Chapter Twelve – Outlaws

Kahl, the man with the scarred back, stood up from the fireside, pintpot of tea hot against his knuckles, surveying his surroundings. The camp sprawled around a bend in the Ranken, made beautiful by the rains, with a new carpet of green, and a lively rapid or two where the current stuttered over a bed of stones. The river banks were lightly timbered with coolabah and wattle, with tussocks of feathertop wire grass and Mitchell grass to soften their swags.

The previous night’s storm had struck the camp a glancing blow. Clothing and bedding hung on sticks, near the fire. An empty wicker demijohn of rum lay on the ground where it had fallen, and a fresh one was already open and flowing, down by the running creek where some of the men were bathing. Others sat around the fire, one attempting to play the Raggle Taggle Gypsy on a mouth organ, another mouthing off loudly about some trivial slight that grog and bad manners was building into a mortal bloody insult.

These were dwellers of the fringe: horse thieves, cattle duffers, deserters, smugglers and killers. Most were running from the law in one colony or another. As far as Kahl was concerned, only two men here mattered a damn. One was called Sutch – one of those natural athletes who flowed across the ground like a cat – rode like he was nailed to the saddle, had a smile full of white teeth, and would have been of value in any stock camp. The other, known as Bennett, was older, maybe fifty, with a long sloping forehead, long whiskers and piercing eyes. There was no doubt that Bennett was smarter than the rest of them put together, and Kahl knew that he was the one to watch.

The rest of the group, in Kahl’s opinion, were lazy deadbeats. They were prepared to assist him for the spoils they’d been promised, but realistically they would rather slit his throat than engage in hard activity. Even the so-called brumby runners in the ragtag group had given up the hard work of chasing down or trapping wild horses. Drinking rum and planning raids was more to their liking.

They weren’t a gang, like the Kellies or Ben Hall and his mob – just a bunch of desperadoes who found it convenient to ride, camp and pillage together. There was no official leader, though Sutch and Bennett cooked up the plans, and men were free to come and go. Trouble was never far from the surface, especially over women. Gun play was common, and there were already a couple of graves nearby.

The group was not, uniformly, of European descent – there were black males and females of three or four different language groups. Some of the women were attached to particular white men, others stuck around for the tobacco and rum. There was one, in solitary camp a furlong downstream, who had leprosy. No one went near her, white or black, and Kahl had heard her wailing in the night.

Still sipping his tea, Kahl heard the sound of a mounted man coming in fast, and had to step a few paces around one of the riverside coolabahs to recognise his young mate, Jack Nunn, coming off watch for the night. He had just been relieved by Sutch and another man.

They’d set up an observation post on a hill less than half a mile away, with an expansive view over the plains, and the Alexandria road, waiting for Will Jones and his party to come. Two men were stationed there, around the clock, so one could ride back here fast, in plenty of time to set up the ambush.

Jack came in at a canter, dismounting before his horse had come to a stop, then balancing while he unfastened the girth and removed the saddle. His mare snorted and stamped, barely warmed by the short ride.

‘Any sign of the mail party yet?’ asked Kahl.

‘None yet, mate,’ said Jack, shouldering the saddle.

‘You sure you didn’t miss the buggers?’

Bennett was, right then, sitting on a rock, flicking through a battered Anthony Hordern’s mail order catalogue. The men liked to gawk at images of ladies in pantaloons and corsets, and the older man was no exception. He closed the publication with a snap, laid it down beside him, and wandered over.

Kahl looked at him accusingly, ‘Jones should’ve been here by now.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Bennett. ‘He shoulda been. Unless they travellin’ real slow, or gorn some other way.’

Kahl stared, ‘You assured me that he’d have to take this route.’

‘Well,’ Bennett postulated, ‘in the normal course of events they would. Men with packhorses don’t want to go bush bashin’ but there are a couple of smaller tracks.’

Jack said, ‘Well, if they figgered out another way we’re buggered.’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Kahl. ‘We can move faster than them – and we know they’re heading to Alexandria.’

Bennett screwed up his eyes, ‘We could send young Jack an’ a couple of boys on horseback to check out the other routes – there’s a little shortcut people call the White Hole Branch track. We got a Wambaya boy here who knows every blade of grass on the Barkly. He an’ Jack here can check fer sign and come get us if they find anything.’

Jack was heading down to the water with his horse, but stopped and turned when he heard the suggestion, ‘Hey there, Mister Bennett. I been awake all night and gonna need to sleep some time.’

‘You’re young enough to go a night or two without sleep – an’ yer the soberest man here.’ Bennett scowled and spat the remains of a wad of tobacco he’d been chewing onto the ground. ‘When I was your age I could ride all day, drink all night, take any two womens to ‘eaven and back, then do it all again the next day.’

‘Checking this other route is a good idea,’ Kahl said to Jack. ‘You can sleep when you get back.’

‘Damn right it’s a good idea,’ thundered Bennett, his side-whiskers trembling. ‘Let me tell you something. These fellas here want a quick pay off. They don’t like sittin’ around an’ nothin’ happenin’. They don’t like being told to wait.’ He slapped Kahl none too softly on the back. ‘Got that Kaiser?’

Kahl seethed. Bennett had picked up on his very faint German accent – still audible after twenty years in the Antipodes – and started calling him Kaiser. ‘I’ve told you twice now not to call me that. There’d better not be a third time,’ he warned, a red flush colouring his face.

‘Ah, just a joke, matey.’

‘I don’t like jokes.’

‘Nah,’ observed Bennett. ‘Germans, an’ Frenchies and Dutchies – yer all alike – no sense of humour. But anyhow, you want to waste time arguing, or do we get these boys on the road?’

Kahl sighed, and it was like taking the top off a bottle of beer. The pressure was released. ‘Get some tucker into you, Jack, I need you to ride.’ He didn’t add that it had to be Jack. There was no one else here, who he could trust. If only Sullivan hadn’t got himself arrested – the whole caper would have been so much easier with three men.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Bennett. ‘I’ll get the boys together. If they take the best horses they’ll be back by sundown.’

In ten minutes flat, Jack had eaten half his weight in johnny cakes and fried beef liver, and was ready to ride, with the Wambaya boy and another, who was apparently Gangalidda from up north. A couple of camp dogs – one yellow, one orange – backs studded with cattle ticks – stood up from the shade, waiting as if to see whether they would be invited along on the adventure.

‘God speed, Jack,’ said Kahl. ‘If they’ve skipped ahead of us, we need to know.’

Jack mounted up, and reins in hand loitered beside Kahl for a moment. ‘When the time comes, I want Will Jones’s fancy new Winchester, fer doin’ this. When it’s all done. I get the rifle, alright?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ said Kahl. ‘You’ll get it.’

Jack grinned and spurred his horse, setting off towards the main road, a black rider on either side. The dogs sat back down in their places, only the movement of their ears showing that they were interested.

Kahl watched the three men disappear into the scrub. Jack wasn’t smart, but he was good at following instructions, could ride like a jockey and look after himself in a barney. He sighed when he realised that his pint pot was empty of tea, and he’d been carrying it around that way for a while.

***

Will had risen that morning to the unusual and surreal sound of singing. When he climbed from his bedroll, and walked around the side of the hill, he saw that it was Mahomet bringing his family together for prayer. They gathered in the light of dawn, unrolled mats on the earth, and kneeled together – wife, three sons and two daughters, their foreheads touching all the way to the earth as the sun came golden and unhurried into the clearing.

As he watched, Will felt the goosebumps come out on his arms. Lainey came up beside him and whispered, ‘Damn me, that barsted can sing,’ she said.

It was made even more strange and beautiful by the white camels in the background, chewing their cud and making those low braying noises. Will and Lainey withdrew quietly, not wanting to disturb the family at their prayer.

After breakfast they got to work — piling stones over poor old Flint – more of a gesture than a complete covering. Nothing was going to keep the scavengers out, and they did not have time to bury him, nor to build the solid cairn that would be needed to cover him properly.

The canvas mail bags, it seemed, had protected most of the spilled mail but some items were damp, and they arrayed these in the sun to dry. There would be signs – some smudged ink and water marks, but the mail would get through.

All the time, Will looked at Lenny suspiciously, and when he had the chance, he wandered off from the camp a little way with Lainey. In a few breathless sentences he told her what he had seen the previous night. Her face grew redder and eyes narrowed as he talked.

‘Of all the low bastards, why didn’t you shoot the cur on the spot?’

‘Because I ain’t given to murder, and I’m interested in learnin’ what the hell is goin’ on. I just dunno what to do next. I don’t trust Lenny as far as I could kick him.’

‘First that blasted storm,’ Lainey spat, ‘then mischief right in our camp. I told you this whole job was a big mistake, didn’t I?’

Will shrugged. ‘I’ll fix it. I’ll watch him.’

***

There were unexpected pleasures too, that morning. The smell of fresh coffee, wafting over the stink of the camels, and Mahomet grinding more beans with his mortar and pestle and inviting them over to try a brew. When Will watched the cameleer pour the black liquid into a pannikin the smell hit his nostrils.

The first sip was a feast for his taste buds, a little bitter, yes, but rich in so many flavours – burnt caramel, old rotten wood, and that coffee taste that had no substitute. The caffeine spun into his brain. Will grinned and raised his drinking vessel, ‘Bloody hell mate, that’s one hell of a drink.’

When the coffee was gone, Mahomet turned the talk to business. ‘My family – we stay here one day, but you hurry hurry. You get new pack horse at Alexandria. Til then I give you one camel to carry mail.’

Will considered the offer. They had spare riding horses, but neither was suited to carrying packs. Besides, the harness Flint had worn was made for a big horse – and the weight would be too much for one of the smaller spares. Still, a camel? The idea worried him.

‘I don’t know nuthin’ about camels,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know how to make the barsted go.’ Mahomet called a name, and the same lad as had assisted the previous night scampered over. ‘This my son Afsana, he will go with you to herd the camel, and wait at Alexandria for us to arrive.’

The boy grinned like he was being offered the adventure of a lifetime. He was all cheeky brown eyes, and tousled hair peeping from under his turban.

Will was stunned by the trust Mahomet would place in him – to send his own son away in their care. It was, however, an offer too good to refuse.

‘That’s darn kind of you,’ said Will. ‘An’ I can’t say no.’ He mused for a moment, then, ‘I’d like to do something in return for you, but I dunno what.’

‘Perhaps the day will come when I ask a favour of you,’ said Mahomet.

‘I bloody hope so,’ said Will, taking the Balochi’s hand in a grip of friendship.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
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