Chapter Nineteen – Anthony’s Lagoon

Rafe Williamson and the young ringer Matt had ridden hard, crossing the many creeks that formed the headwaters of the Cox River, then south through bullwaddy country. They almost ran headlong into a party of Jingili or Yangman hunters carrying spears with clever iron tips, that must have been painstakingly ground from scrap left behind by white settlers, perhaps around mines or abandoned homesteads. Both parties moved cautiously around the other, before resuming their respective journeys.

Next, the travellers faced one hundred miles of plains that were so parched in the Dry Season that they were almost impassable. Now, however, rain had left swamps and puddles on the route, as well as stretches of deep wet black soil that they avoided, where possible. Rafe had droved this country – to Newcastle Waters and west to the Murranji, and he knew its pitfalls well.

With no intention of making a long journey, they travelled light, just one spare mount each and a pack. Their diet was supplemented with the occasional duck or small wallaby, shot from horseback as they moved.

On the morning of the third day Rafe spotted the shimmer of Anthony’s Lagoon ahead, and the settlement high on the slope beyond. Last time he had been here, late in the dry season, the water was milky blue-green, with thousands of birds. Now it was a dirty brown with the tracks in and out churned to mud. There were ruts from wagon wheels and occasional mud holes deep enough to bog a bullock.

Rafe skirted the track, with Matt following behind, and entered the main street of the village. It was a busy day: men unloading a dray, others selling or buying horses near a private yard, and a hawker with a wagonette full of cooking gear spruiking his wares to passersby. Despite the hour, drinkers were hanging out of several grog shanties, and one of two stores had a sign identifying themselves as a postal agent.  

Rafe indicated the nearest shanty, with a jerk of his head, ‘Once you’ve got the horses sorted, meet me in there for a quick ale and something to eat.’

Matt grinned, ‘My thoughts exactly, boss.’

Reaching the post office, Rafe walked inside and fronted the counter. The clerk was a rough-looking character, with a build more like a blacksmith than a quill-driver. There was one fellow ahead in the line, posting a couple of envelopes and complaining about the cost of stamps.

When Rafe’s turn came, he rested his hands on the counter. ‘Is the Queensland mail here yet?’ he asked.

‘Not yet,’ said the clerk, ‘but we expect it any day. A fella called Will Jones is bringin’ it – by all accounts he left Camooweal three or four days ago. Plenty of spots to throw yer swag while you wait, and the shanties are well stocked – darn good fiddler at Whitley’s place last night too.’

‘Thanks mate,’ said Rafe, and he backed away, out onto the street, then sauntered across to where Matt was heading for the shanty.

‘So, what’s the story?’ asked the young stockman.

‘The mailman’s probably a day or two away yet, an’ I can’t afford to wait that long.’

‘What’ll we do then?’

‘Grab a quick feed and an ale like I promised, then keep riding until we find him. Even now I’m going to be flat out reaching Palmerston by the deadline.’

Matt looked relieved. They had both been looking forward to a beer, and the time of day didn’t matter much. They entered the shanty, ignoring stares and muttered comments. They weren’t here to throw fists or shake hands. At the bar, Rafe ordered food and two tankards of ale – at least a pint in size – and carried them to a free table.

‘Just one each,’ said Rafe. ‘That’s all we’ve got time for, so I thought I’d better make it a big one.’

Thirty minutes later they were back on their horses, both thinking how nice that second ale would have tasted.

***

It was mid-morning when the outlaws had caught all the horses and brought them in. The men were quiet and sullen. No one liked being bested by a stranger in the night, and they muttered theories about how and why this had happened.

Bennett barely lifted a hand to help, remaining stubbornly at the fireside, and when Kahl tried to urge him into action he said, ‘I’ve had enough of this lark. I’m ridin’ back south, and I know for a fact that most of the lads will come with me. Damn you Kaiser, you can chase this fella all the way to the McArthur yer own self. We’re gonna go back, duff some Alexandria horseflesh and whip them into Queensland for a lot more money than we’re gonna get out of you and Will Jones.’

Kahl walked up close, slow and deliberate, then took out his revolver, levelled it. ‘If I were you, I’d reconsider your position.’

‘I ain’t afraid of you, Kaiser,’ said Bennett. ‘An’ if you keep pokin’ that thing at me I’ll thrash ya.’

 Kahl pulled the trigger, and the heavy bullet struck Bennett in the chest. He crumpled slowly to the dirt, where he lay, blowing bubbles of blood from his lips. No one moved to help him while he died.

Still holding the pistol, Kahl addressed the others. ‘Bennett was a damned fool, and he pushed me too far. Just remember that Will Jones – if he really burned all the mail, first took all the valuables – the cash and cheques and gifts. He’s still got those with him. We’ll go kill the mongrel, strip him of everything worth a farthing, then come back and steal some horses in a couple of days. Will Jones or his mates are the ones who made fools of us last night. Are you going to let him get away with that?’

A few men pursed their lips and nodded agreement, some just gave him blank looks.

Kahl glared at them, moving his eyes from one man to the next. They liked the easy life, pilfering and horse stealing. Their sense of pride, it seemed, had not been aroused in some time.

‘If you are soft enough to let Will Jones get away with this you might as well leave us harder men to do the real work. Yes, you weaklings can ride away now, I won’t stop you. If there are any real men here, then we are leaving directly, so be ready to ride.’

While the others were tacking up their horses, Kahl dragged Bennett’s dead body by the ankles into the waterhole and pushed him out into the depths, letting him slowly sink to the bottom.

By then a light rain had started falling, dripping from the edges of Kahl’s rabbit-felt hat. He mounted up and turned to shout at those who appeared to be ready to follow – by far the bulk of the party. ‘We’ll ride now, and I promise you vengeance, a purse full of coin, and all the rum you can drink.’

As he rode north, at the head of all but a few of the outlaws, Kahl started to regret the last statement. Those men could drink a lot of rum.

***

Will looked around with interest as they reached Brunette Downs in the mid morning, the buildings in a cluster near a swollen waterhole on Brunette Creek. Like the other stations, this was a substantial settlement, with a camp of Gangalidda near the water on the way in, then a number of tin sheds that he guessed were the single men’s quarters. There was a saddlemaker working on the verandah of his hut, a smithy, a store, and an adjoining office.

Brunette Downs was a famous station, one with folklore, partly due to the identity of the manager – Harry Readford, who was a legend in the bush. He was famous for having stolen a mob of more than a thousand cattle from Bowen Downs station, then droving them through some of Australia’s most arid country to Adelaide. He had become fictionalised as Captain Starlight in Rolf Boldrewood’s novel that told the story of that famous theft.

Readford, unfortunately, was out at a stock camp and wasn’t expected back for some days, but the station bookkeeper took the mail from Will’s hands and carried out the new bag.

‘We’ve been ridin’ all night,’ Will said. ‘Do you mind if we chuck our swags down, just near the water there, rest the nags and get a coupla hours sleep?’

‘No problem, and that round yard there is empty, let your horses in and I’ll get the yard boys to bring out some grain for them.’

‘Much obliged,’ said Will.

‘Got to keep that mail moving,’ said the bookkeeper.

Soon afterwards, with the horses secure, they claimed a good site on Corella Creek, screened by gidgee trees from prying eyes. There, feeling secure for the first time in many days, they slept until the heat was too fierce to bear.

Will woke first, then Lenny. Both stripped to their underwear for a dip in the creek. Lainey woke shortly afterwards, and sat on the bank jealously, while the two men bogied. When they were done, having dressed and started packing up their things she said, ‘Damn it all, I’m going in as well. You two keep cockatoo for me, an’ if I see you peeking, Mr Lenny, I’ll dig your eyes out with a pocket knife.’

There soon came the sound of splashing, and afterwards there was a new currency to Lainey’s smile. She had dressed in clean clothes, damp in places from the creek water. ‘Now that was worthwhile,’ she said.

Getting ready for the road did not take long. The packs required only a small amount of rebalancing, for the outgoing mail from Brunette was of a similar weight to the bag they had handed over.

In the mid-afternoon, they rode out to the north, on the track to Anthony’s Lagoon.

‘How far is it?’ asked Lainey.

‘Forty miles,’ said Will. ‘If we can make a huge effort, we’ll be there by sunrise.’

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday. Image of Anthony’s Lagoon credit: James Broadbridge Collection State Library of Queensland
You can read this chaper, 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/