Will Jones and the Territory Mail

 No one called on Edward Bartlett that Friday evening. In fact, Coombes left him alone for the entire weekend. It was as if he was deliberately giving him time to stew; to dread the rap of knuckles on the door.

On Monday morning, still awaiting the terrible spectre of what he had come to think of as consequences, Edward sent a telegram to Palmerston, to the solicitor who had acted for them in the case, begging for news on whether the court had received the document.

The reply came back within an hour:

R WILLIAMSON ARRIVED WITH DOCS TENDERED TO COURT PRIOR 0900 STOP RULING WILL BE MADE AGAINST US STOP SALE NOW IMPOSSIBLE ENDS

Edward stared at the telegram and felt a chill run through him. Everything he owned was forfeit, even the clothes he wore, and the horses and carriage. He had staked his entire worth on a transaction that could not now be finalised, and placed it in the hands of a gambler and wastrel. There would be nothing left.

It might be a few hours, even a day or two, but Coombes would arrive in force, with his sons, as soon as he heard the news that Williamson had delivered that damned letter to the court. The sheriff would follow, the bank’s liquidators, then small creditors. The house would be auctioned, while neighbours and friends gossiped and ogled. The thought was insufferable.

Making one of the fastest decisions of his life, Edward went to the bedroom to find Lucy. She was still in bed, having complained of a headache when he rose earlier. The truth was that she had been listless and dull for some days. She was no fool, and though he told her nothing, she suspected everything.

‘Lucy. We are leaving. You need to help me to pack up our things.’

‘Why?’ Her eyes were surrounded by pockets of dark blue.

‘Because to stay here, is to face humiliation and dispossession.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘West, north, anywhere. Out of the colony of Victoria.’

Sitting at his desk, Edward wrote a letter to his firm, resigning his position. This he took to Mary, who was dusting items they no longer owned, in the lounge room. ‘Would you please post this letter for me, then go to the school,’ he said, ‘and bring the children home.’

By the time the children arrived, there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. To them it was like a holiday. An exciting adventure.

Yet, there was the question of Mary’s wages, and the need for money to get them started. The first trip in the carriage was to the pawnbrokers on Swanston Street, where Edward sold the most portable and valuable items of household furniture, and a selection of jewellery that Lucy could bear to part with.

By mid-afternoon they were on the Ballarat Road, the horses plodding slowly.  Just being on the move was an escape in itself. The roof of the carriage supported a pile of trunks, cases and crates. The temperature was searing, and the interior insufferable, but the children did not seem to mind, and the sound of their singing reached Edward on the box. He held the reins, while Lucy sat beside him. It was the closest he had felt to her for a long time. She clutched at his arm.

‘So what will we do?’ she asked.

‘We start again,’ he said, and on that dusty road, it all seemed so possible.

***

Will, Lainey and Jim spent three nights in camp with Mahomet and his family, while Little Blue healed up from his fight, and the horses were rested, harness repaired and preparations made for the road.

 Then, with a solemn agreement that the time had come, they packed up and began the rest of the journey. On the first day they reached Anthony’s Lagoon, where they restocked with tucker and tobacco, then travelled on to Valhalla and down off the tablelands into the wild country of the Kilgour River. This was a tributary of the McArthur, a wild place of gorges and rock pillars, with higher ranges to the west. In that country they came upon proud groups of Gudanji people, with long spears and fierce eyes, but they kept good watches in the night, made no aggressive moves and were not harassed.

From there on the humidity was murderous, and the rain both regular and heavy. They spent Christmas Day riding through a wet landscape of towering stone hills, with rivulets running from the sides, and at night they fought mosquitoes in their hordes.

They crossed creeks in full flood, often riding three or four miles to find a place that was shallow enough to provide a ford. They got through, somehow, without serious incident, with only minor water damage to the mail.

Finally, more than a month after leaving Camooweal, they rode into Borroloola, the township up above the western bank of the McArthur River. There were Chinese gardens on the way in, a camp of bark shelters and the faded tents of travellers.

The main street was called Riddoch Terrace, with a grog shanty, a store, a half-finished police station and courthouse. Two policemen, who seemed to be camped partly in their unfinished building and partly in tents, watched them as they rode in.

The post office was scarcely more refined than most of the dwellings, but with timber-slab walls and a tin roof, it was at least a little more solid. With a strong sense of occasion, Will, Jim and Lainey carried the mailbags up from the street.

The postmaster, a portly fellow with eyeglasses and a garrulous manner, met them out the front. ‘By the blood of the Saints, the mail from Queensland,’ he cried. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

They stayed three days, a good chance to rest up and restock. In the store Jim was able to purchase a box of fifty .44 calibre rimfire cartridges for his rifle, and though they all needed boots, that would have to wait until they were paid.

Finally, they turned back the way they had come. Will was surprised at just how much he was looking forward to seeing Sam. On the advice of locals they skirted south, almost to the Wearyan, where it had rained less, before heading south. The diversion helped, but they had to forge their own track for much of the way, finally reaching Anthony’s Lagoon, exhausted and pleased to get away from the fevered coast.

Will, Lainey and Jim rode with restrained excitement as they neared Alexandria Station, hoping and praying under their breaths that there would be a happy reunion, not bad news. On the way in they had to ride around a flock of goats flowing across the track, ignoring the commands of their herder, who chased after them lustily, yelling insults and threats.

Then, outside the homestead, they met Sam, leaning on a stick, watching them come, as if he had been there waiting for many weeks. He was not so fat as he had once been, and his face carried the weariness of a long battle.

Little Blue was the first to break from the group and greet their old mate, and Sam leaned down to pat his shoulders fondly. ‘I been waiting for you, a long time,’ he said.

‘Well, we aren’t all stupid enough to get shot, are we?’ called Will. ‘Are you fit enough to ride?’  

‘Five minute,’ said Sam. ‘Then we go.’

***

Four of them now, together again, they rode through Avon Downs, where they collected their last Queensland-bound mailbag, then crossed the border and finally rode into Camooweal. The Georgina River was higher than it had been when they’d left, running like a river should, but the town itself seemed no different for their month’s absence.

A man, standing down the end of the main street, cupped his hands around his mouth, faced back down the street and shouted out, ‘The mail’s here. Dammit all of ye, the mail’s here.’

By the time they reached the post office a small crowd had gathered to meet Will and his crew, calling congratulations while they dismounted and started loosening harness, unbuckling pack saddles and panniers.

Emerging from the cottage beside the post office was the postmaster, Andy Kellick and his wife Jane. Tom Maconsh came too, looking debonair and shaking Will’s hand with a wink.

‘You don’t want to steal my job do ya?’ he asked.

‘No bloody fear,’ said Will. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It’ll be a cold day in hell if I take on a mail run.’

Kennedy wandered up too, and Will could see that he was looking for Lenny.

‘Sorry to say that Lenny never made it back,’ said Will. ‘There’s a story to tell, but standing out here in the sun aren’t the time or place to tell it.’

Kellick helped them with the Queensland mail, carrying two bags at a time inside the building, and paid them off. With money in their pockets they headed down to the river, where they set up camp on the bank as they had before.

Later, leaving Little Blue to guard their gear, the four of them rode up from the river camp and walked into Kennedy’s hotel. Will looked across at the sofa chair, remembering the murder of John Weir in that place, seeming like it was years ago.

After Kennedy had brought the drinks and called to the kitchen for their meals, Will handed over ten pounds in notes, payment for the stallion and mare that had proved to be so useful on the journey.

‘I wasn’t sure I’d ever see this again,’ said Kennedy, but the notes disappeared into his pocketbook, quick as a flash.

Will told the publican the story, but after a while he realised that Lenny’s death was just an episode in something much bigger. There were stories all around them, beginning and ending and going round in circles – tales of men, women, animals, hard weather and harder country.

Knowing this fact well, standing at the highest point on the roof of the police barracks, the crow cawed, and watched to see what might happen next.

©2025 Greg Barron
That was the final chapter of Will Jones and the Territory Mail.
You can read this chapter, 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/

 

The Melbourne sun was struggling skywards through a soup of coal and wood smoke, mingled with fog rising from the River Yarra. Edward Bartlett had been lying awake since the clocktower at the GPO, almost a mile away, had chimed three o’clock in the morning. The lack of news had run his nerves ragged. Lucy was lying with her face turned away. She had scarcely spoken to him since yesterday, when he had been forced to let all the servants go but Mary, the housemaid.

Even worse, today was Friday, and this evening would mark the expiry of the seventy-two hours Edward had promised to Jonathan Coombs. He expected another, less cordial visit this evening – unless, by some miracle, news came from Kahl that he had found and destroyed the letter. He might also be able to stall them by raising the possibility that even if Rafe Williamson had taken possession of that missive, he would not get it to Palmerston in time to satisfy the court – Monday at nine am – a near impossible ride from the Northern Barkly.

Lack of control over the situation galled Edward most of all. If he had the funds, he would already have taken passage north to settle the matter himself. It was strange, he decided, how rapidly a man could go from comfort to poverty. Today his tobacco pouch would be empty, and even the lowest storekeeper seemed to know that he was no longer worthy of credit.

Edward tried not to think of the consequences if the letter was not found and destroyed. It would certainly mean the loss of his family home. Howard Coombes’s anger worried him almost as much – an anger that would have physical consequences. He had managed to placate him, several times, but not enough.

***

Luke, meanwhile, seeing Kahl holding a revolver to Lainey’s head, had entered a state sometimes known as a berserker rage. His eyes became huge and bloodshot – and his hands opened and closed with the desire to wreak damage on his target. The berserk fighter came into being when anger and hatred of an opponent, along with fatigue, led to a fearless and near unstoppable fighting spirit. It was also a state, Luke reasoned later, when time slowed down, giving him ample time to act, while others had to contend with seconds and minutes of the usual length.

At that moment he feared nothing, but merely looked around for the means to end the fortunes of Lainey’s captor. It had to be quick, taking the gunman out before he could shoot poor Lainey.

His eyes fell on a stirrup iron, torn loose in Kahl’s fall from his horse. Fast as a cat, Luke scooped it up by the strap, ran forward and swung it with the speed of a stockwhip, but with twenty times the weight.

Wielded with all the force of his work-honed arms, it struck the scarred man on the side of his head, and felled him as effectively as a bullet, forcing him to let go of both Lainey, and his firearm. Not content with that effort, Luke was on him in a moment, kneeling into the small of his back and delivering an even harder blow from close range.

  As if realising what he had done, still holding the bloody stirrup, Luke came to his feet and stared down at his victim. Lainey flung both arms around his waist.

‘You flamin’ well saved me,’ she said. ‘An’ yer’ve kilt the barsted dead.’

Will, arriving just then, leaned down and laid a finger on Kahl’s neck. ‘Ya kilt him alright, and a good job too.’

***

With no shovel at hand, they gathered rocks and built a cairn. In this way, they laid the scarred man to rest, and Luke, more settled now, murmured the Lord’s prayer and expressed the hope that Kahl might find a conscience in the afterlife, and make reparations for the things he’d done on Earth. This, he said, was the first man he had ever knowingly killed, and he felt some responsibility for his soul.

Finding an accessible route to the top of the hill, they spent an hour in the bowl where Kahl had scattered the mail, reorganising and repacking with care.

Lainey sat in the shade, watching, drinking, smoking and eating the few rations they had brought. After a while she started to recover her usual mood. ‘Rafe’s letter ain’t here,’ she said.

Will paused in the act of repacking mail bags and turned to her sharply, ‘What d’ya mean?’

‘Just what I said. The darned letter that Rafe needs has up an’ gone somewhere. Kahl went through that mail five times.’

‘We can’t ‘ave lost it,’ said Will.

Lainey shrugged, ‘Well we dunno where it is, do we?’

***

It was mid-morning before they were able to cross Creswell Creek and head back towards the Gully where Rafe and Matt were still waiting. It was a slow trip, sometimes napping in the saddle, and they were often silent with their own thoughts.

They arrived back at the camp near the gully to the sound of camel bells, and the shapes of the hump backed creatures spread along the gully. Will was pleased to see the tall, slender form of Mahomet, along with his wife Jannat, young Afsana and his brothers and sisters. Will guessed that they had arrived that morning and gone into camp.

The Balochi family’s tents were pitched neatly along the clearing. The smell of fresh coffee and cooked, spiced meat wafted in from the fireside. Will damn near fell from the saddle with the strength of it. Rafe and Matt were near the fire, standing as they came in.

After tethering his horse, however, Will’s first act was to untie Little Blue from the shady bush where he had been fastened. His wounds from the dog fight had stiffened him up, but he licked Will comprehensively, then sat close to him as they moved to the fireside, drank and ate, then shared the news.

Mahomet first assured them that Sam was being cared for at Alexandria Station. The situation was precarious – he was passing copious blood and an infection had taken hold.

‘But we have all been praying for him,’ said Mahomet gravely.

After a long and worried silence, the Balochi related how he and his family had arrived in time to help bury two members of the outlaw gang who had died in the fracas. Will, in turn, related the death of Kahl, Luke’s heroism and Lainey’s close escape.

‘So, I take it that you’ve got my letter?’ asked Rafe.

 Will looked at the ground, and shook his head sadly. ‘We can’t find the damned thing,’ he said. ‘We just dunno what happened.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Rafe, standing up and pacing around. ‘So it’s fallen out and is prob’ly sitting on some bloody lonely part of the track – it might take weeks to find it – if ever at all. I’m sunk – truly I am.’

‘I guess I aren’t cut out to be a mailman,’ said Will.

Lainey shot him a poisonous look. ‘I told you that right at the start of this damn fool caper.’

‘So, what’s it mean, exactly?’ said Matt.

‘It means,’ sighed Rafe, ‘that on Monday the court will grant that the pre-probate sale of the property is valid, and I’ll be out on my bloody ear. You too.’

Lainey, who had revived further with a serve of Mahomet’s flat bread filled with spiced camel meat, said, ‘Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea. Where did you barsteds bury old Lenny?’

Luke pointed along the gully a little. ‘Just down there. Why?’

‘Did you check ‘is pockets before you chucked dirt on ‘im?’

Luke looked at Rafe, and then at Matt, and shook his head. ‘Nah, I can’t say that we did.’

‘Well, he was foolin’ with the mail when I came back to camp last night. I wonder if he grabbed it?’

‘Where’s the bloody shovel?’ said Will.

They walked to the grave as a group, and Will started to dig. They were only a few spadefuls in before the toe of Lenny’s boots appeared.

‘Hell,’ said Lainey. ‘I hope you barsteds aren’t the ones who bury me. The goannas would barely have to scratch a hole to eat his toes.’

They lifted him out, already starting to smell, and it was Will who bent down and went through his pockets. He found a locket, one of those silver ones that opens, and then, shoved down the front of his pants was the letter. Will passed it to Rafe, who opened and unfolded it.

‘Jesus Christ, this is it,’ he cried.

‘Have you still got time to ride to Palmerston?’

‘By Jove and the bloody saints I’ll try, but I’ve got to leave now. Matt, will you head back to the station and tell them what’s going on?’

‘’Course boss. You just get up there and save the place.’

Lainey turned to Will. ‘What about us?’

He sighed deeply, ‘We’ll take a day to sort things out and rest. Then we need to finish the run to the Macarthur, then pick Sam up on the way back south to Camooweal – if he’s healed up.’ He looked up at the sky, as if searching for a higher power to consecrate an oath. ‘After that, I swear I’ll never so much as touch a mailbag for the rest of me miserable life, be damned if I will.’

©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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

Kahl rode cross country in weak moonlight, consulting the southern cross to ensure that he never strayed far from his heading. Storms roved far out in the fringes, flashing with lightning, but too distant for thunder to carry. The air itself was thick with insect life and deep humid scents that had been unearthed by the rain.  

The wound in Kahl’s thigh was painful and his limbs stiff. He knew that if he did not get medical care, the wound might eventually fester and possibly kill him. Until then, however, he would shoulder the pain and carry on, alert and focussed.

Lainey had already tried to ride away once, but he had noticed her edging away and was ready, firing over her head and swearing that the next bullet would be in her back. From then on, he secured her stallion with a long rope to his own. Her curses and mutters grew less frequent, and she seemed to plod on with dull acceptance.

They crossed a swiftly flowing Creswell Creek at first light, and the glow of dawn came dramatically, like a goblet of light poured into the eastern edge of the plains. Everything turned to russet-gold – the seed heads of the grass, the branches of bauhinia and kurrajong trees, rocks, and the soil itself. With this light came optimism, and Kahl felt encouraged enough to start thinking about his situation tactically. Ahead was a small but rugged hill – a chance to get high enough to spot riders in pursuit.

With the sun rising, Kahl, his captive and the packs climbed the first slopes, wending their way upwards, avoiding the steepest ground. He stopped them in a rocky bowl near the peak, with a view of the approaches. From there he looked searchingly to the east – the direction from which any pursuit must come. Nothing. Not yet.

The best course of action, he decided, was to sort through the mail, find the envelope he needed, along with any cash or valuables he stumbled on, and dump the rest, along with the surplus horses. The packs were slowing him down, and there was no point carting such a large volume of mail. Then, light and swift, he would head west towards Newcastle Waters, the nearest station on the overland telegraph line, which he could use to report his success to Bartlett in Melbourne. There would also, he hoped, be a doctor nearby, to care for his wound.

It would be a long ride, about a hundred miles of brown soil or red sandy plains, peabush flats and occasional ridges. But there were no impassable barriers, and he would make good time – two, maybe three days if he pushed hard and his health did not give out.

Kahl had been thinking about how Lainey would fit into these plans. In the short term she might prove useful, for he was expecting that Will Jones would come after him. He would keep her, for a day or two, as a human shield, but there would be no place for the woman once he reached the telegraph line. Elaine Jones was a wild, spiteful thing, full of bad language and anger. When her usefulness was over, she would need a bullet and a hole in the ground, and he would not shirk from giving it to her.

Now, dismounting, and forcing Lainey down from her own horse, he let her drink from one of the many puddles in the stone, tied her ankles and hands and sat her down. This done, he drank a bellyful himself, tethered the horses and started unloading the packs.

‘What are you doin’?’ Lainey asked.

‘Nothing. Just shut up.’

‘I need somefin’ to eat.’

He drew his pistol and aimed it at her. ‘I told you to shut up.’

Lainey said nothing, just wiped her filthy face on the crook of her elbow and glared at him.

He started by getting the mail bags out of the panniers, and he was smart enough to sort through these by opening them in turn and looking at one or two letters from inside. He put aside the bags collected from Avon Downs, Alexandria and Brunette. He also identified those destined for Anthony’s Lagoon, Creswell, Valhalla and Macarthur River.

The Territory mail seemed to be made up of four bags, and Kahl emptied them out on a smooth slab of rock. Then, using another bag as a cushion, he sprawled painfully on one buttock, changing positions often to keep the pain from his wound at bay. He started sorting through the mail, making an untidy pile of those that he was discarding. He knew that the envelope he was after would be thicker than most. He knew that it was addressed to Mr. Rafael Williamson.

‘Will’s gonna kill you for this,’ said Lainey. ‘He’s a mild mannered barsted but once he gets riled up …’

Kahl stared at her for a moment, then stood up, staggering with pain and stiffness. He hobbled up close to her and swung his hand so his knuckles struck her lip and a dribble of blood dripped down from her chin.

‘Shut up,’ he said, ‘or I’ll leave nothing but your dead body for your brother.’

He went back to sorting the envelopes, getting more impatient and frustrated by the moment. The pile of discards grew as the sun rose higher, and he had collected very little in the way of cash or other valuables. He was sweating by then and swearing to himself.

When he had been through the pile twice, he emptied out all the other bags, and went through them too, building into a murderous rage. That one letter was not there. The thing he needed. The difference between penury and a hefty windfall, was not there.

Finally, almost mad with hunger, lack of sleep, pain and frustration he staggered over to Lainey and pointed his revolver at her. ‘Where is it?’

‘I’m as surprised as you are that it ain’t there,’ she said. ‘An’ that’s the damned truth.’

Kahl’s eyes flicked from his captive to the horizon. The faintest sound of hooves, borne on the wind. He stood up, scanning into the distance. It was too damp for hooves to raise dust, but finally he managed to pick out the movement of horsemen – at least two – coming fast across the plains.

Kahl walked to his horse, drew the rifle he had taken from Lenny, then hurriedly stuffed mail back into a bag to create a dead rest. He lay prone and carefully positioned the rifle, watching over the sights as the horsemen came closer.  

The leading man was Will Jones, and hatred of him burned like a canker inside Kahl’s chest. He had ruined everything, and if anyone knew where that damned letter was, it would be him. Was it in his saddle bags? Or buttoned up in a pocket?

Kahl had his finger on the trigger now, just a little closer and he would be sure of getting a body hit at least.

He heard movement behind him and turned. It was Lainey. She had managed to snatch a mail bag, and stand, despite her bound ankles. She had raised the bag high and was waving it, wailing like a banshee.

Kahl was forced to stand, knock her back to the ground before he could resume his lie and prepare to take the shot.

***

Will saw Lainey wave the mailbag and swerved his horse instinctively. Jim did the same beside him. Lainey was warning them for a reason, Will decided. Kahl was probably lining them up in his sights right now.  

He swivelled his head to yell at Jim. ‘Get in close to the hill, he won’t be able to see us.’

A rifle barked, from up on the hill, and the bullet flew close to Will’s head. He was galloping now, racing against time to get below the field of fire. Another gunshot. Closer still, but finally the bowl near the summit where the rifleman was firing from was hidden by the lower bulk of the hill.

Will reined in and turned to Jim. They had left Luke, Rafe and Matt behind to bury the dead. This was serious and personal. He wanted Kahl dead, and Lainey back safely. Luke had ranted like a preacher, thundering at being left out of the party to take back Lainey. Will did not weaken. Luke was a good man, but he was not up to this.

‘I’ll go after the barsted on foot, straight up the hill,’ said Will. ‘You ride ‘round the back in case ‘e does a runner.’

While Jim rode away, following the lower contours of the hill, Will dismounted and shouldered his rifle. He checked the load of his revolver, slipped off the coat he had donned during the night and rolled up his sleeves. Then, he looked up the slope, picked a route, and started off uphill.

He was sweating before long, for the hill was steep in places, and often he used an acacia trunk to haul himself up. Rocks that seemed to be firm sometimes gave way, and it was only his good leather boots that saved his ankles from scrapes and cuts. There were easier routes, but Will did not want to risk being observed from above.

Finally, nearing the peak, he began to work his way around to where he had seen Lainey with the mail bag. He unslung his rifle, taking every step with care, and finally he looked down into the place where they had been. Four packhorses were still tethered there, and mail had been strewn over the area, sitting in piles or thrown all around.

There was no sign of Lainey or the Scarred Man, and the riding horses were gone.

***

Jim was riding Sam’s new mare – one of the two they had purchased from Kennedy, back in Camooweal. She was a game horse, but not in the same class as the stallion that Kahl had stolen. Besides, she was dead on her feet from exhaustion. Yesterday evening they had run hell for leather from the outlaws, and through the night they had alternated a trot, walk and canter. That final gallop had been a cruel test for the horse, and she needed good feed and a rest.

Jim nursed her as much as he could, letting her pick her own path around the base of the hill. This area was lightly wooded, with patches of spinifex and acacia trees.

He was scanning ahead, looking up towards the hillside when a gunshot came from an outlying chunk of sandstone. There was a mortal grunt, and the mare collapsed beneath him, dead before she hit the ground. He managed to kick his feet from the stirrups on the way down, then used the horse’s body for protection, while he drew his pistol and stared out, spotting drifting black powder smoke from the marksman’s lair.

When the target came, it was not static. A man shouting, ‘yah, yah.’ Then two riders galloping out of cover. One was Kahl, and the other Lainey, trailing two spares. Kahl had been smart enough to know that one of his pursuers would circle the hill, and had lain in ambush to take him out. Thankfully, he had misjudged the range and the bullet had killed the horse.

Jim holstered the pistol, useless at such a distance, and leaned down to drag his rifle from the scabbard. One cartridge left. One shot to stop the Scarred Man once and for all.

He raised the open sights to maximum, and hurried to an adjacent tree, shouldering the rifle and using the narrow trunk to steady his aim. Extreme range now – perhaps four hundred yards.

One shot, and perhaps his only chance to stop Kahl, and rescue Lainey.

The smell of the mare’s fresh blood in his nostrils, Jim squeezed the trigger, needing all his skills to hold his aim on the back of the fast-riding target.

©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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

Lenny returned to camp as Will had asked him to do. He was puffing a little, as he walked to the campfire, slinging his rifle on the way. Spotting a half full bottle of rum sitting on the dust, he took a very long pull, wiped his lips and threw more sticks on the fire. The blaze leapt high in response.

Still standing, he looked around, his eyes lighting on where the horses were tethered, towards the gully, amongst the closest of the trees. It wasn’t often that Lenny had an opportunity. Whichever way he looked at it, he’d been given one now, and he told himself that he’d be a fool not to take it.

Little Blue was there, on the edge of the firelight, watching him. The dog had his hackles up – whether at the man or something else Lenny did not know.

‘Good boy,’ Lenny said. ‘You and me ‘ave got no quarrel.’

He strode towards the horses, which were still saddled, and the packhorses fully laden. He should have started to unburden them, but instead he released the buckle on one of the panniers and started to delve inside, into the mail, feeling the envelopes between his fingers.

He heard a growl and looked back. Little Blue had followed him, and was baring his teeth.

‘It’s alright, boy, I only need one thing here.’

 Lenny went back to delving in the pannier, but Little Blue growled again, more urgently now. There was a series of gunshots out in the night, and more muzzle flashes.

‘They’re into it now,’ muttered Lenny, though the sounds of battle told him that he still had time.

Lenny thrust his right hand deep in the saddle bags, feeling for the item he sought, pulling some out and holding them up to the light. He worked quickly. Found what he wanted. Had a moment of exhilaration … and fear at what he was about to do.

He didn’t see Lainey coming. She came striding out of the night, holding her left forearm.

‘What the bloody hell are you up to?’ she asked.

Lenny emptied his hands and turned hurriedly, a shot of guilty adrenalin jolting his heart. ‘Nothin’. I was just gonna start getting these packs off when a buckle come undone. I’m trying to bloody fix it.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ said Lainey. ‘I’ve never trusted you as far as I could kick ya. You’re tryin’ to find that bloody letter an’ get what you can out of it. I’ve read you like a blasted book since the day I laid eyes on you.’

‘That’s unfair …’ he stopped when another series of gunshots split the night. He tried to envisage what was happening – both sides, it seemed, were putting up a fight.

He left the packs behind and walked towards the firelight. Lainey followed, and it was only then, when he turned, that he saw her wound – how she held one arm with the other hand. Both were painted red with blood, and it dripped from her fingertips.

‘Bloody hell Lainey,’ he said. ‘You’re hurt.’

Her voice went weak, ‘Just a graze, but you can help me bind it up, it stings like blazes. I need to go back and help the boys.’

 Lenny inspected the wound as best he could. ‘Get over into the light near the fire, and I’ll fetch the iodine.’

He headed back to another pack, rummaged for the bottle and a clean old shirt, then went to her. She was pale and shaking as he dripped the dark liquid into the bloody channel, then tore off strips of cloth and bound up the arm.

Little Blue growled again. This time it was not directed at Lenny, but at something out in the trees. He came and sat down beside Lainey, his weight pressing against her leg. His every muscle was stretched tight, and each breath was a half-whine, half-growl.

‘What’s up boy?’ she asked.

Little Blue left her side, and crept towards the trees with slow, deliberate steps, growling in earnest now, his hackles fully up and ears pricked.

‘There’s something out there,’ said Lenny. He fastened the cloth bandage with a final tidy knot, then started to unsling his rifle.

At that moment the yellow dog came out of the shelter of the trees, emboldened by a larger shadow that Lenny and Lainey had not yet seen. Little Blue could no longer restrain himself, but rushed forward to meet his attacker. In an instant the pair of dogs were a snapping ball of fury, blood and flying spittle. The growling barks of the pair melded into a single terrible sound.

For many days the yellow dog had walked with the scent of the blue dog in his nostrils. Hating and knowing it as the smell of an enemy. There could be only one outcome of this conflict.

This was no casual fight, but a bout to the death.

‘Hell,’ Lainey said, running towards them, ‘Get out of it, Blue.’

***

The scarred man, Kahl had been hanging back in the edge of the gully, using trees for cover, then lurking in the darkness behind the firelight. He was wounded, a bullet had struck his rifle, wrecking the action, then deflected into his left thigh, and there was no exit wound. Blood trickled down from the grossly swollen puncture.  

Kahl had jettisoned the damaged rifle, but he still had his revolver. Even better, he could see the pack horses and their burdens. Will Jones had not burned the mail. It was here, and there was still time to snatch the prize.

He saw Kennedy’s man from Camooweal come back from the fray, then the injured woman. Watching them intently, he left the trees, staying in the darkness, circling the camp. Each step was painful, but he was driven by anger, hatred, and lust for the money that finishing this job would deliver to him.

The moment when the yellow dog went in for the attack came with perfect timing, for the woman and man now both had their backs turned.

Judging his moment, Kahl came in at a run so painful that he could scarcely help crying out, then whipped an arm around Lainey’s neck, and drilled the barrel of his revolver into her temple.

‘Drop the rifle, now, or I swear you won’t draw another breath,’ Kahl cried.

Lenny did as he was told, and Lainey rolled her eyes upwards to look at Kahl’s face. She said, ‘You, ya barsted. I shoulda known you’d be skulking around instead a fightin’ with yer mates.’

 Kahl ignored her words, just drilled the muzzle of his revolver harder into her skull and glared at Lenny. ‘Get me two horses. The buckskin and the other stallion. And the mail packs in a string.’

The dog fight was still going, both combatants marked and bloody now. Little Blue, knowing that there was a greater danger now, tried to disengage, but the yellow dog was after him in an instant, slashing at him with those needle teeth, and he was forced to turn and defend himself.

 The horses were still saddled, and Lenny led the two stallions over by the reins. Holding the revolver close, Kahl forced Lainey to mount up. Then he climbed on the buckskin, and waited while Lenny brought the packs, the lead mare walking obediently despite having had little rest and no water.

‘I ain’t a bad fella, Lainey, an’ I’m on your side,’ called Lenny. ‘We’ll come after you, I promise.’

Kahl turned almost nonchalantly, extended his arm and fired once. The slug took Lenny in the middle of his forehead. He slumped to the ground, still staring with wide open eyes.

Lainey cried out, ‘That’s bloody murder.’

‘Start riding,’ he growled at Lainey. ‘You’re my insurance in case there’s any of your mates left alive to come after me.’

***

The outlaws made something of a stand in the gully, near the creek that was swollen with rain, surrounded by boggy mud, and cloaked in darkness.

Will had no intention of letting the gang get comfortable, but continued to advance, with Luke, Matt, and Rafe at his side. They fired at anything that moved, their booming weapons adding authority to their march.

A final, spirited resistance was hard to dislodge, but at last there came the sound of tinkling harness, then of galloping men and horses, back through the water and up the other side.

‘They’re clearing out,’ said Luke.

‘Let’s make sure they are,’ replied Will.

They passed a body down near the creek and waded through the swiftly flowing water, up the far side of the gully and into the starlight. From the very lip they watched the horsemen riding away to the south, now a quarter mile distant. It was impossible to count or make out individual riders, but it was obvious that their numbers had been depleted.

‘Do you think they’ll come back now?’ asked Matt.

‘I doubt it,’ said Will. ‘That mob are prob’ly used to easier targets than the likes of us. Let’s head back, I want to see how that arm of Lainey’s is getting on.’

They moved back through the gully, and stopped to examine the body at the bottom. Rafe lit a match, and they rolled him over.

‘We’ll bury him in the morning,’ said Will.

They had just resumed the uphill walk when they heard the gunshot, just one, somewhat muffled from up towards the camp.

‘Hell, what’s goin’ on back up there?’ said Will, and he broke into a run. Jim kept pace beside him and the others were not far behind. It seemed like a long way, back to camp, and they arrived, panting from the run.

The firelight was dying down by then, but a sliver of moon was rising, strangely red over the plains.

They found Little Blue sitting up, his face a mask of blood, next to the body of a second dog. Will squatted next to Blue, examining the cuts on his muzzle, forelegs and a bad one near his eye.

‘Jesus boy, what on earth has gone on here?’

‘Over here, bloke,’ Jim gasped from nearby. ‘Poor Lenny’s dead, an’ most of the horses are gone.’

‘Where the hell is my Elaine?’ wailed Luke. ‘Jesus, has she been taken? Tell me it ain’t so.’

Will lifted his dog in his arms and walked to where Joe was examining the prone body of Lenny.

‘Poor barsted,’ said Will.

‘The packs are gone, bloke. They’ve got the mail. Was it Kahl, do yer think?’

‘I reckon it must be. ‘An’ looks like he’s got Lainey with him.’

They were all standing around the body by then, and Rafe’s face was a mask of fury. ‘So now this Kahl mongrel has got my damned letter?’ he spat.

‘Hell mate,’ retorted Luke. ‘He’s got my bloody wife.’

Will knew that he had to make decisions. They needed to organise, reload, prepare and follow, but the smell of death and hurt was in his nostrils, and the weight of the situation he had led these people into damn near pushed him to the ground. He reached deep inside himself, to see what was there. It took a while, but then it came back to the surface, a clenched fist, hard with bone and sinew, from the very pit of his soul.

©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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

Little Blue was still young, scarcely two years old, but he was full grown, with solid shoulders, strong jaws and big feet. His instinct for the protection of his owners was paramount, and when Jim tasked him with the protection of the group’s belongings, he took the responsibility seriously. He had known that there was danger behind them for some time, and that this danger had now caught up.

There was another presence out there tonight, other than men. It was a dog, half wild and savage. Little Blue could smell it prowling in the trees of the gully. The dog had been tracking him, had come to find him.

It was wary, however – waiting for an opportunity, and Little Blue would not be tempted into straying from his masters’ gear. He paced a rough circle near the leaping flames of the fire, watching. The first gunshots along the track took him by surprise, and made him more tense, looking anxiously, whining softly, dividing his attention between the dog in the trees and the gunfight nearby.

He understood that this was a night in which terrible things might happen.

***

Will fired the first shot, aimed above the heads of the party of horsemen. It was a booming discharge, breaking the silence of the night. The outlaws stopped in disarray, some trying to wheel their horses, others fumbling for weapons.

Will held one hand around his mouth to help project his voice as he shouted, ‘Turn around and get the hell out of here. You’ve got thirty seconds or we fire in earnest.’

The group seemed to splinter at first, but there was a voice, rising above the rest, haranguing them, whipping them into a mob.

Kahl, Will decided.

 Then came the sound of hooves on the track, riders geeing up their mounts and shouting encouragement to each other.

‘Jesus,’ said Lenny, ‘they’re gonna charge us.’

He was right, the horsemen had gathered themselves, started off slow, then gained momentum, whipping their horses into a gallop towards the seven defenders. It was perhaps the most terrifying scene that Will had ever faced, but he had no intention of running.

‘Alright,’ said Will, more softly now. ‘Let’s give it to them.’

Of the seven figures who stood across that track there were seven different perspectives. All were determined that the outlaws would not pass, but their reasons differed. As the riders thundered closer, each of the defenders took aim in a manner according to their feelings.

Aiming, moreover, was no easy matter. Iron sights, even with the assistance of some firelight, were not easy to use accurately in the dark. Added to this was the matter of nerves, and the general inaccuracy of firing from a standing position.

One or two of the horsemen started shooting, and the flashes of revolver discharges added to the confusion. The bullets flew wide, for almost no one can hit what they aim at from a galloping horse. Some projectiles, however, came close, or struck a rock and ricocheted around.

Will had eyes only for Kahl, and he picked him out of the group, sitting higher than the others, in the lead. He was the point of an arrow with the others behind him in widening ranks. With what he could see of the foresight settled in the V, Will let his forefinger take the first pressure of the trigger. He fired, and reloaded smoothly.

With only one cartridge left in his rifle, Jim had reluctantly left it in the saddle holster, and instead carried his revolver, for which he had adequate ammunition. He held it at arm’s length aimed at the same target as Will. He fired an instant after his mate, but Kahl had already reacted to Will’s bullet, whether from injury or design, dropping from the saddle.  

Lainey chose to fire into the greatest press of targets, and Lenny beside her did the same, the double concussion of their shots sounding only moments after Jim’s.

Rafe was slower off the mark, but no less angry. These men had come to take away the cattle station he had worked ceaselessly for, over fifteen years, paid by unscrupulous men who cared nothing for the country, only for the money it could make for them. These ruffians had to be neutralised so he could get the documents he required, and begin his journey to Palmerston.

Rafe did not trust to accuracy in this nighttime shooting but decided to rely on sheer firepower. His Winchester’s tube magazine held seven .45-70 rounds. He started firing from the shoulder, flicking up the lever and shooting into the men silhouetted above their galloping horses.

Matt, standing beside Rafe, was fighting a battle with his own conscience. He was a stockman, not a fighter, and he had no real investment in this, apart from wanting his boss to win through. The thought of killing a man filled him with horror. He fired into the gidgee trees above the outlaws’ heads. Once, twice, three times.

Black powder smoke was thick, hanging low in the night air, but as it slowly cleared Will was able to see ahead to where the horses were in disarray, bucking and shying. Some were riderless, for at least a few of the projectiles had stuck home.

‘Stop shooting,’ barked Will, ‘let them take their wounded.’

By ones and twos the outlaws managed to turn. Some gathered the reins of loose horses, and others slipped to the ground to lift fallen mates to their saddles. Over the next few minutes, they walked their horses back below the lip of the gully, swallowed by the darkness and the trees.

‘They’re running,’ said Lenny.

‘It might look like it,’ said Will, ‘but somethin’ tells me it aren’t over yet.’

‘I think you hit Kahl, bloke,’ said Jim. ‘He was droppin’ by the time I fired.’

‘I bloody hope so,’ muttered Will.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Luke.

‘Well, what we don’t do is let them fortify themselves on the edge of that gully. We walk down there and push them out. Lenny, would you go back and watch our horses, just in case one of them barsteds crawls up from the trees? The rest of us’ll give chase. Spread out a bit, the rest of youse – we won’t make targets of ourselves by tramping down the middle of the track, and find cover where you can.’

As they walked along the track, warily stepping, nothing happened for a good few minutes. As Will had expected, it seemed that the outlaw band had ridden back down into the gully and stopped. They heard the sound of horses, slowly being settled, and men talking. A wounded man was sobbing in pain, calling for his mates.

 More walking followed. More unsettling noises. More darkness.

The natural sounds of a Territory night started to return again too – frogs down in the gully, a distant barking owl, and the disarming cry of a nightjar. There was also the sound of their own boots in the dust, and of jingling spurs from those who still wore them.

‘I’ve missed you, dear Elaine,’ came a voice from out to the left.

Knowing it must be Luke, Will rolled his eyes and said, ‘Can we bloody leave the lovebird guff ‘til this is over?’

Lainey’s voice, ‘No one asked you to foller me anyhow, Luke Phillips, yer like a bloody dog.’

‘No law against a husband follerin’ ‘is own wife, is there?’

A thunderous discharge and a muzzle flash of fire out from the trees, and a heavy slug thudded into the track ahead of them. It had to be a Snider. No other weapon boomed with such authority, and the impact of the .577 calibre projectile shook the ground.

Will snapped a shot at the place he had seen the muzzle flash, but his night vision was momentarily ruined. Away to his left, Rafe’s rifle boomed and another line of flame shot out over the track and grass.

‘Take cover ‘til we deal with this lot,’ called Will, and he moved to a termite mound just ahead, kicked the top part of it over, then fell to his knees and dropped the stock of his rifle over the mound. He settled down to wait, unsure how bullet proof a two-foot thickness of dried mud would be, but it was a steady rest.

Another shot came from the trees, a lighter calibre this time – rapid fire from a repeating rifle. Will aimed and fired at the flash, and the shooting stopped.

Lainey cried out.

‘Are you hit?’ yelled Will.

‘Jesus yeah, but just a scratch.’

He left the termite mound and ran to her. There was just enough light to see that a bullet had clipped her forearm, opening the skin and leaving a channel of raw flesh. Strangely, it was not bleeding much, but Will guessed that would come.

‘Nasty wound,’ he said. ‘It needs binding. Head back to the campfire and Lenny can help sort it out.’

‘I’ll go with her,’ said Luke, who had come up behind them.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Will, ‘I need you here.’

Will watched Lainey walk back, keeping her head low as she went. Then he turned to his dwindling force. ‘Right, let’s clear these bastards out of the gully. They’re as blind as we are, and hitting Lainey was just bad bloody luck.’

They moved down to the gully in a skirmish line, with Jim instinctively taking the lead, scouting ahead, flitting into the first saplings that marked the gully. Another fusillade came from behind a tree, and Jim hissed, ‘I’ll take him.’

The others continued on, and there was the sound of running feet. No more shots.

They came to the head of the gully. Slowly their eyes adjusted to the greater darkness there. After a few moments Will could just make out the shapes of men and horses down near the fast-running creek at its base.

©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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

The nightjar was smaller than an owl, beautifully spotted and mottled with grey, black, brown, and white. All day he’d laid up on the ground, between gidgee trees along a gully, partly burrowed in leaf litter, immobile, and almost invisible.  

After dusk he crept from his hiding place, flapped to the nearest perch to gather himself and wait. He came alive, his heart beating faster now, breathing the cooler night air, listening as the dark plains came alive with insect life. His eyes were huge and reflective, able to see in the blackness, even without the flickering lightning.

His favourite hunting place was nearby – the broad, clear dirt of the white men’s track – the perfect ground from which to watch for crickets and moths. He was rarely bothered by traffic, for humans seldom travelled at night, especially now, in the rainy season.

Soon, without hurry, he winged his way out of the gully, stopping on the track beside a camping place much used by passing traffic, and their teams of horses or bullocks, their droving plant and wagonettes. The clearing was flat, marked with charcoal from old camp fires, and was bare of vegetation.

The nightjar was patient. Minutes passed before a centipede appeared at the edge of the track, and began to crawl its way across, antennas waving. It was best, the bird had discovered, to let these slow-moving creatures get well into the clear to allow them no chance of escaping.

This was a big one, as thick, wide and long as a coolabah leaf. His progress was slow; one yard, then a little more. Still the nightjar waited, fully immobile. He began to anticipate the juicy crunch of the insect’s body. Something sparked in his eyes as he prepared to launch.

At that moment, however, there came the sound of hooves and voices out of the north. Men were approaching. They were soon in view, and the nightjar was too wary and smart to take risks.

Leaving the tasty snack to its journey, the nightjar hopped and extended his wings into flight at the same moment, flying like a darker shadow among shadows, down into the gully where he perched on a branch. Far enough away to be safe.  There, he decided, he would wait for the men to leave.

***

The rain had fallen hard for an hour, before the cloud band moved on, leaving Rafe and the young ringer, Matt, soaked. It had seemed pointless to stop while it was bucketing down – their sleeping gear was protected with oilskins, and they both wore felt hats and drizabone jackets.

‘Looks like that damned rain’s stopped,’ said Rafe. ‘Here’s a clearing, so the best thing would be to get into camp and dry out in front of a fire. That damned mailman can’t be too much further ahead, damn his eyes for being so slow. Surely we’ll find him in the morning.’

They untacked, hobbled and belled the horses, then gathered dry wood from close to the trunks of the trees at the top bank of the gully. They soon had a good blaze burning, and sat on folded saddle blankets in front of the flames. Their tucker had been replenished at Anthony’s Lagoon, and Rafe made johnny cakes, with plenty of treacle to sweeten them.

They were halfway through the meal when there was the gentle – not hurried – sound of hooves and harness from up the track, the same way in which they had come.

Rafe laid his tin plate down, stood and reached for his revolver. Visitors at night were treated suspiciously until proven otherwise. This one, however, made his approach known.

‘Hullo you fellows,’ called the newcomer from a distance, warning them of his approach. ‘I’m alone and riding in.’

Rafe and Matt were both standing, watching, as the visitor rode in to the firelight and dismounted. He was a tall fellow, with one of those heavy jaws you could smash bottles on.

‘Hello there,’ said the rider. ‘I was just thinkin’ about makin’ camp meself when I saw your fire. It’s been a lonely track, so I thought I’d say g’day.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Rafe. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Luke.’

‘Well met. I’m Rafe and this is Matt. We’ll give you a hand with your horse and gear, and there’s plenty of room at the fire.’

When the new man was settled, the three of them talked for a while of the weather, how they’d fared in the storm, and their travels to that point.

‘I sailed into the Roper on a Burns and Philp ketch,’ said Luke. ‘I was damn near speared on the ride down the Gulf, and would have been if I’d moved a bit slower. A wild trip it’s been to this point, and to be honest, a pointless one.’

Rafe, feeling sorry for the man, put the last of their dough onto the coals, and when it was baked, placed the cakes on a tin plate for the stranger. When he’d finished eating, Luke levelled the score by producing a bottle of rum and sharing it around.

‘What’s your business here?’ asked Rafe. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Well to be honest,’ said Luke, ‘I’m lookin’ for me wife, her name’s Elaine. Lainey, everyone calls her. You haven’t come across her, have you?’

Rafe shook his head, ‘I haven’t seen a white woman since I was last up at the Elsey.’ A thought occurred to him, and he picked his words carefully, not wanting to insult his new companion. ‘Am I right in guessing that she ran off with another fella?’

‘No, that’s not it. She likes to ride with her brother, Will, who’s a little wide of the law, an’ seems to like just pokin’ about the country. It’s been almost a year since I seen her last, and I travelled up here to see if she’s ready to come home to me, an’ be my wife like I want her to be. That ain’t much to ask, is it?’

Rafe snapped his fingers. ‘Her brother’s last name ain’t Jones, is it? Will Jones?’

Luke’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened with interest. ‘Bloody hell mate. That’s him, how did ya know?’

‘Because I’m chasing the bastard, pardon me, your brother-in-law. I’m waiting for some important mail, and when I rode to Anthony’s Lagoon, I learned that the regular Territory mailman – a fella named Tom Maconsh – is laid up. Will Jones and um, your wife and their mates have taken on the run.’

‘Jesus,’ Luke Phillips’s face turned pale. ‘How important is this document you’re waitin’ for?’

‘It means everything to me. If I don’t get it, well I’m buggered.’

‘Sounds like there’s an interesting yarn to tell,’ encouraged Luke.

‘Well, it’s simple enough. When I was a younger fool than I am now, and out here adventuring, the chance came to take up a pastoral lease. I didn’t have enough in the way of funds, so I asked my Aunt Beatrice to stake me.’

‘Go on,’ said Luke.

‘Well, she did. But that was fifteen year ago, and she was still young then. We never thought about what might happen if she died. My cousin – her son Reggie – is a useless bastard – a gambler who wastes everything he gets his hands on, including his own miserable life. To stop Reggie from getting the station, a few days before Aunt Beatrice died, she sent me a letter, with copies of the leases and a legal document making the station over to me, but the mail was delayed, and my cousin Reggie, expecting to inherit, made a deal to sell the property, pre-probate, to the blood suckers who bought up the neighbouring properties. At a fraction of the real value, I might add.’

Luke shook his head with amazement, taking a good swig of the rum before passing it on. ‘Jesus, how big is this place?’

‘Oh, around ten thousand square miles, and I’ve poured every bloody cent back into the place. It’s everything I own, and I love it dearly. I applied to the court up in Palmerston to stop the pre-probate deal from going through and I’ve got four more days to provide evidence. That’s why I’m out here chasing the bloody mailman … I mean your brother-in-law. Even if I get my hands on that letter right now, I’ll have to ride day and night to reach Palmerston before the deadline.’

Luke exhaled slowly. ‘Well wanting my wife back don’t seem like much compared to that, but you know … life just ain’t the same without her. She’s wild and crazy and there’s never a dull moment with her, but I reckon she’ll be one hell of a mother when I finally convince her to give it a try—’

His voice trailed off, for they all heard the sound of a gunshot from the south. The insects fell silent, and a bird flew off from the trees nearby.

‘That ain’t bloody thunder,’ said Rafe.

‘No way it ain’t,’ agreed Luke.

Soon after came the faint but unmistakeable sound of galloping hooves from the south. The next gunshot was closer.

‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Matt. ‘What do we do?’

‘I dunno,’ said Luke, ‘but I’ll feel better with a rifle in me hands.’

They scrambled for weapons. All three had good rifles. Luke’s was a Henry repeater, while the others had Winchesters. Rafe and Luke had both unbuckled their gunbelts, and left them on their saddles. They hurried to fasten these around their waists.

Meanwhile, Matt chucked much of the spare wood they had gathered onto the fire, so the flames lit the immediate area. The sound of horses became louder and closer, soon joined by shouts and yells.

The three men walked to the track, checked their loads and stood three abreast on the surface, rifles across their chests, right forefingers on the triggers.

‘You much of a shot with that carbine?’ Rafe asked Luke.

‘Pretty fair,’ said Luke. ‘Lainey can outshoot me, but I would say she could do that for most men. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’m nothin’ flash, but I can generally hit most things I aim at. Matt here though, he’s a real good shot.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Matt humbly, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he handled the firearm.

‘Young eyes and steady hands,’ said Luke.

By then Rafe could feel the drumming of hooves through the ground, and the sounds changed as the leading horses entered the trees surrounding the gully. Then there was a sloshing sound as they crossed whatever creek was running through. Much closer now.

‘Here they come,’ said Luke.

They came into the firelight. Four riders and a good number of horses. Even in the firelight it was obvious that they were beyond fatigue, horses and riders alike coated with sweat and the horses’ eyes were wide with fear at what was both ahead and behind. The string of packs were spent, ragged with fear, and anyone who knew horses could see that the whole show was verging on collapse.

In the lead was Will Jones, who must have seen them, for he slowed down a tad, then stopped. Beside him, his eyes reflecting in the firelight, was Little Blue, moving crabwise to catch the scent of the strangers.

‘Who the hell are you?’ roared Will. ‘Get off the damned road before we run you down.’

Then there was another yell. It was Luke. ‘Elaine,’ he cried, ‘what on bloody earth is goin’ on?’

‘Luke?’ cried Lainey. ‘What in blazes are you doin’ here?’

Will looked confused, and his horse couldn’t read his signals, making strange hops forward, back and sideways, fighting with his own instinct for flight.

‘Are you the mailman?’ yelled Rafe.

‘I am. There’s a dozen lowlife cows just behind us. They’re after some damned letter.’

‘That’s my letter.’ Rafe growled, ‘Get those packs over here and safe amongst the trees. You’ve got three more staunch men now – a match for any number of thieves and killers. We’ll stand here and teach these bandicoots a lesson they’ll never forget.’

Jim had already read the situation, leading the packs away behind the clearing, and calling Little Blue to guard their gear.

In two minutes flat, Will, Lainey, Jim and Lenny were dismounted, armed, and standing beside the others on the track. Seven well-armed and angry fighters.

Again, they heard voices, war whoops, and the sound of horses crossing the creek. When the outlaws saw the fire leaping high, however, they began to slow. Wary of what was ahead.

‘Do we aim for their horses?’ asked Matt.

‘No mate,’ growled Will. ‘I’ve got no beef with their animals, only the two-legged bastards on their backs. Time for them to get what’s comin’.

A moment later the first gunshot broke the silence.

©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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

The shooting of Bennett had consequences, most of them positive, from Kahl’s point of view. First with furtive glances, then grudging acceptance, the men began to treat him with respect. They had seen him kill without hesitation. He’d proved to be a decisive and single-minded leader, and even the laconic Sutch seemed content to follow Kahl’s orders, riding beside him as they continued North on the trail of Will Jones. Stocks of rum were low, and Kahl took charge of the last few pints, saving it for a time when liquid courage might be beneficial.

Gone was the slow amble of previous days. Now they rode with urgency, trotting most of the way, the yellow dog in the lead, with his inexhaustible energy, and tenacious grip on the scent he was following. Sometimes he left the track, sniffing out places where Will Jones and his men had stopped.

In this way they found the bend on Milliebah Creek where Will Jones and his party had rested. Kahl stopped his own crew for long enough to spell their horses, then pushed on relentlessly across the plains.

When Kahl and his group reached the Brunette Downs homestead, they did not risk entering the area, but stayed out of sight, beyond the outbuildings, circling around until they struck the track to Anthony’s Lagoon.

‘Are we behind them or ahead of them?’ asked Sutch.

Kahl grinned. ‘Look at that yellow dog. He’s on the scent. We’re behind, but not by much. Tonight we don’t stop, we ride until we get to them.’

***

The feeling of refreshment that followed the swim in the creek did not last. It was another oppressive afternoon, with a growing band of black cloud to the north, but no breeze or relief of rain. Not yet. They rode northwards in file, with Will in the lead, then Lainey. The packs and spares trailed from Jim and Lenny in turn.

Will deliberately kept the pace off the boil. If they were to ride forty miles in an afternoon and night, they had to keep the horses watered and not push them too hard. Without Sam, however, nothing felt quite right. His sage words and steady character were reassuring when a fight or violence threatened.

Near dusk they stopped, boiled the billy and cooked a few slabs of beef they’d been given at Brunette, eating them on thick lumps of bread from the same source, using the juices from the pan as gravy, washing it down with tea.

‘You’re missin’ Sam too, ain’t ya?’ Lainey said to Will, who was busy feeding the fattiest portions to Little Blue, who polished off whatever he was given.

‘Yeah, he’s a good fella to have on your side. I aren’t used to bein’ without him. I hope he’s healed up.’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘You’re right, it ain’t the same without him.’

‘He seemed like a solid man for company,’ said Lenny. ‘An’ I’m sorry he got shot. But at least he was spared trying to outrun Kahl and his mongrel mob in the dark tonight.’

Lainey’s eyes flashed at him, ‘Well at least we knew that he was on our side, unlike certain other people I might name.’

‘Well, I do resent that statement,’ Lenny huffed. ‘Name one disloyal thing I’ve done so far.’

‘How ‘bout sneakin’ around, reading the mail at night?’

‘I explained that,’ said Lenny. ‘I was checkin’ that a certain letter addressed to Rafael Williamson was still there and not ruined.’

‘But you never gave us a good reason why,’ said Lainey.

‘Just leave it now, you two,’ said Will.

‘No, I want to know why bloody Kennedy wants that letter to get through, and Kahl and his mates don’t.’

Lenny tipped the dregs of his tea, from his pint pot into the fire, ‘All I can tell you is that this Williamson feller once did Kennedy a good turn when he was passing through, and they’re kind of mates. Serious Lainey, I’m on your side, I swear.’

Lainey said nothing more, just started to pack up, while Will took the opportunity to check the map before dark, considering their route carefully before sharing his thoughts with the others.

‘We can either stick to the main track, or head west to this place – Adder Waterhole – which is marked on the map. Then we could follow Creswell Creek down to Anthony’s Lagoon,’ he said.

‘Is it any further?’ asked Lainey.

‘Twice as far,’ Will admitted. ‘But if we’re clever where we leave the track, they might not be able to follow us.  That would give us a fighting chance.’

‘If it were daylight, bloke, I’d agree,’ said Jim. ‘But them mongrels behind us know this country, and we don’t. On a dark night like this – we could get bushed or worse. I reckon that keeping to the track is the best plan. We just have to try to outrun them.’

‘I agree,’ said Lainey. ‘It’s gonna be dark as hell. Let’s stick to the track.’

Will folded the map and stowed it away. ‘That’s it then. We’ll keep going.’

As soon as the pan was cool enough to pack, they were on the road again, riding steadily into the thunderstorm. Strangely, it was the near constant flickering of lightning that allowed them to see their path, for the brightest of the stars were obscured.

The plains were an eerie place, riding on into the storm. The black soil clung to hoof and paw, slowing their pace. The packs grew reluctant, which tired Lenny’s horse and slowed them down.

At length, Jim sidled up to Will, ‘I reckon them buggers are close-up behind us now,’ he warned. ‘You want me to go back and look?’

‘Nah,’ said Will, ‘I think we need to stay together now. Let’s keep these nags moving.’

The first drops of rain had started falling, when Will heard a sound from behind.

‘That’ll be them,’ Jim said. ‘We won’t outrun them now, bloke.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Lenny.

‘We ride like fiends … give them a run for their money,’ Will said, again wishing that Sam was with them. He always had a plan. His ideas didn’t work every time, but he never lacked for a course of action.

One of the riders up behind let out a whoop, distant but audible. Will turned, just as a particularly bright flash of lightning lit the plains. Kahl and his mates were just a quarter mile behind them.

 At that time the vegetation on the sides of the track were of spinifex and blue bush, but up ahead there was a stand of coolibah trees, growing in twisted silhouette on either side of the track. Will tried to think whether the change in vegetation offered an opportunity. If they had numbers, they could use the cover to stop and make enough of a stand to put their pursuers off, but with just the four of them, and a brace of horses to look after, it would be tantamount to giving up.

Will berated himself, silently regretting taking on the mail run. Lainey was right. The money wasn’t worth it, not for a one-off like this. Even the clouds seemed to be against them – vast black ships in the sky – wider than any sea. And always, behind them, the sound of horsemen getting closer.

Finally, they reached the trees, and the dark night became darker still, even the flashes of lightning dulled by the foliage. In the gloom Will did not see the deep bog ahead, nor the trail where other travellers had deviated around it. By chance he was riding in the middle of the track, out of the ruts, and thus missed the worst of it.

Lainey and her horse, however, then Lenny, plunged in deep, followed by the lead mare. The shock made her rear up, whinnying, throwing the string into panic also. Jim had time to stop, keeping the spare horses out of trouble.

It was a mess. A muddy terrible mess of frightened, plunging horses and tangled harness. Will dismounted, trusting George to stand his ground, and grabbed the lead mare by the bridle, trying to settle her into a walk, putting pressure on the others. Jim had managed to stop short of the hole, and had also dismounted to help.

Slowly, they pushed, pulled, and harangued the horses out of the mud. Lenny had fallen off his mount and was in little better order than the horses. Swearing and spluttering, covered in ooze from head to toe. They were all muddy now, but he was the worst of them.

‘Mount up,’ urged Will. ‘I can hear their horses now. They’re nearly on us.’

©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/

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/

When he crossed the Playford River, Jim’s gut was full of a hastily eaten cold meal of rice, kangaroo meat and pickled cauliflower. The taste of curry still lingered in his mouth, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He’d hated leaving his wounded friend, but Sam was now on the way to Alexandria with Mahomet and his family, settled as comfortably as possible on a riding camel, padded and lying face down, legs dangling on either side.

Jim tried to shake any feelings of guilt and worry, instead focussing his thoughts on Kahl, and his gang. He had never learned to count numbers beyond the fingers of both hands, but there were more horsemen in the group than that. They were armed and dangerous, but the shooting of Sam could not go unpunished. Jim would not trouble a magistrate or courtroom to see it done.

He had learned the laws of retribution way back, from the clever men and elders, and had sat through enough white men’s funerals and sermons to have heard the same philosophy: Fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; whatever injury he has given a person shall be given to him. In both cultures the meaning was clear: Kahl must pay for what he did to Sam.

It was too dark to see prints or hoof marks, but the track itself, once Jim reached it, was visible enough. From then on, he maintained a trot, using the stronger night vision in the corners of his eyes to pick his way along stretches of difficult terrain. Mostly, however, the plains were dead flat in all directions.

A storm must have passed through in recent hours, for the ground became soft, and the sound of the horses’ hooves less defined. Standing water sat in puddles and pools on each side, in between tussocks of grass and spinifex, before the land became dry once more.

It must have been after midnight when he saw the flames of a campfire flickering on the trees surrounding a waterhole. The size of the fire and the bedrolls around it meant a substantial party of men – surely Kahl and his gang.

Jim dismounted and tied Cartridge to a tree, taking the time to stroke and reassure the animal, while Sam’s mare nuzzled up for the same treatment. When both were settled, munching on grass, Jim started forward, towards the crowd around the fire. He wasn’t worried that the white men would see him – most were asleep in their bedrolls in any case, but there were black men in the party, with keener senses, and hunting dogs also. He moved with extra caution.

There was a man on watch, Jim noted, sitting just this side of the fire, and a couple more were drinking from a demijohn nearer the flames. Jim, deciding that he had seen enough, melted back into the night, tuning his ear for the sound of tinkling hobble chains and night bells, crouching low so he could see the shapes of feeding horses silhouetted against the night sky.

Skittish creatures at the best of times, a stranger arriving in the darkness was enough to send any horse into a panic. Jim took the time to single the animals out and approach them one at a time, staying at their front, and making soothing noises in his throat.

When Jim came up to the first horse, a chestnut that looked almost black under the starry sky, it took a moment or two of gentle conversation before it suffered him to come close. He bent down and used his pen knife to cut the hobble strap from the off-side leg, then leaned further to cut the other. The horse snorted once, realised it was no longer restrained, then walked off.

Freeing the horses from their hobbles was not a quick process. It was dark, they were spread out, and they did not take kindly to an unfamiliar stranger. Even so, one by one Jim found them, cut the straps and moved on to the next. When he was certain that he had found and released them all, he started heading around past the outlaw camp to get back to his own horses.

The sound of a dog broke the silence – a high pitched yip, almost a series of howls rather than a bark, accompanied by deep growling. Jim began to run, as soundlessly as he could. Voices came as the dog alarmed the men around the fireside.

Reaching Cartridge and the mare, Jim untied the knot that held them to the tree, then mounted and galloped back close to the outlaws’ camp, where he came to a stop. He scanned the camp until he saw the unmistakable figure of Kahl. He slipped his rifle from its scabbard, fitted it snugly to his shoulder and swung the sights down until the pip rested on Kahl’s stomach.

An eye for an eye …

He made sure of his aim. This was his last cartridge for the rifle, and the pistol was useless at that distance, particularly at night.

He had just started squeezing the trigger when there was a rushing sound out of the night and the yellow dog came at him, still making a combination of growls and high-pitched sounds. Then it came rushing in, trying to bite at Cartridge’s feet. The horse, taken by surprise at this vicious attack, reared and did his best to kick at the dog, almost dislodging Jim in the process.

 By the time he had settled the horse and started moving away from the dog, Kahl was no longer a clear target. In fact, the men around the fire were all on the move, rolling out of swags and looking for weapons.

Jim turned his horse and spurred him on, pushing the rifle back into the scabbard. He rode to where he had last seen the outlaws’ horses, and as he neared the area he drew his revolver from its holster and fired two shots into the air. He heard whinnies of fear, and the sound of galloping hooves as the horses took flight.

Jim controlled his own horse, turned him, and pushed him into a gallop, with Sam’s mare following. The yellow dog ran after them for a good hundred yards before giving up and staying behind.

***

When Kahl first heard the dog barking he sat up. ‘Who’s on watch there. Better not be blacks trying to steal our damned horses.’

Standing, he peered out into the darkness, trying to discern any movement apart from the yellow wraith of a dog.

He never knew how close he came to a bullet in the gut as he lurched into action, still calling for the others to wake and arm themselves. There was the sound of horses out in the night, and Kahl started to wonder if Will Jones had not doubled back to attack them.

A moment later came the twin blasts of a firearm, and accompanying muzzle flashes fifty yards away to the east. The tribes here did not have guns, so it could not be them. This was a deliberate act, a declaration of war.

Brandishing his own pistol, Kahl ran out of the firelight to where he could see a man on horseback, with another horse trailing, galloping away past them, towards Brunette. He raised his revolver, steadied it, and fired. There was no chance of a hit, but it made him feel better to retaliate in some way.

 Even so, he was in a fury as he stomped back into camp.

‘Who’s the useless cur who was on watch?’ he shouted. ‘And where’s our damned horses?’

***

Once the moon was up, Jim made good time. At one point he passed a camp of Gangalidda people. He could smell the scorched remains of a kangaroo on the fire. They were mostly women and young boys, getting up from their sleeping places as he rode past. Some hid in the long grass until he was gone.

It was near dawn before he reached Lainey, Will and Lenny, reining in to part-relieved and part-worried looks. The line of packs streamed from a rope attached to Lenny’s saddle, and they looked all-out. Will was riding one of the spares while his stallion took a rest. It had been a long night for them too, no doubt about that.

‘Where’s Sam?’ Will asked.

Jim came to a stop, his horse a lather of sweat ‘That mongrel Kahl shot him. He’s alive, and will be at Alexandria by now, with ol’ Mahomet.’

‘Shot?’

‘Yeah, in the gut.’

‘Is he gonna live?’ Lenny asked.

‘Hell bloke, I hope so.’

‘I knew this was a dumb idea,’ said Lainey. Her face had turned red with shock, and there were tears in the corners of her eyes. They all liked Sam, and Lainey wasn’t good at bottling things up.

‘You mean pertendin’ to burn the mail?’ Will asked.

‘Not just that. This whole damned trip was a fool’s idea. Why do you think they handed the job to the first drongo to ride in an’ want to make a few bucks? Because it was a bloody set up, that’s why. We should dump those mail bags now, and ride back to find Sam – no one’s gonna look after him like we can.’

Jim added, ‘That Kahl fella still has to pay for what he done to Sam, too.’

 Will stared at Lainey for a moment, then turned to Jim, ‘How far behind us are they?’

‘I cut their horses loose. They’ll be a few hours, I reckon.’

‘That’s good news anyway. But look, we took on this job. We have to finish it. Let’s go on, an’ if they follow us, we’ll turn and give ‘em somethin’ to think about. Otherwise, we’ll deal with them on the way back. Fair enough?’

‘Sounds fair,’ said Lenny, and Jim nodded his head once. Lainey said nothing, just kept her hands folded in front of her chest.

‘Still a fair ways to Brunette, so let’s get movin’’ said Will.

As the three men and the horses rode off, Lainey lagged behind, her lower lip hanging down in an unhappy droop. Finally, she turned and galloped after them.

©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/

In Balochistan, the bells of a camel train were a source of pride to the handler. The waist and crown of these were carved of wood, sized so that the pitch for individual camels was different. The clapper was made from a hard nut or stone. A skilled cameleer could tell his animals apart, purely by the sound of their bells.

Mahomet Lashari had learned the art of carving bells at the feet of his father, and took pride in making his own, usually from redgum or ironwood. The musical notes, as the train moved along during the day, gave him pleasure, and if one of more of his beasts strayed during the night, he could identify the animal, and send one of his sons to collect it.

Now, when Jim heard the sound of wooden bells in the distance, he sat up sharply, leaning forward close to Sam, who had fallen into a feverish sleep. He had a folded blanket for a pillow, and another over his body.

‘You hear that, bloke?’ asked Jim. ‘It’s our mate from the night of the big storm – coming with them camels of his.’

Sam opened his eyes and tried to smile, but his bloodless lips scarcely moved.

‘Scuse us for a moment,’ said Jim. ‘Best I make sure they don’t ride on past.’ He scrambled to build up the fire, using some of the still unburned paper that was scattered around, as well as a few sticks that lay within reach.

When the flames were licking knee-high, he stood waiting, seeing the tall shapes of the camels coming in the dusk, and a turbaned figure walking out in front, a rope attached to the nose-peg of the leading animal. The smell of the beasts filled Jim’s nostrils, and forever afterwards he would associate the smell of camels with the night they helped to save Sam.

When Mahomet saw Jim on the track he barked an order, stopping the train. Then, his eyes moving to Sam, lying wounded, he called for his wife, Wajana, who hurried up. She glanced at Jim, then knelt beside the injured man, lifting the blanket to view his wounds in the firelight.

‘Him bad hurt,’ she said. Then, to Jim, ‘Where ‘bouts li’l boy Afsana belong me?’

Jim didn’t blame her for worrying about her son, seeing as how Sam was lying there with a gunshot wound. ‘Afsana’s safe at Alexandria,’ he said, ‘waitin’ on you mob.’

Mahomet passed the greenhide rope he was holding to one of his sons, then kneeled beside his wife, examining Sam with his hands. ‘This fella been shot?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jim, ‘that old lag called Kahl done it.’

Mahomet inclined his head gravely. ‘Them ruffians pass by us back ‘roun’ dinner time – with plenty noise an’ disturbance. Even birds inna trees, an’ creatures of the earth hide away an’ be silent when bad men ride through.’ After another moment’s pause he announced, ‘We will not camp here as planned, but will take your mate an’ reach Alexandria tonight.’

‘It’s almost dark,’ Jim said.

Wajana’s face was grim, and her hair wild in the firelight, when she said, ‘Mahomet see in dark good as them camel, and we been walk this track plenty time.’

Jim sensed her wisdom, and she scared him a little. ‘I can’t go with youse,’ he blurted. ‘Me other mates are ahead, on the way to Brunette, and them blasted outlaws are treading on their heels. I have to try to protect them if I can.’

Mahomet said, ‘Your wounded mate will be cared for like kin. We will ask our gentlest camel to kneel, and prepare your mate for travel, while you eat a small meal. Then you must go with the blessings of God, to protect the others in your party. Those outlaws have wreaked havoc ‘roun’ here these last twelve month, and my heart is with you in overcoming them.’

***

Lainey, Will, and Lenny rode north with a vengeance, pushing the horses as hard as they dared. Thankfully the new packs, on loan from Alexandria, were well-trained, and the lead mare soon had them in line.

At first, on the other side of the Playford, they encountered sandstone country. It was a rugged stretch, the track climbing over a deep spine of stone. The rocks were difficult to see as the sun went down, and a hazard to the horses. This rough terrain required a cautious approach, and Will begrudged the slow pace of their progress.

Before long, however, they were back on the savannah plains – seemingly endless in the starlight. Mitchell and Flinders grasses grew knee high in all directions, with occasional swampy patches of tussock and wild rice. The track broadened, and they made good speed, trying to ignore the weariness that assailed them, body and mind, focussing on getting ahead of any possible pursuit.

Little Blue loped alongside Will’s stallion, never falling off the pace, apart from occasionally stopping to sniff at something of interest: a clump of grass, a place where other travellers had stopped to rest, or where wild animals or cattle had crossed the track.

At one stage, Will narrowly avoided riding George, his stallion, onto a large snake that could only be a king brown or taipan. Too slender for a python, it was six or seven feet long, sprawled out on the track, enjoying the warmth that was still retained there.

Will’s eyes had adjusted to the starlight, yet it was only at the last minute that he saw the serpentine shape. He turned hard, avoiding the creature by a yard or two.

‘Go right,’ he called to the others. ‘A bloody snake – big barsted too.’

When the moon rose, in the early hours of the morning, the small party reached a creek that ran high and brown. They watered the horses, and the waning moon provided enough light for Will to read the map that Andy Kellick had given him.

‘This is called Milliebah Creek,’ Will said. ‘It’s not too far to Brunette now. I say we keep riding and rest up for the day near the station, where we’ll be safe. With luck Jim and Sam will catch up with us there.’

‘I’m just about done in,’ said Lainey, ‘but if you can keep going, I can.’

Lenny grunted a response, but the bags under his eyes were almost as dark as the sky. ‘Do you think that the trick of burning the mail might put them off? Hell, maybe Kahl and his mates won’t follow us at all.’

Will shook his head. ‘What if they rode cross-country for a bit, and missed the whole thing? What if the fire went out and they didn’t believe Sam an’ Jim? No, until proved wrong, I’m sayin’ that Kahl is just behind us, breathing down our necks.’

***

With the scent of Will’s blue heeler in his nostrils, the yellow dog stayed on the trail like a magnet on iron. Occasionally, over rocks or water, he was forced to hunt around in circles, snuffling and sniffing at the ground in audible puffs, before finding the scent again.

On the other side of some sandstone ridges, it became obvious that Will Jones and his crew were using the track for reasons of speed, and would continue to do so. From that point on, the yellow dog simply trotted down the middle of that thoroughfare, his coat standing out in the darkness like a lantern.

The men were the problem. Riding hard at night was not to their liking, and they had been much more enthusiastic about plundering the mail, rather than taking revenge on Will Jones.

It was Sutch who rode up alongside the German, long after the time when, back at camp, the men would have eaten their fill of stolen mutton or beef and sat around drinking rum and spinning yarns.

‘The boys ain’t happy,’ Sutch said. ‘They want to doss down now, an’ take a fresh start in the morning.’

‘Not yet,’ Kahl said. ‘Will Jones and his mates have a string of packs to baby along, and they’re shorthanded. If we press on hard we might catch them tonight. That dog is on the scent now, but what if it rains? We might lose them.’

‘They’re on the blasted road,’ said Sutch. ‘There’s no reason to think that they’ll head off it. Why would they, on a night like this? Anyhow, the boys say that they’ll ride ‘til midnight, not a minute longer. One of them has got a saddle watch, and they all swear they’ll stop at that time.’

Kahl was tired too – his eyes stung, and he ached in thighs, buttocks and back – yet he wanted Will Jones. ‘That makes no damn sense. We’d miss the hours after moonrise, when we can move more quickly.’

Bennett rode up beside them, ‘Hey, let’s all take a breather while we talk this out.’

Kahl realised that this was not something he could bluster through, Jack Nunn would support him, but not the others. With a sigh he brought pressure on his horse with knees and rein and guided him to a stop. Meanwhile, the other horsemen rode up close so they could hear the conclusion of this discussion, forming a rough but intimidating circle.

Bennett seized on Kahl’s previous comment. ‘Maybe ol’ Kaiser has a point here. It may be best to stop soon, eat and rest, then get going again after moonrise. What do you blokes think?’

Kahl felt a bloody rage rise in him. ‘I’ve told you I’ll kill you, when this is over, if you keep calling me that.’

Bennett turned, lifted his chin and spat a wad of tobacco high in the air, so that they heard it land far out on the grass. ‘Well, you can only kill me once, so I might as well have my fun while I can. How ‘bout it though? There’s a waterhole named Connell’s Lagoon up ahead half a mile or so. We can stop there, get some rest and get back to chasin’ this damned mailman when we’ve some light to see by.’

There was a mutter of agreement from the other men.

‘Very well,’ said Kahl finally. ‘We’ll rest until moonrise. Then we ride on and don’t stop ‘til we find them.’

©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/

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/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

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/

For two days they crossed black soil plains, bluebush swamps and patches of gidgee scrub; dodging squalls and being entertained by Afsana and his camel.

The boy proved to be an interesting addition to the group. He talked constantly to his camel in Balochi, his voice rising and falling in pitch like a running stream. He did, however, know some English. The problem was that he had picked up his words and phrasing from listening to bullockies and stockmen, and the colourful language issuing from his lips, had the little gang in stitches.

‘How old are you, Afsana?’ Lainey asked him.

‘Blarst me, no more’n ten,’ he replied.

‘What’s the camel’s name?’

‘Why, the old bugger’s name be Pachen, which in English mean billy-goat.’

‘That’s a strange name,’ Will said. ‘Any reason you call him billy-goat?’

Afsana grinned, ‘Turn your back an’ bend over and you bloody find out – get a sore arse for days after Pachen bucks at ya.’

‘Charmin’ beast,’ said Lainey, and Will noticed that she never turned her back on that animal, not for the whole time they travelled together.

Best of all though, the boy knew the route to Alexandria Station well, and they moved confidently across open grasslands, with occasional small hills of rubble. They did not always follow a recognised track, though here and there were old ruts from waggonettes, the remains of hearth fires from drovers, travellers or stock camps.

 The sheep country seemed to have ended. The black pellets they left in abundance were no longer evident, replaced by the heaped dung of cattle, and a bovine scent on the breeze. It seemed to Will that this change corresponded to them leaving the higher downs, and the heat seemed to grow more intense, while Little Blue walked beside him, tireless and watchful.

They had been on a long flat stage when Gamilaroi Jim rode up beside Will. For a time they carried on in silence. Cartridge wasn’t so keen on riding close to George, and made his feelings known. Jim turned his head away with the reins, but still kept him riding straight. Nothing was said for a moment or two. Jim never hurried a conversation.

‘Hey bloke,’ he said finally, ‘you remember that time when I borrowed that chestnut from ol’ Judge Briar around Boggabri way, back down South?’

Will grinned at the memory. Jim had indeed borrowed the horse. The judge had foolishly left it saddled outside the Royal Hotel, and Jim had needed it at the time. In any case, an hour later Will, Jim and Sam were heading hell-for-leather north, into the rugged country of the Nandewar Range. They’d ended up high in the sub-alpine air of the Mount Kaputar plateau, amongst snow and ribbon gums, riding shoeless across volcanic fields where the tracks would never show. They inhabited cold overhangs, eating grey kangaroo meat and not much else, while the traps crisscrossed the mountains on their trail, harangued by the judge, furious at the loss of his horse.

‘Coldest month of my life,’ Jim grinned.

Will remembered his mate riding with a blanket wrapped around his torso, and shivering at night camps amongst heath and tea-tree, while soaks that dripped from the cliff face turned to ice. ‘Hard to imagine, up here in this blessed heat,’ he said. ‘But anyways Jim, what’s yer point?’

‘Remember that day, when you reckoned we was safe to leave, and we rode down the Bullawa Valley towards Narrabri.’

‘I remember,’ said Will. ‘You told me that you had a feeling that we was being followed, an’ you doubled back, just in time to save our necks. Gawd what a day, walking the horses down that damn creek for five bloody miles.’

‘We lost them, but,’ said Jim.

‘That’s right, we did.’

Jim rode on in silence again for a bit, the reins in one hand, looking with a distracted gaze around him with only the squeak of leather, and the sound of Afsana chastising his camel somewhere up behind. ‘Well, I got that feeling that we’re being followed again now.’

‘Oh,’ said Will. ‘That aren’t good. What do you reckon we should do?’

‘Might ride back and see,’ Jim went on. ‘Then catch up with youse later.’

‘Good idea.’

Jim gave his horse the spur, surged ahead then wheeled back the way they had come, waving his hat as he passed.

‘Where’s Jim goin’?’ called Lainey.

‘Back to see if we’ve picked up anyone on our tail,’ Will assured her. ‘I doubt that he’ll be too long.’

***

They reached the Playford River in the late afternoon. The chains of waterholes were starting to flow, and herons stood in the channels between, picking off spangled perch and bony bream as they foraged into the shallows. There were fine camping places aplenty, and Lainey did the choosing, selecting a grassy place beside a broad and deep waterhole. There was a fireplace, previously used, with a couple of logs dragged up for use as seats.

Sam had scarcely dropped his bedroll and hobbled out the plant before he was down on the riverbank fishing, soon pulling in a couple of fat grunter.

Jim came riding back, long after they had finished the meal. Cartridge was hot from the run, sweat darkening his flanks. Jim was calm as usual, his bare chest shining in the starlight.

Will stood up to meet him, ‘You find anything?’

Jim dismounted and came into the firelight. ‘Yeah, bloke. When we’d stopped in that bluebush swamp back at dinner time. Three men, follow us, close up like I thought. They tethered the horses, an’ crept near us – walking at first, then on their bellies like grubs an’ watched us from a ridge. Then they went back to the horses, and they ride away real quick.’

Will looked at Jim, then Lainey and Sam. ‘Gone to bring up their mates. Do you reckon it was those buggers from Camooweal?’

‘Two was barefoot – blackfellas – the other was that young bloke who was with the Irishman and the fella with the scarred back.’

Lenny piped up, ‘Well that’s bad news. We should mount up and ride or they’ll be on us.’

Will looked at him, annoyed, ‘Just pipe down and let us think for a bit. It aren’t so simple, an’ we’ve got Afsana to think of too.’ At that moment his gaze turned to Lenny, and something cold passed across his face. He said to Sam, ‘Why don’t you take Afsana down to check your set lines? Jim will be hungry for a feed.’

When they had gone, Will got up and stretched, as if the conversation was over, circled around Lenny without him noticing, then leaned down, grabbed the butt of the other man’s revolver, and lifted it neatly. Before Lenny could react, Will had him covered with the weapon, the muzzle pointed at his chest.

‘Now,’ Will said, ‘before we go any further you need to explain yerself.’

‘What on earth do ya mean?’ spat Lenny, eyes wide. ‘I ain’t been anything but straight with you people since the day we met, and that crazy Irishman shot …’

‘Listen,’ said Lainey. ‘A smart mouth ain’t gonna get you out of trouble. This is life and death. We’ve got a party of no-hopers on our trail, through no fault of our own, an’ we need to know what side yer on.’

‘I’m on your side, a’course,’ said Lenny. But his face had turned pale.

Will raised his chin, ‘Then why did I see you goin’ through the mail, a couple of nights ago, after that damned storm?’

‘I didn’t!’ squealed Lenny.

‘I seen you do it mate. Cut the lies out – they don’t help.’

‘Well, I was jus’ checkin’ that the mail weren’t too wet. That’s all.’

Will’s voice, in reply, was low and matter-of-fact. ‘There was one letter, that you found and held up, like you’d been looking for it. Start talking, or I swear we’ll tie you to a tree, and you can use your sweet talk on whoever’s comin’ to find us.’

‘No, don’t do that. I’ll tell you what I know, but it ain’t much, by any means. My boss, Kennedy, told me to come along – that there’s a letter for a bloke called Williamson – and he said I had to make sure that one gets through. He said that there’s folk who don’t want this Williamson fellow to get his mail. The night after the storm I was checking that it was still there, that it never got too wet.’

Lainey asked the next question, ‘Why was the Irishman and his two mates in Camooweal, have they got something to do with all this?’

‘I think so – but I dunno fer sure. Can you please point that gun somewhere else.’

Will lowered the revolver, and seemed to be about to hand it back. At the last moment, though, he unlocked the cylinder, swung it out, and banged the weapon hard against his hand to allow the caps to dislodge from the nipples and fall to the ground.

He passed the weapon back, ‘I trust you a little more, but not completely. You’ll have to earn the rest.’ Then, as Sam and the boy returned from the river with two more fish, he said, ‘Now it’s time to come up with an idea. We need to do something, and we need to do it fast.’

©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/

Two years earlier, a wedge-tailed eagle had flown from his Bluff Mountain eyrie,  and sailed over the Warrumbungles and the surrounding plains. From that height, he had watched Will Jones, Fat Sam, Gamilaroi Jim and Lainey ride north, pursued by a relentless contingent of New South Wales police, with their trackers and Winchester rifles.

Now, two thousand miles away, his distant, northern relative was aloft over the Barkly. Larger than her male cousin, with darker plumage, her flight, on wings mottled brown and black, seemed effortless. Her hooked, white beak was strong enough to bite through the spine of a kangaroo.

The eagle floated on the warm air, holding station over the earth, watching for opportunity, roving her domain, from coolabah and bluebush swamps to the high downs country – the gravelly ridges, broad plains, and the new, green pick on the dark expanses where dry-season fires had burned their way through.

She knew every waterhole along the Ranken and Playford, had raised clutches in many sites along these rivers. Her mate was back with the nest even now, protecting the young chicks. They were close to fledging, and endlessly hungry.

There were humans too, in the vast tablelands. A camp of Wambaya people, well hidden in the coolabah scrub west of the Ranken, their fires smoking and the smell of cooked meat from the previous day’s hunt wafting up to her nostrils.

Soon afterwards, she saw a gathering of mostly white men on a bend of the Ranken, with pale figures leaving and arriving, noisy chatter and the stamp of horses. Three riders were headed east, and she shadowed them for a time, before peeling off towards the north.

Finally, at the furthest point of her flight, she came to a hill of ribbon stone, in the highest crags of which she had once built a nest. There were humans here too, and she watched a file of riders, horses, and one camel leave their campsite beside the hill and head away, into the black soil plains. She noted, however, that the cameleer and his family remained behind. They had stayed in that place before – she had seen them many times over the years.

Of most interest to the eagle was a nearby mound of loose stones, and as she circled low to investigate, she caught the smell of meat – a large, freshly dead animal. The trees nearby were haunted by waiting ravens, and a whistling kite took to the air as she approached. Talons extended, she landed gracefully on the cairn – taking possession of it – her huge wings braking her landing.

There was meat here, yes, but the eagle understood that she would be unable to penetrate the stones that surrounded it. She would have to wait until the pack of dingoes that patrolled the area found the scent and moved some of the rocks, opening the way. Then there would be a feast for all.

The eagle flapped her wings and returned to the air, prepared to wait, taking a last glimpse at the line of men and horses, as they disappeared towards the Playford River and Alexandria Station.

***

Two hundred miles to the northwest, in the hard-to-reach country between the Hodgson and the Cox rivers, two men were riding fast on a narrow trail through lancewood scrub, avoiding the hard and dangerous branches with difficulty. The rhythm of the hooves was transmitted by the shock of each footfall, and the riders made their bodies fluid, moving with the energy of their mounts.

Rafe Williamson was in the lead, riding with both natural skill and long experience. Behind him came young Matt Power. A branch struck Rafe’s shoulder and snapped, filling the air with the violet-sweet smell of fresh sap. He pivoted easily, avoiding the next hazard, then sped into the clear. Rafe was the wrong side of fifty, but he could still match it with the youngsters.

The two men were laughing, enjoying the chase, splashing through the occasional puddle on the track, splattered with mud to the knees. The horses too, seemed to enjoy the hunt. Fresh from rest and good feed, their energy seemed boundless.

The brumbies came to a rise – a scrubby hill – and they did not hesitate, taking it at the gallop. They slowed on the way up, but there was no room to come alongside to rope them. The brumbies continued uphill, and every sense and muscle went into the chase.

They reached the summit, fighting hard, the first flecks of foam flying from the bit of Rafe’s gelding. The hill shelved onto a flat top, and the scrub gave way to rock and grass. It was dangerous ground at that speed, but the chase did not slacken.

Down the other side they went, so thrilling, frightening and fast that Rafe let out a yell. It was on such ground that good horses showed their mettle, almost supernatural in the way they found their footing and stayed upright.

At the bottom, back into the scrub, they intersected a track. It was there that something unexpected happened. Two horseman came from nowhere, on an intersecting angle, cutting the two brumbies out, and becoming frontrunners in the chase.

‘Hoi there,’ shouted Rafe. But the men did not turn.

The newcomers had fresh horses, and the brumbies were blown. They galloped after them, then turned and guided them expertly into a clearing. Each man roped one of the brumbies, using his own mount to brake and contain them while they reared and kicked.

Rafe followed, slowing his gelding to a walk, and moving into the clearing, the adrenalin in his system turning to bitter acid. He saw that one of the two men was Ted Coombes, son of the Victorian cattle king himself, now manager of the adjoining Bundarra Station. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the quality of his garb stood out – a glossy black shirt, embroidered around the pockets, new moleskins and ‘lastic sided Chelsea boots.

Rafe’s blood boiled, and his fist curled as he rode up. ‘They’re my bloody horses. They come from my run.’

Coombes smirked, ‘Well, I don’t see no brand on them. They’re on my place now, and our ropes are ‘round their necks.’

These words gave Rafe pause. They had crossed the bed of Whiteclay Creek a good mile back, and the boundary slewed across the bends and loops of that waterway.

Coombes had not finished, but he broke off to control another determined run from the brumby he had roped, before continuing. ‘Besides, this whole damned run will be ours in five days – Hemlock Downs as well. The court in Palmerston has given you until the nineteenth of December to produce your damned evidence, and we both know that’s not gonna happen – that’s just four days from now.’

‘Oh, it will. I won’t be tricked into giving the place up,’ said Rafe.

Coombes made a face, like a petulant child. ‘We’ll see about that, but right now I suggest that you get off my family’s land.’

With a final smirk, and the two brumbies trailing from the ropes, he and the other horseman headed back the way they had come.

Rafe was silent and reflective as he idled his horse homewards, with Matt following at the same pace behind. Without speaking, they again climbed the hill they had so recently raced down. It was breezy at the top, but the view was spectacular. From that height they looked down on Bundarra Station, now owned by the Coombes Cattle Company.  

A few months ago, the place had boasted just a few bark-clad buildings, but now that the Coombes family had moved in, there were prefabricated huts for the men and a homestead for the owner’s son, all being thrown up by a small army of labourers.

Rafe continued to watch, bitterness filling his heart. The Coombes company had bought up three stations, all around Hemlock Downs. This, his own run, was the key. Five hundred square miles. It had two perennial creeks, and broad waterholes that never dried up. It was the best finishing country in the area. Rafe knew how much old Howard Coombes wanted it.

There was no problem, however, until Rafe’s aunt, the Lady Beatrice, had fallen ill and died, back in Brisbane, at the age of seventy-three. Her death sparked a calamity he had not expected.

‘You alright boss?’ asked Matt.

‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Let’s go.’

It was a two-hour ride back to the homestead, and an afternoon shower fell as they rode – not heavy rain, but enough to have them stowing matches and tobacco deep into their saddlebags, and making for a sombre ride. It had stopped by the time they reached the house yards, where the men were roping and branding horses. The yards were hewn of unshaped bush timber, but the makers had taken pride in their work.

The cattle work was finished for the year – the herds scattered across the grassy plains of the station, but these men did not have the luxury of rest. They’d used the time to chase brumbies, and yesterday they had caught a good number – eight mares and two male foals, still young enough to be gelded.

Harry Griffin walked across when they arrived. ‘No more horses?’

‘No mate, Ted bloody Coombes stole two from right under our noses. Bastard.’

There were five men working around the yards that day – three white and two black. All were lean from hard work, and there was humour in the way they worked and related with each other.  

Rafe had been considering his options on the ride back, but in that instant, he made a decision. ‘I’m not waiting any longer,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna go and find this damned mail myself, even if I have to ride all night.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Matt. ‘It ain’t good to ride alone.’

Rafe looked at Tom. ‘Can you spare the young feller for a day or two?’

Harry was a Yorkshireman, and he did not mince words. ‘Aye, well, helpin’ you save t’e damned run is more important than anything ‘e could manage here.’

©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/

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
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/

Like many men who were called Afghans in the Australian outback, Mahomet Kahuda Lashari was not from that country. Rather, he was born and bred in Balochistan – the Pakistani province that borders Iran in the west, and Afghanistan in the north.

Mahomet’s homeland was the Suleman ranges, in the north-east of that vast and arid land. He learned, from the time he could walk, to work with camels. Often called dromedaries, or ushter in his native tongue, the camels of this region were famously white, with a flavour of meat revered across the sub-continent. Nomadic Balochis relied on camels for milk, clothing, meat, transport and shelter.

Mahomet had been born a twin, but his elder brother had not survived the umbilical cord that snaked around his neck and choked the life out of him. This was not a good omen, and a stigma followed the younger boy’s early life. He was constantly and unfavourably compared to the boy ‘who might have been.’

The Suleman ranges were rugged – a landscape resulting from chaotic geological faults, with sharp ridges formed of plate-like layers of sandstone and limestone. Survival was a struggle, and nothing was assured, not even tomorrow’s meal. Mahomet learned to be self-reliant, adventurous, and studious. He was clever in learning – able to count to one hundred, and perform basic mathematical equations – by the time he was ten. His reading of Arabic, necessary for study of the Koran, outpaced the lessons given in the shade of desert acacia trees and wild olives.

Mahomet, still a mere herdboy, paid attention when word reached the tribe of an Australian campaign to recruit cameleers and import camels. His cousin Natiq, five years older than Mahomet, became one of recruiter Samuel Stuckey’s 1865 shipment, transported from Karachi to Port Augusta on the schooner Blackwell, with thirty other cameleers and 124 camels. Amongst these were Natiq’s own animals – eight of the famed white camels from the Suleman Ranges.

A letter from Natiq arrived in 1869, praising his adopted land, and offering work for any young men of his clan interested in a new life. The Australian government were building a telegraph line across two-thousand-miles of desert and scrub – spanning the country from north to south. Camel teams, and cameleers to run them, were desperately needed. By the time Mahomet saw this letter, it had passed through many hands and was smudged with grime. The promise it contained, however, remained clear.

Few men were willing to break ties with their homeland, however, and head off across the sea to a life unknown. Wives and families were not permitted, by order of the South Australian government, so only single men were willing to embrace the opportunity.

Mahomet was one of these intrepid souls. He farewelled his mother and father, knowing that he would most likely never see them again, then walked the six camels he owned outright to Karachi, where he visited the agent Natiq had mentioned in his letter. He was given passage on a British steamship, travelling in steerage, cramped and ill-fed, while first class passengers strolled the promenade deck and whiled away the afternoons playing whist and drinking gin and tonic.

For the first two years in Australia, Mahomet worked for his cousin, running a train of the unique white camels, carrying stores between Port Adelaide and the ever-growing telegraph line, that mammoth project that proceeded like a spear into the wilderness. The camels worked ceaselessly, laden down with bales of cable, insulators, wrought iron poles and food supplies.

The watering points along the route soon became as familiar to Mahomet as the oases of home. Beltana, Strangways Spring, the Peake, and Charlotte Waters made the enterprise possible, were places that gave life to a generally dry wilderness.

After the first telegraph signal finally travelled all the way from Europe, across from Java, to Darwin and then south to Adelaide, Mahomet made a cash offer to buy three more camels from his cousin and go into business for himself. The deal was done over coffee in the Port Augusta camp, and an hour later Mahomet was as free as he had ever been in his life.

Heading north, up through the centre and into the burgeoning pastoral regions of the Gulf of Carpentaria, Mahomet specialised in provisioning stations, loading up with supplies at Normanton, Burketown, Southport and Georgetown. The majority of his cartage was foodstuffs, but he also carried specialist items: fabric and fine tools.

By 1874 he was married, in all but the legal meanings of that word, to a woman of the Wambaya people. Their first son died within an hour of his birth, on a dry track south of Calton Hills. Three living sons and two daughters followed.

Years later, on the day that he met Will Jones, Mahomet was an impressive figure. He was tall, almost six feet. His beard had been trimmed occasionally, but never shaved. He did not smoke tobacco or drink alcohol. Bitter coffee, spiced with cardamon, made in a saucepan each morning, was his only real vice, for the green tea he drank in preference to water could hardly be described as such.

 Mahomet observed daily prayer at least three times each day, facing Mecca or as near an estimate as possible. He knew each of his camels by name – had delivered some of them with his own hands. He knew when the females came into season and could recognise pregnancy in the very early stages. He knew their quirks, and habits. They were part of his family.

Mahomet was not accepted by white society, though he was a familiar face to many. He was valued, and even liked. Yet he was not invited inside for tea and scones.

He and his family treated station owners and townspeople with gentle respect. Yet he referred to them with the word ajnabí, meaning ‘foreign.’ And so they remained. He was immersed in his family – his wife, fine sons and clever daughters. This was a life he had made for himself and would never wish to change.

Mahomet’s respect for this harsh and beautiful land grew over time, and the mother of his children was a storehouse of knowledge. Foods and medicines. Finding water. Reading the weather was something she taught him early.

On the route from Avon Downs to Alexandria, that day, he saw the storm coming and decided that it would be severe. He drove the camels hard, then steered for the hill of ribbon stone. He had his sons bring the camels in close, where they would get some protection. They erected a hide tent, with pegs driven deep into the ground.

He left this protection only to watch the party of horsemen that he had seen at Avon Downs ride in behind them, and their frenzied rush to gain shelter. He watched the pack horse stumble and fall.

They needed help. Mahomet had lived and worked in some of the remotest areas of the world. Assisting others was a tenet that he lived by.

***

The sight of Mahomet, appearing from the storm, his beard slick with rain, caused Little Blue, who was running beside Will, to start barking, and George the stallion to rear, heaving up on his forelegs and pawing at the air. Will leaned forwards in the saddle, waited for him to land back on all fours, then encouraged him to move on a few paces. Not only was the stallion unable to rear while walking, it took him out of the line of sight, of the stranger in the night.

Will stopped again, having come to the conclusion that the man on the rocks nearby meant them no harm. The rifle was an unusual one – very long and archaic. It was not pointed in a threatening way, but was being carried loosely. Besides, a flash of lightning allowed him to momentarily see the massed camels deeper in the arms of the hill – glowing almost ghostly white in the rain. This was not an armed attacker, but one of the ‘Afghans’ he had seen earlier, who they had followed on the trail.

‘Stop that,’ Will called to Little Blue, and the barking ceased. Then, to Mahomet, he called out, ‘Greetings there mate. Seems we’re in a spot of bother.’

‘You are carrying the mails, Ajnabí?’

‘That we are. An’ we’ve lost a horse with half the bags back up here.’

‘Wait,’ cried the Balochi cameleer. ‘We will help you.’

Will waited, while Mahomet called for a turbaned boy, who led a single white camel out of their camp, moving at a rapid pace. The older man waved an arm at Will to indicate that they should hurry, and Will got his mount moving, using only the vision afforded by lightning flashes to see the way ahead.

Even then, water from the rain was pouring off the brim of his hat, obscuring all but the near vicinity. The thunder resounded in his head, so his ears buzzed, and his limbs felt weak. He felt a wave of trepidation at what they might find up ahead.

The rain had still not abated when he spotted the wreckage, and the stricken horse, Flint, trying to gain his feet – half rolling – striving and falling back again. Broken panniers and shredded harness hung from his back. Will reined in and dismounted. The ground was strewn with mail bags and some supplies.

Will’s first thoughts, however, were for the horse. Seeing Poor Flint, who had carried Sam so faithfully on countless shared roads and trails, in such obvious pain, made his heart ache.

 He squatted beside the injured horse. Others were coming up now – Mahomet and the boy with the camel, then Sam too walked out of the rain, his face mournful as he joined Will. He touched a hand to Flint’s neck, while the huge brown eyes swivelled plaintively.

They both knew that there was no hope or reprieve. The right leg was snapped clean through, below the knee, and the limb flopped uselessly. These bones, on a horse, were so thin and complex that it was rare to try to let one heal – and impossible on the trail.

‘I will do what must be done,’ said Sam.

Will went back to George, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, and handed it to Sam. The Cantonese man flicked the lever and held the muzzle close to the side of the horse’s head. The gunshot was muffled by the rain and the cloud, melding into the thunder and noise of the rain. The horse kicked once or twice and died.

By then Mahomet and his boy were lifting the mail bags and other rain-soaked gear into the panniers on the side of the camel. When this was done, they made a sombre procession back to Will’s camp.

The boy led the camel in close, and Lainey and Jim helped unload the mail bags, placing them with the other gear, which had been covered with a tarpaulin. Will hoped like hell that the contents of the bags would be dry – canvas was waterproof up to a point, and these would have been treated with paraffin or beeswax.

Mahomet pushed his face close to Will’s, ‘Would you come to our camp? We were here before the rain, and have dry ground.’

‘No, we’ll get something up now – we’ll be alright. Thanks to you and your boy – we are much obliged.’

Mahomet raised himself to his full height, and Will decided that there was something steady and dependable about him. A good man in a crisis.

‘We will speak again in the morning,’ said Mahomet. Then, with no fuss, he, the boy, and the camel disappeared into the chaos of that night.

***

The storm lasted for another hour, then moved on, leaving the country sodden, but the air so clear that the stars seemed close enough to touch. There was, fortunately, enough dry wood under the trees for a warming fire. The bedrolls were partly soaked, and the most cheerful thing was the mutton from Avon Downs, which Sam sawed into chops and fried in a pan.

Then, with the horses hobbled and belled, Lainey went on watch and the others settled down in their swags. For a long while Will was too worried for sleep. He had much to think on – the horse that needed to be buried in the morning and how to replace it – whether the contents of the mailbags might prove to be waterlogged and wrecked.

After a while, however, he drifted off into a deep sleep, from which he did not wake until it was his turn on watch. It was strange to wander the camp, hearing the deep, sawing bray of the camels nearby.

At three ‘o’clock in the morning by drovers’ time, Will finished his turn and kicked Lenny’s foot gently.

‘Your shift, mate.’

Lenny opened his eyes and sat up groggily. ‘Thanks mate, I’m on.’

Will went to his damp bedroll, sat down and took his boots off, before sliding under the blanket. He wanted to stay awake to keep an eye on Lenny, but he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

It must have been Little Blue who woke him, touching a wet nose to the side of the cheek. He opened his eyes. The moon was up now, but that was not what caught his attention. As well as the camels, horses and insects, he heard the sounds of shuffling paper and packaging.

Will sat up, seeing a shape at the mail packs, furtively rifling through them. He reached for his rifle, then paused. The figure, sorting through the mail, was Lenny. He was looking for something, it seemed.

This went on for some time, before Lenny suddenly seemed to relax. He held one item – a thick envelope – up to the moon and starlight, and Will heard his sigh of relief. It looked like nothing special, from that distance.

Surprisingly, Lenny put the envelope back with the other mail, shoved it all into the bag, and refastened the cords that secured it. This made no sense to Will at all. Confronting him now seemed to be the obvious thing to do, but might it not be better to let Lenny think that no one suspected him?  

Will lay back down again, allowed Little Blue to wriggle a little closer and lay stiffly awake, worrying and thinking until dawn.

©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/

They pitched camp beside the track, on enough of a rise to have a grand view across the plains. The sun was just settling into the west, with a mantle of lava-red, when Will set his pocket watch to drovers’ time, and assigned each man, and Lainey, a two-hour night duty.

This method had been developed in the bush when there was no way of knowing the real time. Sunset was pegged as six pm, and this allowed the boss drover to set shifts for the nightwatchmen, who would be out minding the mob. On this night the need was different, but the technique served its purpose. Will had no intention of letting his little crew be surprised in their sleep by unwelcome visitors.

‘We ain’t got no herd, bloke,’ Jim had said. ‘No point standin’ watch is there?’

‘We’re goin’ to anyway,’ said Will. ‘Whether we needs to or not. You still only got two cartridges for that Henry carbine left, so keep yer squirt handy too.’

‘What about Lenny?’ Jim hissed. ‘You trust ‘im enough to take a turn, bloke?’

‘We have to learn to trust the barsted,’ said Will, ‘and if that’s a mistake we’ll know soon enough. Besides, he’s got the dawn watch, after mine. I plan on staying awake to keep an eye on him.’

Will ate the evening meal of salt beef and johnny cakes standing up, unable to relax until Lainey officially became their sentry, borrowing his Winchester and heading a little way off from the fire. Then, knowing that in the coming days sleep would be at a premium, he’d unrolled his swag, kissed the girl on the postcard goodnight, waited until Little Blue curled against his leg, then went to sleep.

Will didn’t dream often, but that night his mind drifted over the landscape of time, through the years and into forgotten places. Perhaps it was the security of having a man, or woman, out on watch, but this sleep was deeper than usual, and spiced with memories, good and bad.

His mind roved back to his childhood, in the Southern New South Wales town of Gullen Creek. His Ma and four kids in a shanty, clad with bark, and his old man coming and going with the seasons. Sometimes turning up at midnight full of rum and rough manners, sometimes riding in during the day, stopping for a week, sometimes a month depending on the family bank balance.

The old man worked his offspring hard when he was home – clearing scrub, ploughing and planting, and Will worshipped him. All through his adult life he’d have given anything for one more hour with his dad, down by the creek with cat-gut fishing lines in their hands, or lying prone, beside each other, rifles in their hands, waiting for the fox who was stealing chooks from the henhouse.

That reunion would never happen. One spring, when Will was fourteen, the old man did not come home for several months. Word came of a distant accident – a fall from a horse, and a grave near a billabong, out on the Hay Plains. Will remembered his Ma’s face, on that day, when a man in battered clothes and hat came to tell them. How she fell silent for a time, then went back to the pot, and the needle, and the axe. A woman running a family has no time to stop and grieve.

The dreams were so vivid and deep, that in the early hours of the morning, when Sam kicked Will’s ankle gently, it took him a few moments to return to the present.

‘Your turn,’ said Sam, then shambled off towards his swag.

Will climbed out from under his blanket, collected his rifle from where Lainey had left it, then moved out of the firelight so his eyes would adjust. Twenty or thirty yards away he slung the rifle and squatted. Dreaming had left his mind hazy and strange.

Somewhere, far out in the night, a dingo howled, and Little Blue’s ears pricked up. He whined once, paced restlessly for a few moments, then moved back to Will, who laid a hand on his neck.

 His eyes focussing now, Will could see the silhouettes of their horses, scattered nearby, and the soft tinkle of night bells. Further out on the plain were the grey blobs of sheep. This was Avon Downs land – one of the biggest, most northerly sheep runs in the country – eighty miles from north to south and just as wide.

According to bush lore, the owner, Thomas Guthrie, had employed a drover called Wallace Caldwell, and a team of crack stockmen, to drove 10,000 maiden ewes and 850 rams from his property Rich Avon in Western Victoria, 1,800 miles to this massive slice of the Barkly he had purchased in a land auction. Travelling via Balranald, Ivanhoe, Cunnamulla, Jundah and Boulia, only a man with Will’s experience could truly imagine the trials and tribulations they must have faced on that drive.

Over the ghostly savannah glittered a jewellery box of stars and the cold crescent of a waning moon. A line from the poem Lenny had quoted earlier in the day came to mind: at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars …

 The words played in Will’s mind, linking with the memories of his dreams. Gullen Creek seemed not so far away, and he wondered if his Ma was looking up at those same stars and moon and thinking of he and Lainey.

He stood up and walked around. It felt better to be on the move. Every sound he heard was a hostile horseman. Every curlew’s scream was a woman in peril. He willed the morning to come. Even the heat of the day was less troubling than this night of memories and shadows.

***

The Avon Downs main station, when they reached it the following day, was more of a small village than a homestead. Spread around a good waterhole on the James River, the air was thick with the lanolin smell of sheep, and their bleating carried on the wind. Dust from the yards drifted across their path as they rode in, and smoke belched from the stack of a stationary steam engine pumping water, near the homestead. A woolshed stood a few hundred yards to the east – rudimentary, but big enough, Will guessed, for sixteen stands.

Overall, Will looked with satisfaction at the well-ordered buildings and calm activity. Two men were hot-shoeing a horse outside a smithy’s shop, from which a shower of sparks and the sound of clanging emerged. Further down, outside the station store, was an Afghan camel train.

The turbaned cameleer, assisted by some younger men, who might have been sons or friends, was in the process of heading off from the station. The huge beasts – their coats an unusually pale colour, almost white – were loaded down with large panniers and bulging saddle bags.

Mindful to keep their distance and stay out of the way, Will, Lainey, Sam, Jim and Lenny came to a halt outside the homestead; dismounting, stretching and swigging from water bags.

It seemed to Will, as he went to access the mail packs, that the bare dust of the roadway multiplied the heat of the sun. While Sam held the horses steady, he delved into the panniers. The station mail bags were marked, and the nearest had been left on top.

 Will carried the bag in one hand, as he walked towards the homestead. He was halfway there when the manager walked from the office to meet him, also carrying a return bag. He was a young man of barely thirty, in moleskins and blue shirt, with a revolver in a holster at his belt and a fine felt hat.

‘You must be here with the mail,’ the manager cried. ‘About time too. I’m John Affleck, and we’ve been waiting for you.’

The two men exchanged incoming and outgoing mail bags, then reached for pipes, tobacco and matches.

‘I thought maybe Tom Maconsh would be back on his feet by now,’ Affleck said. ‘He didn’t seem too bad when he came through here.’

‘He’s still poorly as yet,’ said Will. ‘So you get us instead. Do you mind if we take the horses down to the billabong before we head off?’

‘Of course not. Then you and your crew are welcome as my guests for the night.’

Will shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, mate, but we’ve got five or six more hours of light to travel in. We’d best be on our way, if that’s alright by you.’

‘Fair enough, but call in at the kitchen for a quarter of mutton to take for tonight’s tucker, and a loaf or two of bread. How well do you know this country?’

‘Not at all,’ said Will. ‘Though one of me mates has been through this way before. Andy Kellick, back in Camooweal, slung me a handy map, too.’

‘Sounds like you’ll be alright then. But bear in mind that old Mahomet, and the other Afghans you saw leaving, will be ahead of you on the road – they’re off to Alexandria Station too – they know this country damned well, so if you get into trouble just look for them.’

As they rode away, towards the billabong, Will was impressed at how popular the bearers of mail seemed to be in these parts. The next stage of the journey, however, was filling him with a sense of disquiet. Jane Kellick’s warning remained on his mind: You’ll be right as far as Avon Downs, but after that … don’t take the usual routes, stay off the main track.

***

For the first hour after leaving Avon Downs, Will could see no alternative but to stay on the road, cutting like a knife across the plains, with the horizon obscured by the heat haze, and the horses reluctant to do anything but walk. Occasional attempts to get them trotting were untidy and short-lived, and they refused to continue past any small running channel, fed by recent storms, without stopping for a drink.

The camel train they’d seen back at the station was still ahead of them, for the broad, two-toed hoof prints of the beasts, overlaid each other on the track. Will was surprised at how fast the Afghans and their charges moved – he’d thought that his party would have soon caught up to them, despite more than an hour’s start.

The road itself was hard-baked in places, and soft mud in others. Wagon tracks had created ruts in the boggiest portions, and the horses all wore socks of mud. Flint – the rear most pack – liked to stop and thump his hooves against the road, in an attempt to remove this coating.

Will was lost in thought when Jim, who was riding ahead, shouted back. ‘Hey bloke, those camels turned off here. Whaddawe do?’

Will urged his stallion forwards, and caught up to his mate. He saw plainly where the camel tracks had left the main road, and turned onto a pad that could hardly be called a bridle trail. Delving into his saddle bags, Will brought out his map, studying it carefully while the others gathered around. Even Little Blue stopped in the shade cast by a horse, and looked puzzled.

‘This surely aren’t the main track,’ Will said. ‘That would still be miles ahead.’

Jim leaned over from the saddle and drew an imaginary line on the map with his finger, from their current position to intersect the Alexandria Road near the Ranken River. ‘A short cut, see?’

‘Makes sense,’ said Will. ‘Anyhow, the Afghan’s going to the same place as us, so we might as well follow along.’

Lenny made a scoffing noise in his throat. ‘I know it ain’t my place to say, but shootin’ off cross-country follerin’ an Afghan don’t sound like a common sense approach to me.’

Will thought about it for a moment. Jane Kellick had warned him to stay off the main road – this was, apart from anything else, a good opportunity to start doing so. ‘What some folks call common sense has never appealed to me much,’ he said. ‘That Afghan is going where we are going, leaving a trail that a blind man could follow, an’ if it’s a short cut so much the better.’

Lenny raised his hands, palms upwards, ‘Up to you, Will. Just playin’ t’devils advocate.’

‘Afghans know this country,’ said Sam, adding his weight to the argument.

‘Whatever we’re doin’ let’s just get on with it,’ Lainey said. ‘Standin’ in the middle of a dirt track is prob’ly the hottest thing we could do. Which way?’

Will pointed to the camel tracks. ‘We’ll follow them. At least for a while, an if we don’t like it we can head west ‘til we hit the Ranken.’

As they rode onto the new route, the horses seeming not particularly keen on continuing to follow the camels, Will sidled his horse up beside Jim. Ignoring Cartridge raising his head and braying at George, he said, ‘It’d be a good thing if no one could see where we turned off, back there. Can you fix it?’

Jim grinned, ‘You know I can.’ And he wheeled his horse and headed back to work his magic on the spoor. He was back with them in a quarter hour, and Will felt a little easier in his heart as they moved on into the north-west on a wide black-soil plain, with an occasional ribbon-stone hill in the distance.

As the day wore on, the mugginess increased to hellish levels. A storm was building on the northern horizon, sending out a mantle of high cloud in advance. Soon, the sky was no longer blue, but grey, with not a breath of wind or breeze stirring.  

The only sound, apart from the caw of an occasional raven, was that of Lenny’s voice. Their guest had found that Sam was the only member of the party who would listen to him for more than a few minutes at a time. He was prattling on about a man and wife he’d known in the port town of Mackay, who’d given birth to six daughters in succession, then finally a son.

‘It were the strangest thing,’ said Lenny. ‘The daddy was truly happy when he heard that ‘is wife ‘ad dropped a son. But that were until he went inside to view the babe – he were as Chinese-lookin’ as you are, Sam.’

The story went on with the ramifications of this discovery. The father’s anger, and his vowing to track down the oriental who’d had congress with his wife. The story was mildly interesting to Will, something to take his mind off the heat and sweat. In fact, he was in somewhat of a daze when Jim rode up alongside.

‘That storm out there is a proper bad gully-raker, and it’s comin’,’ said Jim.

‘I agree,’ said Will. ‘And not even one damned tree for shelter. How long do you reckon?’

‘Before sunset,’ was the reply.

‘Maybe we should have stayed at Avon Downs for a night,’ Lainey said from behind them. ‘Gets tiresome, you makin’ decisions without askin’ anybody all the time.’

‘We got a job to do,’ replied Will. ‘Best we get it done as fast as we are able.’

Over the next hour the vision splendid of the plains changed to something far less promising. The northern horizon became a towering wall of black cloud, thrown over the landscape like the cape of Bram Stoker’s monster. The upper levels formed a circular turret of dark purple. Soon the first heavy notes of thunder shook the earth. By then Little Blue was walking as close to George’s legs as he could safely manage.

‘It’ll be on us in no time,’ said Lainey.

Jim pointed to the west. ‘We might be in luck – see a hill over that way?’

Will turned to look. There was indeed a hill – maybe a half-mile distant – and it looked as if there were trees around the base.

‘Some shelter better than nothing,’ agreed Sam.

‘Alright. Let’s go,’ said Will. ‘Get these barsteds moving. It will give them something to think about other than just fretting.’

‘Yah,’ Jim called, galloping out behind them. ‘Let’s go.’

As so often happened with storms, once they’d made up their mind to break loose, it happened fast. This one swept across the plains without checking. The thunder was like gunfire from a ship’s broadside.

The hill, Will realised, was further away than it had seemed at first. They tried to hold the pack horses to a trot, but they were maddened, frightened, complaining, straining at the long ropes that held them together.

‘Be brave, my beauties,’ called Lainey. ‘Trust us.’ But they had no choice but to let the knots loose, releasing those that they could reach, but they were still running in their strings.

Just a quarter mile away now, Will could see the fractured layers of ribbon stone that made up the ridge. Too far, even with the headlong nature of their flight.

They had almost reached it when the rain started. It came down with violence. Like an airborne lake seeking a return to the earth. The whole company, humans, horses, harness were all soaked in an instant. It rained like the great flood was coming.

The horses were still spread out and racing. But George kept his head. Will circled back, still trying to settle the packs and spares, in this nightmare of light, sound and water. Sam and Jim were doing their best to separate them on the run.

Flint, the rearmost packhorse fell, and the lead rope snapped. The leaders of the string reared and ran on. The panniers broke open, and Will saw mail bags falling out into the rain.

They had no choice but to ride on. The rest of the horses were in full flight, and could not be stopped.

Finally, they reached the hill, Will and the others guiding the horses around to the leeward side, slowing them down, grabbing bridles and bringing them under control, up close to the cliffs and into the hard-trunked trees, where the wind was not quite so fierce.

Dismounted now, Will was glad of the extra hand, with Lenny assisting in securing the horses, bringing them in and securing them with lead ropes to trunks and branches.

Lightning struck a tree up on the ridge or perhaps the hill itself, the night filled with the explosion of light and sound. The horses reacted again; rearing, whinnying, and it took patience and persistence to steady them.

‘Right,’ called Will, picking out Lainey’s face, protected only a little by her hat from the streaming rain. ‘I’m going back to see to Flint and rescue what mail I can.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ said Lainey.

 Will ignored her, running back to where he had left George, still saddled and ready. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up, calling ‘Gee-up,’ once sharply, and turning that brave stallion into the driving rain.

At first, he stayed in close to the stone buttresses of the hill, that peeled down from the summit like ficus roots. As he rounded the corner there was another bright flash of lightning, and for a fraction of an instant he saw a man holding a rifle, his beard long and unkempt, his eyes merciless. Then it was dark again.

©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/

When Will, Lainey, Jim and Sam stopped out the front of the post office in Camooweal’s main street, they had eleven horses in all – their riding mounts along with four packs and three spares. Jim’s buckskin, Cartridge, was trying to assert himself as the dominant male, while George seemed oblivious to the other stallion’s provocations: minding his own business and complying with anything Will asked of him. Lainey was on the chestnut she’d been resting, and Sam rode the new mare. Little Blue walked at the rear, as if he were checking for stragglers.

The packs walked in a string, fastened with a quick-release knot to Jim’s saddle, while the spare riding horses were split between the others. Sam’s old gelding, a Clydesdale-cross called Flint, was now a packhorse, and he was none too happy about the change – they’d tried putting him second in the string, but the lead mare wanted nothing to do with him, and they’d been forced to run him in the back.

Andy Kellick was out the front of the shop, hauling up eight partially-filled mail bags. They were, Will saw, made of grubby canvas, dark between the stitches from ink rubbed from thousands of envelopes. The tops were secured with knotted hemp cord, woven through steel eyelets.

‘Here, give us a hand with this lot, boys.’

The four companions dismounted and hurried to help. Lainey, as was her habit in these wayback towns, did not display her gender, keeping her hair under her hat, and her shirt loose. If there was no need to speak, she did not do so at all. She grabbed one of the bags with both hands, and hoisted it out onto the roadway next to the pack horses, where Jim was already comparing weights, testing how best the mail might be stowed.

 The Postmaster called Will over with a whistle and a curled finger.

‘Cut out the whistling,’ said Will, wandering over. ‘I aren’t a bloomin’ dog.’

‘Of course you aren’t,’ said Kellick. ‘Forgive me for being rude in my haste and anxiousness. This mail is a week overdue already.’ He took a folded square of paper from his pocket, and passed it into Will’s hands. ‘I don’t know if you have a map, but here’s one you’ll find handy.’

Will unfolded the paper and squinted at the map, while the Postmaster went on.

‘It’s an official chart of the top section of the Territory, from here across to the Murranji, and all the way up to Palmerston. The track is marked clear as day – I’ve traced it over with ink so there’s no mistake – Avon Downs, Alexandria Station on the Playford. Then Creswell Creek – Anthony’s Lagoon and down to the headwaters of the McArthur.’

Will studied the map for a bit, then secreted it in his saddle bags, before rolling some tobacco between his hands, and pinching it into the bowl of his pipe. Things always seemed easy, looking at a few lines on a map. There would be, he knew from experience, a lot of sweat, blood and tears on that route.

‘Thanks mate, a map’ll be handy.’ He peered at the side window towards the back of the house next to the post office while he lit his pipe. ‘How’s poor old Tom Maconsh getting on?’ he asked.

‘Much better – well – not good enough to get up and wave goodbye, but I reckon he’ll be fit as a fiddle by the time you get back.’

Will said nothing, just clamped his pipe between his teeth, and wandered over to help the others balance and fill the panniers – some of the mail bags were heavier than others, so they had to be arranged with care.

‘Look who’s comin’’ said Lainey suddenly, and Will turned to see two men heading down the road towards them. One man was on horseback, with a laden packhorse following. The other was the hotelier, Kennedy, on foot. Will realised that the mounted man was Lenny, the hotel rouseabout. He was dressed for a journey, with the butt of a rifle extending from a riding scabbard on the off side of his gelding.

Kennedy walked up, shook hands with Kellick, then Will. ‘Last minute extra, if that’s alright by you good people. It turns out that I’ve got some business at the McArthur – Lenny’s heading up to conclude it for me. No point to him riding alone when there’s company to be had.’

Will tried to keep his thoughts hidden. The last thing he wanted was an extra man along on the trip. He didn’t trust Kennedy, and his bearded offsider by association. Yet, he had two horses that hadn’t been paid for, and that meant that he was in Kennedy’s debt. Looking for support, he glanced at Lainey, who took on a pained expression, then nodded her head once. Jim shrugged as if to say he didn’t care one way or the other. Sam was too busy checking his mare’s feet to involve himself.

‘If Lenny wants to ride with us, that’s alright,’ said Will.

‘Mighty nice of you,’ said Lenny. ‘T’wouldn’t have been much fun on my lonesome. Got plenty of tucker here to share too, thanks to Mr Kennedy.’

Will wondered what else was in those packs, but he didn’t say so. ‘That’s settled,’ he said. ‘Let’s get finished and hit the track.’

While they finalised the packing, Jane Kellick emerged from the front door of her house, stopped to pat the fat basset hound that haunted the front yard, then walked along the street towards her husband, avoiding Will’s eyes. She sidled up and said something to Andy.

The Postmaster’s face took on a distasteful expression. ‘I have things to attend to – including the funeral of poor John Weir today,’ he announced, ‘but Jane and I wish you safe travels. By God’s Grace we’ll see you back here at the end of the month.’

When he had gone Will checked the girth on his horse, then the packs one last time. They seemed to be sitting well enough, and could be adjusted on the journey when necessary.

‘Righto then,’ he said. ‘Let’s mount up, and get this enterprise started.’

The little gang needed no further urging. The sun was already clear of the horizon, sending daggers of heat into the street. It was time to get some miles down.

With the first of the riders clear, Sam stayed on his feet, reading the body language of his old friend, Flint. Now, fully laden with mail, the gelding showed no interest in going anywhere, let alone a 900-mile return journey. He dragged on the lead rope so stubbornly, that it threatened to snap.

‘Yah,’ cried Sam, smacking him on the rump with an open hand. Finally, reluctantly, Flint set off, following the others, with a snort and a stagger. Sam mounted up and followed along behind.

Will, riding at the lead, turned to see Kennedy on the street, waving them goodbye, and Andy Kellick skulking near the front door of his cottage.

Damn you all, and yer secrets, Will said to himself. I don’t care what you mongrels throw at me. I’ll get this damned mail to Borroloola and back. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.

***

For the first ten minutes, through the town and into the grasslands, Lenny rode beside Will and prattled like a child. He started with what he’d eaten for breakfast then sang the praises of his gelding, and Will’s magnificent stallion.

‘I know for a fact that Mr Weir …’ He took off his hat, momentarily, and held it to his chest with one hand, ‘… may he rest in Heavenly peace, paid thirty quid for that horse in Palmerston. So, Mr Kennedy gave you a damned good deal.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Will, then looked back and caught the eye of Lainey, and Jim. Neither seemed enamoured of the constant chatter. Jim, particularly, liked a quiet ride.

‘You got any ‘lations down in Brisbane?’ asked Lenny.

‘None that I recall,’ Will said.

‘Well, there’s a stack of folk called Jones down there,’ he said. ‘Charley Jones worked on the wharves if I remember …’

Lainey spurred her horse and came up even with them. She’d released her hair from her hat, and it hung down past her shoulders. Her eyes were blazing as she came alongside. ‘Do you ever give yer darn jaw a rest?’ she asked.

Lenny, seeing her long hair for the first time, gaped in amazement. ‘You’re a …’

‘I’m a bloody what?’ snapped Lainey.

Again, Lenny’s hat came off. ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you miss.’

‘Don’t worry about that rubbish.’ Then to Will. ‘If we stick to this pace for the whole trip it’s gonna take weeks. How ‘bout we see if these nags can handle a trot?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. It’s worth a try. C’mon boys, let’s get them moving.’ He shortened the reins and squeezed with his knees, and George responded by moving into a comfortable, two-beat pace. Will posted – pivoting his weight off his hips, forwards and back – to keep the rhythm.

The pack horses were the main issue, and they all kept an eye on them. The lead mare had done so many miles in this way that she knew how to match the pace of the riders. It was only Flint who fought the extra effort, until Jim rode alongside and urged him on.

They kept the pace up for a good ten minutes before Will called it back. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, ‘and it weren’t bad, considerin’ the new horses and all that damned mail. We’ll alternate though the day and see how far we get.’

The customs post that marked the border between Queensland, and the Northern Territory of South Australia came up, before long, on the northern side of the road. It was attended by two surly men with beards. South Australia was famously vigilant about their customs duties.

‘We’re bringin’ the Territory Mail,’ Will called out. ‘So bugger the formalities and let us through.’

The words worked like magic. Mail was sacrosanct in the back blocks. It was the lifeblood of finance, romance and an antidote to loneliness. Happiness and men’s and women’s futures depended on it. Mail was a serious business, and no lowly official would dare to slow them down.

Will felt a new sense of freedom on the other side of the border. His crimes in Queensland were slight, but he was wanted in New South Wales. As far as he knew, an extradition order still stood. Entering the Territory did not make him untouchable, but pursuit would be more difficult.

Here, the grasslands stretched out forever, two and three-foot-high and golden in the sun – covering a vast plain. It was a sight to raise the hair on the forearms, and set a deep, thrilling excitement – to ride forever in the magic of that place.

‘I were just readin’ a poem, in the new edition of the Bulletin last night,’ said Lenny. ‘It went something like, “an’ he sees the vision splendid, of the sunlit plains extended, and at night the wondrous glory of the everlastin’ stars … well I forget the rest, but they was pretty words. Fella called Andrew Patterson was the poet – I’ve got it in me saddlebags.’

Will nodded to himself. The poet’s words summed up what he saw and felt perfectly. ‘Well that Mister Paterson must have been up here to the Barkly to write that. I’ve never seen country like it – no wonder there’s been such a rush to get the herds up here.’

Yet, to Will’s eyes it was not completely flat. There were low points and high points, gullies where the water would flow in the wet season – nothing that could really be termed a hill, but there was the occasional low rise, no more than a few feet above the surrounding flats.

On one of these, at least a mile from the track, Jim spotted the tiny figures of two horsemen, both mounted.

‘Oi,’ he called. ‘Two fullas south from here.’

Will swivelled his head, ‘Good work mate. I can see ‘em. Just keep riding everybody.’

‘Who dya reckon they are?’ Lainey asked.

‘Well, we must be getting close to Avon Downs land, so could be a couple of boundary riders.

As they rode on, Will turned his head to look a few times and they were still there, still mounted … just watching.

©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/

The following day Will did as he had promised, staying away from town, and preparing for the trip. They would need two packhorses for their provisions, and two more for the mailbags. This change required some new harness, and fortunately Gamilaroi Jim was a dab hand with leather: cutting, shaping, and using the stitching awl like the craftsman he was.

Fat Sam, meanwhile, was providing a regular supply of yellowbelly from the river – one specimen was of a particularly impressive size. Sam was so proud of this fish that, while normally the little pocket of meat near the eyes, and the eyeballs themselves were his favourite parts to eat, this time he preserved the head, placing it on a stick to dry.

‘You aren’t bringin’ that stinkin’ thing along on the mail run with us,’ declared Lainey.

Sam looked unhappy, and clasped his arms across his chest. ‘Might leav’im be ‘til we come back,’ he said. ‘Nice and dry by then.’

In between other tasks, Will took the opportunity to tack up the new stallion, and take him for a ride. The first time he tried this, Cartridge appeared and stamped and snorted, until Jim came and took him away.

 The new horse seemed too good to be true, so Will was expecting trouble when he first swung up, took his seat, and invited him to show what he was made of. Nothing untoward happened. He was just a damned tractable horse, who seemed to be just as happy with a quiet amble along the creek, as with a lively trot.

Late in the day Will took him down into a dry stretch of riverbed and brought him up to a trot, then a canter. With full confidence he leaned forward, bridging the reins and letting his hands lie on the horse’s neck. The speed of the stallion as he moved into the gallop was not breathtaking, but it was impressive.

Will’s hat flew from his head and clumps of dirt flew from the stallion’s hooves. It was an exhilarating ride, and the horse seemed to enjoy it. After a while they encountered a small side-creek, and Will let him slow to a walk, explore and drink when he wanted, noting the great strength in his hindquarters as he sloshed through water and mud.

When horse and rider returned to camp, Will dismounted, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

Lainey scowled, ‘Has that nag got a name, or what?’

‘I forgot to ask old Kennedy what it was. So I’m gonna give him a new name.’ Will looked up at the horse, then at Lainey. ‘You know that song them Scots are always singin’ when they’re drunk? Bonnie George Campbell it’s called.’

Lainey screwed up her eyes. ‘I reckon so. That one about the bloke who rides off to war, and ‘is horse comes back alone.’ She bunged on a Scottish brogue and sang: ‘High upon Hielands and low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rode oot on a day. Saddled and bridled, sae bonnie rode he, Hame cam’ his guid horse, but never came he.’

‘That’s the one. Well I’m gonna call this fella George.’

‘That’s a ridickaless name for a horse.’

‘I don’t care. George it is.’

Lainey pulled a face, ‘Anyhow, I’m gonna ride up to town meself – I need a few things that you men don’t know or think to buy.’

Will held out the reins, ‘You can ride George if you want, since he’s saddled and all.’

Lainey made a face, ‘I’d rather stick sharp rocks up my toenails than ride a horse called George, no matter how big and han’some he is.’ She hefted her saddle and whistled for her gelding.

Will laughed. Lainey’s whistling seldom worked, but she persevered with it for a bit, then gave up and went off to hunt the horse on foot. Finally, she headed off to town, while Will brushed George down and finished with the packing.

While Lainey was absent a brief but violent storm thundered like the devil, blew like the blazes then dropped half an inch of rain in ten minutes before moving off across the plains, leaving the air a little cooler.

Soon afterwards, Lainey returned, with bulging saddle bags, and a worried face.

‘What’s happening up in town?’ Will asked.

‘They’ve just let the Irishman’s two mates loose – damn stupid idea if you ask me. They were up there laughin’ and howlin’ about how smart they are.’

Will made a face. The law just made no sense sometimes. ‘Are they still in town?’

‘Nope, they rode out towards the Territory border, same direction as we are headin’.’

Will lowered his gaze and said nothing. He would have preferred not to have that pair on the loose, at least not in the same part of the country as him.

***

Sam cut fresh fish into strips, and fried it in the wok with spices from the mysterious, small leather bags he carried everywhere they went. Served with rice, and chopped up vegetables, it was a veritable feast, and the fish had that faint earthy flavour that was not unpleasant to those who are used to it.

When the meal was done, they passed a bottle of rum around the fire, and discussed the mail route – Avon Downs, Alexandria and the other stations along the way. Dry stages, at least, seemed unlikely with so many storms around, though Will knew well that a full-blown monsoon would be a problem for them.

All in all, he had to admit, it was going to be a hard way to earn twenty quid, especially since they had already spent half of it on horses.

Big day tomorra,’ said Will. ‘I’m going to get all the sleep I can.’

***

Rolling out of his swag before dawn, Will saw that while it was still dark, the sun was glimmering under the horizon, so full of the promise of fiery heat, that he guessed that the rim of a volcano crater might look similar. The moon had set, but the morning star was as bright as he had ever seen it. Grabbing his rifle, and a couple of pages of the Northern Miner newspaper, he headed away from camp for his ablutions, hearing the bells of the horses reacting to his approach, thankful that there had been no problems between the two stallions during the night.

Five minutes later he was on his way back to camp, enjoying the relative cool of the morning. Somewhere out across the river he heard a barking owl, always a favourite, but was there another sound, back towards town? He wasn’t certain, even when he stopped and turned that way.

Hoofbeats, yes, someone in a hurry. The sound seemed to be getting louder, heading this way. He moved to a low rise just ahead to get a better view, moving his eyes, scanning for better night vision.

Then he saw it – a horse and rider coming fast from back towards the Chinese gardens. He lifted his rifle, worked the lever to force a cartridge into the breech, but carefully thumbed the hammer down.

The rider, it seemed, would ride all the way up camp, but then, less than a quarter mile away, they reined in, dismounted and fastened the horse to a handy tree. The light was by then just enough to discern them heading towards the camp on foot, sticking to the river brush for cover. Will’s hackles were up. People who meant well did not behave like that. Yet the figure did not appear to be carrying a long-arm, and they did not seem to move like a natural bushman.

Will considered rousing the camp. Yet, he could not do so without alerting their unwanted visitor. He did not want them to run or ride away. He wanted to know who the hell they were, and what their purpose might be.

Crouching over, and holding the rifle steady across his body, he began to run towards, but a little way behind, the elusive shadow. Will was barefoot, and he ran with very little sound.

Reaching the riverbank, he changed direction, heading back towards camp now, following, watching, catching glimpses of the compact figure up ahead. At the last moment his foot broke a twig and the fugitive turned. Will did not stop, but ran on, using one hand to thrust at their back, pushing them to the ground, where they lay, face down.  

Will raised the rifle, and held it steady. ‘Turn around, slowly,’ he said.

‘Don’t shoot,’ came a voice. ‘I beg of you. Don’t shoot.’

There were two, closely related surprises. One was that the voice was soft and feminine, the other that the face revealed, in the light of that picaninny dawn, was that of Jane Kellick, the Postmaster’s Wife.

‘Jesus,’ said Will. ‘What the hell are you doing, creepin’ up on our camp like this?’

She sat up. There was dirt on her cheek and nose, and she touched at the former and examined her hand, as if to see if there was any blood.

‘I came to give you a warning,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t it have bloody waited until it was light?’

‘No,’ she scrambled to her feet. ‘It can’t wait.’

‘Well, why get off your horse and sneak up like that?’

Her eyes blazed with the same shades as the horizon. ‘I didn’t know exactly where your bloody camp is. Your fire must have burned down, and it was only that I saw a couple of horses that I knew I was close. Anyhow, listen, you’re wasting time. I have to get back, but first you need to listen to me.’

‘What for?’

‘You’re in danger, well at least you will be. On the mail run, you’ll be right as far as Avon Downs, but after that … don’t take the usual routes, stay off the main track.’

‘Why should I do what you tell me? You an’ yer husband seem to be poisonin’ that poor cow Tom Maconsh up there.’

‘Poisoning?’ she spat. ‘I’m saving his damned life, and now I’m trying to save yours. I have to go, but stay off the route, and keep your wits about you, or they’ll be bringing you and your mates back here, in boxes on the back of a wagon.’

Her eyes bored into Will, and he could think of nothing to say. Finally he managed a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

She heaved a sigh, ‘At least I’ve got bloody through to you. I have to go, but when you go to get the mailbags don’t tell my husband that I was here.’

Will shook his head, just stood there with the barrel of his rifle pointing at the ground, as she turned her back and headed off down along the bank to her horse.

©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/

Edward James Bartlett glanced out the carriage window, as it came to a stop on Flinders Street, diagonally opposite the weatherboard structures that made up the Melbourne Terminus, and behind it, the River Yarra. Across Swanston Street was the partially complete St Paul’s Cathedral, its construction having been dogged by disputes between the Church and builder, and cost overruns that each blamed on the other.

A footman opened the coach door. ‘Young and Jackson’s, sir.’

‘About time too,’ said Edward. ‘Tell Lionel to take the carriage up and wait in Flinders Lane. I will stroll up to Mackay and Company tailors for a fitting after the meeting. I may be as late as five pm.’ His hand reached for the handle of a brown leather briefcase on the floor, bundling it with his umbrella.

‘Very good sir,’ said the footman.

Edward stepped up onto the pavement, the case in his hand, and the umbrella under the same arm. Light rain had been falling when he left Fitzroy, and the fabric was still a little damp, though now the sun peeped over the top of the three-storey hotel known widely as Young and Jackson’s. Officially named the Prince’s Bridge Hotel, the bustling pub was already a city institution, and an attractive edifice – built from a dark basalt called bluestone, quarried in Footscray and used in most of the city’s fine buildings.

Edward couldn’t help noticing the carriage drawn up on the kerb ahead, outside the fishmongers. The panels were glossy with high-class joinery, and a coat of arms adorned each door – the type drawn up by heraldry companies for families with New Money and no history. The conveyance was worth three times as much as Edward’s, which was the partial cause of the red ink in his bank book, and constant letters from the manager. Appearances were important, however, particularly when substance was lacking.

Substance was what Edward hungered for – a mansion in Toorak – his boys educated at Scotch College with the sons of politicians and powerbrokers – and a London season every couple of years for good measure. That kind of life was ahead of him. It merely required hard work, and the application of his brain, always thinking three steps ahead of the rest.

As he passed the main door, Edward could smell the stale beer stink of the front bar, and hear the loud banter of working class men as they drank their cheques down. The public bar, however, was not his destination. Instead, he walked on to the next entrance, and stepped inside. There he encountered a doorman, controlling access to the accommodation upstairs, and private rooms down to the right.

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Edward Bartlett, I’m meeting with Mr Coombs and others.’ The surname Coombs had a weight to it. He was one of the richest men in the state, and Edward felt that wealth and power float like a blanket over him, by association.

‘Mr Coombs is already here, sir. May I take your hat, umbrella and coat?’

‘Of course.’

Divested of these garments, Edward walked down the corridor to the right, his nostrils filling with new smells – fine cigars, leather, Macassar oil and whisky. He opened a door without knocking, entering a smoky room dominated by a cedar table the size of a small bedroom. Three men were already seated. Howard Coombes sat at the head – an older man with a rugged and handsome face – long side whiskers and eyes like the two pointers of the Southern Cross.

 His seat was a wheelchair – an extravagant machine, with large, spoked wheels at the rear, and small swivel wheels at the front. The frame was of timber, with rattan platforms on both base and back.

The man himself was impressive, even as a cripple, Edward reflected. His life story was legendary. He had been born in a tent on the Campaspe River, and could ride, crutch and pen before he was nine. By the age of eighteen he was head stockman on one of Western Victoria’s biggest runs.

In the 1840s, when the fledgling colony was rocked by years of bank failures and a general depression, Coombs started buying up land with his savings, and when good times came again, he was lord of half a million acres. The gold rush brought a premium in lamb prices, and a wool boom followed.

 In the next decade he tripled his landholding, then, as if he had tempted the fates too far, tragedy struck. At the age of forty, still getting out into the stock camps himself and assisting with musters, his horse shied at a snake and threw him. Howard had, of course, been thrown before, but this time the base of his spine struck a rock. His legs, it seemed, would no longer move.

Despite the efforts of Melbourne’s best physicians, he never walked again. In characteristic fashion, however, he dusted himself off, and learned to ride by hands and voice, without the key signals a good rider transmits with his feet, knees and thighs. Assistance was needed to mount and dismount, but Howard Coombs was not a man who spurned help when he needed it. His success in business was partly due to his willingness to build and use a team of men he trusted – his sons foremost among them. His two eldest, in fact, sat at the table that afternoon.

In recent times, Coombs had cast his gaze northwards, where there was a bonanza at play, a land grab that only a fool would ignore – the entire northern half of a continent being divided into squares, vast landholdings offered for perpetual lease to men with money or determination or both.

At sixty-two years of age, Coombs had both qualities. He still had a handsome, square-jawed face, but for his teeth, which had yellowed before their time from chewing tobacco – a habit he had acquired on the land and could not seem to give up.

Edward admired him a great deal, watched his methods, the unscrupulousness of his dealings, his readiness and ability to take advantage of any situation. Business was a game to him, a grand game with the livelihoods and well-being of others at play.

‘You’re late,’ rasped Howard Coombes. His voice was gruff, with echoes of his low-class roots, a mish-mash of his cockney father and bush slang. It always amused Edward to think how the old tearaway must come across in the rarefied air of the Melbourne Club, where he was a member.  He doubted however, if Coombes gave a damn what anyone thought of him, and money, of course, has the sweetest voice of all.

Edward made a show of consulting his pocket watch. His lateness was a matter of a few minutes only, but he accepted the criticism with good grace. ‘I apologise, the horse and foot traffic out of Carlton was indescribable.’

A waiter in black trousers, vest and apron came through the door and appeared at Edward’s shoulder. ‘What would you like to drink, sir?’

Edward looked at the glasses of pale lager on the table in front of his companions. He preferred whisky, or wine, but he had learned that it did not pay to do things differently to one’s betters.

The waiter said, ‘Your companions are drinking a new lager brewed by the Foster brothers, here in Melbourne, sir. We are one of the first outlets to cellar it – a highly regarded drop if I may say so.’

‘You may, and I’ll be pleased to try it,’ said Edward.

 The waiter returned at a brisk pace with a foaming glass, and as he left, Howard Coombs called out, ‘Shut the door behind you, and see we are not disturbed until three.’

‘Of course, sir.’

When the waiter had gone Edward took a sip of his lager then slipped his cigarette case from his pocket, choosing one, tapping the end on his wrist, then placing it between his lips. The nearest of Coombs’s sons, a thirty-year-old called Jonathan, with a kinder heart than his father and brothers combined, struck a match, and held it out. Edward inhaled, breathed out through pursed lips and waited. There was no doubt of who was in charge of proceedings here.

‘Me an’ the boys aren’t happy,’ growled Coombs at last, ‘I ‘ad a wire yester-dye, from up north. It seems that one of the rough sorts you hired has committed manslaughter in Camooweaal and has been arrested.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Edward replied. ‘By all accounts, he was pushed quite to the edge by the deceased man – an African from Jamaica – and was forced to defend himself. Being of stern stuff, our man came off the better in this little matter, but unfortunately the law has intervened. He is now en route to Cooktown where I hope he might be exonerated.’

Coombs raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘That aren’t the result me informant be predicting. The version I hear is that your three hirelings rolled into town as drunk as lords and raised merry hell. Even if he gets orf, your man’ll be in Cooktown, an’ we needs him in the Territor-eye.’ He lowered his voice, the yellowed teeth appearing as he moved his lips, ‘You should have chosen better.’

Edward, being honest, had not enjoyed the voyage to the Gulf of Carpentaria. The first leg to Brisbane had been jolly enough, but the rest of the trip, on a little Burns and Philp steamer, was another matter. Burketown was abhorrent, with its twin scourges of heat and dust. There had even been a snake in his hotel room, which the publican’s boy took his time to remove, laughing all the time at Edward’s naked fear.

Thankfully, Edward had been able to fulfil his aims – finding the three men lounging in the town, after losing everything but their shirts on the Palmer, and having been all but run off the fields. The retainer Edward had offered had been enough for them to drop their current plans – which seemed to be staying put and drinking themselves to death – and head for Camooweal.  

‘I should have chosen better,’ Edward agreed. ‘Sadly, the pickings were slim, and while the Irishman was full of bluster and seemed to be the leader, I believe the one named Kahl will be more valuable to us in the long run. He is intelligent, for his type, and will reward our faith.’

‘So you seye,’ said Coombs. ‘I have eight thousand head of cattle waiting, in six different herds, and men drawing wages for doin’ sweet Fanny Adams ‘til this situation is resolved. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Coombs. I understand.’

‘You has been promised an exorbitant sum of money, and a share besides. You do want to be rich, don’t yer?’

Edward glanced at the boots worn by his host, on those useless legs, resting on the footrest at the front of his wheelchair. They were glossy brown, tooled by a craftsman. They were probably worth as much as a farmhand would earn in a year. ‘I have been so promised,’ he agreed. ‘And I will earn that payment and more, along with your gratitude.’

‘Exactly how might you do that?’ asked Coombs, his voice softening a little.

Edward lifted his briefcase onto his lap and opened it, withdrawing some papers and placing them on the desk in front of him. ‘This is the rest of the plan,’ he said. ‘It will work, and from now it will unfold with great speed.’

The house beside the post office was the best-presented residence on the street. The walls were of weatherboard, painted cream, with doors and window trims in an earthy red. A whitewashed picket fence contained a garden and patchy green lawn,  watered, Will imagined, by buckets hauled from the river.

An overweight basset hound, lying asleep in the shade, opened one eye and watched as Will opened the gate and entered the yard. Will gave him a wink and passed on by, without hearing so much as a growl.

Jane Kellick answered the door, and invited Will inside. The rumours had been true, at least as far as her appearance. She was a handsome woman – blonde hair tied in a bun, a tidy figure and flawless skin, but there was no hint of flirtation in her eyes. If anything, she seemed a little nervous.

‘You can see Tom Maconsh if you want,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much sense out of him, but I’ll take you through, and make you a cuppa.’

Will removed his hat and carried it in his left hand, following the woman through the house, inhaling half-forgotten domestic smells – soap and bacon fat as he passed the kitchen, then mothballs, lavender and perfume down the passage. It was a long time since he had been in such an abode, and it reminded him of his childhood home.

Jane opened a door at the end of the passage, and led the way through, into a bedroom. ‘Feel free to take a seat,’ she said, then crossed to the other side and opened the curtains. Light filled the room.

Maconsh, Will saw, was lying on a single bed, his legs too long for the frame, his feet hanging over the end. The light woke him from his slumber. He stirred and opened his eyes – eyes sunk into deep, dark pits, below a forehead that was beaded with sweat.

Moving up beside the bed, Will introduced himself quietly. ‘G’day Tom, me name’s Will Jones, and I’ve taken on the mail contract while yer laid up.’

Maconsh seized Will’s right hand and gripped it hard, saying nothing.   

‘The poor fella hasn’t spoken any sense for a couple of days, so don’t expect too much. I’ll get you that cuppa.’

When she had gone, Will dragged up a wooden chair and sat down, his hat on his lap. He said, ‘I’m just wondering if you can tell me anyfink about the mail route, that it’s best I know up front.’

Jane Kellick came back with a cup of tea on a saucer, in fancy floral pattern china. Will took it from her hands delicately, frightened that he’d drop it.

He’d barely taken a sip when Maconsh spoke, ‘Doan do that trip mate, they’ll kill ya.’

Will felt the tea turn bitter in his mouth. ‘Who? I heard that the Wambaya can be warlike, but …’

Kellick clenched his fists and thrashed his head from side to side. ‘Not them.’

‘I’m afraid that he’s getting a little over excited,’ Jane Kellick said. ‘Maybe it’s best if …’

Will ignored her, leaning forwards, ‘What do you mean, mate?’

Maconsh seemed to be about to say something, but he was interrupted by the slam of the front door, then a male voice calling. Jane Kellick left the room, and Will heard a bout of low whispering.

A few moments later, the Postmaster, Andy Kellick, came through the door. ‘Jane says that poor old Tom is getting agitated. Probably best if you let him rest,’ he said.

Will ignored him, staring at Tom Maconsh’s face, trying to read it. Was it fear he could see in those eyes?

‘Come on Will,’ said Kellick. ‘It’s time to go mate.’

Will stood reluctantly, and shared one last, long and meaningful glance with Tom Maconsh before Kellick shepherded him to the front door.

‘The poor cow seemed to be warning me,’ said Will, pausing at the threshold to shove his hat on his head, ‘reckoned that that this mail run is goin’ to be the death of me.’

Kellick gave an impatient grunt, ‘I told you there’s some lawless gangs around, and that you’ll need to have weapons handy. That’s most probably what he’s talking about.’

‘I guess it must be,’ said Will.

‘Now, I’ll see you at dawn, the day after tomorrow, and you’ll be all loaded up and set to go?’

‘That’s right,’ said Will. ‘I said I’d do the trip, and I won’t back out now.’

They shook hands, and Will headed outside. He was only a few steps down the porch when Kellick closed the front door. It was a strange thing to do, Will decided, shutting him out like that.

He got halfway down the path, then doubled back around the side of the house, moving close to an open window. Andy and Jane Kellick were inside, whispering again. This struck Will as strange. He moved as close as he could to the window without being seen.

‘It was your job to make sure Maconsh wouldn’t start talking,’ hissed Andy Kellick.

‘He’s as strong as a damned bullock,’ the woman was saying. ‘Every day I have to increase the dose, and now he can taste it – he’s complaining about it.’

‘We need two more days,’ hissed Kellick urgently. ‘Then it’ll be too late for him to interfere.’

Will’s eyes widened, standing so still that he could hear his heartbeat, then risked a quick peek through the window. The Postmaster was facing the woman, his hand gripped firmly around her wrist.

‘I’m not sure that I can keep him here that long without killing him,’ she whispered.

‘You have to,’ replied Kellick. Then, in a more normal voice he said, ‘I’m going back to work. Do what you have to do!’

Will heard the front door, then Kellick’s footsteps on the flagstones as he hurried down the path, opened the gate and headed down to the post office.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Will waited for a few moments, then walked back out onto the path, watched sleepily by the basset hound as he opened and closed the gate silently.

The heat seemed to have increased since his arrival, the humidity building and the first grey clouds skirting the horizon. Will realised that he was sweating, and not just from the temperature. He had a strong feeling of unease. What the hell was Jane Kellick talking about? Surely ‘increasing the dose’ must refer to quinine, or some other curative for malarial fever. But why would Andy Kellick want to keep the poor man bedridden?

Will turned off the main street and headed down on the river track. It seemed to him that there was something suspicious going on, but he couldn’t figure any reason for it. The Postmaster seemed to pretty much run the town, and the only policeman had just headed off for Cooktown with Sullivan, the murderer.

Will forced himself not to think about it, and on the way back to camp he stopped at the Chinese gardens and bought an arm load of silver beet, radishes and melons.

From there, walking along the riverbank, he thought about the new horses and how they could be used. Jim had a good buckskin stallion, named Cartridge, that he had swapped for a lame mare at Mulgrave Station in Central Queensland. The owner, of course, had not been consulted on the transaction, but Jim reckoned that it had been necessary at the time.

The buckskin had needed plenty of taming, but now he was a rare horse, spirited but loyal to Jim, and even after long months of travelling, he was in good condition. Lainey’s gelding was likewise fresh for the journey north to the Gulf, as she’d been resting him for a couple of weeks, riding the spare grey.

No matter which way he looked at it, Will reckoned that John Weir’s stallion should be his. His own gelding was getting high in years, and low on energy, but would still make a good station hack – they could sell him on the way.

The new mare could go to Sam, he decided, and his mount could be a spare or extra packhorse, or they could rotate them. Either way would work, he decided, but he was still thinking things through, when he walked back into camp. The others were around the place, doing things. Sam was fishing down at the waterhole and Lainey was half asleep against the tree, hat low over her eyes. Jim was a little way off, with the horses, keeping the new stallion separate, on a long rope.

‘What did the mailman say?’ Lainey asked, sitting up. Will glanced at her, placed his purchases with the rest of the tucker, then squatted near the fireplace and filled his pipe.

‘He said that they’re gonna kill us,’ Will said.

‘Who’s they?’

‘That’s what I don’t know,’ said Will. ‘One thing’s for sure, I’m staying out of that town until it’s time to go. Full of arseholes it is.’ He lit the end of a twig and used it to fire up his pipe, then puffed a few times through the corner of his lips to get it drawing.

‘That was a damned cheap price for them horses,’ Lainey said. ‘Don’t you get the feelin’ that somethin’ ain’t quite right?’

‘I do,’ agreed Will. ‘But I won’t say no to a downright bargain, neither.’

‘Fine, but did ya even think about what it means to bring another stallion into the herd? Cartridge has had a go at him already. You shoulda known it’d cause problems.’

Will knew that she was right. He’d been trying not to think about the dangerous dynamics of two strong, male horses. ‘We’ll keep them apart as much as possible, an’ they’ll be alright.’

‘What about when one of the mares comes into season? They’ll most likely kill each other. Nothing but trouble, that’s what it is. My vote is that you sell the barsted, first station we get to – make a nice profit into the bargain.’

Still smoking, Will wandered over to where Jim was watching the horses. Even at a glance, anyone who knew horses could see that the complicated relationships amongst their little herd were going through some adjustments. They were all aware of the new stallion on his rope, glancing up as they fed on the grass.

‘How are they settling in?’ Will asked.

‘Ol’ Cartridge isn’t happy, but the new fella is big enough to make ‘im wary, an’ I’m keepin’ an eye on ‘em both. What are you gonna call him?’

‘Dunno yet. I’ll ride him, directly, and something will come to mind. Lainey thinks he’ll be nothing but trouble, an’ we should sell him off.’

Jim grinned back, ‘Oh yeah, there’s gonna be trouble – depends whether he’s worth it, bloke. That’s the thing.’

©2025 Greg Barron
#serialfiction
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/

Camooweal at dawn.

A raven, glossy black and dark of eye, had roosted in one of the low branches of the coolabah tree, watching the street and its surrounds, as if to see what might happen next. He had stayed away for a few days because the drinkers camped there had taken pot-shots at him with their revolvers. Now he was back, partly from habit, but also from curiosity.

He’d heard the goings on of the previous day, and smelled human blood carried on the breeze. That smell was not unusual, in this town, but the police trooper was generally on hand to sort things out. This time, the constable had been absent during the killing, and it was late at night that he had ridden in, along with two black helpers, his big horses and guns.

The trooper was a familiar sight to the raven. He was a hefty man, with a stiff moustache and broad back, who had a habit of patrolling the main street self-importantly, smoking a pipe or cigarette as he went, often dragging men from the hotels and throwing them into the lock-up. Last night, coming home in the dark to news of murder and a citizens’ arrest, he had lost much of his usual bluster.

There had, however, been a flurry of activity. Some of the men who had been guarding the three prisoners in the lock-up hurried to share the news of the killing. The policeman’s surprise and anguish echoed across the town. More people emerged from buildings. There were hurried conversations, in private homes and in the barracks office.

Now, at dawn, all was silent again, but still the raven waited.

He was not hungry, for the previous evening he had found a dead fish, a fat grunter, on the banks of the river. He had eaten its eyes first, then ripped its guts from its cavity and finally used his sharp beak to delve under the skin to extract the grey flesh from the bones.

Later, he would investigate the piggery up behind the Landsborough Hotel. It was a habit of the scullery maid, each morning, to take a bucket of scraps out to the pigs, but she was careless, and often spilled a good portion trying to lift the heavy iron vessel over the rails. Easy pickings, that the raven availed himself of most days.

Now, however, he was more interested in seeing what might happen next. An hour passed. The back door of the pub opened. Two men sauntered out. They fetched timber from a stack in the yard behind the hotel. They started sawing and hammering, swearing now and then, talking in low voices that sounded, to the raven, like a rumble.

They built a long wooden box, with a separate lid, then carried it inside, one man at each end, through the rear entrance of the hotel.

Meanwhile, a two-in-hand wagon rolled up from down the street, parking outside the front of the hotel. The front door opened, and the two men who had made the box carried it out, stumbling with the weight. The raven identified the corpse inside the box from the smell. He knew the scent of every human who came and went from the town, and it was obvious to him that the body of the dead carpenter was inside the box. He was smart enough to understand irony. The timbers of the coffin had come from trees felled by the man who now lay dead inside. More than likely he had milled those boards himself.

The two men, under the direction of the wagon driver, slid the heavy box onto the back of the wagon, and clapped their hands together, as if to clean their soiled hands. The hotel boss came out, and the four men leaned on the sides of the wagon talking and smoking, until finally the driver stepped up to his seat and drove away down the street.

That appeared to be the end of the activity, and the raven was starting to think about the scullery maid and her piggery. He took flight from the branch, and was airborne over the town when he heard the door of the police barracks opening.

Constable Gibson walked out, dressed for riding, his spurs jingling with each stride. The raven changed his route, landing on the roof of the barracks to watch. The policeman’s boys were bringing out horses, tacking up and loading, while Gibson went to the lock-up and brought out Sullivan, the Irish prisoner.

 Still chained by wrists and ankles, and caked with dried blood, he was led outside and assisted onto a horse. The trooper and his helpers climbed into their own saddles, and the strange procession rode near-silently away, out of town towards the East.

The raven cawed. He’d seen many things in his time, and made no judgement. After the police party had ridden away with their prisoner, the raven flapped his wings and returned to the air.

***

Before the full heat of the day, Will and Jim led two packhorses up from the river, leaving their riding mounts with Sam and Lainey, to pick at the buffel and kangaroo grasses around their camp.

The main street was populated by dogs, birds and a few shoppers as the two mates led their horses in, diverting past the police lock-up, where Will was surprised to see no guards on duty.

‘Quiet here, bloke,’ said Jim.

Will didn’t reply, just walked up close, unsure why one cell door was wide open, with no one inside. A face appeared at the gap in the other door. It was the scarred man, Kahl.

‘Where’s your Irish mate?’ Will asked.

‘The trap has took him off to Cooktown, to face the jaws of English justice.’

‘Seems like a long way,’ said Will. ‘A rope and a tree would’ve been easier.’

Kahl grinned a yellow-toothed grin. ‘Easier, and cruel. Not a thing as I would care to see.’ He paused for a moment, then, ‘I told you that I’ve seen you before. Your name is Will Jones, and that bloke with you is Jim.’ The prisoner spoke in the Australian vernacular, with traces of his native, European tongue. He sounded each syllable out clearly, yet the word ‘Will’ was more like ‘Vill’ and ‘with’ was more like ‘vith.’

At length Will said, ‘I know who you are too, an’ I don’t reckon that’s gonna do either of us any good. I hope you rot, for your part in the death of an innocent man.’

The prisoner laughed, said something to his mate inside, and moved away from the door. Will looked at Jim, gave a little nod, and together they started walking again, heading back onto the main street, past the coolabah tree and down the alley, around the back of Kennedy’s hotel, to the rear of the store.

Kennedy was there, a clipboard in hand, while an underling scurried around, counting quantities of various goods. ‘Two score an’ three of the canned tomatoes,’ came the cry. ‘But it looks like we’re nearly out of Lea and Perrins sauce … just three left, sir.’

 Seeing Will and Jim walk up, Kennedy turned his attention to them. ‘Ah, Mr Jones. You’re here for provisions?’

‘Indeed we are. Me and Jim, that is.’

‘Constable Gibson left with the Irishman an hour ago.’

‘I heard,’ said Will. ‘Why didn’t he take those other two lags?’

Kennedy shook his head. ‘They told Gibson that they’re innocent – reckoned that Sullivan made them help, or he would have shot them too. Gibson believed them.’

Will snorted, ‘Gullible barsted.’

 ‘Be that as it may, Gibson left the keys with Kellick and asked him to let the pair go tomorrow, once he and Sullivan are a good distance away, and not likely to give chase and attempt a rescue. That’s why no one is bothering to guard them. Why would they escape when they’re getting out tomorrow anyhow?’

‘So Kahl and that young fella won’t be charged with anyfink?’

‘Nothing. And Sullivan only copped a charge of manslaughter, not murder.’

Will could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘Manslaughter? I seen him hold a gun to a man’s chest and pull the trigger. That was murder, by any measure.’ He paused to wave a squadron of flies away from his face. ‘Did this Gibson barsted even get witnesses? He never came near me.’

‘He took statements, from me and some others who were awake when he came in last night, and I imagine that some of us will be subpoenaed when the time comes. Let’s face it though, there’s only one version of what happened, and Gibson wasn’t going to bother riding down to the river to find you.’ Kennedy rubbed his hands together, obviously getting impatient with the conversation. ‘Now, what goods are you after?’

Provisioning was an art that Will was no stranger to. He ran his eyes over the shelves that held everything from hair tonic to cigars, and the barrels of sugar, molasses, and various grains that sat on the floor. He had no list, but in his mind he had already calculated the quantities of each item that they required each day.

He called out the requisite goods, and while the assistant measured and packaged these, Kennedy kept a running total on a pad. Jim, who was a dab hand at balancing packs, loaded the horses, one of which was equipped with boxy panniers, made of wood veneer, and lined with greenhide, made for perishables.

The process took a good half hour, and when it was done, Kennedy had the cook bring them mugs of bitter coffee, and they stood around talking while they drank it down. The friendly barfly, Lenny, emerged from inside the pub for a yarn and a smoke.

When they were done, Will placed his mug on a barrel and said, ‘Well thank you sir, you’re a gentleman. Another day to rest up, then we’re off on this Borroloola caper.’

‘Just one more moment of your time, boys,’ said Kennedy. ‘I saw your mounts when you came into town – they’re good-looking horses, don’t get me wrong, but they’re flat, and it’ll be quite a task to get them as far as the Macarthur in a hurry.’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Will. ‘They’re tough buggers.’

‘It just so happens that I’ve got a couple of horses for sale. Would you like to see them?’

Will shrugged, knowing that he couldn’t afford one new horse, let alone two. ‘I guess. If they’re nearby.’

The hotelier led him up to the stables, with Lenny in tow, where one of the stable boys was brushing down a huge thoroughbred with a wooden comb.

‘Here’s one,’ said Kennedy.

Will recognised the stallion straight off. He’d last seen him when John Weir rode into town, a couple of hours before his murder. Up close he was even more magnificent than he had been at a distance – not just in size, but with a conformation that Will might have rattled off if someone asked him to describe the perfect horse. He was straight and well-balanced, with a strong chest and large, soft eyes.

‘That’s John Weir’s horse. You can’t sell him off,’ said Will.

Kennedy ignored him, ‘Hey Lenny, bring out the other one.’ There was the clang of a stable door and the bearded man appeared, leading a mare that Will recognised as being the late Jamaican’s spare.

‘That’s his too,’ said Will, ‘belongs to a man whose body has barely cooled down.’

‘I have every right to sell the horses,’ said Kennedy, the skin of his cheeks turning a defensive shade of red. ‘John Weir borrowed fifty quid from me a few months back, against wages. When he was killed, he still owed me a total of twenty-two pounds and five shillings. He didn’t have a lot in the way of assets, so these nags are mine to dispose of how I wish.’

‘How much?’ asked Will.

‘You can have both for ten quid.’

‘I haven’t got ten quid,’ said Will. ‘But you’ll offload ‘em pretty easy at that price.’

‘That price isn’t for anybody – only for you. My thanks for helping out with that bloody business yesterday, and if it assists with getting the mail through, so much the better. In regards to the money – I understand that you don’t have it now, but you will when you get back from the mail run. Take the horses with you, and pay me when you return.’

Will wanted to say yes. Two strong, fresh horses would make the enterprise much more achievable, but something about buying a dead man’s horses, when his corpse had not yet been buried, made him feel strange. He caught Jim’s eye, and his mate gave a silent nod, clearly saying go ahead, take them. The horses were a bargain, and would fetch twenty, maybe thirty pounds any time they chose to sell them. The offer of credit was good, with no mention of interest.

The mare gave Will a start, nuzzling at the back of his armpit, making him laugh. He patted the side of her neck. She also was a beautiful animal, no doubt about that, and she had been treated well by a kind horseman.

‘Alright,’ said Will. ‘We’ll take them, and pay the ten pounds when we get back.’

They shook hands on the deal, and Will couldn’t help but feel a touch suspicious of how pleased the hotelier looked with himself.

***

It was with four horses, not two, that Will and Jim proceeded down the alley, back across the road, walking down towards the track that led to their river camp. The two new animals padded obediently from lead ropes, generally acting as tractable and good-natured as they had seemed. At the fringes of town Will stopped.

‘Hey brother, are you right takin’ this lot back by yerself?’

Jim didn’t bother answering. Some questions don’t need answers. ‘Where you goin’, bloke?’

Will tilted up his hat. ‘Might go have a yarn to the regular mail man. Pick ‘is brains and see what I can learn about the track up to the Gulf. Fevered or not he’s bound to know a trick or two.’

Jim looked concerned, ‘Watch out for that Postmaster’s wife,’ he said. ‘I heard a fella at the pub say that she eats men fer breakfast and spits out their bones.’

Will cracked a smile, ‘She aren’t gettin’ my bones, and that’s for sure.’

They laughed together for a moment, then Will turned and walked back down the street, heading for the house beside the post office.

©2025 Greg Barron
#serialfiction @followers
Continued next Sunday
Read previous chapters here.
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, at ozbookstore.com/

The Tranter percussion revolver was an outdated weapon – a forty-year old design. Thousands had been imported from the United States of America after the Civil War. They were cheap and readily available. Everyone from drovers to brumby runners carried them.

Obsolescence, though, did not negate the terrible efficacy of the .442 calibre projectile, pushed by twenty grains of premium black powder, that the Tranter guns fired. At close range they were a murderous weapon.

It seemed to Will that Sullivan’s Tranter revolver became motionless for a moment, as if the assassin was making a final decision. Likewise, the room itself seemed to pause in time. Pipes or cigarettes in mouths, cards in hand, cowards face down on the floorboards while others, like Will, attempted to stop something that now seemed inevitable.

Sullivan jerked the trigger, and the discharge was sharp and ear-numbing in the contained space. The revolver kicked back, while the lead ball punched through the middle of John Weir’s chest, destroying his lungs and heart. He made the transition from sleep to death throes in a single bloody moment.

Burned powder smoke filled the room, blurring the drama, and bringing the stink of war and mayhem to that peaceful room. Blood spattered the Irishman’s arms and face, making him appear like a monster from the cover of a lurid gothic novel.

Will reached him first, smashed the revolver out of his hand, and dragged him back. The killer uttered a shout of triumph. ‘Got him, t’e dog. Just what he deserved. Let t’at be a lesson.’

Lainey was one of the first to try to help John Weir, but the time for help was past. ‘Oh the poor bugger,’ she was heard to cry.

Sullivan was still crowing as Will dragged his arms behind his back, then took a grip of his hair with one hand, immobilising him. The poker players and drinkers were on their feet by then, and there was a rapid movement to disarm Sullivan’s two companions, subduing their struggles with brutal force. Kennedy sent Lenny to the adjoining store for rope, and in the continued absence of the law, the three men were bound by wrist and ankles.

‘Why are you tying me up?’ snarled the scarred man. ‘That Irish bastard forced me and Eddie to help him – we weren’t but victims of the mongrel too.’

Sullivan laughed, ‘That’s a lie, but I don’t care one whit, for at least that ape lies dead.’

 Will was among the dozen or so men who half-dragged, half-carried the offenders through the front door and outside into the rain. They fought and strained every step of the way, slick with sweat, mud, and in Sullivan’s case, the blood of the dead man.

The police lock-up, four lots along, was a makeshift structure, but solid, clad with saw-pit rounds and corrugated iron. The doors were made of the same material, but with a square hole up high in the centre, about the width of a man’s outstretched hand. Someone had run to fetch the Postmaster, who had the keys. When he arrived, Sullivan was shoved into one of the two cells, and his accomplices in the other.

When the two doors were securely shut, the Irishman started kicking at the walls, swearing and blaspheming, avowing that he had done no wrong, but simply delivered justice to a man who had carried on above his station.

The scarred man stood close to the door of the other cell, his face in the opening, staring silently out at Will. ‘I do know you,’ he said. ‘I never forget a face.’

Will, in no mood for conversing with the accessory of a killer, turned and walked towards the other men from the pub, now standing in a group, armed and organising themselves, rostering a guard duty detail over the prisoners. He accepted the quiet thanks of Kellick and some of the others for his assistance. It had been a harrowing experience. Feeling drained, he walked back to where Lainey, Jim, Sam and Little Blue waited on the verandah of the pub.

‘Let’s get the horses and find somewhere to camp,’ Will said.

‘What about stores?’ asked Lainey.

‘Tomorrow will do for that,’ said Will. ‘We’ve got enough tucker left for tonight. I just want to get out of this damned place.’

***

It was still raining as the four riders turned off from the main street onto a well-worn track, Little Blue trotting beside them. The area behind the main street of Camooweal was covered with an assortment of rubbish and cast-off junk – broken wagon springs and wheels, old tubs, rusted roofing sheets and various ironmongery.

A short ride away, they reached the Georgina River’s wide bed – still no more than a chain of waterholes until the real rains came. They passed by a well-organised market garden, with rows of green, and a couple of coolies in conical hats, standing under the shelter of a rough bough shed, watching protectively as the riders moved past.

Heading downstream, Will urged his horse onwards, brushing through speargrass and light scrub along the high bank, soon reaching the waterhole that was at times so vast that it was called Lake Francis.  

 They came to a dead river red gum, old and grey with age – with a clearing around it that appeared to have hosted many a camp. There were a few handy saplings that could be used to erect shelter, and a fire-ring of blackened stones.

‘How’s this fer a spot?’ Will asked.

‘Easy walk to the water and plenny feed,’ said Jim. ‘Good enough.’

‘Anything to get out of this blessed rain,’ agreed Lainey.

Dismounting and settling the horses, they strung a sheet of canvas between saplings and unloaded, stacking saddles and gear underneath. With the horses restrained, they sat miserably under the shelter, their minds busy with the murder they had just witnessed, and its implications.

Will was thinking about the scarred man. His face was certainly familiar, but where from? For a while the answer hovered on the edge of his mind, and then he remembered.

‘Hey. I just recalled where I seen that scarred barsted before,’ he said aloud.

‘Lyver Hills,’ said Sam, who had already worked it out.

‘Yeah. That’s what I reckon. He worked at the company battery, always scrapping or causing trouble.’ His name was something European, German maybe, and Will searched his mind for it. ‘What the hell was he called again?’

‘His name were Kahl,’ said Jim. ‘I remembers him too.’

***

Towards dusk, the rain moved on, and they left the shelter. Jim, who could light a fire underwater, soon had a good blaze going. Then, while Sam made johnny-cakes with the last of their weevilled flour, Will, Jim and Lainey led the horses down the bank, and into the shallows. They baulked a little at the mud, but soon relaxed, while the sun sank low, blazing yellow orange.

Together, they washed and brushed the horses, taking their time and enjoying the feel of the water, the scents of mud and hard-worked animals in the nostrils and the shared relief at a break from the unrelenting road. They laughed when a freshened mount left the water and rolled on the bank. As they finished each one, Jim hobbled and belled them for the night.

Later, when they were quiet around the fire, all with their own thoughts, Will got cold and fetched his coat from his bag.  This was his most valuable item of clothing – a dark serge jacket – won in a game of cards from a Royal Navy officer on shore leave, from a ship-of-the-line anchored off Garden Island, Sydney, a few years earlier.

Lainey looked morose. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about this job you’ve signed us up for. Is a eight hunnerd mile ride in the rainy season worth it for twenty quid? Could be a bitch of a trip, an’ it ain’t really started too well with that poor bugger back there coppin’ a bullet.’

‘We need the money,’ said Will. ‘Just cheer up. It weren’t nice, what happened back there at the pub, but it aren’t the end of the world either, and there was nothing we could do about it.’

‘Oh but there was,’ said Lainey. ‘You could’a shot that damnable Irishman yourself, an’ saved the carpenter fella’s life.’

Will raised an eyebrow, ‘Saved a man by killin’ a man? Well, sure enough, but what did Sullivan do to me that deserved a bullet in return?’

Lainey ignored the question, but stood up and turned her back to the fire, hands out to warm them. She had taken off her hat, and her long hair fell free and unrestrained. ‘I jined up with you barsteds for adventure,’ she said wistfully. ‘Back home we had the traps on our tail an’ the world at our feet. What’ve I got ever since? Six months of digging a hole in the ground, then the rest of the year wanderin’ around Queensland, half-starved. I wanted to be a bushranger, not a beggar.’

Will, Jim and Sam looked uncomfortable as she went on, fidgeting with the handles of their mugs.

‘I say stuff the Territory mail. Let’s rob that bloody store, or even better the post office, I bet they’ve got plenty more of them gold sovereigns.’

‘In the normal run o’ things,’ said Will, ‘I might’ve walked that line. But we needs to think ahead.’ He tapped his temple, above the ear, with a forefinger to underline the point. ‘We’ve got enough gold buried, eight hunnerd miles from here, to buy and stock a cattle station of our own. That won’t happen if there’s a price on our heads. We keep our noses clean for a while, until the New South Wales traps forget about us. When we’re good and ready we can take up land without worrying about the barsteds riding in and buggering everything up.’

‘I get it,’ said Lainey. ‘But I ain’t a farmer. That cattle run we get’ll be my home too, but I won’t stay there all the time – I’ll go on by meself and be famous. I’ll ride buckjumpers, and rob banks, and lead the traps on a merry chase all over the North.’

There were times when even Will had to admit that his sister was beautiful. Right then, with the moon peeking out from a brilliant ribbon of clouds, and her hair turning the shade of a pearl newly won from the sea, she looked a sight indeed.

No one said any more. There was more to say. Will had committed them to the mail run, and they would do it. The cattle station was a dream that looked different to each of them, inside their hearts and minds.

Besides, it was time for sleep, with the rolling thunder and flashes of lightning now way off to the west – too far for even Jim’s acute hearing.

Will rolled out his swag then laid down and invited Little Blue in close. The patch of blanket the dog was allowed seemed to increase each night, but Will didn’t mind.

Before Will slept, he followed the usual ritual. He dug in his satchel and removed something small and rectangular. He angled it so it caught enough light from the fire and the moon to see. The image was a daguerreotype of a woman who had come to symbolise everything he wanted in life.

The version he imagined of the station he and the others would one day own was never complete without the girl in the postcard standing beside him. There, on the banks of the Georgina River, the air still thick with the smell of rain and the drone of insects, he conjured a family and a life of meaning and joy, in the dark space between the present and the future.

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
Read previous chapters here.
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/

Will, with Little Blue at his heel, walked past the three drunks, who were now sitting in the dust. The man with the scarred back stared as Will went by.

‘Hey you,’ he called, ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’

Will gave the man a hard stare. He remembered the face, but did not recall where they had met. The voice was familiar. It carried a trace of an old accent. European perhaps? Maybe German?

Saying nothing in reply, but disturbed at this development, Will walked on to the Post Office, where he lowered the rifle, so the barrel pointed at the ground, and pushed open the door. The postmaster was behind the counter, checking small packages on a balance scale. He was a well-built fellow, bald on the top of his head, but with dark hair, combed with Macassar oil, on the sides and back. He wore an impressive moustache, and was formally dressed, in defiance of the heat.

‘Good day,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting any customers – our rowdy friends outside seem to have scared everyone indoors. Rather a bother, overall.’

‘Would you be Mr Kellick?’ asked Will.

‘That’s me. How can I help you?’

‘The feller at the pub reckoned you’ve got some work going.’

‘That would have been Kennedy himself – quite a scoundrel, did you know?’

‘Nah,’ said Will, ‘but it don’t surprise me much.’ In his experience, a dose of the scoundrel in a man’s makeup was necessary for survival.

‘Well, he’s right. I do require a man or two, but it’s not easy work, and I need the right applicant.’

‘Go on,’ Will encouraged him.

Kellick put the weight he had been checking down on the counter with a click, then gave Will his full attention. ‘Tom Maconsh of Buchanan Downs has the Territory mail run between here and the Macarthur River – Borroloola they’re calling it now. D’you know Tom?’

‘No mate,’ said Will. ‘We’ve come from over Clermont way.’

‘Well, he’s crook with malarial fever – by all accounts the Gulf settlements are rife with it. Right now Tom’s laid up in my spare room, with my missus feeding him soup and quinine.’ The postmaster narrowed his eyes. ‘A little too enthusiastically, in my opinion – Maconsh is a handsome devil. Anyway, the poor beggar is too sick to ride, but that mail has to get through, and I need someone to take it.’

‘How much is the job worth?’ Will asked.

‘Ten pounds to get the new bags through to the Macarthur – and all stations along the way. Ten to bring the Territory mail back here.’

‘That’s a long haul for twenty quid. What is it, four hundred miles each way?’

Kellick didn’t miss a beat. ‘About that, maybe a little more.’

Will considered this carefully. Eight hundred miles on a hard bush track and the wet season thrown in. Yet, twenty quid was enough to stake his little gang as far as Palmerston, if they chose to take that route.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, at length.

Kellick stared at Will for a moment, then squinted. ‘It’s wild terrain – up by the Playford River, along Creswell Creek, and on to the Macarthur. Too big a job for one man who doesn’t know the country, no matter how good a bushman he is – specially with the Wet underway. Even worse, the Irishman and his mates out there are just a sample of the ruffians at large. There’s a gang of cattle and horse rustlers operating in the border country. If troopers from one colony get on their trail they just skip over the line. Then there’s the possibility of catching a spear in the chest. Don’t even think about taking this on unless you’re well-armed and willing to use your weapons to deadly effect.’

‘There’s four of us – and one of me mates worked on the goldfields around Pine Creek, so he’s been this way before.’ It was true, Fat Sam had been on the Top End goldfields before having a serious falling out with his countrymen. He’d been terrified of meeting up with his fellow Cantonese ever since. ‘All of us can shoot,’ Will added, ‘and aren’t no strangers to trouble.’

The postmaster walked to the window, looked down the street at a sharp angle and saw Jim, Sam and Lainey and their horses at the public trough. ‘This lot your mates?’

‘That’s them,’ said Will. A long silence followed, which seemed to indicate that Kellick was not impressed. Will sighed, not interested in begging, but keen to plead their case. ‘We need the work. It’s been a month since we managed more than a few days – now the Wet looks like setting in no one needs men – even the drovers are off the track now.’

Kellick smiled, ‘Well … you seem like a sturdy fellow, used to the outdoor life. The job’s yours, but you don’t get paid until you’re back here with the return mail. By then Tom should be on his feet and ready to take over again.’

‘Fair, I s’pose,’ said Will, ‘but I’ll need five quid up front fer supplies.’

The postmaster scratched at his beard for a moment, opened a drawer, removed five sovereigns, and counted them into Will’s hand, each one landing on his palm, with the heavy authority of gold.

‘That comes off the total. Can you leave tomorrow morning?’

‘No mate, we need to get some feed into our horses, an’ a couple of days rest …’ Will inclined his head at the window and the drinkers outside. ‘But the sooner we’re out of this town and on the track the better, so how ‘bout Friday?’

‘That’ll have to do. I’ll be out the front at sunrise, with the mailbags.’

Will started to leave, then turned again. ‘That Tom Maconsh feller. I’d like to talk to him, before we go. There’s bound to be things he can tell us about the route that might be worth knowing.’

Kellick paused for a moment. ‘Worth a try, if you can get any sense out of him. Maybe leave it ‘til tomorrow – then pop into the house. It’s just next door. Doctor Blamey has been coming in at about ten, so maybe after eleven. Here, shake on the deal and consider it a contract.’

After the handshake, Will walked out through the door and onto the street. As he headed towards the rest of the crew, who were standing around the public trough with the plant, he saw a man on a horse riding down the street towards him. This was unusual sight, partly because the horse was a fine thoroughbred stallion, of sixteen hands at least, and looked to be in peak condition. The man in the saddle had the bearing of a natural horseman. His skin was very dark, but he was not, Will realised, of local stock, but of African heritage. Altogether, he was an impressive-looking man, and that made him stand out all the more.

The rider, now almost adjacent to Kennedy’s Hotel, also piqued the interest of the drunk Irishman, who Will now knew as Sullivan. He staggered out from the shade of his tree, holding a bottle by the neck in one hand, and his revolver in the other. He stared stupidly for a moment, his lower lip pushing like a bulbous tube against the upper. Then he started laughing.

‘Look at this!’ he cried. ‘An ape on a horse. A foin lookin’ horse at that.’

The black man stopped his mount, then turned and stared at the Irishman, saying nothing aloud, but speaking volumes with his eyes. Back down the street, a loud and rhythmic hammering started up from the blacksmith’s shop.

The Irishman started making ape noises, scratching at his armpits and screeching. His two mates were laughing now too. The man with the scars near doubled over with mirth. It was a childish display, a ridiculous thing for grown men to do. Will felt a surge of annoyance, but he could not keep his eyes off the newcomer’s face, which was now blank – as if he had pulled down the shutters on his emotions.

That might have been the end of the encounter, but then, with scarcely any sign apart from a sharp dig of his spur-clad heels, the black man slowly and deliberately set his horse on a collision course with Sullivan and his mates. The stallion pushed off his back legs and into a gallop, straight at the three drunks. First the Irishman scrambled out of the way, then the others found their feet and sprang out of the path of the horse which was, to all appearances, about to trample them.

Drunk as he was, the Irishman tripped on a tree root, and fell sideways to the ground, dropping his revolver and the bottle, so the whisky spilled. His elbows and hip struck the ground hard, and there was a grunt as air left his chest.

As Will watched, a smile tugging at his lips, the rider stopped his horse so abruptly that it was as if his mount had hit a wall. Now it was his turn to laugh – a rich chuckle, full of manly strength and the enjoyment of life. Before the victims of his fiery charge could react, he turned his mount and rode off at a walk, heading towards an alley that led up behind Kennedy’s pub.

Will admired the man – for charging at three armed, drunk and unpredictable strangers, with no intention to hurt or main, with as much a sense of fun as anything. This kind of devil-may-care behaviour had always amused him.

The Irishman, realising that he had been humiliated, scrambled to his feet, gathering his wounded courage. ‘Hey ape, you’ll regret that caper.’ The black man did not turn, just led his horse around to the rear of the hotel building.

 Will walked on past the tree, towards the trough where his mates were waiting, while Sullivan blathered on. His face had turned as red as a beet. His trousers were covered with dust and old piss-stains.  

‘Hey you. Did you see what that dog did to me?’ Sullivan screeched at Will. ‘I’ll have him, you wait and see.’

Will had the feeling that whatever he said would cause offence to the drunken man, so he said nothing and walked on, keeping his grip tightly on his rifle so that he could respond quickly, if necessary.  

As soon as Will came up to his mates, Lainey turned on him. ‘That Irishman is off his head – he’s scarin’ the tripe outta me. Let’s get out of here.’

Sam and Jim said nothing, but Will could see that their nerves were stretched.

‘Probably not a bad idea,’ said Will, ‘but how did you go at the store?’

‘No chance of credit in this town,’ said Lainey.

‘We don’t need it now,’ Will said, thrusting a hand in his pocket and jiggling the coins the postmaster had given him. ‘But let’s take the horses away from this lot – go and have a rum or two, then we’ll buy rations. Here, let’s lead the horses round the back of the pub where that feller just went, must be stabling there.’

‘If we’re gonna go, let’s shake a bloody leg,’ said Lainey. ‘This place makes me nervous, and I’d rather be on our way.’ She inclined her head at the storm clouds building up on the horizon. ‘Looks like it might bucket down again before long, too.’

As they crossed the road the three drunks stopped to watch them, wary enough of the rifles not to interfere. The Irishman had a strange expression on his face by then – something hard, bitter and callous that comes to some men when they have been drinking grog for many days. Something that Will had seen before.

‘I’ll have that dog,’ Sullivan shouted again. ‘You’ll see if I don’t.’

©2025 Greg Barron
#serialfiction @followers
Continued next Sunday
You can read this, and previous chapters on the website: 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/

They looked like scarecrows in the saddle, riding out of the plains and into the township of Camooweal. It was the twentieth of December, 1887, and the combination of heat and humidity made the air so thick it could be cut into sections with a cross-cut saw. The riders were tired, road-weary, and exhausted. Even Gamilaroi Jim had stopped whistling – for the birds he liked to mimic lacked the energy to sing.

Will Jones came first, his eyes creased with tiny wrinkles after eight months of travelling under the Queensland sun. His cheeks were dark with heavy stubble, and his forehead shone with sweat. Behind him came Fat Sam and Lainey, then Jim in the rear, bare-chested as usual, trailed by two pack horses, the same number of spares, and one bony chestnut mare that had started following them a week or so back.

Little Blue, the cattle dog that ambled along on the road beside Will, had also lost condition. His head looked too big for his body, but he was young, tireless, and alert. His nostrils flared at the smells of the town ahead.

‘I told ya we’d reach Camooweal before Christmas,’ said Lainey, urging her mount into a trot, and coming up beside Will.

‘Well, you was right for once,’ Will conceded. A fly had lodged itself in the corner of his left eye. He removed it with his thumb and forefinger, before flicking it away to the ground. He’d been looking forward to Camooweal – the chance to pick up some work and provision themselves for the next stage – the Territory border was only a few miles away. There would be no spree, however, the little gang had scarcely a coin to spend between them. They had resources, in a safe place near Clermont, seven hundred miles to the southeast, but it was as useless to them here as shares in the Royal Mint.

As they entered the town, a gunshot sounded from up ahead, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass. Will stopped his horse and listened, then looked at the faces of his companions. Only Fat Sam gave nothing away. Jim raised an eyebrow and Lainey looked alarmed.  

Another gunshot, and some distant laughter.

‘Jesus,’ Lainey said, ‘what in blazes is goin’ on?’

‘Fair question,’ said Will, ‘but we can’t let a bit a’ shootin’ spook us. We need work. We’re too skint for a bag of flour, and tea, an’ I ain’t had a lungful a’ smoke in three weeks.’

‘You think it’s been a picnic for me?’ hissed Lainey.

‘No one arksed you to come along – you’ve got a husband. You should go back to him.’

‘No fear,’ said she. ‘I’d rather get bit by a brown snake than wear meself out in a farmhouse raisin’ brats and cleanin’ dishes.’ She rolled her green eyes skywards. ‘Makin’ beds and sweepin’ floors like some kind of wretch. That ain’t me, dear brother, and well you know it.’

‘Well, stop ya bellyachin’.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And keep those bleedin’ curls of yours under yer hat, and yer chest sucked in – better if people think yer a man than have every hot-blooded cove in town chasin’ after you.’

The riders passed a saddler’s shop, and a smithy, from which a smell of smoke, slag and molten iron drifted, along with the clang of a hammer on metal. Further on they saw three men under the shade of a small and twisted coolabah tree in the middle of the street. They were stumbling around and calling out. All had revolvers, and appeared to be taking turns shooting at an empty whisky bottle – only a few paces away from them, nestled against the trunk of the tree.

An Irish voice rang out, ‘Ah, ye rotten beggars. My turn.’

There was another gunshot, but no shattering glass this time. A clean miss. The other two men guffawed. The sound, up close, was loud and startling. Will’s gelding nickered, then crow-hopped, and needed a moment to settle before moving on. The horses were all used to occasional gunfire, but they were thirsty and irritable. The merciless sun had evaporated all trace of the previous night’s rain. Not a puddle had remained by mid-morning, and the horses had not drunk since then.

Will spotted the public trough up ahead, on the left side of the street, past a general store and the post office. The horses could smell the water, but they were wary of the three drunks and their high-jinks, and needed urging to keep going.

‘Let’s get down the river and find a camp,’ Lainey said. ‘Then come back when these mongrels have gone.’

‘No, bugger it,’ said Will, ‘I won’t run from a few drunken cows under a tree.’

As if by agreement, the four of them bunched in together, and rode close to the buildings. The oppressive heat seemed to magnify.

‘Where’s the law in this barsted town, anyway?’ Will asked.

‘That’s funny,’ whispered Lainey. ‘I ain’t ever heard you wish there was a walloper around in your life.’

‘Well, people don’t generally start blastin’ away at bottles in the middle of a town, neither.’

Reaching the trough, Will dismounted, followed by the others. The activity captured the attention of one of the men under the tree, who walked out of the shade, holding his pistol at his side, staring as they allowed the horses to drink.  

Little Blue was close against Will’s legs, hackles up, a growl emanating from deep in his chest. The dog, Will had found, was a reliable judge of human character.

‘What’s this bally turnout?’ shouted the gunman in a strong Irish accent, turning to his mates. ‘You never know what’s gonna roid in off the track, do ye? Now we’ve got a Chinaman, a myall, a pretty youth too young t’shave, an’ a wild-lookin’ white man.’ The other two, swigging from bottles in the shade, laughed. Addressing Will, the Irishman went on, ‘Strange company, ye’re keeping t’ere, sonny, wouldn’t ye t’ink?’

Quick as a whip, Will reached up and plucked his rifle out of its scabbard with his left hand, transferred it to his right, then worked the lever in one smooth motion. It was a new .44 calibre Winchester repeater, purchased in Winton with some of the proceeds of the Blue Dog gold mine. It was a top-shelf weapon, and Will’s pride and joy.

‘Oooh,’ came the Irish voice, ‘we’ve got a foisty one, have we? Well an’ all, don’t make t’mistake of startin’ a foight.’

Will wanted to say that he had just seen the Irishman miss a bottle at five paces, and that, if it came to the crunch, he could probably shoot all three of them with the Winchester before they got close enough to be sure of their aim with their revolvers, but he kept his mouth shut.

By then Fat Sam had his Snider out, and Jim had grabbed the Henry repeater he had, more than a year earlier, ‘borrowed’ from the New South Wales constabulary. The latter weapon, Will was aware, had just two cartridges remaining, for they were difficult to find. But even so, this was a considerable armoury compared to three revolvers. The Irishman stared for another moment or two, then roared with laughter, and took a huge swig from the bottle in his left hand, as if ignoring them of his own accord – not because he was out-gunned.

‘Bugger it all Will,’ hissed Lainey. ‘We’ve only been in town five minutes and you’re tryin’ to get in a shootout with a bunch of armed inebriates.’

‘Settle down, we’re just showin’ them that we’re not easy game. I agree that gettin’ out of here’s a smart move, but we got things to do first. If Jim and Sam can stay here and watch the horses, you could dart into the store and try to get credit for some flour, tea and tobacco.’

‘Fat chance of that – we just blew into town lookin’ like beggars,’ Lainey opined.

‘It’s worth a try. We need to eat – and there’s barely two days’ worth of flour left.’

‘Yeah, orright. I’ll give it a go.’

‘There’s another store across the road – and a pub with it – I’ll duck in there and ask if there’s any work around.’

‘Don’t stay there all blasted day,’ warned Lainey.

‘I wish I bloody could,’ he said.

Still carrying his rifle, Will strode away across the street, with Little Blue keeping hard beside his calf. Passing the tree, he studied the three drinkers closely. The Irishman was well into middle age, with sandy hair and a bald spot in the middle. He wore filthy dungarees, a collared shirt, and suspenders. He had rough moustaches and a fleshy face, and was missing several teeth. The second man was young, barely twenty, but with a wooden look. He was big in the shoulders and neck. A follower, Will decided.

The furthest back of the three was an older man, with a cannonball-shaped head, and a face overgrown with unkempt whiskers. There was something familiar about him that Will couldn’t quite place. He, alone among the three, had discarded his shirt, and the skin on his back was a mass of old scars – deep-riven gouges on multiple channels that could only be the legacy of a flogging with a whip.

 Reaching the other side of the street, Will saw that the pub was newly built, of fresh timber, with a handsome sign proclaiming it as Kennedy’s Hotel. He stepped onto a veranda, and passed through the open door of the pub, while Little Blue took up station beside the threshold. The interior felt hotter than the outside, with heat radiating down off the tin roof and turning the place into an oven.

A man stood near the door – an enormous fellow with a curling black beard, and a shotgun in his arms. Will passed him with a nod and looked around at the drinkers sitting at tables, some playing cards or eating a meal. It was obvious that the Irishman and his mates had everyone rattled here – which was why no one was availing themselves of the tables and chairs outside.

‘Are you one of them riders what just came in?’ asked the bearded man.

‘Yeah mate, that’s me.’

‘Put the rifle down on the bar, you’ve got nothing to fear in here.’

‘What a bloody town,’ Will said under his breath as he walked inside, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low light. There was a long bar made of smoothly-sanded, lacquered boards. Half a dozen tables were scattered around, made of the same material, some occupied and some not. A card game was underway at the largest of these. The furthest, darkest part of the room held more formal dining tables and a couple of sofa chairs. A breezeway, level with the front door, led down a corridor to a yard out the back, and somewhere down that way was a kitchen – Will could smell hot cooked food. This was a torment, and his belly grumbled in longing.

Heading to the bar, he laid the rifle down gently, and his sweat-stained hat beside it. He pulled out a stool and sat down, inhaling the smell of tobacco smoke in the room, feeling the hunger for tobacco almost as strong as for food.

Even before the barman had a chance to serve him, another man, a little fellow with a nicotine-stained beard, hastened from his own seat to sit next to Will.

‘Hey there Mister, welcome to Camooweal. I’m Lenny Newman.’

Will regarded the man for a moment then stuck out his hand. ‘Cheers mate. I’m Will Jones.’

The barman laid the tea-towel he was holding over a rack and joined in the greeting. He wore dark trousers, white shirt and vest, with an apron covering his mid-section. He sported a fine black moustache, and carried a full head of hair of the same colour. ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Jack Kennedy and this is my pub. Just hit town, have we?’

‘Yeah,’ breathed Will. ‘With a coupla mates. What in blazes is goin’ on outside?’

‘Some travelling ruffians rolled into town two days ago – made some money on the Palmer fields – or stole it. The mouthy bastard is a cocky little Irishman called Sullivan. They drank here until I kicked them out, then they bought a case of whisky from the Landsborough, down the street. They’ve been off their stupid heads ever since.’

‘Aren’t there any traps in this town?’ Will asked. He was still wanted, himself, in the state of New South Wales, and Queensland’s finest had tried to extradite him a couple of times, so he was more than usually interested in the answer to this question.

‘We’ve got one policeman,’ said Kennedy. ‘Constable Gibson is his name – but he’s not expected back from up the Barkly for a few more hours. Hopefully those three ruffians don’t kill anyone before then. Now, I can see that you’ve got a thirst, what’ll it be?’

‘A tenner of ale,’ said Will. There were many names for beer glasses and porcelain pots around the country, but a ten fluid ounce glass, or close enough, was universal.

Kennedy reached for a glass from a rack without hardly looking, then half filled it with froth and golden-brown ale, letting it sit for a good half minute before finishing off the job, and placing it down on the bar. Will took a sip. It was watered, certainly, but cool and refreshing.

‘Me mates and I are lookin’ for work. Ya heard of any?’

‘Not much with the rains coming in, but you could try Andy Kellick. He’s the postmaster, magistrate, JP, and government paymaster. I heard that he’s lookin’ for a man. You’ll find him at the post office, just next to the store on the other side of the street.’

Will drained his glass, picked up the rifle and stood up.

‘You gonna pay for that beer?’ asked Kennedy.

‘Directly,’ said Will. ‘Darn purse is out in me saddle bags.’

The barman watched Will as he headed out, then crossed the road towards the post office.

When Will had gone Lenny said, ‘Looks like our new mate is doin’ a runner on ya.’

‘I’m watching,’ drawled Kennedy. ‘He won’t leave town until he pays for that beer.’

©2025 Greg Barron
Continued next Sunday
Read previous chapters here.
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/