Chapter Fifteen – Scars

There were times, even after all these years, when the scars on Kahl’s back ached and itched, no matter whether he threw off his shirt or drank rum by the quart to deaden the sensation. It was the damned humidity, he knew, and the heat that burned all through the night, bringing out the ache in those deep, threaded scars, made by the knotted lash of a cat o’nine tails, wielded more than two decades earlier by a hefty Tasmanian prison warden.

Kahl had started his working life in the German merchant navy, sailing from Hamburg on the brig Karolina as a schiffsjunge – cabin boy. Life at sea had not suited him, however, and he had deserted in Hobart Town, while the ship’s cargo of brewing supplies were unloaded on the Derwent River wharves. Less than a month later he was arrested for assault and robbery, and sentenced to six years in Port Arthur. In his second year there he attacked a warden, and stabbed a fellow prisoner – a trusty – in the leg with a shard of broken glass.

His punishment – fifty lashes – had almost killed him, the knotted ropes cutting deep into his flesh. The infection that followed kept him in the infirmary for six weeks. After that he behaved – he would not risk enduring the lash again.

Even now, watching the Rankin track for the arrival of the mail party, the scars still itched, and burned, and at times he felt the whip coming down on his unprotected back once more. He tried taking off his shirt, holding a sleeve in each hand and sawing it against his back – the only thing that gave him any relief. Bennett, fortunately, was fast asleep nearby.

When Kahl heard a sound out in the night, however, he was instantly alert. He stood and peered out into the darkness. He saw Jack and the boys come riding, war-whooping as they thundered up in the darkness, and he scrambled down from that trackside hiding place as they came in.

‘Give that up,’ shouted Jack. ‘We seen Will Jones and them others, they’re twenty miles ahead of us, and will be at Alexandria by tomorrow.’

‘You saw them with your own eyes?’ asked Kahl.

‘Yeah, an’ they never spotted us. They had a damned camel an’ a Afghan lad with them too.’

‘Good work,’ said Kahl. ‘We’ll mount up now and we’ll be on them in the morning.’

‘Not until I’ve had me head down for a bit,’ said Jack. ‘I never slept a wink all last night.’

Bennett, who’d woken up but said nothing to that point, spat on the ground and growled, ‘Might as well wait, and ride at moonrise – half these boys ain’t real good in the dark, and we’ll be faster with some light.’

Kahl considered the idea. By his calculations the moon would rise about an hour after midnight. ‘That is a good plan,’ he said. ‘Now boys, ride back and get some tucker into you, then some rest. We’ll have Will Jones before dark tomorrow.’

Before the three rode off, however, Kahl addressed the Wambaya youth. ‘Your name is Dargie, right?’

‘You-ai. That whitefeller name belong-me, Mulakka.’

‘I heard some of the men say that yellow dog a’ yours, back at camp, is one hell of a tracker – night or day he can follow a scent.’

‘You-ai Mulakka. He track wallaby, kangaroo, all day, all night.’ The Wambaya boy touched his nose and nodded vigorously.

‘Can he track people?’

Dargie did nothing for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No-more train’im track people, Mulakka. Only animal.’

Kahl nodded, ‘Bring him along anyway, will you?’

‘You-ai. I bring-im.’

Jack gave a mock salute as they rode off towards the riverside camp. Kahl and Bennett prepared to abandon the post, hunting their horses, and mounting up together.

‘Lucky you got me to think for you, old mate Kaiser.’ said Bennett. ‘Or you would’ve lost those barsteds what are carryin’ the mail.’

Kahl turned and hissed back. ‘I told you not to call me that name, and you’ll regret it if you keep doing it.’ He paused. ‘And bear in mind that I’m no idiot, and I don’t give up easily – Jack Nunn won’t either. He wants that damned Winchester, and when Jack wants a new toy, nothing will stand in his way.’

***

‘So, what are we gonna do?’ asked Lainey, standing beside the fire, while Jim attacked a plate of fish with gusto, picking chunks of white flesh away from the bones with his fingers. After a while he separated the head and passed it down to Little Blue, who crunched away at it happily.

‘We can’t just sit around an’ wait for these barsteds to find us,’ said Will. ‘I ain’t plannin’ on a career as a mailman, but be buggered if I’ll hand over even one letter, an’ I’ll bet that won’t satisfy them anyhow – they’ll be wanting to take the lot, and look for anything valuable they can find.’

‘We need to pack up camp and ride like the blazes,’ said Lenny, looking cocky at having passed some kind of test as to his trustworthiness.

Afsana’s eyes lit up. ‘I can come with you — Pachen can carry the bloody mail. You seen how strong he be.’

Will shook his head, ‘No mate. The last thing we want is you getting mixed up with our troubles. Your old man did us a proper favour and I won’t repay him with you gettin’ shot.’

Lainey said, ‘I reckon we should offload the boy at Alexandria, then come back here and fight these mongrels.’

‘How might we do that?’ Will asked.

‘Ambush ‘em.’

‘You gonna hide behind a rock and shoot men while they ride past?’ Will shook his head. ‘It ain’t my way, and yours neither.’

Sam had been very quiet, which usually meant that he was thinking. After a while he said, ‘Best if scarred man think mail all gone. Make ‘em think there nothing worth chasing.’

‘How we gonna do that, bloke?’ asked Jim.

Sam talked for five minutes without hardly stopping, which was a record, for him.

When he had finished, Will whistled softly. ‘Well, I guess that might work.’

Lainey shrugged, ‘At least it’s a plan.’

***

When the moon rose, less than a quarter full now, from the plain, Will, Lainey and Little Blue rode out in an easterly direction, with Afsana perched atop his camel, heading towards Alexandria Station.

They returned after lunch, without the boy, but with two fresh horses.

‘More horses, bloke,’ commented Jim. ‘How’d you pay for them?’

‘They’re on loan,’ Will said. ‘We’ll drop ‘em off on the way home – a couple of spare saddlebags too. One a’ the owners, a fella called Bill Forrest, were there, an’ he was as good a bloke as you’d ever meet – couldn’t help us enough.’ He looked around at the preparations. ‘But anyhow, let’s get busy – Kahl an’ his mates might ride in at any time.’

The saddle bags of the two new horses were bulging full of paper, and Will set about unloading this onto the roadway. It was a mixed bag of old stuff from the station – mail order catalogues, papers, letters and journals.

‘We’ll have to burn some of the mailbags as well,’ Will said. ‘Not the station ones, but we can combine the Palmerston mail.’

They piled up the paper in the middle of the track and put a match to it, while even the horses and Little Blue watched curiously. Flames leapt high. They sacrificed two mail bags that Will half burned in the blaze, leaving them scorched but not fully burned.

The final touches were some old and inconsequential letters that the manager at Alexandria had supplied. Will took care to scorch these badly without making them unrecognisable.

As soon as this was done, he and Lainey saddled up and packed the real mail onto the packhorses, which now numbered five. They also sorted the spare riding horses into a string.

‘Orright,’ said Will. ‘We’d best be off now.’ He clapped Sam on the shoulder. ‘Take care ol’ mate.’

‘I’ll watch ‘is back,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t worry.’

Will, Lainey, Lenny and Jim did not ride north and west towards Brunette, however, but, with Little Blue padding alongside they feinted down to the southeast, for about two miles, as if they were turning back across the plains. Will was conscious, however, that time was passing swiftly, and that he and Lainey needed to get some distance down towards their true destination.

They reined in, and Will turned to Jim. ‘Better do your magic,’ he said.

There were many ways of covering tracks, but one of the best was to use the hooves of stock to beat a trail clean. That morning Jim had scouted out a mob of cattle strung out between the waterholes and the plain – and they were good, quiet beasts, that had been trained well by skilled stockmen.

Sitting tall in the saddle, Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and uttered an otherworldly call, something between and howl and a yodel. After a time, he varied the pitch, and added a throaty depth to the sound. Jim knew all the calls that stockmen used, when hand-feeding grain or distributing salt licks. In the days of open ranges it was the only way to carry the sound across vast distances.

 The cattle started to arrive. First just one or two, looking warily across at the riders, then padding up close and expectantly. Then a group of four or five more. Half an hour passed before there were forty or fifty head milling around.

Now, the riders started to head off in their intended direction – back towards the river, with the cattle plodding behind. Jim led them to a spot he had scouted out – thigh deep water all the way across. Not deep enough to cause any real issues in crossing, but a place where it would be difficult for an observer to see muddy tracks as they entered.

‘That’s it,’ said Will. ‘We’d better ride.’

‘Good luck bloke,’ said Jim. ‘Me an’ Sam will meet you up north.’

‘Do you want to swap rifles?’ said Will. ‘You’ve only got two cartridges.’

Jim shook his head, ‘If I have to kill two of them, that’s all I’ll have the stomach for. Off you go bloke, hurry.’

Will and Lainey walked the packhorses through the waterway for a time, then reached the far bank, gathered themselves, and rode off at speed. Jim had other plans – first he went back to check on Sam, then rode off a distance into the scrub with both their horses, to a bolthole with a view of the track.

After heading back and sweeping away all signs of his route, he settled down to wait.

***

By late afternoon Kahl was in a foul temper at the slow speed of their ride. Members of the ragtag band had brought rum, and they stopped often to pass the demijohn around. They preferred to walk their horses, rather than trot, and on one occasion the whole party had to stop while two men settled an argument with their fists.

All in all, with not one but four camp dogs accompanying them, the group resembled a party more than a posse, and Kahl grew tired of warning them to slow down the drinking – that they might need to fight or chase hard, before the day was over.

Finally, they reached the place where the track reached the Playford and curved around a flowing waterhole. Kahl was aware that soon it would be dark, and he was furious – Will Jones could easily be at Alexandria by now, and therefore untouchable.

Then, up ahead on the track, he saw a strange and unexpected sight. It was a Chinese man – surely the one who had been riding with Will Jones – sitting on a stump, stirring a smouldering paper pile with a stick.

Kahl drew his revolver, and turned to bark at the men who followed. ‘Arm yourselves, you fools.’

It was obvious to Kahl as he neared that the fire on the track was made of paper, not wood. A terrible feeling started in the pit of his stomach and spread to his chest. ‘Where’s Will Jones?’ he demanded.

Sam barely looked up from under the shadow of his hat. ‘All gone, back home.’

‘Where’s the mail?’

Sam knew how to play the dumb Celestial, when he wanted to. ‘That bad man Will Jones go through an’ steal all money an’ cheques. Then burnim up.’ Sam pointed to the south. ‘Him ride back Queenlan. No more truck with mail.’

‘He burned all of it?’

Sam nodded, ‘Ery last bit. All them letters – all gone.’ As if for something to do he removed his pipe from a side pocket, and packed it with loose tobacco from the same place. He struck a match and lit up with just the trace of a shaking hand.

Kahl dismounted and walked to the stinking, smoking pile. He could see the remnants of envelopes and even some of the mailbags. ‘Damn,’ he shouted. ‘The blasted fool.’ His back was itching worse than ever.

He raised his revolver, and with a careless aim and squeeze of the trigger, he shot Sam in the stomach, who dropped his pipe to the ground and clutched at the wound. He seemed to look with surprise at the blood running through his fingers.

‘What are we gonna do now, Kaiser?’ asked Bennett, powdersmoke hanging between them in a stinking cloud.

‘We’re going to find that Will Jones and kill the bastard,’ growled Kahl. ‘And then I’m gonna kill you.’

‘Well, maybe, but it looks like the mail’s gone up in flames, the boys aren’t going to be happy. You promised them the spoils of war. Now there aren’t any.’

‘Just shut your mouth,’ said Kahl. ‘That’s the least of their problems.’ He turned and shouted to the Wambaya and Gangalidda youths who were hanging back, looking frightened at what Kahl had done to the Chinese man, who had now sagged to one side, groaning softly.

‘Find their damned trail,’ he shouted.

Dargie, the Wambaya boy said, ‘Almost dark. More better us-fella camp an’ wait for dawn.’

‘What about that yellow dog of yours, can’t he track at night?’

‘No Mulakka, I told you he no-more track people.’

Kahl snapped his fingers. ‘Will Jones has got a dog with him – strangest blue colour you ever seen. Can your mongrel track him?’

Dargie nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘Mos’ prob’ly.’

‘Well, start casting around, find tracks. Get that dog’s scent.’

©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/