Chapter Sixteen – The Yellow Dog

Edward Bartlett, in faraway Melbourne, presided over the dinner table, while the maid in her white apron and dark-blue dress fussed over the children. The maid, the food, even the pretty dress that Edward’s wife was wearing were illusory. There was scarcely enough money for this month’s mortgage payment, and everyone from the grocer to the butcher was sending concerned little notes about his account.

When the smaller children had eaten and been excused from the table, and Edward’s wife Lucy and his eldest girl Pamela retired to the sewing room to embroider and chat, Edward leaned back in the chair and addressed the maid.

‘Fetch me a whisky with a dash of table water, would you please Mary?’

‘Of course, sir.’

When she returned with the crystal tumbler, he lifted the glass and inhaled the rich scent of the spirit. ‘Just what the doctor ordered, after a long day, wouldn’t you think, Mary?’

‘I should say so, sir.’

‘May I be excused?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He watched the maid curtsy and slip through the door and into the kitchen. She was quite young, which was one of the reasons she had not yet complained too stridently about the tardiness of her wages.

Alone now, Edward sipped the liquor slowly. He told himself that his dreams were still within reach. In just days he would be rich. He had been waiting for a telegram that would signify success, and the beginnings of a new stage of life. Nothing yet, however, no word at all, and the wait was taking a toll.

Edward smiled when he thought back to how it all began. He had been on a steamer to Brisbane, heading north for a court appearance on behalf of a Melbourne client who was involved in a long-running contract dispute. In the smoking room, after dinner, he had met a man in his forties, a bon vivant in a white suit and red silk scarf, wobbling from card game to bar, to the gaming tables and back again. Edward, attracted by the utter chaos that seemed to follow the man, stood for a while at the roulette table, watching his reckless wagers and friendly banter.

‘Hey there, Mister,’ the object of his interest said suddenly. ‘My name is Reggie Gray, and what’s yours?’ His moustache twitched with curiosity, and his eyes, while red-rimmed, showed genuine interest.

‘Edward Bartlett.’

Reggie looked Edward’s dark, double breasted suit up and down. ‘And what firm of funeral directors do you work for?’

Edward felt a jolt. His suit had been tailored by the firm of Mackay and Company. It was conservative in a manner expected of his profession. He bristled, ‘I am a solicitor.’

‘Oh of course you are. Same bloody thing, to my mind.’ He cackled, but then saw Edward’s face. ‘Oh dear, I’ve hurt your feelings. So sorry.’ He picked up a handful of chips from his pile and placed them in Edward’s hand. ‘Here, take a corner bet. Put it all on.’

Edward looked down at the chips. ‘But these chips are worth ten pounds each?’

‘So they are,’ said Reggie. He reached back down to his pile, found a twenty-pound chip, and passed it across. ‘Is that better?’

Edward stared. It was more money than he made in a month. ‘No, I can’t.’

‘I insist. Come on, the croupier is waiting.’

Edward pushed the money across, taking the numbers eight, nine, eleven and twelve. The croupier spun the ball and wheel. Twenty-eight. Devastated, Edward watched the croupier rake the chips away.

‘Same again,’ said Reggie, passing another stack of chips.

This time they won. Eight to one. A huge pile of chips came back.

‘You’re lucky,’ said Reggie. ‘I think I’ll keep you.’

***

Later, both drunk, they headed out to the port rail for some air.

‘Why are you going to Brisbane?’ asked Reggie.

‘A court case – a contract matter concerning a large brewery. And you?’

‘My mother, the Lady Beatrice Gray, is dying.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I’m not. I’m going to be rich.’

‘Aren’t you already rich?’

‘Never,’ lectured Reggie, ‘let appearances deceive you.’

Two days later the pair had parted at the Brisbane wharves, and Edward had expected never to see Reggie again. That was not the case.

By chance they met again in Brisbane, at the Hotel Excelsior at the corner of Queen and Ann Streets. Edward had met one of the players in his court drama in a private room, and afterwards headed to the bar for a much-needed ale.  

Reggie was at the bar, drunk and looking dishevelled.

‘How’s your mother?’ Edward asked.

‘She died two days ago. But that’s not the problem.’

‘Oh?’ said Edward.

‘It’s her estate, the old bag was giving it all away, before her death.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘The house – jewellery – a huge cattle station in the Never Never. I’ve got a cousin out there who I’ve never met, that she’s transferred the lease to … right on her bloody deathbed. Now I’m going to inherit very little.’

‘Which cattle station?’ Edward asked. He had been researching some Territory leases for a man called Coombs.

‘It’s called Hemlock Downs, though I doubt any real Hemlock grows within a thousand miles of the place.’

Edward froze. He had heard Coombs say that he would give anything for that property. ‘I’d like to help you.’

‘Can you?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ Edward admitted. ‘New South Wales has a Notional Estates law that would allow us to reclaim the assets, but it’s more difficult in Queensland. Will you let me try?’

‘Of course, my friend. You bring me luck, I told you that on the steamer.’

Edward was thinking that it was the other way around – that Reggie brought him luck, when his reminisces were interrupted by a knock on the front door. He heard Mary answer, then the sound of a deep but gentle voice.

The maid appeared, ‘It is Master Jonathan Coombs sir,’

Edward felt a surge of relief. Jonathan was the softest of that hard brood. He had been expecting a more solid hurry up from the famously impatient family. ‘Show him in, please.’

Jonathan Coombs entered the room, his hands clasped, fingers writhing nervously. ‘I’m so sorry to crash in on you, so late in the evening, Edward.’

‘Think nothing of it. Please do sit down.’

The youngest Coombs son took a chair at the end of the table.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Edward asked.

‘Oh, no thanks. Father’s driver is waiting for me. Um, he sent me over to ask if you’ve had news from up north.’

‘Nothing yet, I’m afraid.’

‘In that case he asked me to tell you that he is getting impatient, and that he needs this business to be resolved – most certainly before Christmas.’

 Edward sighed. ‘Please bear in mind that the court has determined that they need evidence from Rafe Williamson before the 19th. That’s just three days away.’

‘Father wants to be certain that the evidence in question has been destroyed – it would be inconvenient for it to turn up, even after we have taken possession of the property.’

Edward picked up his tumbler and swirled the remainder of his drink around in the glass. ‘I’m quite certain that the evidence no longer exists, even now. Your father must know that communication from the outback is not always swift.’

Jonathan sighed, and rested his chin on his hand. ‘My eldest brother is up there now – he has taken charge of the operation, and he is … well very much like Father in the way he thinks and acts. Father has cattle buyers in Queensland, and has appointed a head drover to bring across a very large herd as soon as the Wet is over – but it all hinges on that property. God Eddie, you know how impatient he is – but he also likes to have everything, um, just so. What can I tell him?’

‘Tell him that I have no reason to expect anything but that all has gone to plan, and that confirmation will be in my hands within seventy-two hours.’

Jonathan counted on his fingers. ‘That would be Friday evening?’

‘Correct.’

‘Very well then, I look forward to the good news.’ Jonathan stood, and waved a hand at Edward. ‘Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’

When the youngest Coombs son had gone, Edward lifted his glass, downed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp, and called Mary to get him another. It would, he decided, help him to sleep.

***

When Kahl and his men had ridden up to Sam, Jim watched them come from beside a gidgee trunk, over the sights of his rifle. He was too far away to hear their words, but there was anger and consternation on the faces of the armed party when they saw the burning pile of ‘mail’.

Everything happened fast: first some shouting, then Kahl raised the pistol. The report that followed was a shock to Jim’s  system, a deep shudder, for the weapon was aimed at his mate, and he heard the cry of pain that followed.

Instinctively, Jim levelled the open sights of his rifle onto the base of Kahl’s neck. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck home, but nothing happened. Misfire. Months of travel, hot weather, and now humidity had taken its toll on the rimfire primer.

By the time Jim had worked the lever, ejected the first cartridge and loaded the second, he’d had time to think. Killing Kahl with his last round was not necessarily the best thing he could do. The others would almost certainly pursue him. He’d have to run and anti-track to get away. Reaching Sam might not be possible, and he, Jim, was the only one who could save him.

Jim’s heart thudded in his chest. He could no longer see Sam, he was down, but Kahl and the gang of riders looked as if they were preparing to ride on. The important thing now was to reach Sam, as fast as possible.

 He set off at a lope, through the scrub, until he was in the trees at the verge of the track, only his eyes peeping out. The scarred man, Kahl, was in the process of whipping the group into a frenzy, promising them money for continuing their pursuit of Will Jones.

The plan had failed – the false burning of the mail had indeed tricked Kahl, but it had not stopped him from leaving Sam badly wounded or dead, and now it seemed that they would continue their pursuit of Will and the others.

Jim’s eyes fixed on the yellow dog at the forefront of the riders. They were getting him on a scent, a young black man egging him on in his own language. Then they let the dog cast along the waterhole, two other curs joining in. They roved down, at least five hundred yards away, at which point all three became even more excited, and plunged in – right at the place where Lainey, Will and Lenny had crossed. Jim’s heart sank. The feint to the south had not worked.

When the dogs swam across, waiting on the other side, the black youth shouted back to the rest of the party. In a thunder of hooves they took off in pursuit, turning the surface of the waterhole to froth in the last of the light.

His heart low, knowing that the mob was on the trail of his mates, Jim hurried out of the bush, to where Sam was lying crumpled on the track, and where the surrounding dust had turned dark with his blood. The Cantonese man’s eyes opened and he looked up at Jim as he came. His skin was pale, and he was shaking with shock.

‘I’m here, my friend,’ said Jim. Moving to his knees, he lifted Sam’s shirt and examined the wound. The entry was in the front, down from the sternum and three or four inches to the left. He explored downwards and around the back. The exit wound was close to his buttocks, as the shooter had been elevated, on horseback. It was not much bigger than the entry wound, typical of jacketed projectiles.

Even so, Jim could see the light-brown ooze of intestinal contents around the exit. It was a serious injury, that would prove mortal without help.

‘Hey bloke, I’ll be back in a moment.’

Jim went to the riverbank, and dug deep down into the water, into the clean clays down below. He cupped a ball of this into his hands and hurried back to his mate. Dividing this in two he plugged first the entry, then rolled Sam partially over and plugged the back, pushing the clay in hard until the bleeding stopped.

Jim knew instinctively that he could not save Sam without help. Back down south, in his own homelands, he knew the herbs that would help heal him. Others, with more knowledge and experience could be called on to assist. Not here.

‘How bad?’ asked Sam.

‘Not great, but I reckon you’ll be right. Only things is that we can’t stay here, bloke. You need care. You’re gonna have to sit on a horse, and we’ll ride to Alexandria. It aren’t too far, only five mile or so. Can you do it?’

Sam spoke through clenched teeth, ‘I think so.’

‘Alright, I’ll go get the horses. Back in a minute.’

One thing that Jim knew, was that with wounds like this one, urgency was the key. He scrambled back through the scrub for the horses, and tacked them up fast. He emerged again, and saw that Sam had sagged back down to the ground. He tethered his own horse to a gidgee branch, then led Sam’s mare up close to where his mate lay.

‘Righto bloke,’ he said. ‘Let’s try to get you up there.’

Sam was not fat, as his nickname implied, though he had been once. Even so, he was heavy, and there was no strength in his legs to assist. The first time Jim tried to help Sam mount, he staggered backwards, and almost fell back.

The second time they went close, but the mare was getting spooked by this strange activity and the smell of blood. She stamped and moved away, at a critical time.

After the fifth attempt, Jim was exhausted, a vein hammering in his head, sitting on the track beside Sam, who was keening softly with pain. It wasn’t going to work; they both knew it by then. Jim was thinking furiously, he could try and make a drag-litter with some poles, but when he looked at his mate’s face he could tell that a journey on such a thing might kill him outright.

For one of the first occasions in Jim’s life, he did not know what to do.

©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/
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