top. A number of calves were calling out frantically. Hamish caught sight of Boxer and McKenzie as a single rifle shot sounded. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, unsure of the direction it came from, and then headed to where the rope was tied.
The nulla-nulla hit Boxer between the eyes, the impact driving him from his young colt and sending him sprawling in the grass. Hamish watched his old friend fall to disappear behind the moving cattle. Moving quickly to the rope he charged his horse down the bank. Behind him he heard a scuffle and then a yelp. He glimpsed the butt of Jasperson’s rifle and saw a white man drop to the ground.
‘Go,’ Jasperson yelled.
Behind him an Aborigine appeared through the trees. Hamish caught sight of a tall warrior with a skin dragged over his shoulder and spurred his horse down the bank. He entered the water as a spear entered his thigh, the impact shunting him sideways. With the spear dangling from his muscle Hamish overbalanced as his horse was swept from under him. With clenching fingers he held tight to the rope. He glanced over his shoulder. Jasperson was darting through the trees, an Aborigine in pursuit. Then the rope went slack and he sank beneath the surface. Hamish splashed uselessly as the current pushed him towards the last of the cattle crossing the river. His one chance was to grab hold of one of the cows, maybe clamber onto a back or hang onto a tail. His chances were slim. The current was pulling at his damaged leg. He tried to swim and gulped at the muddy tide, felt the water bash at the spear still dangling from his thigh. Then he was pulled under again.
Mungo watched in horror as the Boss went under. He ran along the bank, calling to him uselessly while on the far bank Aborigines were running in the same direction. These men weren’t trackers. They were renegades. A rifle shot sounded. Mungo dived into the dirt, spitting grit from his mouth as cattle bellowed and lost calves cried out. McKenzie appeared on the far bank, chasing the blacks for a few scant seconds before turning his attention to a body. He dumped it in the water and returned with another, hiding the evidence of their crime. A final body appeared on the riverbank. It too was dragged unceremoniously into the water. With a stab of painful recognition, Mungo watched as Boxer floated away and for the briefest of seconds he had a terrible suspicion that his father was still alive. Lifting his rifle he cocked it, pointing the barrel across the water directly at McKenzie’s stomach. Very slowly he squeezed down on the trigger.
‘Mungo?’
‘Go get Mister Luke. You tell him –’ Mungo lowered his rifle, wondering how long Angus had been standing there. ‘Tell Luke,’ he hesitated, not willing to bring reality to that which he’d witnessed. ‘Tell him there’s bad blackfellas loose. Tell him –’
‘That my father didn’t come out of the river.’ Angus remained rooted to the spot.
‘Go. Bring him back.’ Mungo helped the boy mount up and then ran back to where he’d left his horse. He still had a job to do and Boxer had told him that no matter what happened to stick with the plan.
Thick tree trunks glided by so close that Angus felt the rough tear of bark on skin. He caught sight of leaves, spider webs and low hanging branches. The ground rushed beneath him. There were ant hills, tufts of grass, rabbit holes and logs; a mob of kangaroos was startled into action. His cramping leg muscles spoke of an interminable time in the saddle and the sky now showed a dull pink where once a grey pall had hung. The moon still watched over him although now it hung low in the sky and storm clouds crossed its path. Soon a light rain began to fall.
Angus prayed for guidance, for strength for his horse; winding his fingers tighter about the reins, he lay down on Wallace’s neck. Beneath his body the long extension of muscles flexed as Wallace’s powerful legs sped them onwards. Wallace’s sweat-heightened aroma seeped into his nostrils until Angus began to imagine that he and the animal were one. He muttered a string of indecipherable words into Wallace’s ear, urging him onwards. A glimpse of a cloudy moon dipping through the trees cleared his thoughts.
‘For my father, for my father,’ he repeated. The phrase became his mantra.