Read Online Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 by Peter Watt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Watt
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two bodies, sir,’ Henry quizzed his commander. ‘From what Trooper Mudgee says, there must be a third man out there.’
Mort pulled a face. ‘Yes, two bodies,’ he snapped. ‘My guess is that the third man, whoever he was, has also been speared by the niggers. It’s highly unlikely he is still alive.’ He was not inviting any further investigation surrounding the events pertaining to the deserted bullock team.
‘Don’t you think we should start a search for him?’ Henry persisted as he scanned the surrounding bush. ‘He might still be alive.’
Mort turned on his sergeant and his irritability became anger. ‘I make the decisions here Sergeant – not you – and I say we are wasting our time searching for a man who, in all probability, is dead.’
‘We could at least give him a Christian burial if we find him . . . sir.’ The English sergeant’s words had an edge that did not go unnoticed by Mort.
‘The best we can do right now, Sergeant, is destroy the dray and kill the bullocks. Thus we will deny any darkie survivors the supplies. And, as soon as we meet up with Mister Macintosh, I will bring to his attention the matter of the third man. I am sure that his shepherds are better placed to make a search of Glen View. They know the area better than you or I.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
‘If I were you, Sergeant, I would keep my mouth shut,’ Mort snarled. ‘Before you say something I might construe as insubordinate. I do not wish to put you on report but I will . . . if you persist with your questioning of my decisions.’
Henry seethed with anger. Years in the Queen’s uniform had conditioned him to obey orders no matter how distasteful. But the idea of leaving a white man alone in the bush was against all the unwritten laws of the frontier. His commanding officer’s behaviour was extremely erratic. But he knew that there was little he could do as a sergeant. Any complaint by a subordinate of his superior was not tolerated in the colonial constabulary.
Valuable stores went up in flames as the troopers torched the dray. Police carbines cracked and the big bullocks bellowed and died in their yokes. The final bullock to go was the leader, which did not die immediately. Mars bellowed and slumped to his knees before toppling onto his side.
When the police had finished their task, they rode away and a single black crow landed on the grass beside Mars. In two hops it was next to the big bullock’s head where it plucked out the sightless eyes. Then it flew away.
‘Baal blackfella gone, Mista Macintosh. No more tracks. Blackfella all gone.’ Donald stared hard at Gideon who stood nervously beside his mount among the dead Nerambura at the base of the hills.
‘Gone!’ he snapped angrily. It was incredible that a badly wounded darkie could just disappear as if into thin air. Corporal Gideon had assured them they were almost on top of the murdering savage and now, suddenly, he makes a statement that the man’s tracks have simply disappeared off the face of the earth.
Donald could feel a rage boiling up inside him. There was something about the whole affair of losing the trail that worried him, something about the manner of the police trooper who seemed very nervous – even evasive – as if he were lying about the disappearance of the myall. But the man had no reason to lie, Donald mused as he stared at the big police trooper. After all, he had been more than eager to hunt the man down. At least until now.
But Gideon had not lost the trail. He had no trouble tracking the wounded Nerambura warrior and even now knew where he was. He had lied to the squatter about losing the tracks and had gambled on the fact that the white man and his shepherds did not have his expert skills in reading the ground for a trail. From the puzzlement he saw in their faces, he knew he was right and the squatter had to accept what he said. ‘Me think blackfella probably die anyway, Mista Macintosh, no worries,’ he
Mort pulled a face. ‘Yes, two bodies,’ he snapped. ‘My guess is that the third man, whoever he was, has also been speared by the niggers. It’s highly unlikely he is still alive.’ He was not inviting any further investigation surrounding the events pertaining to the deserted bullock team.
‘Don’t you think we should start a search for him?’ Henry persisted as he scanned the surrounding bush. ‘He might still be alive.’
Mort turned on his sergeant and his irritability became anger. ‘I make the decisions here Sergeant – not you – and I say we are wasting our time searching for a man who, in all probability, is dead.’
‘We could at least give him a Christian burial if we find him . . . sir.’ The English sergeant’s words had an edge that did not go unnoticed by Mort.
‘The best we can do right now, Sergeant, is destroy the dray and kill the bullocks. Thus we will deny any darkie survivors the supplies. And, as soon as we meet up with Mister Macintosh, I will bring to his attention the matter of the third man. I am sure that his shepherds are better placed to make a search of Glen View. They know the area better than you or I.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
‘If I were you, Sergeant, I would keep my mouth shut,’ Mort snarled. ‘Before you say something I might construe as insubordinate. I do not wish to put you on report but I will . . . if you persist with your questioning of my decisions.’
Henry seethed with anger. Years in the Queen’s uniform had conditioned him to obey orders no matter how distasteful. But the idea of leaving a white man alone in the bush was against all the unwritten laws of the frontier. His commanding officer’s behaviour was extremely erratic. But he knew that there was little he could do as a sergeant. Any complaint by a subordinate of his superior was not tolerated in the colonial constabulary.
Valuable stores went up in flames as the troopers torched the dray. Police carbines cracked and the big bullocks bellowed and died in their yokes. The final bullock to go was the leader, which did not die immediately. Mars bellowed and slumped to his knees before toppling onto his side.
When the police had finished their task, they rode away and a single black crow landed on the grass beside Mars. In two hops it was next to the big bullock’s head where it plucked out the sightless eyes. Then it flew away.
‘Baal blackfella gone, Mista Macintosh. No more tracks. Blackfella all gone.’ Donald stared hard at Gideon who stood nervously beside his mount among the dead Nerambura at the base of the hills.
‘Gone!’ he snapped angrily. It was incredible that a badly wounded darkie could just disappear as if into thin air. Corporal Gideon had assured them they were almost on top of the murdering savage and now, suddenly, he makes a statement that the man’s tracks have simply disappeared off the face of the earth.
Donald could feel a rage boiling up inside him. There was something about the whole affair of losing the trail that worried him, something about the manner of the police trooper who seemed very nervous – even evasive – as if he were lying about the disappearance of the myall. But the man had no reason to lie, Donald mused as he stared at the big police trooper. After all, he had been more than eager to hunt the man down. At least until now.
But Gideon had not lost the trail. He had no trouble tracking the wounded Nerambura warrior and even now knew where he was. He had lied to the squatter about losing the tracks and had gambled on the fact that the white man and his shepherds did not have his expert skills in reading the ground for a trail. From the puzzlement he saw in their faces, he knew he was right and the squatter had to accept what he said. ‘Me think blackfella probably die anyway, Mista Macintosh, no worries,’ he
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