Absolution Creek (66 page)

‘Race Club Committee, Rugby Club Committee, Memorial Hall Committee. It’s a pity Absolution Creek is so far from town. We could use a man such as yourself in Stringybark Point.’

Jack twirled his hat in his hand. It had been a long dusty ride and he wasn’t up for conversation, especially when guilt hung like a cloud about his head. ‘It’s a touch busy for my liking.’

Mr Grey patted an overly long moustache. ‘A touch busy – and you a Sydney lad. Well, the troopers are out of town this week following up on a lead, so I guess the town is a might rowdier than usual. So, you don’t miss Sydney?’

‘Never did take to the North Shore,’ Jack admitted.

‘Even with that marvel being built?’ The solicitor interlaced winter-white fingers.

‘Especially because of the bridge,’ Jack answered. ‘I think people forget folk lost their homes so that others could prosper.’

The solicitor coughed into a folded pocket handkerchief. ‘Hardly patriotic, my lad.’

‘The truth rarely is.’

Mr Grey’s magnanimous attitude dissipated. ‘Well, I see you’ve firm opinions, Mr Manning. Of course, at your age I was more inclined to less provocative conversation.’

‘The world’s changing, Mr Grey.’

The solicitor folded the documents, slipping them into an envelope. A twist of pink string held the letters intact. ‘Yes, well. Everything’s in order. I should tell you that there are any number of stories doing the rounds here in Stringybark Point with regards to children of mixed blood. If you see or hear of any you’ll do your duty.’

Jack’s fingers were on the outstretched end of the envelope. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Mr Grey released his grasp. ‘Good day to you, then.’

Jack high-tailed it as fast as he could from the solicitor’s office. Obviously Adams had been blabbing, and although Mr Grey’s parting comment gave cause for unease, Jack sensed the man’s words were more a gentle warning. He kept his head down and walked along the path leading to the intersection where three hotels stood facing each other. While a room and a feed were his immediate concerns, Jack knew it more important to stay out of sight. Adams still roamed the area and Jack doubted a bit of paper would content his one-time friend.

There were only a handful of tasks to attend to. One was to buy a new horse and stock up on some basic household stores – maybe even a length of ribbon for Squib – and another was to purchase bullets for his Winchester Carbine. Later he would visit the Bank of New South Wales and note Squib as a signatory on his checking account. After that, all that remained was for Jack to come to terms with his intentions.

There was a peculiar feeling Scrubber got in the pit of his belly when things didn’t go to plan. It was like being winded by a well-driven punch. Combine that with a feeling of illness and he wasn’t surprised to be sicking up last night’s mutton. He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth, flicking away a stream of dribble. A man was doubly blessed when his woman wasn’t about to see such weakness. Scrubber edged the night pot under the bed with his boot and walked out onto the veranda. The balcony at Green’s Hotel and Board gave a splendid view of Stringybark Point’s main street, such as it was – in particular its comings and goings.

The
goings
showed itself in the form of Adams and an associate who had ridden out nearly four days ago. The publican hinted they were off on business under the advisement of the local constabulary. Mullins, the dead-eyed returned soldier, added that Adams didn’t mind a little revenge when it could be condoned under cover of the law. The eventual
comings
presented itself in the form of Adams again. He rode in late yesterday with extra baggage: a filthy mood that led to a fight. Scrubber quickly chose self-eviction from the bar, though his swift exit was based on nothing more than a hunch. After twelve hours of his self-imposed exile, there was still no sign of Matt Hamilton.

So here Scrubber was, rubbing a hole through the boards with the heel of his horsehair boot, waiting for Veronica to show with a bit of bread and milk to ease his stomach. The street below was busy with drays and riders. There was even a T-Model Ford parked on the opposite side of the street. Three children were prodding and poking at the shiny automobile, one scooting underneath to gawk at the mechanical innards. Out of boredom he counted the hitching rails – there were six of them, and eight water troughs interspersed along the dusty street. There was also an assortment of chickens, which clucked across the road, their wings akimbo, as a scraggly looking child corralled them onwards. A number of women were walking towards the grocer’s, baskets over their arms. They lingered under the town’s single lamp to chat with a mother who wielded a black pram with a screeching child within.

Beneath the balcony a dray came to a halt outside the entrance to the hotel. Two white Clydesdales stomped their hoofs impatiently as the back board was dropped and a couple of men alighted to heft a carcass swathed in bloody canvas. Dinner, Scrubber assumed. He was not in the least interested in food of any type and would be pleased when this ordeal was over. There was far too much noise and action at Stringybark. The entire town streamed with people during the day and quite often the public bars were open long after the regulated closing hour of 6 pm. And over all this clamour was the lumberyard a couple of blocks away, from which came the ear-splitting sounds of chopping, and the rumble of the steam engine that drove the great saw.

‘Where have you been then, woman?’ Scrubber asked.

Veronica sat the glass of milk and hunk of bread on the rattan table and fell tiredly into a chair. ‘There’s a couple that arrived a day ago, a man and woman. Rode all the way, they did, from some property out west.’ Veronica gestured north and Scrubber rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, they called the doctor on account of her collapsing and being with child, but the woman was so affronted by the doctor that she told him to leave off and go help a sheep, which she felt sure he was more aptly trained for.’

Scrubber always did take to high-spirited women.

‘They’ve taken rooms here. Oh, and so has
he
.’

‘Who’s he?’ Scrubber wasn’t quite up for one of Veronica’s strung-out chinwags.

‘Your Matt Hamilton, of course. The girl’s father.’

Scrubber gobbled up the bread and gulped down the milk. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Well then, I’ll be needing that clean shirt I’ve been saving. Have you patched my jacket and –’

Veronica’s hand stilled his words. ‘Everything’s laid out on your bed, lovey, just as you wanted. The shirt’s near almost white, it’s been washed so well, and your coat is all patched up, the stains spotted with soap and water.’

He brushed her chin. ‘You’re a good girl to me, V.’

Veronica gave a dimpled smile. ‘Can I come then? I’ve tidied my things too.’

‘No,’ Scrubber replied firmly, closing the balcony doors in her face.

Scrubber shook Matt’s hand. ‘I was wondering when you’d show. How long have you been in town for?’ There was the stench of something raw and acidic.

‘A day.’ Matt began rolling a cigarette. He gummed a paper to his lip and rubbed moist leaves of tobacco between his palms.

‘A day? Do you know how long I’ve been holed up here for?’ Scrubber knew one tight punch would loosen Hamilton’s attitude. The man acted as if he were doing
him
a favour.

Matt rolled the tobacco in the paper and patted his pockets for a light. ‘Damn it.’

Scrubber tossed him the box of matches sitting by the candle. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’ Matt caught the box one-handed, and struck three of the flinty heads before success. He sucked on the cigarette. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? Against my better judgement, I might add. Lost my job to meet up with you, and all for what? To tell you in person that I don’t want to see my Squib in a bloody institution.’

‘An institution?’ Scrubber repeated.

‘Do I have to spell it out for you? Squib and Ben’s mother was a half-caste. Abigail is my second wife.’

Scrubber leaned heavily on the washstand, the action rattling the ceramic pitcher sitting in the wash bowl. ‘Squib’s got darkie blood in her?’

Matt took a long drag of his smoke. ‘Yes.’

‘Well then, that accounts for Adams,’ Scrubber answered thoughtfully.

‘What are you talking about?’ Matt asked.

‘A man here by the name of Adams is interested in her. The fella who found Squib has her safe at a property called Absolution Creek. This Adams, though –’ Scrubber scratched his cheek ‘– he’s after Squib. Somehow he knows she’s got darkie blood. There was this notice in the local paper and the owner of Absolution gave Squib’s name and everything …’

Matt stomped his cigarette out on the timber floor. ‘Bugger him. Is this Adams a trooper?’

‘Postal and Supply rider.’

‘And part-time snitch,’ Matt said tightly. ‘No doubt on the bank roll of the government.’

Scrubber knew what the smell was. Matt had partaken of the bottle last night, and by the stench the result wasn’t pretty. ‘What do you want to do?’

Matt shook his head. ‘You know I only came here to tell you to forget this scheme of yours. My stepdaughter, Jane, put my Ben into the authorities after Abigail went to gaol – that’s why I couldn’t risk finding Squib. I knew she’d be taken as well.’ He prised open the tobacco tin and plucked at the loose strands. ‘So much for family love.’

‘So that’s why you stayed away,’ Scrubber replied. ‘I wondered.’

Matt nodded and rolled another smoke. ‘I know you did and I appreciate you trying to find Squib, but you understand now, don’t you, I had to lose her to save her.’

‘Well, now we’re going to have to find her,’ Scrubber said firmly. ‘Cause if we don’t, Adams will. Why are you looking at me like that?’

Matt gave the slightest tilt of his chin. ‘Guess I figured once you knew the truth you’d walk away. Most whites don’t have much time for the mixed bloods.’

‘Purcell did,’ Scrubber reminded him.

Matt snorted. ‘Old man Purcell was only ever interested in a good worker. As long as a man kept his nose clean he’d look the other way. And he knew enough toffs in government to ensure his business and his staff were left alone. My family was safe while we were there, especially as Squib and Ben looked like me and not their mother. Evans was the one with the problem. Always hated me, he did, especially when I made overseer. It was him that stole that necklace, I reckon. Ain’t nobody else could have done it.’

Scrubber kept quiet.

‘Set me up real good and proper. Ruined my life, that Evans. Anyway, you’ve done enough, mate, and a person can get into a mile of trouble . . .’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Scrubber gave a toothy grin. ‘But I’ve always been a bit of an aider and abetter.’

‘Why are you helping us?’ Matt asked. ‘I mean, really, it’s not your problem.’

Scrubber walked across the timber floorboards. He could have died in the bush if Matt hadn’t found him. He could have gone through life with a crippled hand if it wasn’t for Squib. Through the door leading out onto the balcony the street was quietening in the midday heat. Abigail Hamilton was in gaol; Squib was living with a stranger; the boy Ben was gone and Matt was out of work, again. ‘I’ve got my reasons,’ he answered. ‘Now we need a plan.’

‘Any ideas?’

Scrubber rubbed his hands together, and felt a rush of adrenalin in his gut. ‘How good are you with a rifle?’