A Changing Land(10)



Percy returns with their horses. He has fifty-two under his watch. With eight men on horseback and two horse changes alone in daylight hours, his job of caring for their team is the most important. The men saddle up, bursts of steam rising like small clouds from their horse’s nostrils. Eventually the men straggle off in the direction of the mob.

‘Feed ’em into the wind,’ Luke advises, knowing the stock would walk into the southerly naturally. ‘We’ll water them at Ned’s Hollow.’ Luke does a quick check of the wagon, counts the pack horses. ‘Supplies right, Cook?’

The grey-haired poisoner, as the men call him, salutes. Luke takes a drag of his roll-your-own, blows the smoke clear of his eyes. Cook was in the army years ago, so he says. The men hint at a convict past. Luke doesn’t care, he just needs someone who can cook without killing anyone, although there had already been sore stomachs aplenty this trip. He looks at the mountains to the east of them; great monolithic tombs of stone that block the view of the flat country on the other side. He is restless for the open plains of Wangallon, knowing full well that once he gets there he will feel the need to leave. It has been like that for a very long time; the wanting of the property, the need to be on Wangallon soil, then the reality of what it means to stay. With a final sip of his tea, he tosses the remains in the dirt, turns the collar of his coat up against the nippy southerly, the tread of 1500 cattle filling the air.

Luke turns his horse Joseph north towards the rear of the mob as the cattle walk slowly southwards. Mungo is hunched in the saddle, his hat pulled low over his dark skin. He smiles the smile of a long lost brother.

‘Time for some food, Mungo.’

‘Fresh cooked by a woman,’ Mungo answers as if there was a choice. ‘Black duck, mebbe some potatoes.’

Luke laughs. There is beef at their camp, however Mungo is more concerned about the cook who would feed him, in particular a black-haired girl Luke has never seen. ‘She’d be lucky to have you.’

The Aborigine grins. Luke slaps him lightly on the arm. He has told Mungo that he’s in love although his childhood friend refuses to agree with him.

‘She was promised to an elder. He died. Probably by now she is promised to another.’

Luke understands his friend’s feeling of frustration. ‘What will you do?’

Mungo shrugs. ‘She would leave the tribe.’ His voice is shaded with disbelief. ‘Her eyes are soft as a rabbit’s, but her heart is strong. She says that this is not our land anymore. I say it is not for the owning.’ He glances over his shoulder to the line of dense trees behind them. ‘Them fellas out there, Boss. Might be they come too close.’

There had been little trouble with Aborigines this trip, apart from the usual skirmishes and a bit of bartering for safe passage. Luke glances at the trees behind him, pats his carbine rifle, gestures to Mungo with a quick incline of his head. They have been followed these past two nights. Both of them have been waiting for the blackfellas to appear. They have sat under trees drooping with coldness, hugged rawhide gloved hands beneath their armpits and wiped at their snotty noses between sips of tea and snatches of conversation. Luke wonders about his friend’s woman. He wants to tell Mungo to speak to his father, Boxer, who is an elder. He doesn’t for fear of offence and the cautionary thought that it is blackfella business.

The familiar red and white of a bullock’s hide flashes through the trees. Mungo looks knowingly at Luke as a loud bellowing announces trouble. The tail of the mob are a good three hundred feet from the tree line. Luke doesn’t feel like an altercation today. Having woken a little less stiff than usual and with a portion of Wangallon beef stuffing his belly, he was hopeful of a more leisurely start. Instead he finds himself following Mungo.

They walk their horses into the timber, ten feet, twenty, thirty … Luke pulls quietly on Joseph’s reins, Mungo points to the right. They walk single file through the trees, Luke with one hand on his rifle. There is the crashing noise of a large animal charging through the dense woody growth. The sound echoes loudly for long minutes. An ambush is a distinct possibility, especially here where the trees grow so tightly they appear to have been planted in rows. Another thirty feet on, Mungo heads left. Luke grimaces at the noise of hoofs on leaf litter, his eyes searching for a patch of sky in the canopy above. Joseph pricks his ears and halts midstride. Three Aborigines block their path.

Two of them wear torn white men’s clothing. Renegades from a station, Luke assumes. The other is tall with a long spear in his hand and alert eyes stare from within the roughness of bark, like skin. He has a wiry beard and a narrow, bony chest, which carries a number of scars thick with age. A possum skin coat, the fur next to his skin, is dragged over one shoulder. Behind the trio a freshly speared bullock kicks its last amid the trees. Luke draws his forefinger tight against the rifle’s trigger, lifts the weapon very slowly. He is ready to shoot. Mungo climbs down from his horse and lifts his empty hands towards the trio. The two renegades carry nullanullas. One blow could crack a man’s head. Luke knows he and Mungo are in a precarious position. Yet his old friend is talking softly and taking a step towards the warrior with the raised spear.

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