Chapter Nine – The Vision Splendid

When Will, Lainey, Jim and Sam stopped out the front of the post office in Camooweal’s main street, they had eleven horses in all – their riding mounts along with four packs and three spares. Jim’s buckskin, Cartridge, was trying to assert himself as the dominant male, while George seemed oblivious to the other stallion’s provocations: minding his own business and complying with anything Will asked of him. Lainey was on the chestnut she’d been resting, and Sam rode the new mare. Little Blue walked at the rear, as if he were checking for stragglers.

The packs walked in a string, fastened with a quick-release knot to Jim’s saddle, while the spare riding horses were split between the others. Sam’s old gelding, a Clydesdale-cross called Flint, was now a packhorse, and he was none too happy about the change – they’d tried putting him second in the string, but the lead mare wanted nothing to do with him, and they’d been forced to run him in the back.

Andy Kellick was out the front of the shop, hauling up eight partially-filled mail bags. They were, Will saw, made of grubby canvas, dark between the stitches from ink rubbed from thousands of envelopes. The tops were secured with knotted hemp cord, woven through steel eyelets.

‘Here, give us a hand with this lot, boys.’

The four companions dismounted and hurried to help. Lainey, as was her habit in these wayback towns, did not display her gender, keeping her hair under her hat, and her shirt loose. If there was no need to speak, she did not do so at all. She grabbed one of the bags with both hands, and hoisted it out onto the roadway next to the pack horses, where Jim was already comparing weights, testing how best the mail might be stowed.

 The Postmaster called Will over with a whistle and a curled finger.

‘Cut out the whistling,’ said Will, wandering over. ‘I aren’t a bloomin’ dog.’

‘Of course you aren’t,’ said Kellick. ‘Forgive me for being rude in my haste and anxiousness. This mail is a week overdue already.’ He took a folded square of paper from his pocket, and passed it into Will’s hands. ‘I don’t know if you have a map, but here’s one you’ll find handy.’

Will unfolded the paper and squinted at the map, while the Postmaster went on.

‘It’s an official chart of the top section of the Territory, from here across to the Murranji, and all the way up to Palmerston. The track is marked clear as day – I’ve traced it over with ink so there’s no mistake – Avon Downs, Alexandria Station on the Playford. Then Creswell Creek – Anthony’s Lagoon and down to the headwaters of the McArthur.’

Will studied the map for a bit, then secreted it in his saddle bags, before rolling some tobacco between his hands, and pinching it into the bowl of his pipe. Things always seemed easy, looking at a few lines on a map. There would be, he knew from experience, a lot of sweat, blood and tears on that route.

‘Thanks mate, a map’ll be handy.’ He peered at the side window towards the back of the house next to the post office while he lit his pipe. ‘How’s poor old Tom Maconsh getting on?’ he asked.

‘Much better – well – not good enough to get up and wave goodbye, but I reckon he’ll be fit as a fiddle by the time you get back.’

Will said nothing, just clamped his pipe between his teeth, and wandered over to help the others balance and fill the panniers – some of the mail bags were heavier than others, so they had to be arranged with care.

‘Look who’s comin’’ said Lainey suddenly, and Will turned to see two men heading down the road towards them. One man was on horseback, with a laden packhorse following. The other was the hotelier, Kennedy, on foot. Will realised that the mounted man was Lenny, the hotel rouseabout. He was dressed for a journey, with the butt of a rifle extending from a riding scabbard on the off side of his gelding.

Kennedy walked up, shook hands with Kellick, then Will. ‘Last minute extra, if that’s alright by you good people. It turns out that I’ve got some business at the McArthur – Lenny’s heading up to conclude it for me. No point to him riding alone when there’s company to be had.’

Will tried to keep his thoughts hidden. The last thing he wanted was an extra man along on the trip. He didn’t trust Kennedy, and his bearded offsider by association. Yet, he had two horses that hadn’t been paid for, and that meant that he was in Kennedy’s debt. Looking for support, he glanced at Lainey, who took on a pained expression, then nodded her head once. Jim shrugged as if to say he didn’t care one way or the other. Sam was too busy checking his mare’s feet to involve himself.

‘If Lenny wants to ride with us, that’s alright,’ said Will.

‘Mighty nice of you,’ said Lenny. ‘T’wouldn’t have been much fun on my lonesome. Got plenty of tucker here to share too, thanks to Mr Kennedy.’

Will wondered what else was in those packs, but he didn’t say so. ‘That’s settled,’ he said. ‘Let’s get finished and hit the track.’

While they finalised the packing, Jane Kellick emerged from the front door of her house, stopped to pat the fat basset hound that haunted the front yard, then walked along the street towards her husband, avoiding Will’s eyes. She sidled up and said something to Andy.

The Postmaster’s face took on a distasteful expression. ‘I have things to attend to – including the funeral of poor John Weir today,’ he announced, ‘but Jane and I wish you safe travels. By God’s Grace we’ll see you back here at the end of the month.’

When he had gone Will checked the girth on his horse, then the packs one last time. They seemed to be sitting well enough, and could be adjusted on the journey when necessary.

‘Righto then,’ he said. ‘Let’s mount up, and get this enterprise started.’

The little gang needed no further urging. The sun was already clear of the horizon, sending daggers of heat into the street. It was time to get some miles down.

With the first of the riders clear, Sam stayed on his feet, reading the body language of his old friend, Flint. Now, fully laden with mail, the gelding showed no interest in going anywhere, let alone a 900-mile return journey. He dragged on the lead rope so stubbornly, that it threatened to snap.

‘Yah,’ cried Sam, smacking him on the rump with an open hand. Finally, reluctantly, Flint set off, following the others, with a snort and a stagger. Sam mounted up and followed along behind.

Will, riding at the lead, turned to see Kennedy on the street, waving them goodbye, and Andy Kellick skulking near the front door of his cottage.

Damn you all, and yer secrets, Will said to himself. I don’t care what you mongrels throw at me. I’ll get this damned mail to Borroloola and back. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.

***

For the first ten minutes, through the town and into the grasslands, Lenny rode beside Will and prattled like a child. He started with what he’d eaten for breakfast then sang the praises of his gelding, and Will’s magnificent stallion.

‘I know for a fact that Mr Weir …’ He took off his hat, momentarily, and held it to his chest with one hand, ‘… may he rest in Heavenly peace, paid thirty quid for that horse in Palmerston. So, Mr Kennedy gave you a damned good deal.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Will, then looked back and caught the eye of Lainey, and Jim. Neither seemed enamoured of the constant chatter. Jim, particularly, liked a quiet ride.

‘You got any ‘lations down in Brisbane?’ asked Lenny.

‘None that I recall,’ Will said.

‘Well, there’s a stack of folk called Jones down there,’ he said. ‘Charley Jones worked on the wharves if I remember …’

Lainey spurred her horse and came up even with them. She’d released her hair from her hat, and it hung down past her shoulders. Her eyes were blazing as she came alongside. ‘Do you ever give yer darn jaw a rest?’ she asked.

Lenny, seeing her long hair for the first time, gaped in amazement. ‘You’re a …’

‘I’m a bloody what?’ snapped Lainey.

Again, Lenny’s hat came off. ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you miss.’

‘Don’t worry about that rubbish.’ Then to Will. ‘If we stick to this pace for the whole trip it’s gonna take weeks. How ‘bout we see if these nags can handle a trot?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. It’s worth a try. C’mon boys, let’s get them moving.’ He shortened the reins and squeezed with his knees, and George responded by moving into a comfortable, two-beat pace. Will posted – pivoting his weight off his hips, forwards and back – to keep the rhythm.

The pack horses were the main issue, and they all kept an eye on them. The lead mare had done so many miles in this way that she knew how to match the pace of the riders. It was only Flint who fought the extra effort, until Jim rode alongside and urged him on.

They kept the pace up for a good ten minutes before Will called it back. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, ‘and it weren’t bad, considerin’ the new horses and all that damned mail. We’ll alternate though the day and see how far we get.’

The customs post that marked the border between Queensland, and the Northern Territory of South Australia came up, before long, on the northern side of the road. It was attended by two surly men with beards. South Australia was famously vigilant about their customs duties.

‘We’re bringin’ the Territory Mail,’ Will called out. ‘So bugger the formalities and let us through.’

The words worked like magic. Mail was sacrosanct in the back blocks. It was the lifeblood of finance, romance and an antidote to loneliness. Happiness and men’s and women’s futures depended on it. Mail was a serious business, and no lowly official would dare to slow them down.

Will felt a new sense of freedom on the other side of the border. His crimes in Queensland were slight, but he was wanted in New South Wales. As far as he knew, an extradition order still stood. Entering the Territory did not make him untouchable, but pursuit would be more difficult.

Here, the grasslands stretched out forever, two and three-foot-high and golden in the sun – covering a vast plain. It was a sight to raise the hair on the forearms, and set a deep, thrilling excitement – to ride forever in the magic of that place.

‘I were just readin’ a poem, in the new edition of the Bulletin last night,’ said Lenny. ‘It went something like, “an’ he sees the vision splendid, of the sunlit plains extended, and at night the wondrous glory of the everlastin’ stars … well I forget the rest, but they was pretty words. Fella called Andrew Patterson was the poet – I’ve got it in me saddlebags.’

Will nodded to himself. The poet’s words summed up what he saw and felt perfectly. ‘Well that Mister Paterson must have been up here to the Barkly to write that. I’ve never seen country like it – no wonder there’s been such a rush to get the herds up here.’

Yet, to Will’s eyes it was not completely flat. There were low points and high points, gullies where the water would flow in the wet season – nothing that could really be termed a hill, but there was the occasional low rise, no more than a few feet above the surrounding flats.

On one of these, at least a mile from the track, Jim spotted the tiny figures of two horsemen, both mounted.

‘Oi,’ he called. ‘Two fullas south from here.’

Will swivelled his head, ‘Good work mate. I can see ‘em. Just keep riding everybody.’

‘Who dya reckon they are?’ Lainey asked.

‘Well, we must be getting close to Avon Downs land, so could be a couple of boundary riders.

As they rode on, Will turned his head to look a few times and they were still there, still mounted … just watching.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
You can read this, and previous chapters on the website here: https://www.storiesofoz.com/category/will-jones-and-the-territory-mail/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/