Absolution Creek (68 page)

S
crubber tugged on the reins. ‘Blasted horse, it’s not like we’ve been travelling for days.’ Ankle-deep in mud, Veronica gave a whinny but refused to move. Scrubber slid his hand up tight to the bit and gave the bridle a jerk. Ahead was a substantial tree that forked in the middle, splitting the trunk into two solid limbs. Behind them lay a mile of hard going. Scrubber knew when a battle was done.

‘This is it.’ He sounded almost jovial. Swallowing the pain eating at his guts he unlaced the rope and helped Squib, now grown up and all five foot six of surly womanhood, to slide down from the saddle. For someone near drowned she was surprisingly alert and full of unanswerable questions.
What are you doing here? Where did you come from? Where have you been all these years?

‘Have you caught your breath yet?’ she asked, as they reached the tree and leant against it for support.

Scrubber knew the days of catching his breath were about as improbable as ever eating a cooked meal again. He tossed Cora his swag, water lapping at their feet. ‘There’s a dry shirt in there, Squib. Put it on before you turn into a stalagmite, and take the blanket with you when you get yourself up that tree.’ He figured the girl’s leg was near buggered. Nonetheless, true to the lass he remembered, she didn’t speak of it.

‘My name’s Cora, Scrubber. Squib doesn’t exist any more.’

‘Rubbish.’

Cora looked from the old man opposite up into the wavering branches. ‘I don’t think I can make it.’

‘I’m figuring that would be right.’ Scrubber pulled at the itchy scarf about his neck. ‘A man travels for months, and right at the end when he’s close to the finishing of something long in the making, the very person involved bales up.’ Dog, soggy-haired from their trudging, gave a bark in agreement.

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

Scrubber spat a wad of bile into the soggy grass, and turned his back as Cora changed her clothes. ‘Are you going to get up the damn tree or not?’

Cora tucked the shirt into her wet moleskins, discarding her soaked jumper. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Not up there. I’m staying right here with my horse and my dog. Ain’t that right, Dog?’

‘Dog,’ Cora repeated. ‘You called him Dog?’

Scrubber looked at the mangy animal’s hind leg kicking out in a cycling scratch, and remembered another animal long ago who didn’t have it so lucky. ‘Yeah, after that mangy yellow dog of yours at Waverly Station.’

‘Oh, Scrubber.’

He couldn’t recall the last time a woman hugged him, especially one with mud-matted hair and more energy than a frog in a sock. ‘No time for blubbering now. I won’t look too smart if we’re washed away on account of sentiment.’

‘You should get up the tree too,’ Cora urged. ‘It’s not fair to expect the animals to stay there with you when they have a chance to get away from the flood water.’

The girl had a point. ‘Just let me get my affairs in order.’ He patted Dog on the head, wished him well. ‘You’ve been a miserable animal at times, but a man needs a companion and you weren’t bad; no, not too bad at all.’ Removing the bridle from Veronica he sat Dog on the saddle. ‘Now, don’t be giving each other a hard time and no backchat, Veronica. You always were a shocker for that.’ Scrubber took a lingering last look at his mates. Two sets of plaintive eyes stared back. ‘Stay out of trouble.’ Bloody ridiculous, he thought, a man his age tearing up on account of a couple of four-legged creatures. He slapped Veronica hard on the rump. ‘Well, get going.’ They eyeballed him back. ‘Be done with you then.’ Veronica didn’t move. Dog gave a growl.

Cora was already in the fork of the trunk and angling herself like a koala towards an outer branch. ‘Can’t you get any higher than that?’ Scrubber hollered, his fingers pressed hard on his neck in an attempt to garner a bit of volume. A thick line of ants were fast covering the bark. When Cora didn’t answer he climbed right on up after her, rope over one shoulder, water bag on the other; the tobacco pouch tucked down his shirt. It wasn’t really what Scrubber planned. During the long ride from the hills he’d pictured a hearty welcome and a home-cooked dinner and then the explanation for his visit. After that he’d planned on going out to check on the horses and then he’d just amble away, real silent like, job done. Instead here he was, grunting and huffing and clawing his way up towards Matt’s daughter.

‘You made it.’ Cora winced as she tried to keep her balance on the thick-set limb.

Scrubber gave a grainy cough. ‘Was there a doubt?’ Unravelling the rope he looped it over the branch above them and tied it around Cora’s waist as the rain grew heavier.

‘What about you?’

‘I haven’t got a buggered leg. Now shift over.’ Scrubber split the blanket in half, made a neat hole in each piece and offered Cora the instant poncho. ‘Over your head with it, girl, and back on with the oilskin jacket.’ Once settled they sat there for some minutes surveying their new aspect: a curtain of rain. The noise came soon after, the sound of the bush moving as the crafty menagerie within it evacuated. ‘You gonna tell me why you were out in this weather?’

‘My rams,’ Cora explained. ‘They had to be moved to the other side of the creek for safety.’

‘I saw you purchased yourself a tidy-looking individual, Waverly No. 4 blood, eh? Well, that grin tells me everything.’ Scrubber squirmed about on the branch. For a man with no padding this wasn’t the best of seats.

‘Who’d have thought, eh, Scrubber?’

‘Yeah girl,’ Scrubber agreed, ‘who’d have thought.’

In a distant tree line a mob of kangaroos bounded away in single file, the grey of their soggy pelts merging in and out of a rain-dulled landscape.

‘Well, here we are again,’ Scrubber joked. ‘Just like old times.’ They were six feet up. Safe enough, he calculated, at this distance from the creek. ‘Nothing like a predicament to bring people together.’

‘You and I know all about that. I often think about what Veronica said that day, about how she hoped I was worth it.’

Scrubber patted her sodden thigh. ‘Well, considering the turn out you garnered on the day, I reckon that question was already answered.’

‘I haven’t thought about that day for a long time, Scrubber.’

The girl sounded wistful. They both knew she was lying.

Chapter 59

J
ack wasn’t expecting to see anyone at this hour. Tightening the reins to steady the mare he had purchased the night before, he frowned at the men across the road. He’d just as soon eat paper than slip arse-first onto the ground with two wiry bushmen for an audience, so he spoke to his ride low and soft, promising good feed and fresh water in exchange for decorum. One of the men rode a great Clydesdale, the other, perched atop a slight mare, was busy giving directions. Jack reached out for the packhorse’s halter. He’d been a good horse, however Thomas and Olive’s departure came with the loss of two fine animals and at least one needed to be replaced. Although the purchase was not in his budget, Squib’s advice regarding the Tallow and Hide shop offered an eventual means for a bit of coin.

At the thought of Squib, Jack patted the documents sitting safely inside the saddle bag. Part of him wanted to be back at Absolution Creek, to be drinking sugary tea around the camp fire as he explained to her with a wink that she was now his kin. The look in those brown eyes of hers would be priceless. There would be questions and quarrelling, and then her innate good humour would present itself with a smile and a sticky elbow to his ribs.

The rest of him, that part buried by church teachings and Bible readings and wooden crosses, conjured a vision far more revealing. In it a young woman reached out and he took the warmth of her hands between his. It had been there all along this wanting. Finding Squib all wetted up like a drowned animal was the beginning of Jack’s fondness. After that his partiality towards the girl slowly blossomed as she left the bedraggled despair of being lost, and joined in with the world again, his world. What Jack didn’t know was the strength of Squib’s feelings for him, although he sensed a mutual attraction. Not that it mattered.

In another world Jack may have fought to keep his maleness in check. In another time he could have waited until she turned sixteen. That seemed proper. The problem lay in the current attitudes of the people who considered themselves educated. Squib was too young to marry and too old to live at Absolution Creek unless she had the protection of his name.

Jack checked his carbine. The lever-action rifle would remain loaded until Squib was safe. It was what lay sandwiched between action and goal that worried him. He’d dreamt of it last night, of killing Adams, and the sensation of going against his beliefs fairly winded him. Not because of guilt, nor the Ten Commandments. The truth of the doing was that Jack didn’t really care what action was required, as long as Squib was safe. It was three days since she’d run away. Three days since she’d sat beside him outside the stables. Jack was ready to head home. He yearned to be back on Absolution’s rich soil, to breathe in the tangy scents, to meander along her cool waterways and ride through grasses wind-dried and crackling. At least that’s what he told his brain; his heart knew otherwise.

The steady clop-clop of a horse and the grind of wood on dirt broke Jack’s thoughts. The black horse-drawn carriage was quite a flash affair. The contraption halted outside Green’s Hotel and Board beneath the shady box tree and Jack, having not seen such transportation since he’d left Sydney, began walking his horse across the unmade road to get a closer look.

A woman stepped out of the doorway of the hotel, a small travel bag in each of her hands, and greeted the driver. She wore a clouche hat and was as dainty in form as Olive. He couldn’t see her face, but at the resemblance Jack experienced a slight twinge of regret.

Across from Jack the two riders ceased their talking and turned to look, clearly intrigued by the carriage too. The rider on the slighter horse trotted over for a keener inspection. There was something about him; the way he held his shoulders, tight and bunched, ungainly . . .

Jack spurred his flighty mare into a trot.

The scream was so loud Jack almost fell from his ride. The mare bucked and backed up and bucked some more. Digging his heels in he jerked the reins. The horse wrenched back, chewing on the bit, finally coming to a reluctant standstill.

‘It’s him! Get him away from me, Thomas! Get him away!’

Recognising the voice, as much as the fear in it, Jack flew from his mount, rifle in hand and crossed the dirt street to where his brother Thomas was attempting to stop Olive from sinking onto the ground. His brother was as white as a sheet. Olive was visibly trembling. Jack locked eyes with the man they were staring at.

‘Mary, Jesus and Joseph! Mills McCoy!’ Jack exclaimed, recognising the fighter’s busted nose as the man dismounted.

‘What’s going on here, Scrubber?’ the man on the Clydesdale queried.

‘Mistaken identity,’ Scrubber suggested, unconvincingly, looking at the assembled group as if ghosts.

‘
He
was the one that did it, Jack!’ Olive wept, slipping free of Thomas’s grasp to slide down a wooden pillar into the gutter. ‘He did it. Not Thomas. I never would have done this to you on purpose, Jack, never.’

Jack looked from Olive to Thomas. The man on the Clydesdale jumped from his horse.

‘Are you sure it’s him, Olive?’ Thomas pointed at Scrubber. ‘Are you
sure
he was the one who attacked you?’

Olive nodded. ‘He was the gardener that worked at the boarding house,’ she confirmed between sobs. ‘He was the one who attacked me.’

Jack pointed at Mills McCoy. ‘He did it?’

Thomas shook his head in confusion. ‘That’s Mills McCoy. The Mills McCoy from Sydney?’

‘Mills ‘Scrubber’ McCoy.’ Scrubber crouched and drew a knife from his belt. ‘Well fancy,’ he growled, ‘what’s a city lad doing here?’

‘I could ask the same of you!’ Jack threw his rifle to Thomas, and rushed the Irishman. With a low tackle he swept him against the hotel wall. Bone and flesh thudded against the timber boards, a spray of dust billowing out from the pine wood. Jack’s fingers were on Scrubber’s wrist holding the knife, his free hand on the Irishman’s throat. ‘Is it true what my brother speaks of? Did you violate her?’ The man kept his lips clamped shut. Through the hotel window, the publican drew the curtains.