A Changing Land(122)
Wangallon Town was his first stop. Once there he figured he could speak to some of the townsfolk about some form of employment. He didn’t need much money, just enough to buy a bit of food for he intended to spend his nights under the stars with Wallace. Eventually he hoped his father would recognise that he had some ability as a stockman, even if he was a bit small, and decide not to send him away to boarding school. Besides, why would he want to go to the Kings School? He wasn’t going to be a king and he certainly didn’t want to meet any boys that were going to be kings.
He picked at the bread in the saddlebag, patted the hunk of hessian-wrapped meat and the bundle of flour. The thought of Mrs Stackland going crook at one of the maids for his thieving made him giggle. Across the moonlit landscape a number of shapes came into focus. Wallace pricked his ears. Angus figured they were some of their Aboriginal stockmen out hunting, however he recalled his father had sent them all mustering a couple of days ago. Intrigued, Angus gave the reins a flick and Wallace broke into a trot.
There was no breeze and his vision was partially obscured by trees that peppered the countryside. Whoever it was galloped away from him and there were at least three men. ‘Come on, horse.’ Angus pulled his hat down low, leant forward in the saddle and nudged Wallace in the ribs. The horse sped off like a whirlwind. Ill-prepared, Angus let out a yell before twisting the reins about his fingers. Wallace galloped over the ground, the eerie light of the moon-mottled bush merging together in a blur of hot rushing air. Angus found it difficult to keep steady in the saddle. His small body bounced from left to right and he became worried he would lose his grip and fall. He pulled his knees tight against Wallace’s flanks and tugged on the reins to the left. Like magic the horse followed his instructions. He leant back on the galloping animal, entwined his fingers through the horse’s mane and pulled hard. It wouldn’t do any good if he galloped straight past them like one of those new fangled automobiles he’d seen in a catalogue.
‘You damn recalcitrant,’ he yelled, copying his father. Wallace slowed to a trot.
The moon, having risen to a point above the tree line, illuminated the country in a veil of white as the three riders walked their horses through box and ironbark trees. The horses moved easily through the light-flooded grasses, barely pausing in their strides as the trees grew thicker. A belt of belah indicated they had reached country subject to flooding and soon the traveller’s moon shadows were lost among the close-knitted trees as they weaved through and around the woody plants. Hamish rode ahead of Mungo and one other stockman, Harry. He ducked beneath a low branch and caught his face and hat in a mess of sticky web, a large bush spider scrambling away in fright. He wiped the tacky threads on his thigh.
At midnight, with the moon suspended directly overhead, Hamish halted. Boxer, unusually reticent about joining Hamish on this escapade, had passed on his trail suggestions to his son Mungo, and the boy now turned from the agreed route mapped out days ago.
‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ Hamish asked with a low growl as their steady pace led them through coolibah and brigalow timbers. One of the horses whinnied. There was the sound of equine teeth mouthing at a bit. Every noise seemed to be magnified by the night’s stillness as twigs and leaf litter crunched and the soil became sandier in composition.
Mungo coughed, masking the noise with a cupped hand. Hamish sensed trouble brewing and wondered at Mungo’s ability, having been unable to prevent Luke’s spearing by the renegade warrior down south. A quiver settled unpleasantly in his stomach and he turned his neck from left to right. They were not the only ones travelling stealthily under guidance of the moon. Having worn the cloak of the hunted, one never forgot the feeling. At a small clearing they waited silently, their carbine rifles loaded and aiming in the direction Mungo pointed.
The noise of the unknown intruder carried through the air for some minutes; the steady clop clop and the crackle of leaf litter growing louder. The horses in the clearing shifted uneasily. Hamish reined in his mount, drew his rifle tightly to his shoulder and touched his finger to the trigger as Mungo held up his forefinger to signal one rider approaching. The moon shone down upon them like an encircling spotlight, making the timber look dark and forbidding as they backed their horses towards the shadows.
A lone figure entered the clearing. Hamish drew his forefinger down on the trigger as Mungo raised his hand. It was Angus.
‘Damn it, boy. What are you doing? Do you want to get yourself killed?’ Hamish rode forward, intent on chasing the boy away, but Angus was whispering to Mungo and giving practised gestures with his hands.