Fire Eye (30 page)

“Missed the bastard,” Decker spits. He doesn’t care whether Jesse hears him or not. He is stuffed so he stops the vehicle to camp. “We should have caught him by now. The bloody exhaust must have given him plenty of fuck’n warning. We camp tonight and get an early start tomorrow.” He is tired. Gunning hard through the outback is fun but bloody tiring. He has no doubt they have passed their prey. Knocking off the exhaust was unpredictable but there is nothing he can do about it.
Have to bloody adapt again,
he consoles himself.

He tells Jess to get the swags set up and some food going. It spite of his tiredness, he reaches for some beers, pulls the top off a can, picks up the Winchester and stretches his muscles by walking along the track. He sees the wheel marks and hoof prints heading in but nothing coming out. The bastard heard them and got off the track. He curses but focuses on the problem. One horse, maybe carrying two people? They can’t move fast if they are going to conserve the horse, so it really isn’t a problem that needs to be solved right now. Would have been good to put a bullet in both of them to simplify things but he knows things rarely go to plan. The military know that. What was the saying—a plan is perfect until the first contact with the enemy. After that it’s anything goes.

He sinks his beer, tosses the empty can into the scrub and pulls the second from his pocket. The first is for thirst and the second for pleasure, he always tells himself. After that the others just add to the pleasure as the alcohol relaxes and desensitises him from the irrationality of people around him. He turns and walks slowly back, giving Jess plenty of time to get things set up. The boy needs the chance to earn his keep. Dad’s not going to be around forever and he needs to take more responsibility. His mum did too much for him but he solved that problem, he reflects with satisfaction.

The world’s a tough place and Jess needs to learn to look after himself. You bloody can’t rely on anyone except yourself.
That has always been his golden rule and the boy has to learn it.

He is taking his time walking back and his boots make little sound in the soft red dust of the track. The faint breeze is wafting from his right so the pig has no warning he is there. It isn’t a big one, just a small sow out early heading to a favourite feeding ground. She stops to nuzzle the ground searching for titbits. Decker tosses his now empty can and brings the Winchester up smoothly. He pulls the hammer back to full cock and places the front sight, nestled nicely into the buckhorn rear sight, onto his chest and squeezes the trigger. The pig hears the metallic sound of the action and raises its head, ready to spin sideways to escape. It is a fraction too slow and the one hundred and seventy grain bullet slams into its chest, transferring its energy into the body tissue and pulverising heart and lungs for an instant death. Decker lowers the rifle with satisfaction. He is good! So many stupid people don’t recognise how good he is. He shakes his head at the thought, picks up a leg of the sow and drags it behind him.

He wanders back into camp with his thirst demanding another drink. He dumps the pig and reaches for another beer, satisfied with what Jesse has done. The swags are set up, a good fire is going and he can smell the spam, onions and beans as they cook over the fire. “Good job Jess,” he says with real feeling. He does like spam. He considers it an underrated food as he watches Jess tend the fire and the fry pan. That bitch always got difficult when he wanted spam. He could never understand it. Something so simple could cause such big problems but she learned to mind her tongue. He made sure of that! He stands near the fire, sipping his beer and enjoying the aroma as the gentle evening breeze wafts it in his direction.

“We going to eat that?” Jesse asks with trepidation as he eyes the pig.

“We could, but no. The spam is bloody good Jesse. Got another idea! Let’s eat.”

The shot had made Davey jump as he lay patiently under the bush. The aroma is worse, teasing him mercilessly as he lays hidden and watches carefully. Whatever is in the fry pan makes the juices in his mouth flow uncontrollably. After a hard day in the bush, it doesn’t take much to make any man’s mouth water when it comes to food. He watches the man drink his beer and yearns for one himself. What he really wants is Charcoal’s Winchester he can see propped against one of the wheels. From this range he could take both of them, first shot on the man and the second on the boy before they have time to react. The rifle is power but the power is not with him.

Davey is worried. The Winchester is in the white bastard’s hands. Charcoal must have met trouble. He is tempted to turn around and find Charcoal but his last words echo inside his head. If there is trouble, Charcoal will get himself out of it. If he can’t, it will be too late. Davey knows the best help he can offer is to get to the homestead. Fear for Charcoal pushes him to ride through the night. Reason tells him to rest the horse, get an early start in the morning and make a big day of it.

He worms his way backward until he is far enough away to rise into a crouch and return to Brad and his horse. They need rest and the night is going to be long with fitful sleep and only a belly full of bush tucker.
Not even a goanna!
The aroma of the fry pan teases his senses all the way back to camp.
Oh for the Winchester!

Alex and Thor have settled into a rhythm, alternating between a walk, a trot, then a canter and now a short gallop. Her riding skills come back naturally and Thor responds, accepting leadership and adapting fast to her commands. She feels the strength coiled inside his work-honed body. She can also sense the lightness and responsiveness that comes from Charcoal’s training.

Their bond grows with each subtle command communicated through the pressure of her legs or the reins and they settle into a comfortable rhythm. Part of her yearns for escape, to put distance between her, Jed and betrayal. Another part remembers the feeling of security she enjoyed with him. The remainder yearns for revenge against Decker. He has destroyed the new life that took gut-wrenching courage to establish. Alex allows her mind to wander as she scans the landscape she and Thor have taken on. It takes her thoughts away from the headache pounding in her skull like the continuous gentle tapping of a hammer. A wandering mind allowed her plenty of escape in the past and she welcomes the release once again.

Thor suddenly flinches sideways and rears up savagely to the left in fright. Alex catches the dark shape of a wild boar breaking out from scrub right under Thor’s nose. Thor is a cattle horse but even he can be surprised by the unexpected. Pigs usually break early at the sound of a threat or stay put in hiding until the tension becomes too great. The short, fast gallop caught the boar by surprise. She throws her weight forward along his neck to avoid being thrown off over his rump. As he drops back onto his front hooves she turns his head onto the right track, skirting around bundles of scrub and straggly trees. She leans forward to soothe him with gentle words, caressing his neck. The blood pounds in her veins. Alex makes a mental note to keep the spurts of speed for more open country and settles back into the rhythm of the ride.

She allows herself to contemplate the country around her. City dwellers think of inland Australia as treeless and monotonous. Alex sees the blue line of distant ranges that the scrub does its best to hide, crawling slowly closer. She is working her way through a band of country made up of grassy tussocks, eucalypts, casuarinas and other vegetation she cannot identify. One she is sure about is the dainty ghost gum with its chalk white branches gleaming in the slanting light of the late afternoon sun with brilliant green tops thrown into stark relief against the red soil and blue sky.

She pushes her observation of the country to one side, just like minimising a computer screen, and refocuses on Thor, enjoying the sensation of his muscles working against her legs. She rises up in the saddle, leans forward and caresses his neck again, encouraging him with soft words in his ear. She has escaped death by a whisker in a strange land and is now riding toward a confrontation with an unknown outcome. Strangely, however, she is enjoying herself. It is a long time since she has felt so alive and free—just her, a horse and wide open country. She chooses to ignore the hard pressure of the Colt against her stomach and what it signifies. She is going to make the most of the experience while it lasts.

Jed and Charcoal sit facing each other, each leaning back against the trunk of a tree. Jed has made Charcoal as comfortable as possible, scraping a hole for his backside and padding his back with a bundle of leafy branches slashed from the surrounding scrub and tied with grass. The water bottle is in the shade, wrapped in scraps of material that Jed has urinated on. Even a gentle breeze will keep the water cool as the wetness slowly evaporates. Out here every little luxury is a bonus. Cool water is all the luxury they will get.

“That woman be a tough lady,” Charcoal volunteers. “Don’t mean tough as in tough, but gutsy.”

Jed considers Charcoal’s observation. “Yeah, she’s gutsy alright. Been through some tough times and they’ve caught up with her.”

Charcoal thinks about that and reaches a conclusion.

“That bastard’s hunting you both?” Charcoal asks.

Jed nods.

“Bad bastard!” Charcoal says before pain silences him.

Jed sees him flinch but makes no comment. Charcoal needs distraction not sympathy. “You’re not wrong. But he thinks she’s dead, so we might have some breathing space.”

“That man gonna hunt you down next! You gonna let it happen?”

Jed knows Charcoal is right. If and when they get out of here, sometime, somewhere, Decker will come for him. “Killing is wrong,” is all he can offer in response.

Charcoal chuckles, cradling his chest and broken wrist. “You ain’t stupid man! You know what ‘as to happen. I’m gonna tell you a story. You want to hear it?”

Jed swings his gaze from left to right, taking in the scrub and glimpses of an empty horizon between the trees. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere and can’t think of anything that needs my attention.”

Charcoal smiles in return. “Ah, do like stories. I got a good one for you. About black fella custom, marriage.”

“I’m listening,” Jed acknowledges, guessing he is in for a lesson of some kind.

“I know white fellas sneer at old black fella men with good look’n young wives. There be a good reason for it in the tribal days. Imagine a black fella called say, Jimara. In his young days, say fifteen years old, he be linked with a young girl who will be his mother-in-law. With his blood he leaves a taboo mark on her head. They cannot look at each other or say each other’s names. He must feed her but the food he collects must go through other hands. When she is taken as a wife, her girl child will be Jimara’s wife. You following?”

Jed nods carefully a few times, not knowing where the story is heading.

“Think about a man feeding a girl until she is old enough to have a child, then feeding the child until he can marry her. Call her Sarah. It would be ‘bout thirty years after the taboo, say he’s forty five by then. Sarah’s mother has run off somewhere, but Jimara can claim Sarah as his wife. But suppose a police black fella tracker comes, married to Rosie. Sarah’s mother is Rosie’s sister, so Rosie can claim Sarah ‘cause under tribal law Rosie is also Sarah’s mother. Still following?” Charcoal asks with a simile.

“Getting a bit complicated, but yeah, I’m following, just,” Jed confesses.

“And I be keeping it simple for you man!” Charcoal jokes, understanding the complexity of Aboriginal cultures for white fellas. It has been the basis of countless misunderstandings from which the Aboriginals suffered badly after white settlement. “Jimara would have stood up to this, but a tracker was seen as a bit like police. Think man. For all those years Jimara would have grown up expecting Sarah to be his wife. He fed her mother and her all those years, a big investment, and she is taken away to town. His marriage is gone! His future gone! Another black fella from the town ends up living with Sarah. Call him Jack. Jack don’t marry her but they live as man and wife. He could have married Sarah but is ‘appy to stay single and enjoy having Sarah in his bed.”

“Bad emotions in all that,” Jed responds slowly as he gets a grip on the story, still not sure where it is going.

“Yeah, bad emotions,” Charcoal agrees. “Real bad! Jimara’s wife to be is living unmarried with Jack, protected by the white man’s law. Jimara could have asked for his wife but had seen white man law in action with the black fella. He stayed away from that. He watched and waited and watched some more.”

Charcoal looks at Jed, watching to see whether he understands. The clouded expression in Jed’s eyes shows him the white man is thinking, so he continues. “Suppose Jimara and Jack got into a fight over Sarah and Jimara speared Jack. Jimara would go to jail. The missionaries would think they are in the right and that Christianity is the only way to help the black fella. Jack would think he is right, ‘cause he has grown used to white man ways and don’t think he done anything wrong. He wants a wife not controlled by the missionaries. Jimara thinks he is right, based on thousands of years of custom. The government thinks it is right ‘cause they believe the only way to help the black fella is for ‘em to embrace white man’s law. So, they all be right. But if Jimara killed Jack, who’d be in the wrong?” Charcoal asks and settles back into his brush cushion with a sigh of satisfaction, watching Jed through half-closed eyelids.

Jed is quiet for a while. “That wasn’t a long story,” he says, stalling for time. “You’re teaching me something but I’m struggling,” Jed confesses.

“You got a problem man and you know it. You seen that man kill. A man who can do that so easy, he’s killed before. He thinks the woman is dead and you know he will come after you. If he finds that woman is alive, he go after her too. Maybe he finds your kids and kills them to make you suffer. You got kids?”

Jed nods in response. His two daughters and the grandchildren they have borne are easy targets, very easy targets.

Charcoal continues. “You try taking that bastard to court, he run rings around you. You see his face anytime?”

Jed shakes his head.

“In white man law, truth and justice don’t always sleep together. You gotta finish this yourself. Can’t help you on that man!”