Chapter Five – The Raven

Camooweal at dawn.

A raven, glossy black and dark of eye, had roosted in one of the low branches of the coolabah tree, watching the street and its surrounds, as if to see what might happen next. He had stayed away for a few days because the drinkers camped there had taken pot-shots at him with their revolvers. Now he was back, partly from habit, but also from curiosity.

He’d heard the goings on of the previous day, and smelled human blood carried on the breeze. That smell was not unusual, in this town, but the police trooper was generally on hand to sort things out. This time, the constable had been absent during the killing, and it was late at night that he had ridden in, along with two black helpers, his big horses and guns.

The trooper was a familiar sight to the raven. He was a hefty man, with a stiff moustache and broad back, who had a habit of patrolling the main street self-importantly, smoking a pipe or cigarette as he went, often dragging men from the hotels and throwing them into the lock-up. Last night, coming home in the dark to news of murder and a citizens’ arrest, he had lost much of his usual bluster.

There had, however, been a flurry of activity. Some of the men who had been guarding the three prisoners in the lock-up hurried to share the news of the killing. The policeman’s surprise and anguish echoed across the town. More people emerged from buildings. There were hurried conversations, in private homes and in the barracks office.

Now, at dawn, all was silent again, but still the raven waited.

He was not hungry, for the previous evening he had found a dead fish, a fat grunter, on the banks of the river. He had eaten its eyes first, then ripped its guts from its cavity and finally used his sharp beak to delve under the skin to extract the grey flesh from the bones.

Later, he would investigate the piggery up behind the Landsborough Hotel. It was a habit of the scullery maid, each morning, to take a bucket of scraps out to the pigs, but she was careless, and often spilled a good portion trying to lift the heavy iron vessel over the rails. Easy pickings, that the raven availed himself of most days.

Now, however, he was more interested in seeing what might happen next. An hour passed. The back door of the pub opened. Two men sauntered out. They fetched timber from a stack in the yard behind the hotel. They started sawing and hammering, swearing now and then, talking in low voices that sounded, to the raven, like a rumble.

They built a long wooden box, with a separate lid, then carried it inside, one man at each end, through the rear entrance of the hotel.

Meanwhile, a two-in-hand wagon rolled up from down the street, parking outside the front of the hotel. The front door opened, and the two men who had made the box carried it out, stumbling with the weight. The raven identified the corpse inside the box from the smell. He knew the scent of every human who came and went from the town, and it was obvious to him that the body of the dead carpenter was inside the box. He was smart enough to understand irony. The timbers of the coffin had come from trees felled by the man who now lay dead inside. More than likely he had milled those boards himself.

The two men, under the direction of the wagon driver, slid the heavy box onto the back of the wagon, and clapped their hands together, as if to clean their soiled hands. The hotel boss came out, and the four men leaned on the sides of the wagon talking and smoking, until finally the driver stepped up to his seat and drove away down the street.

That appeared to be the end of the activity, and the raven was starting to think about the scullery maid and her piggery. He took flight from the branch, and was airborne over the town when he heard the door of the police barracks opening.

Constable Gibson walked out, dressed for riding, his spurs jingling with each stride. The raven changed his route, landing on the roof of the barracks to watch. The policeman’s boys were bringing out horses, tacking up and loading, while Gibson went to the lock-up and brought out Sullivan, the Irish prisoner.

 Still chained by wrists and ankles, and caked with dried blood, he was led outside and assisted onto a horse. The trooper and his helpers climbed into their own saddles, and the strange procession rode near-silently away, out of town towards the East.

The raven cawed. He’d seen many things in his time, and made no judgement. After the police party had ridden away with their prisoner, the raven flapped his wings and returned to the air.

***

Before the full heat of the day, Will and Jim led two packhorses up from the river, leaving their riding mounts with Sam and Lainey, to pick at the buffel and kangaroo grasses around their camp.

The main street was populated by dogs, birds and a few shoppers as the two mates led their horses in, diverting past the police lock-up, where Will was surprised to see no guards on duty.

‘Quiet here, bloke,’ said Jim.

Will didn’t reply, just walked up close, unsure why one cell door was wide open, with no one inside. A face appeared at the gap in the other door. It was the scarred man, Kahl.

‘Where’s your Irish mate?’ Will asked.

‘The trap has took him off to Cooktown, to face the jaws of English justice.’

‘Seems like a long way,’ said Will. ‘A rope and a tree would’ve been easier.’

Kahl grinned a yellow-toothed grin. ‘Easier, and cruel. Not a thing as I would care to see.’ He paused for a moment, then, ‘I told you that I’ve seen you before. Your name is Will Jones, and that bloke with you is Jim.’ The prisoner spoke in the Australian vernacular, with traces of his native, European tongue. He sounded each syllable out clearly, yet the word ‘Will’ was more like ‘Vill’ and ‘with’ was more like ‘vith.’

At length Will said, ‘I know who you are too, an’ I don’t reckon that’s gonna do either of us any good. I hope you rot, for your part in the death of an innocent man.’

The prisoner laughed, said something to his mate inside, and moved away from the door. Will looked at Jim, gave a little nod, and together they started walking again, heading back onto the main street, past the coolabah tree and down the alley, around the back of Kennedy’s hotel, to the rear of the store.

Kennedy was there, a clipboard in hand, while an underling scurried around, counting quantities of various goods. ‘Two score an’ three of the canned tomatoes,’ came the cry. ‘But it looks like we’re nearly out of Lea and Perrins sauce … just three left, sir.’

 Seeing Will and Jim walk up, Kennedy turned his attention to them. ‘Ah, Mr Jones. You’re here for provisions?’

‘Indeed we are. Me and Jim, that is.’

‘Constable Gibson left with the Irishman an hour ago.’

‘I heard,’ said Will. ‘Why didn’t he take those other two lags?’

Kennedy shook his head. ‘They told Gibson that they’re innocent – reckoned that Sullivan made them help, or he would have shot them too. Gibson believed them.’

Will snorted, ‘Gullible barsted.’

 ‘Be that as it may, Gibson left the keys with Kellick and asked him to let the pair go tomorrow, once he and Sullivan are a good distance away, and not likely to give chase and attempt a rescue. That’s why no one is bothering to guard them. Why would they escape when they’re getting out tomorrow anyhow?’

‘So Kahl and that young fella won’t be charged with anyfink?’

‘Nothing. And Sullivan only copped a charge of manslaughter, not murder.’

Will could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘Manslaughter? I seen him hold a gun to a man’s chest and pull the trigger. That was murder, by any measure.’ He paused to wave a squadron of flies away from his face. ‘Did this Gibson barsted even get witnesses? He never came near me.’

‘He took statements, from me and some others who were awake when he came in last night, and I imagine that some of us will be subpoenaed when the time comes. Let’s face it though, there’s only one version of what happened, and Gibson wasn’t going to bother riding down to the river to find you.’ Kennedy rubbed his hands together, obviously getting impatient with the conversation. ‘Now, what goods are you after?’

Provisioning was an art that Will was no stranger to. He ran his eyes over the shelves that held everything from hair tonic to cigars, and the barrels of sugar, molasses, and various grains that sat on the floor. He had no list, but in his mind he had already calculated the quantities of each item that they required each day.

He called out the requisite goods, and while the assistant measured and packaged these, Kennedy kept a running total on a pad. Jim, who was a dab hand at balancing packs, loaded the horses, one of which was equipped with boxy panniers, made of wood veneer, and lined with greenhide, made for perishables.

The process took a good half hour, and when it was done, Kennedy had the cook bring them mugs of bitter coffee, and they stood around talking while they drank it down. The friendly barfly, Lenny, emerged from inside the pub for a yarn and a smoke.

When they were done, Will placed his mug on a barrel and said, ‘Well thank you sir, you’re a gentleman. Another day to rest up, then we’re off on this Borroloola caper.’

‘Just one more moment of your time, boys,’ said Kennedy. ‘I saw your mounts when you came into town – they’re good-looking horses, don’t get me wrong, but they’re flat, and it’ll be quite a task to get them as far as the Macarthur in a hurry.’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Will. ‘They’re tough buggers.’

‘It just so happens that I’ve got a couple of horses for sale. Would you like to see them?’

Will shrugged, knowing that he couldn’t afford one new horse, let alone two. ‘I guess. If they’re nearby.’

The hotelier led him up to the stables, with Lenny in tow, where one of the stable boys was brushing down a huge thoroughbred with a wooden comb.

‘Here’s one,’ said Kennedy.

Will recognised the stallion straight off. He’d last seen him when John Weir rode into town, a couple of hours before his murder. Up close he was even more magnificent than he had been at a distance – not just in size, but with a conformation that Will might have rattled off if someone asked him to describe the perfect horse. He was straight and well-balanced, with a strong chest and large, soft eyes.

‘That’s John Weir’s horse. You can’t sell him off,’ said Will.

Kennedy ignored him, ‘Hey Lenny, bring out the other one.’ There was the clang of a stable door and the bearded man appeared, leading a mare that Will recognised as being the late Jamaican’s spare.

‘That’s his too,’ said Will, ‘belongs to a man whose body has barely cooled down.’

‘I have every right to sell the horses,’ said Kennedy, the skin of his cheeks turning a defensive shade of red. ‘John Weir borrowed fifty quid from me a few months back, against wages. When he was killed, he still owed me a total of twenty-two pounds and five shillings. He didn’t have a lot in the way of assets, so these nags are mine to dispose of how I wish.’

‘How much?’ asked Will.

‘You can have both for ten quid.’

‘I haven’t got ten quid,’ said Will. ‘But you’ll offload ‘em pretty easy at that price.’

‘That price isn’t for anybody – only for you. My thanks for helping out with that bloody business yesterday, and if it assists with getting the mail through, so much the better. In regards to the money – I understand that you don’t have it now, but you will when you get back from the mail run. Take the horses with you, and pay me when you return.’

Will wanted to say yes. Two strong, fresh horses would make the enterprise much more achievable, but something about buying a dead man’s horses, when his corpse had not yet been buried, made him feel strange. He caught Jim’s eye, and his mate gave a silent nod, clearly saying go ahead, take them. The horses were a bargain, and would fetch twenty, maybe thirty pounds any time they chose to sell them. The offer of credit was good, with no mention of interest.

The mare gave Will a start, nuzzling at the back of his armpit, making him laugh. He patted the side of her neck. She also was a beautiful animal, no doubt about that, and she had been treated well by a kind horseman.

‘Alright,’ said Will. ‘We’ll take them, and pay the ten pounds when we get back.’

They shook hands on the deal, and Will couldn’t help but feel a touch suspicious of how pleased the hotelier looked with himself.

***

It was with four horses, not two, that Will and Jim proceeded down the alley, back across the road, walking down towards the track that led to their river camp. The two new animals padded obediently from lead ropes, generally acting as tractable and good-natured as they had seemed. At the fringes of town Will stopped.

‘Hey brother, are you right takin’ this lot back by yerself?’

Jim didn’t bother answering. Some questions don’t need answers. ‘Where you goin’, bloke?’

Will tilted up his hat. ‘Might go have a yarn to the regular mail man. Pick ‘is brains and see what I can learn about the track up to the Gulf. Fevered or not he’s bound to know a trick or two.’

Jim looked concerned, ‘Watch out for that Postmaster’s wife,’ he said. ‘I heard a fella at the pub say that she eats men fer breakfast and spits out their bones.’

Will cracked a smile, ‘She aren’t gettin’ my bones, and that’s for sure.’

They laughed together for a moment, then Will turned and walked back down the street, heading for the house beside the post office.

©2025 Greg Barron
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Continued next Sunday
Read previous chapters here.
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, at ozbookstore.com/