Chapter Eight – The New Stallion

The following day Will did as he had promised, staying away from town, and preparing for the trip. They would need two packhorses for their provisions, and two more for the mailbags. This change required some new harness, and fortunately Gamilaroi Jim was a dab hand with leather: cutting, shaping, and using the stitching awl like the craftsman he was.

Fat Sam, meanwhile, was providing a regular supply of yellowbelly from the river – one specimen was of a particularly impressive size. Sam was so proud of this fish that, while normally the little pocket of meat near the eyes, and the eyeballs themselves were his favourite parts to eat, this time he preserved the head, placing it on a stick to dry.

‘You aren’t bringin’ that stinkin’ thing along on the mail run with us,’ declared Lainey.

Sam looked unhappy, and clasped his arms across his chest. ‘Might leav’im be ‘til we come back,’ he said. ‘Nice and dry by then.’

In between other tasks, Will took the opportunity to tack up the new stallion, and take him for a ride. The first time he tried this, Cartridge appeared and stamped and snorted, until Jim came and took him away.

 The new horse seemed too good to be true, so Will was expecting trouble when he first swung up, took his seat, and invited him to show what he was made of. Nothing untoward happened. He was just a damned tractable horse, who seemed to be just as happy with a quiet amble along the creek, as with a lively trot.

Late in the day Will took him down into a dry stretch of riverbed and brought him up to a trot, then a canter. With full confidence he leaned forward, bridging the reins and letting his hands lie on the horse’s neck. The speed of the stallion as he moved into the gallop was not breathtaking, but it was impressive.

Will’s hat flew from his head and clumps of dirt flew from the stallion’s hooves. It was an exhilarating ride, and the horse seemed to enjoy it. After a while they encountered a small side-creek, and Will let him slow to a walk, explore and drink when he wanted, noting the great strength in his hindquarters as he sloshed through water and mud.

When horse and rider returned to camp, Will dismounted, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

Lainey scowled, ‘Has that nag got a name, or what?’

‘I forgot to ask old Kennedy what it was. So I’m gonna give him a new name.’ Will looked up at the horse, then at Lainey. ‘You know that song them Scots are always singin’ when they’re drunk? Bonnie George Campbell it’s called.’

Lainey screwed up her eyes. ‘I reckon so. That one about the bloke who rides off to war, and ‘is horse comes back alone.’ She bunged on a Scottish brogue and sang: ‘High upon Hielands and low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rode oot on a day. Saddled and bridled, sae bonnie rode he, Hame cam’ his guid horse, but never came he.’

‘That’s the one. Well I’m gonna call this fella George.’

‘That’s a ridickaless name for a horse.’

‘I don’t care. George it is.’

Lainey pulled a face, ‘Anyhow, I’m gonna ride up to town meself – I need a few things that you men don’t know or think to buy.’

Will held out the reins, ‘You can ride George if you want, since he’s saddled and all.’

Lainey made a face, ‘I’d rather stick sharp rocks up my toenails than ride a horse called George, no matter how big and han’some he is.’ She hefted her saddle and whistled for her gelding.

Will laughed. Lainey’s whistling seldom worked, but she persevered with it for a bit, then gave up and went off to hunt the horse on foot. Finally, she headed off to town, while Will brushed George down and finished with the packing.

While Lainey was absent a brief but violent storm thundered like the devil, blew like the blazes then dropped half an inch of rain in ten minutes before moving off across the plains, leaving the air a little cooler.

Soon afterwards, Lainey returned, with bulging saddle bags, and a worried face.

‘What’s happening up in town?’ Will asked.

‘They’ve just let the Irishman’s two mates loose – damn stupid idea if you ask me. They were up there laughin’ and howlin’ about how smart they are.’

Will made a face. The law just made no sense sometimes. ‘Are they still in town?’

‘Nope, they rode out towards the Territory border, same direction as we are headin’.’

Will lowered his gaze and said nothing. He would have preferred not to have that pair on the loose, at least not in the same part of the country as him.

***

Sam cut fresh fish into strips, and fried it in the wok with spices from the mysterious, small leather bags he carried everywhere they went. Served with rice, and chopped up vegetables, it was a veritable feast, and the fish had that faint earthy flavour that was not unpleasant to those who are used to it.

When the meal was done, they passed a bottle of rum around the fire, and discussed the mail route – Avon Downs, Alexandria and the other stations along the way. Dry stages, at least, seemed unlikely with so many storms around, though Will knew well that a full-blown monsoon would be a problem for them.

All in all, he had to admit, it was going to be a hard way to earn twenty quid, especially since they had already spent half of it on horses.

Big day tomorra,’ said Will. ‘I’m going to get all the sleep I can.’

***

Rolling out of his swag before dawn, Will saw that while it was still dark, the sun was glimmering under the horizon, so full of the promise of fiery heat, that he guessed that the rim of a volcano crater might look similar. The moon had set, but the morning star was as bright as he had ever seen it. Grabbing his rifle, and a couple of pages of the Northern Miner newspaper, he headed away from camp for his ablutions, hearing the bells of the horses reacting to his approach, thankful that there had been no problems between the two stallions during the night.

Five minutes later he was on his way back to camp, enjoying the relative cool of the morning. Somewhere out across the river he heard a barking owl, always a favourite, but was there another sound, back towards town? He wasn’t certain, even when he stopped and turned that way.

Hoofbeats, yes, someone in a hurry. The sound seemed to be getting louder, heading this way. He moved to a low rise just ahead to get a better view, moving his eyes, scanning for better night vision.

Then he saw it – a horse and rider coming fast from back towards the Chinese gardens. He lifted his rifle, worked the lever to force a cartridge into the breech, but carefully thumbed the hammer down.

The rider, it seemed, would ride all the way up camp, but then, less than a quarter mile away, they reined in, dismounted and fastened the horse to a handy tree. The light was by then just enough to discern them heading towards the camp on foot, sticking to the river brush for cover. Will’s hackles were up. People who meant well did not behave like that. Yet the figure did not appear to be carrying a long-arm, and they did not seem to move like a natural bushman.

Will considered rousing the camp. Yet, he could not do so without alerting their unwanted visitor. He did not want them to run or ride away. He wanted to know who the hell they were, and what their purpose might be.

Crouching over, and holding the rifle steady across his body, he began to run towards, but a little way behind, the elusive shadow. Will was barefoot, and he ran with very little sound.

Reaching the riverbank, he changed direction, heading back towards camp now, following, watching, catching glimpses of the compact figure up ahead. At the last moment his foot broke a twig and the fugitive turned. Will did not stop, but ran on, using one hand to thrust at their back, pushing them to the ground, where they lay, face down.  

Will raised the rifle, and held it steady. ‘Turn around, slowly,’ he said.

‘Don’t shoot,’ came a voice. ‘I beg of you. Don’t shoot.’

There were two, closely related surprises. One was that the voice was soft and feminine, the other that the face revealed, in the light of that picaninny dawn, was that of Jane Kellick, the Postmaster’s Wife.

‘Jesus,’ said Will. ‘What the hell are you doing, creepin’ up on our camp like this?’

She sat up. There was dirt on her cheek and nose, and she touched at the former and examined her hand, as if to see if there was any blood.

‘I came to give you a warning,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t it have bloody waited until it was light?’

‘No,’ she scrambled to her feet. ‘It can’t wait.’

‘Well, why get off your horse and sneak up like that?’

Her eyes blazed with the same shades as the horizon. ‘I didn’t know exactly where your bloody camp is. Your fire must have burned down, and it was only that I saw a couple of horses that I knew I was close. Anyhow, listen, you’re wasting time. I have to get back, but first you need to listen to me.’

‘What for?’

‘You’re in danger, well at least you will be. On the mail run, you’ll be right as far as Avon Downs, but after that … don’t take the usual routes, stay off the main track.’

‘Why should I do what you tell me? You an’ yer husband seem to be poisonin’ that poor cow Tom Maconsh up there.’

‘Poisoning?’ she spat. ‘I’m saving his damned life, and now I’m trying to save yours. I have to go, but stay off the route, and keep your wits about you, or they’ll be bringing you and your mates back here, in boxes on the back of a wagon.’

Her eyes bored into Will, and he could think of nothing to say. Finally he managed a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

She heaved a sigh, ‘At least I’ve got bloody through to you. I have to go, but when you go to get the mailbags don’t tell my husband that I was here.’

Will shook his head, just stood there with the barrel of his rifle pointing at the ground, as she turned her back and headed off down along the bank to her horse.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
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