Chapter Ten – Drovers’ Time

They pitched camp beside the track, on enough of a rise to have a grand view across the plains. The sun was just settling into the west, with a mantle of lava-red, when Will set his pocket watch to drovers’ time, and assigned each man, and Lainey, a two-hour night duty.

This method had been developed in the bush when there was no way of knowing the real time. Sunset was pegged as six pm, and this allowed the boss drover to set shifts for the nightwatchmen, who would be out minding the mob. On this night the need was different, but the technique served its purpose. Will had no intention of letting his little crew be surprised in their sleep by unwelcome visitors.

‘We ain’t got no herd, bloke,’ Jim had said. ‘No point standin’ watch is there?’

‘We’re goin’ to anyway,’ said Will. ‘Whether we needs to or not. You still only got two cartridges for that Henry carbine left, so keep yer squirt handy too.’

‘What about Lenny?’ Jim hissed. ‘You trust ‘im enough to take a turn, bloke?’

‘We have to learn to trust the barsted,’ said Will, ‘and if that’s a mistake we’ll know soon enough. Besides, he’s got the dawn watch, after mine. I plan on staying awake to keep an eye on him.’

Will ate the evening meal of salt beef and johnny cakes standing up, unable to relax until Lainey officially became their sentry, borrowing his Winchester and heading a little way off from the fire. Then, knowing that in the coming days sleep would be at a premium, he’d unrolled his swag, kissed the girl on the postcard goodnight, waited until Little Blue curled against his leg, then went to sleep.

Will didn’t dream often, but that night his mind drifted over the landscape of time, through the years and into forgotten places. Perhaps it was the security of having a man, or woman, out on watch, but this sleep was deeper than usual, and spiced with memories, good and bad.

His mind roved back to his childhood, in the Southern New South Wales town of Gullen Creek. His Ma and four kids in a shanty, clad with bark, and his old man coming and going with the seasons. Sometimes turning up at midnight full of rum and rough manners, sometimes riding in during the day, stopping for a week, sometimes a month depending on the family bank balance.

The old man worked his offspring hard when he was home – clearing scrub, ploughing and planting, and Will worshipped him. All through his adult life he’d have given anything for one more hour with his dad, down by the creek with cat-gut fishing lines in their hands, or lying prone, beside each other, rifles in their hands, waiting for the fox who was stealing chooks from the henhouse.

That reunion would never happen. One spring, when Will was fourteen, the old man did not come home for several months. Word came of a distant accident – a fall from a horse, and a grave near a billabong, out on the Hay Plains. Will remembered his Ma’s face, on that day, when a man in battered clothes and hat came to tell them. How she fell silent for a time, then went back to the pot, and the needle, and the axe. A woman running a family has no time to stop and grieve.

The dreams were so vivid and deep, that in the early hours of the morning, when Sam kicked Will’s ankle gently, it took him a few moments to return to the present.

‘Your turn,’ said Sam, then shambled off towards his swag.

Will climbed out from under his blanket, collected his rifle from where Lainey had left it, then moved out of the firelight so his eyes would adjust. Twenty or thirty yards away he slung the rifle and squatted. Dreaming had left his mind hazy and strange.

Somewhere, far out in the night, a dingo howled, and Little Blue’s ears pricked up. He whined once, paced restlessly for a few moments, then moved back to Will, who laid a hand on his neck.

 His eyes focussing now, Will could see the silhouettes of their horses, scattered nearby, and the soft tinkle of night bells. Further out on the plain were the grey blobs of sheep. This was Avon Downs land – one of the biggest, most northerly sheep runs in the country – eighty miles from north to south and just as wide.

According to bush lore, the owner, Thomas Guthrie, had employed a drover called Wallace Caldwell, and a team of crack stockmen, to drove 10,000 maiden ewes and 850 rams from his property Rich Avon in Western Victoria, 1,800 miles to this massive slice of the Barkly he had purchased in a land auction. Travelling via Balranald, Ivanhoe, Cunnamulla, Jundah and Boulia, only a man with Will’s experience could truly imagine the trials and tribulations they must have faced on that drive.

Over the ghostly savannah glittered a jewellery box of stars and the cold crescent of a waning moon. A line from the poem Lenny had quoted earlier in the day came to mind: at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars …

 The words played in Will’s mind, linking with the memories of his dreams. Gullen Creek seemed not so far away, and he wondered if his Ma was looking up at those same stars and moon and thinking of he and Lainey.

He stood up and walked around. It felt better to be on the move. Every sound he heard was a hostile horseman. Every curlew’s scream was a woman in peril. He willed the morning to come. Even the heat of the day was less troubling than this night of memories and shadows.

***

The Avon Downs main station, when they reached it the following day, was more of a small village than a homestead. Spread around a good waterhole on the James River, the air was thick with the lanolin smell of sheep, and their bleating carried on the wind. Dust from the yards drifted across their path as they rode in, and smoke belched from the stack of a stationary steam engine pumping water, near the homestead. A woolshed stood a few hundred yards to the east – rudimentary, but big enough, Will guessed, for sixteen stands.

Overall, Will looked with satisfaction at the well-ordered buildings and calm activity. Two men were hot-shoeing a horse outside a smithy’s shop, from which a shower of sparks and the sound of clanging emerged. Further down, outside the station store, was an Afghan camel train.

The turbaned cameleer, assisted by some younger men, who might have been sons or friends, was in the process of heading off from the station. The huge beasts – their coats an unusually pale colour, almost white – were loaded down with large panniers and bulging saddle bags.

Mindful to keep their distance and stay out of the way, Will, Lainey, Sam, Jim and Lenny came to a halt outside the homestead; dismounting, stretching and swigging from water bags.

It seemed to Will, as he went to access the mail packs, that the bare dust of the roadway multiplied the heat of the sun. While Sam held the horses steady, he delved into the panniers. The station mail bags were marked, and the nearest had been left on top.

 Will carried the bag in one hand, as he walked towards the homestead. He was halfway there when the manager walked from the office to meet him, also carrying a return bag. He was a young man of barely thirty, in moleskins and blue shirt, with a revolver in a holster at his belt and a fine felt hat.

‘You must be here with the mail,’ the manager cried. ‘About time too. I’m John Affleck, and we’ve been waiting for you.’

The two men exchanged incoming and outgoing mail bags, then reached for pipes, tobacco and matches.

‘I thought maybe Tom Maconsh would be back on his feet by now,’ Affleck said. ‘He didn’t seem too bad when he came through here.’

‘He’s still poorly as yet,’ said Will. ‘So you get us instead. Do you mind if we take the horses down to the billabong before we head off?’

‘Of course not. Then you and your crew are welcome as my guests for the night.’

Will shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, mate, but we’ve got five or six more hours of light to travel in. We’d best be on our way, if that’s alright by you.’

‘Fair enough, but call in at the kitchen for a quarter of mutton to take for tonight’s tucker, and a loaf or two of bread. How well do you know this country?’

‘Not at all,’ said Will. ‘Though one of me mates has been through this way before. Andy Kellick, back in Camooweal, slung me a handy map, too.’

‘Sounds like you’ll be alright then. But bear in mind that old Mahomet, and the other Afghans you saw leaving, will be ahead of you on the road – they’re off to Alexandria Station too – they know this country damned well, so if you get into trouble just look for them.’

As they rode away, towards the billabong, Will was impressed at how popular the bearers of mail seemed to be in these parts. The next stage of the journey, however, was filling him with a sense of disquiet. Jane Kellick’s warning remained on his mind: You’ll be right as far as Avon Downs, but after that … don’t take the usual routes, stay off the main track.

***

For the first hour after leaving Avon Downs, Will could see no alternative but to stay on the road, cutting like a knife across the plains, with the horizon obscured by the heat haze, and the horses reluctant to do anything but walk. Occasional attempts to get them trotting were untidy and short-lived, and they refused to continue past any small running channel, fed by recent storms, without stopping for a drink.

The camel train they’d seen back at the station was still ahead of them, for the broad, two-toed hoof prints of the beasts, overlaid each other on the track. Will was surprised at how fast the Afghans and their charges moved – he’d thought that his party would have soon caught up to them, despite more than an hour’s start.

The road itself was hard-baked in places, and soft mud in others. Wagon tracks had created ruts in the boggiest portions, and the horses all wore socks of mud. Flint – the rear most pack – liked to stop and thump his hooves against the road, in an attempt to remove this coating.

Will was lost in thought when Jim, who was riding ahead, shouted back. ‘Hey bloke, those camels turned off here. Whaddawe do?’

Will urged his stallion forwards, and caught up to his mate. He saw plainly where the camel tracks had left the main road, and turned onto a pad that could hardly be called a bridle trail. Delving into his saddle bags, Will brought out his map, studying it carefully while the others gathered around. Even Little Blue stopped in the shade cast by a horse, and looked puzzled.

‘This surely aren’t the main track,’ Will said. ‘That would still be miles ahead.’

Jim leaned over from the saddle and drew an imaginary line on the map with his finger, from their current position to intersect the Alexandria Road near the Ranken River. ‘A short cut, see?’

‘Makes sense,’ said Will. ‘Anyhow, the Afghan’s going to the same place as us, so we might as well follow along.’

Lenny made a scoffing noise in his throat. ‘I know it ain’t my place to say, but shootin’ off cross-country follerin’ an Afghan don’t sound like a common sense approach to me.’

Will thought about it for a moment. Jane Kellick had warned him to stay off the main road – this was, apart from anything else, a good opportunity to start doing so. ‘What some folks call common sense has never appealed to me much,’ he said. ‘That Afghan is going where we are going, leaving a trail that a blind man could follow, an’ if it’s a short cut so much the better.’

Lenny raised his hands, palms upwards, ‘Up to you, Will. Just playin’ t’devils advocate.’

‘Afghans know this country,’ said Sam, adding his weight to the argument.

‘Whatever we’re doin’ let’s just get on with it,’ Lainey said. ‘Standin’ in the middle of a dirt track is prob’ly the hottest thing we could do. Which way?’

Will pointed to the camel tracks. ‘We’ll follow them. At least for a while, an if we don’t like it we can head west ‘til we hit the Ranken.’

As they rode onto the new route, the horses seeming not particularly keen on continuing to follow the camels, Will sidled his horse up beside Jim. Ignoring Cartridge raising his head and braying at George, he said, ‘It’d be a good thing if no one could see where we turned off, back there. Can you fix it?’

Jim grinned, ‘You know I can.’ And he wheeled his horse and headed back to work his magic on the spoor. He was back with them in a quarter hour, and Will felt a little easier in his heart as they moved on into the north-west on a wide black-soil plain, with an occasional ribbon-stone hill in the distance.

As the day wore on, the mugginess increased to hellish levels. A storm was building on the northern horizon, sending out a mantle of high cloud in advance. Soon, the sky was no longer blue, but grey, with not a breath of wind or breeze stirring.  

The only sound, apart from the caw of an occasional raven, was that of Lenny’s voice. Their guest had found that Sam was the only member of the party who would listen to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He was prattling on about a man and wife he’d known in the port town of Mackay, who’d given birth to six daughters in succession, then finally a son.

‘It were the strangest thing,’ said Lenny. ‘The daddy was truly happy when he heard that ‘is wife ‘ad dropped a son. But that were until he went inside to view the babe – he were as Chinese-lookin’ as you are, Sam.’

The story went on with the ramifications of this discovery. The father’s anger, and his vowing to track down the oriental who’d had congress with his wife. The story was mildly interesting to Will, something to take his mind off the heat and sweat. In fact, he was in somewhat of a daze when Jim rode up alongside.

‘That storm out there is a proper bad gully-raker, and it’s comin’,’ said Jim.

‘I agree,’ said Will. ‘And not even one damned tree for shelter. How long do you reckon?’

‘Before sunset,’ was the reply.

‘Maybe we should have stayed at Avon Downs for a night,’ Lainey said from behind them. ‘Gets tiresome, you makin’ decisions without askin’ anybody all the time.’

‘We got a job to do,’ replied Will. ‘Best we get it done as fast as we are able.’

Over the next hour the vision splendid of the plains changed to something far less promising. The northern horizon became a towering wall of black cloud, thrown over the landscape like the cape of Bram Stoker’s monster. The upper levels formed a circular turret of dark purple. Soon the first heavy notes of thunder shook the earth. By then Little Blue was walking as close to George’s legs as he could safely manage.

‘It’ll be on us in no time,’ said Lainey.

Jim pointed to the west. ‘We might be in luck – see a hill over that way?’

Will turned to look. There was indeed a hill – maybe a half-mile distant – and it looked as if there were trees around the base.

‘Some shelter better than nothing,’ agreed Sam.

‘Alright. Let’s go,’ said Will. ‘Get these barsteds moving. It will give them something to think about other than just fretting.’

‘Yah,’ Jim called, galloping out behind them. ‘Let’s go.’

As so often happened with storms, once they’d made up their mind to break loose, it happened fast. This one swept across the plains without checking. The thunder was like gunfire from a ship’s broadside.

The hill, Will realised, was further away than it had seemed at first. They tried to hold the pack horses to a trot, but they were maddened, frightened, complaining, straining at the long ropes that held them together.

‘Be brave, my beauties,’ called Lainey. ‘Trust us.’ But they had no choice but to let the knots loose, releasing those that they could reach, but they were still running in their strings.

Just a quarter mile away now, Will could see the fractured layers of ribbon stone that made up the ridge. Too far, even with the headlong nature of their flight.

They had almost reached it when the rain started. It came down with violence. Like an airborne lake seeking a return to the earth. The whole company, humans, horses, harness were all soaked in an instant. It rained like the great flood was coming.

The horses were still spread out and racing. But George kept his head. Will circled back, still trying to settle the packs and spares, in this nightmare of light, sound and water. Sam and Jim were doing their best to separate them on the run.

Flint, the rearmost packhorse fell, and the lead rope snapped. The leaders of the string reared and ran on. The panniers broke open, and Will saw mail bags falling out into the rain.

They had no choice but to ride on. The rest of the horses were in full flight, and could not be stopped.

Finally, they reached the hill, Will and the others guiding the horses around to the leeward side, slowing them down, grabbing bridles and bringing them under control, up close to the cliffs and into the hard-trunked trees, where the wind was not quite so fierce.

Dismounted now, Will was glad of the extra hand, with Lenny assisting in securing the horses, bringing them in and securing them with lead ropes to trunks and branches.

Lightning struck a tree up on the ridge or perhaps the hill itself, the night filled with the explosion of light and sound. The horses reacted again; rearing, whinnying, and it took patience and persistence to steady them.

‘Right,’ called Will, picking out Lainey’s face, protected only a little by her hat from the streaming rain. ‘I’m going back to see to Flint and rescue what mail I can.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ said Lainey.

 Will ignored her, running back to where he had left George, still saddled and ready. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up, calling ‘Gee-up,’ once sharply, and turning that brave stallion into the driving rain.

At first, he stayed in close to the stone buttresses of the hill, that peeled down from the summit like ficus roots. As he rounded the corner there was another bright flash of lightning, and for a fraction of an instant he saw a man holding a rifle, his beard long and unkempt, his eyes merciless. Then it was dark again.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
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