Silence, then a sound detached from reality, a thin high keening. They could see nothing.

‘Get a light,’ Grant said sharply.

Andrew brought a brand from the fire and raised it, the flame spluttering and smoking. They stared appalled at what the flame revealed.

One of the bushrangers lay unmoving in a corner of the hut. The light reflected off his open eyes. The front of his shirt was black with blood. The other figure, thin and frail, dressed in some kind of flimsy white clothing flecked with red, lay curled tight against the rear wall.

Andrew’s heart lurched sickeningly. ‘Lorna …’ He sprang forward, hand outstretched. ‘Merciful God …’

Lorna moved. Her head emerged and her hand. Her eyes were blank, staring. Her hand held a pistol that swayed and juddered in her grasp. He saw her finger joint whiten on the trigger.

He was on her. He wrestled the gun out of her grip and put his arms about her as she tried vainly to fight him off, raining blows upon his chest with her puny fists.

‘My God, girl,’ he cried to the roof over their heads, ‘what have they done to you?’

 

They had brought a rope but no hanging was needed.

Pat was dead before they got there. Charlie Smith had died in the hut, chest blown away by Grant’s ball. His own ball they found wedged in the wooden framework of the door. It had passed directly between Grant and Andrew without touching them.

‘There can’t have been inches between us coming through that door,’ Grant said. ‘Reckon we were lucky.’

Billy Boy ran into the three men guarding the rear of the huts. They killed him before he had the time to draw his gun.

They brought the body in and threw it down beside the others. Andrew stared at them. ‘I dinna ken what the law would say.’

‘We are the law.’ Grant turned to his boys standing in a circle about the dying fire. Somewhere beyond the close press of trees dawn was breaking and a wan greyness had begun to filter into the clearing. ‘Dig a hole and bury them.’ To Andrew he said, ‘You’d better stay with your wife.’

Neither Andrew nor anyone else knew what to do about her.

After that first outburst of frenzied violence she had lapsed into silence. She lay in a corner of the hut on a dirty scrap of sacking, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped about her body. She stared and stared. When he spoke to her, she did not answer. She seemed unaware of anything going on about her.