and with a black by his side, ducked behind a tree.
Luke cocked his rifle, pointed it in the two men’s direction. ‘Stop there.’
‘Where’s my father?’ A pronounced English voice called.
Luke looked at Crawford’s prone body, then at his father’s still heaving chest. ‘Dead.’ Through the trees to the left of the homestead, black maids were running off into the bush. Luke leant his head against the cool of the mud brick wall. There was no way of getting out of this predicament, it was either fight or see his father jailed for murder. Crawford’s son and the black began to walk towards them. Their boots crunched dry dirt. Luke wiped his sweating hand on his moleskin trousers, took hold of the rifle more firmly. His hands were shaking.
Crawford’s son scanned the verandah, pointing his pistol at Luke’s chest. ‘I’ll see you hang for this.’
The impact of the shot drove William Crawford backwards. He fell squarely on his arse before falling down dead.
Angus dropped the rifle, a determined look on his face.
‘Whitefella business.’ The black stockman backed away, holding his hands high in surrender.
Luke let him go. No one would take his word. He turned to stare at his unflinching half-brother.
‘Is it done?’ Hamish turned his neck to where William Crawford lay.
Luke helped his father into a sitting position. ‘Yes, Father, it’s done.’
Hamish clutched at Luke’s good shoulder. ‘Throw the bodies in the fire and then get me over the river, Luke. I need to die on Wangallon.’
Luke checked the wound on his father’s leg. The trousers were soaked through with his blood. ‘You won’t be dying, Father.’
Hamish gave a weak chuckle and placed his hand on his elder son’s shoulder. ‘This time we both know better.’
Sarah arrived home as a weak sun struggled amid cloud for midday prominence. Her flight had been delayed from Sydney by fog and she was overtired, with a boot load of groceries to unpack. Struggling up the back path with plastic shopping bags twisted around her fingers and Frank Michaels’ package squeezed under her arm, she dumped the bags on the kitchen table, her blood supply nearly cut off. The kitchen was freezing, the sink empty except for one plate and two empty longnecks of beer. Sarah held her palm over the black cooktop, the Aga was cold, which was unusual considering they always kept the slow combustion stove lit during winter.
Outside she loaded the wheelbarrow with kindling and split logs from the wood pile at the back gate. Some feet away Bullet sat patiently in the dirt. ‘Hey,’ Sarah called to him, expecting his usual ferocious excitement. Instead Bullet looked briefly over his shoulder, gave a single bark and rushed a few hundred metres away from her. ‘Bullet, come here.’ The dog obeyed reluctantly, accepting her petting before dashing off again and then turning towards her. ‘Hey, what’s up? I’m sorry I’ve been away.’
Bullet whined. Some feet away Ferret was sunning himself like a Florida retiree. He was lying on his back, his four paws extended in the air, his head lolling to one side. He opened one eye at Sarah’s voice and then clambered unsteadily to his feet, the black tubing making his gait stiff and ungainly. Bullet looked at his mate once and then stared straight ahead.
‘I get it. Anthony wouldn’t let you go with him?’ She scruffed him between the ears. ‘Well, how about you and I go for a ride later.’ Bullet gave a series of barks, walked a few paces away from her and whined. ‘Later,’ Sarah promised.
With the Aga stoked up and burning well and the groceries unpacked, Sarah made a quick coffee. Spending another evening alone as she’d done last night was a quick fix for her anger, especially when Shelley’s lecture on the importance of her relationship with Anthony had eventually, albeit reluctantly, seeped in. Shelley was right, of course; Anthony and she could fight and moan and groan, however they’d supported each other for a long time. The very least she could do was respect their relationship by not remaining angry with him. There wasn’t any point; yet clearly neither was trying to bridge their disagreement with affection. ‘There must be a way around this.’ Draining her coffee mug, Sarah poked another split log into the Aga. There was steak for dinner, tinned mushrooms and frozen French fries: Anthony’s favourites. ‘One fence at a time,’ she decided, opening the paper bag on the table and unwrapping the Bible Frank handed her yesterday. They could start