Cometh the Hour – Chapter Twenty-five

Luke Phillips loved his wife with a wild passion, in full recognition of her faults but anxious to know again of the good things she was able to give when in a mind and situation to do so. He and Lainey had married young, back when she wanted to prove herself to be a steady woman. Before she gave in to wanderlust and the thirst for adventure that was her true calling.

 Lainey filled Luke’s thoughts, day and night. The farm near the town of Baradine, north of the Warrumbungles, was a soul-less place without a woman. Friends had suggested that he find himself a new wife. A woman who enjoyed crochet and embroidery; who would sit beside him on winter nights in front of a warming fire, and on a pew at church on Sunday.

Luke, however, did not want a new wife. He loved Lainey for her quick wit, her fiery retorts, and her lithe body. He also knew that she, at least at times, needed him too. A need that she tried often to deny, yet it was obvious when they were together. The thought of some scarred outlaw taking her away on a horse filled him with a wild rage.

When Will and Jim rode off without him, Luke could hardly bear the shame of not being considered fit to be involved in the rescue of his own wife. He wanted to give them a head start, then defy Will’s orders and set off after them. Yet, Lenny – and at least one more body, probably more – needed to be buried, and burying men was a grisly, backbreaking task. He couldn’t bear to be seen to shirk, so he agreed to get Lenny underground at least, before he rode off.

He, Rafe and Matt were a miserable trio around the fire, fortifying themselves with rum before beginning the burial. Then, with sufficient alcohol to dull the realities of the ordeal, Rafe fetched a small spade from his packs.

They were experienced enough to cast around for the softest earth before turning the first sod. Luke went first, breaking ground on a long trench with a speed that surprised even the two hardened northern cattlemen.

Rafe, Matt and Luke took turns, alternating the shovel and the fireside, and worked with a sense of purpose. They started with a plan to get down to at least five feet, but they struck a layer of rock that slowed things considerably.

Finally, with hands beginning to sprout blisters, the three of them stood around the hole, looking into it.

‘Well, I know we said five feet,’ said Luke, ‘but that’s a good four, an’ seein’ as how we ain’t exactly buryin’ the governor it should do the trick.’

‘It’s easily four foot,’ agreed Matt. ‘Me Uncle Ray used to reckon that was a good depth – well that was fer dogs, but old Lenny weren’t much bigger than a dog.’

‘Some dogs are even bigger than him,’ agreed Rafe. ‘Like wolfhounds and such.’

They dragged Lenny up by his ankles and settled him into the hole. As they pushed dirt in with their feet and the shovel blade, the toes of Lenny’s boots seemed to be unusually close to the surface, but none of them mentioned it.

They stood around, chests heaving, and when Luke said, ‘Rest in Peace,’ the others echoed the sentiment.

Luke placed his hat back on his head. ‘Sorry to leave you gentlemen, but there’s a scrap a’ moon now, an’ I have to see to the safety of me wife.’

‘That’s bad blessed luck for us,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve got more graves to dig.’

‘Sorry boys, but I can’t stay here any longer, not when me own angel is in peril.’

‘Well just hurry back with that letter,’ muttered Rafe. ‘I’ve scarcely got time to ride to Palmerston with it, as it is.’

Luke walked away to fetch his horse, saddling her up, and making sure that both rifle and pistol were loaded.

With an expression of grim determination, Luke rode away, the moon giving just enough light to follow the tracks of the many horses that preceded them – Kahl and Lainey, the packs, then Will and Jim.  

Luke was able to maintain a trot most of the way, and still find the route. It was a night of boggy ground, howling dingoes and urgent riding, but Luke had skills that were often underestimated, and he was a dogged fellow, stubborn and single-minded.

After sunrise he made better time, crossing Creswell Creek and following the tracks towards a hill that reared from the plains half a mile ahead. He was not aware how close he was to his quarry when he heard the first gunshot. He dug in his spurs and shifted his weight forward like a jockey, a spear of adrenalin in his heart.

He had almost reached the rubble at the base of the hill when there was a second shot. Realising that the sound had come from the other side of the hill, he swerved violently, heading left, skirting the higher ground, froth now flying from the mouth of his horse and muffled grunts sounding from her chest.

He came out of the scrub, flying around the back of the hill. Then he saw Lainey, mounted but tied, trailing behind Kahl. He called her name. His anger now had a focus. Focussing on her captor, he forced his mare into a final effort, her hooves now thundering but everything else in the world going silent, as if it didn’t exist.

He wanted nothing more at that moment than to kill the old lag who had Lainey in his power.

Then came the third gunshot.

***

Jim had seen that Kahl was mounted on his own stallion – the spirited buckskin Cartridge – pretty much the best horse Jim had ever stolen. He was determined that no harm must come to that horse. He raised his aim a little before he finished squeezing off the shot, just as a horseman galloped out of nowhere, screaming Lainey’s name like a maniac, passing perilously close to the line of fire at just the wrong moment. Jim had no choice but to lift the barrel at the last moment, allowing the bullet to fly uselessly high.

By that time Jim had recognised the newcomer as Lainey’s husband, and could only watch nervously as he galloped hell for leather at the outlaw, still with ground to cover, but seemingly on a dangerous course.

Jim dropped the now useless rifle, drew his pistol, and sprinted after them on foot.

***

Will, meanwhile, had heard the gunfire and was slipping and sliding down the side of the hill. He saw Jim’s horse being shot out from under him, then Kahl fleeing with Lainey. He reached the plain, sprinting in pursuit, knowing that with both he and Jim now on foot, there was no way of preventing Kahl from getting away.

The fugitive was still in view when Jim’s rifle spoke its final word, and Luke Phillips came riding into view. His face was red with rage and determination, and his horse, Will knew, was a damned fine mare. Her sire had been a racetrack legend from Coonabarabran to Walcha, and her dam a useful stockhorse. She was used to working half-wild stock, and was afraid of no bullock, however heavy or aggressive he might be. After arriving with her in the Territory by boat, Luke had nursed her down the Gulf track. Few men cared for their mounts like the Baradine farmer.

Cartridge, however, had been subject to days of hard riding, with the last twenty-four hours a desperate sprint, with two different riders. Feed had been scarce and care non-existent.

The outlaw turned in the saddle and fired at his pursuer, but he missed, and Luke was gaining on him fast. His mare moved in long-legged strides, three lengths away, then two … one …  contact.

The brave mare shoulder-charged the stallion and unbalanced him enough to dislodge the rider and send him toppling to the ground.

Luke was a good calf roper, Will had seen him in action, and he was out of the saddle in a moment. Kahl came up with a pistol, though, and he was quick as a cat as he ran to Lainey’s horse. Though she was still mounted, he reached up and dragged her from the saddle, pushing her down to the ground and holding the muzzle of his weapon to her temple.

‘Get back, you dogs,’ he called. ‘Or I’ll put a bullet in her head.’

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday.
You can read this chapter, and previous chapters on the website here: https://www.storiesofoz.com/category/will-jones-and-the-territory-mail/
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