LINGER AND DIE

by Neil Brooka

Part four (chapters seven and eight) of my steemit weekly(ish) serial

And for those who came in late, click here and check my blog to start from the start.

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE BUSH INN

Never under the yardarm, Berty Best was inclined to believe, was it a good sign of character to be drinking. He had come from a civilized world and this was the way he'd been taught. And then there was Australia, with its constant dry-heat and flies and thirst. Alcohol simply made it easier to cope. A man could float through a day lubricated on the stuff and actually manage to enjoy himself to-boot. True, it made staying on a horse a little harder, and it certainly didn't help one's aim – but to deal with those men? Those convicts on the iron gang? Berty wasn't so sure he would dare to indulge in the stuff should he find himself in a similar position ... Good to have one's wits at hand. Still – who was he to say no to the trooper? Who was he to say no to any man stopping through to release some tension?

The Bush Inn – a name most of the inns along the bush roads used – backed up upon a small creek that ran, more or less, along the northern road somewhere between Mount Macedon and Keilor. This creek afforded Berty the luxury of having a rope hooped over the back window down to a crate full of his own brand of brew in the cold water. All he had to do was to turn the crank, and anyone – for a few extra shards – could have a nice cold bottle of god's truth to see them off to bed in the simple barn-like establishment.

"Yep, she's a girthy neck on her," Berty let the new bloke know of his blunderbuss, “take the head off a pig at twenty feet.” Went by the name of Lynch and was quite the bar-fly. Pity he wasn't a big drinker though, Berty thought to himself. Still, he probably couldn't afford much of anything anyway. Not like the troopers. No, this Lynch chap was more of the talking and listening type, and this suited Berty Best just fine.

"Put enough of a charge in there you reckon?" Lynch finally said, eyeing off the inordinate amount of powder Berty had poured into the weapon.

Berty ignored him as he rammed the wadding and poured in a palm-full of shot.

"So you've found somewhere to shack up then?" Berty picked up a rag to polish the barrel of the mean weapon.

"God save us," said Father McGuire from down the bar, catching Berty's eye and darting his own to the heavens.

"Better than that," said Lynch. “I've bought a place. Donny and Marg Duffy moved off last night. Like you was telling me – Don owes too much.”

"Bah! Good riddance," said Berty who had already given up asking the Duffy's for so much as the interest upon his loans. “Can't say I ever expected to get it back anyway.”

"Don left town? When?" The Priest visibly strained to imagine Donny ever getting it together enough to move elsewhere.

"I told you," said Lynch. “They up and offed last night when I offered to rent the place. Said I could buy it right there and then for a bargain. I couldn't say no. Like I was telling Best here; said he was going down south to live with his brother.” Lynch addressed all of this to Best's direction. Father McGuire was a lost cause when it came to lending a respectful ear to an outsider – particularly in Lynch's case.

"But I was talking to him yesterday," retorted McGuire to his glass. “Said he had an instalment on the cards for me.” The Priest shook his head and downed the rest of his beer.

Berty Best poured another stream of the cloudy muck into McGuire's glass.

"Good riddance like I say," began Berty. “That waster was doing nothing with that land. A few poxy sheep ... A few miserable looking steers ... Told me he'd pay his tab with wood-chop. The bugger's arms were as thin as a Chinaman's chopsticks. I'm guessing he up a left 'cause his booze was running low.” Berty slid back up the bar to his beloved blunderbuss. “So you're here to stay are ya Lynch?”

From somewhere in the back of the gloomy corner of the Inn came a squeal of laugher and leg slapping. A heel-kicked against the chairs. Best had hewn the furniture with his own hands and it irked him that it should be abused in such a way. Too early for this ruckus in the AM. If it wasn't for the fact that they were military men ... "Hey, ease up back there," he said, voice slightly shaking at the two pissed troopers. “it's too early in the morning for these shenanigans.”

A bull grunt of disapproval followed shortly by a slamming glass told Berty he'd gone too far in his objections. The trooper loomed up toward him from the darkness. Messrs Lynch and McGuire kept their heads down toward their drinks.

"Let's see lice-nce." The oaf's blue jacket swung open, its brass buttons cracking against a nearby stool. The trooper, startled by his own sound, twisted around. His hand fumbled for his pistol that, thankfully, had been left on the table where his unsettlingly silent mate sat watching with heavy eyes.

"I think he wants to see your licence," murmured Father McGuire to Berty, who stood dumbly idle, apparently feigning comprehension at the drunken trooper's words.

After a startled rummaging below the bar, Berty Best re-appeared with the papers in question. The trooper attempted, quite valiantly, to read the elegant bramble of looping text.

"Looks to be in order," he said.

"Say," Best attempted as respectfully as he could manage, “is that iron-gang your responsibility out there?”

"Tis," twitched the trooper, turning through the murky window to the huddled group of government men chained to an old ghost gum.

"Be stopping by the area long?"

"Got's push the track," said the trooper, still staring out at the bright day rising.

"I – I beg your pardon?"

Best leant over the bar and the trooper snapped his head back to him, swaying about as if the lost words were to be found in the air about him.

"Push the – ma-cade-mizing."

"I bet you do," said Best, feigning comprehension to find cringing retreat in the eyes of his friends.

"MACADEMIZE. Crushing," barked the trooper.

"He means they're pushing the road up to Mount Alexander," offered Father McGuire.

The trooper nodded to himself, burped and threw his arm over his head that his mate should follow him.

"More crews in the year," he said, “I'll be back.”

McGuire crossed his heart.

"Ah, tis true – shoudn'be drinkin. Got's responsibilities," the trooper slapped some coin on the bar.

"You boys up for a blessing? Father Joe McGuire here has his tabernacle out back. I'm sure will be happy to take your sins away."

The troopers cracked up laughing and slapped Lynch's back so that he spilt beer down his shirt.

"Tab-er-nacle," they laughed, repeating the word syllable by syllable as they stumbled out onto the porch and made for their weary convict charge.

Neither of the men noticed the woman stooped by the window, obscured by the brush of a young wattle tree. As Mary Draper stooped to listen she crossed her own heart that the convicts huddled by the ghost gum would not rat her out to their inebriated masters. Leaning closer to the gap in the woodwork she slowed her breathing and squinted to comprehend.

"You'll be looking forward to that I suppose?" came a voice.

"Hell, I thought it'd be bushrangers I'd need old busty for," replied the barkeep.

It was primarily this weapon Mary was interested in. Her other two unsolicited travelling companions had bravely insisted upon waiting back in the dray, which was parked behind a copse at the curve in the road. They'd said that being that she was a woman and the least wanted by the law, that it should be her that do the measuring up of the place. Caesar was eager to hit it up, and it was only through Johnny calming him down that they had reached a compromise. If they were outed as criminals then Caesar could bail up the Inn directly. If no one knew their faces from a bar of soap they would keep their heads down, and take it level with a view to making it on their own from that point on.

"Never mind the rangers," Berty repeated, glancing out over Mary's unseen head, to the troopers rounding up the iron gang for a day of hard labour.

As she listened and watched and waited, Mary felt something brush across her face she assumed was a wattle branch.

"Wacher lookin at?" came a sneer.

A hand was on her shoulder. A hand in a thick blue sleeve.

"My reflection – just fixing my hair in the window."

The low gentle tones carried on uninterrupted from within.

"Haaa ..." The trooper placed a sticky hand on her cheek, “you look good enough to me.”

---

Johnny and Caesar had been sitting still in the cramped dray for long enough to hear the trees come alive with birdsong and for the crickets to return from the cracks in the parched earth. Even the odd bouncing marsupial bashed its way through the undergrowth without noticing the two loitering men.

The idea of keeping company with a cartload of coffins was not Johnny's idea of fun, and the uncertainty of what they contained was beginning to muck about with his mind. The stench of Johnny's sick encrusted box that Mary refused to discard, and the stench of any of the corpses possibly contained within the other three was turning out to be enough for either of the men to stomach. It was only when they had finally retreated to a nearby creek that reason returned with the fresh water upon their faces.

"I know the smell of death," Caesar insisted on telling him. “It's sticky, and heavy – like rancid pork lard – and it hangs around.” He sniffed his fingers and arms while Johnny washed his shirt in the creek. “I don't believe her.”

"Only one way to find out" said Johnny, emerging from the water, while Nigger watched the two from the embankment.

By the time they had returned to the dray, the little dog was already sitting in Johnny's coffin.

"You'd think a dog would be crazy over the smell of a rotting corpse."

"Unless they're sealed good and proper," said Caesar, hanging his shirt to dry from the edge of the dray. Caesar rubbed his hands together, eyeing off the long crowbar while Johnny inspected the nails.

"Looks all clear to me you shrinking pizzles," came Mary's voice.

The two men spun around to see her with a funny look hung upon her face as her eyes darted over the scene.

"I said the coast is clear."

"What about the iron gang? Aren’t there troopers around?" Johnny moved back from the cart upon a slimy layer of guilt as he spoke.

Mary's eyes narrowed. Walking up to the dray, crossing her arms and leaning her head back to catch the two men's eyes she said:

"They won't be a problem. It's the inn keep I'd look out for. Got a loaded weapon and fantasies of bushrangers – so just play it easy," she glanced at the coffins, “and mind your own business and you should be fine.”

Now it was Johnny's turn to rub his hands together and to stare vacantly into the future. Apparently finding nothing worth dwelling on, his gaze made it back to the coffins, then to Mary's intercepting wolfish eyes that always made him melt a little.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible, while Caesar counted what stolen coins he had left in his pockets.

"Get some breakfast," replied Mary, “water the horses and drop this load up to the station like I told you.” She tapped the coffins, attracting a darkly troubled look from Caesar. With a bounce in her feet she jumped back behind the reigns.

Johnny and Caesar had to jog to climb back beneath the wobbling canvas, while hooped steel ribs jangled with every rock and dimple in the freshly hammered surface. The two of them felt like little boys rolling into town with their mother at the helm of authority. Neither of them looked at each other now. The mixture of nerves – in braving the face of feigned normality and of the shameful knowledge that they had both willingly let Mary take responsibility – made them feel both opportunistic and ashamed, but still they said nothing.

Johnny promised himself it would be the last time he ever allowed a lady to take the reigns in his presence again.

"These men bothering you ma'am?" Berty Best grumbled as the two men dragged their feet over the threshold.

Mary slammed down some coin upon the counter. "I just gave them a lift, landlord. They shouldn't give you too much trouble."

Lynch was already surveying the two with half an eye on Mary while Father McGuire kept his head down and Berty prepared Mary's drink.

"Where you boys headed?" Lynch finally said, breaking the lonely gurgle of beer pouring into Mary's mug.

"They said they'd intended to take the south-western road through Melton," said Mary.

"Can't talk for themselves?"

Best glared at Lynch in his brazen line of questioning. He smelt something vulnerable in the two men. They seemed like foreigners to colonial life – the leering nigger, and the haggard gutter rat – standing like a couple of becalmed masts.

"Like the woman said," Johnny managed to work through his stiff neck. “Heading west – fencing – shepherding and the like.”

"Men of few words eh? That your tracker?"

"I'm no native, sir." Caesar was finding it hard to cork down his contempt for these surroundings. There was a sign saying 'no- abbos' he had noticed upon entering.

"Hey, sorry. All blackskins and niggers look the same to me," said Lynch, throwing his hands in the air. “Some of'em are noble, mind, and I'm all for emancipation. It's the rest you've to worry about.”

Caesar descended upon the bar, his hands out flat and open so as to encourage the fish-faced barman to ease off his blunderbuss:

"I'd have thought that iron gang out there would cause you more grief than a black-fellow."

Best smiled, placing a mug in front of Caesar. He wanted no trouble and felt a certain kind of bravery in talking evenly to the negro as if he were an equal.

"To be fair the troopers out there would trump the lot," he said with a laugh. “They were as pissed as sin just now. Not sure what'll come of it. Gipp's pets have gone rabid.”

Lynch cleared his throat: "Say, did you lads mention wanting some work?"

"Maybe," said Johnny.

Caesar ignored the words and drank, slapping his own coin on the table as he went.

Lynch noticed Johnny's thirsty eyes and motioned for Best to pour one extra.

"Well if you're still around later tonight you should come over for a bite to eat," he leaned his body toward Mary, “and of course your travelling companion would be welcome just the same.”

Mary glanced at him, forcing a smile as Lynch continued with his gab:

"I've got a new place on my hands and have plenty of land to clear. The previous owner was a right fuck-up – god have mercy on his family – and I reckon it will be a good few weeks work."

Johnny shrugged his ear into his shoulder and conceded in taking the drink that Lynch had to nudge in his direction.

"Billy Lynch's the name."

"Johnny – and that's Caesar," replied the thirsty convict, ducking his head toward his mate.

Lynch said nothing to Caesar, just drank while giving him a curious look beneath his brow.

"What you looking at?" Caesar said to his beer.

"A thin skin that one," Lynch said, slapping Johnny on the back, who just now looked like a cat in water.

"True that," Mary added, with a smirk toward Caesar.

"Don't suppose we can see his face turning red beneath the shade," Lynch added, trying to catch the niggers eye. “Nearly as black as your dog on the porch yonder.”

Caesar turned his head slowly toward Lynch, who instinctively leant back, placing his palms on his knees, ready to propel himself into fight. With a horribly painful looking contortion, Caesar cranked his jaw and lips into a terrible grin:

"Funny man" he said, over-doing his accent for effect.

Lynch’s grin seemed to have frozen solid. His eyes darted to Mary:

"You're not travelling alone are you Miss?" he said.

"Mrs – I'm a widow."

"Oh – I – I'm sorry ma'am." He clicked his hands to Best, who seemed to be entranced by the whole affair. “Another drink for the lady.”

Mary ignored this and, instead, ducked her head toward the Priest, who was doing his best impersonation of a man reading a newspaper.

"If you don't mind me asking, but, what's the date on that there rag?"

For a moment Father McGuire seemed not to have heard her. Before she could reiterate her request he had foldedThe Port Phillip Patriot and was handing it over Lynch’s lap.

"You want to read it?" he said. “It's all yours.”

"Looking for mention of anything in particular?" said Best. The words had come tumbling out. Mary slowly met his eyes and something seemed to wither in the question still hanging.

"The opium war is all," she replied, apparently unfazed. “My husband – he –”

Father McGuire came to his senses.

"Say no more ma'am. That rag has nothing but gossip, and advertising."

"Evil stuff, that is ... Opium" added Best. “Can't say I blame our celestial friends for not wanting a part in it for their troubles –” and now his eyes narrowed and he looked upon Mary more closely, “say, do I know you?”

Mary did not look up, but turned the pages of the paper draped over her drink.

Both Johnny and Caesar had turned their heads in awe of her easy manner under scrutiny, wondering what she might say next.

"It's possible. This ain’t the first time I've been through the area," she said.

"Indeed?" Lynch sparked up.

"Used to bake bread up at Campaspe station," Mary continued, twitching her head in a northward direction.

"New owners I hear," said Best, finally back in his favourite realm of gossip.

"Doesn't surprise me," said Mary. “There was lots of trouble with the blacks. Had to send the cavalry in and it ended up being a bloodbath. That was around the time I decided to bow out.”

"So what brings you back?" said Best.

By now Father McGuire had relaxed enough to show some interest. Johnny took up a seat nearest to the door to lean against the wall and peer down the line of dusty characters.

"Coincidence as it happens," said Mary. “I met my husband in Bearbrass. He was running an undertaking business before he up and left for the King's service.”

"ahuh," said Best, peering out the window to the Dray.

"I'm just doing my bit to keep the business afloat," she added as if there was nothing to it. “Up to fetch a chap and his family yonder.”

"Good for you," said Best, privately wondering who might be posh enough to warrant such arrangements.

Lynch and the priest both seemed to have taken a vague kind of macho offence in their body-language – at the idea of a woman working – but Best continued on regardless:

"Well there's certainly no shortage of business in these parts ma'am – although the rangers are mostly on the western routes, we've had our share of trouble." He picked up his blunderbuss, aimed it down into the depths of his establishment and said: “Hence old busty here.”

Best did not notice the awkward silence that had come over the group. Just now Lynch stood from his stool and dusted himself off.

"I must be off," he said, “and I'll be expecting you all at my shack at sundown. And you,” he added to Mary, “will be most welcome. I'll spit up a lamb regardless, so if you don't turn up I'll just have to throw the rest to the flies.” And without waiting for a reply he saluted Best (ignoring Father McGuire) and strode out into the late morning light.

"Say there Mr," said McGuire to Johnny, “I couldn't help hearing your Irish tongue. Are you a religious man?”

Johnny managed to tear his eyes away from Bests gun posturing, to the still talking Priest.

"Father Joe McGuire at your service. You lads going up to Lynch’s new place tonight to take him up on his offer?"

"Why not," said Johnny, slowly savouring his only drink while Caesar ordered up his fourth.

"Definitely a charmer that one," said McGuire, ducking his head in the direction Lynch had gone. “How I'd love to get him to the confessional.”

"Caw, common Joe," said Best. “He's straight up and down a good bloke.”

"Confidence, Best. He's got yours and that of the whole town's throbbing con to burst. I've met many men like that before and they're either selling something or wanting something."

Mary looked up from the paper. It seemed as though her and Father McGuire had something in common after all. What, she wondered, was he perceiving in this rag-tag bunch before him.

"Well he wants to make a good impression don't he?" came Best, still in defence of Lynch. “Got the new place to work and all.”

"Well maybe there's still a chance to convince him to the ways of god," said McGuire rubbing his stubble. “I hope,” he added, arising from his stool, “that I shall see more of you lads. It's a small settlement without so much as a name and we'd be glad to have two working men to help about.”

Distant popping sounds damped by bush, echoed high over head. It was musket fire. Father McGuire, who had just been about to leave, now retreated from the door. Best, noticing this, clasped his beloved blunderbuss and swept it dangerously around the bar, past the flinching group who were already off their stools and shuffling back into the darkness.

"Nobody move," came a loose voice from the porch of The Bush Inn.

Ragged boots braced themselves upon the floor. Best's pitiful forehead twitched with a sickness that had been lacking in all of his ranger fantasies. Caesar, who was the most relaxed of the bunch, decided to at least finish his beer despite the impending fate, and Johnny, who had pasted himself up against the wall, closed his eyes and fell easily into an act, he told himself, of a man yielding to the control of the situation. Level in their heads, Father McGuire and Mary glanced at each other as if expecting the other to have some understanding of the situation. Both arrived at the same clueless conclusion.

CHAPTER EIGHT - LYNCH'S SHACK

"Can … Can I help you?" stammered Best. His blunderbuss came clattering down upon his counter, somehow managing not to discharge itself.

The short pistol came upon the first thing in its arc, which happened to be Father McGuire's face.

"Woah there. “Never been bailed up by a trooper before –"

"Escaped. Men gone," said the trooper, all the while scanning the small Inn with his genuinely alarmed blood-shot eyes.

"You think we're hiding them in here?" said McGuire softly. “Come now –”

"You –" the trooper threw his wobbling aim back into McGuire's face, “ – yous watch yourselves.” He turned tail into the bright day.

Everyone exchanged puzzled looks while Caesar moved slowly to look out from the back window up and along the creek:

"I think they're heading up the river," he said.

Best, back to some level of bravado, took up his blunderbuss once more and headed for the window to see for himself.

"Christ, they're in for trouble," he said. “Finish your drinks, boys. That's the way of the blackskins quamby and there'll be trouble for all of us yet if their nerves get inflamed again.”

Much to his amazement, Johnny found Best thrusting a short carbine in his direction. He took it and checked the pan. It was loaded.

"Those ones have been running amok all week," said Best. “Them con's are going to find themselves speared like mullets if they don't watch themselves.”

"Troopers don't stand a chance," agreed Johnny, peering from the front window at the drunken military policemen stumbling this way and that with comic indecision. “You got any nags nearby?”

While the two men rushed out to play hero, Mary and McGuire found themselves distracted by Caesar, who was rooting around behind the bar. He re-emerged with two rusty flintlocks in his hands (his own numerous weapons were still in Mary's dray).

Mary cocked an eyebrow as Caesar struggled to ram power into their noses.

"And what are you going to do with those, little Caesar?" she said. “Other than blow your hands off?”

He ignored the words and vanished through the door, leaving Mary and McGuire to themselves at the dim bar.

"I don't trust that one –" they heard Best say from outside. “Hey, that pony’s mine.”

Mary leaned back, searching through the wide open door to see Best, Johnny and little Nigger scuttling upon the heels of Caesar who had apparently helped himself to the healthiest horse in the stable.

"Staying in the fold?" said Mary to Father McGuire.

"I perceive," he said, rubbing his hands together, “that opportunities afforded by god,” he ducked behind the bar to hook a large ceramic flagon, “should not be ignored.”

"I like your thinking," said Mary, catching a whiff of rum escaping with the cork Father McGuire had been so swift in removing.

He poured them both a generous measure and settled content to allow the fun to unfold from a distance.

---

Not far away – northwards along the banks of the creek – Johnny watched Caesar shoot between the gums in hot pursuit. Johnny, himself, had eventually found a horse, but had been forced to wait up for Best who'd been bringing up the rear, bow-legged and winded. In the end they rushed the horse to a nearby stile so that Best could climb aboard. By the time all of this came to pass Caesar had already vanished into the bush.

"To the fray!" Best kicked behind Johnny, who in turn gave the jaded old horse a consoling gee up. “That way, and get on.”

Some distance away yet – with Caesar fast approaching – the hobbling train of three convicts hobbled toward the Aboriginal camp. It was here now that the three women sat on the log with their backs to the danger and with their faces to the fire.

"Get under."

"Stop squirming, help me with this gin."

The other two girls had escaped, but the third lay pinned under the convict in heat. His other two mates hungrily held her legs, waiting for their turn.

As Caesar approached the tangled mass of kicking legs, bared teeth and jangling chains, he kicked his heels hard in the stirrups.

A thundering mass of grey sinuous foreleg attached to a cocked hoof was the last thing the stooping convict saw. As his body tangled beneath the horses hooves he found himself dragged with the other two convicts, for a short way far enough so that the girl could escape.

In a single movement Caesar flung himself from the horse, but found no easy footing when his boots connected with a squirming cage of ribs. The convict he had landed upon seized his legs and took him down next to the flailing government-issued boots. Before he could right himself, Caesar found a chain around his neck and the horrible hot greasy breath, of the rapist interrupted, upon his face.

"No you don't," the creep reassured him with alarming control in his voice. He pushed Caesar's head back into the earth. “Well I'll be blowed. A nigger.”

"Hold it."

The convict froze. Johnny's cold steel twisted into his neck.

By the time Caesar had righted himself and trained his guns upon the portion of iron gang before him, a bramble of native spears were already bearing down upon the cowering convict mass. Just as one of these three-pronged weapons had been drawn back, trembling with deadly potential, a musket shot ripped the air with a crack.

"Get out of it you cheeky cunts," roared a trooper, firing another blast into the sky.

While one of the troopers lead the stumbling men back to their road gang, the other remained to repair the situation with the blacks – or at least that is what Johnny assumed was the purpose of his remaining presence. Instead he turned upon Caesar, face inflamed with a red spiderweb of fury.

"Now – you," the trooper began through a horse, gravely voice, “what in god's name were you doing fraternizing with government men? You know it's an offence?”

Caesar motioned to the girl, who was now standing behind the group of stony-faced blackskins still poised to attack, but the trooper didn't even allow him a breath's worth of time to explain.

"It's not proper – a nigger running loose like this. Come on, come with me." He made to grab Caesar by the hand. “You fellers know this darky?”

"He's with me –" said Johnny.

"Yours is he?" the trooper said, postponing his intended grapple.

"He was helping out those blackskins your boys were in the process of having their way with–"

The trooper cut him off: "Calm it down, chief," he said, hushing Johnny up with a motion of his hands, “it was just a bit of mischief. Everything under control see? Who can blame my boys eh? If it wasn't for this here nigger they'd have gotten their rocks off, and'd be content and mailable see? Now they're all riled up, half cocked, ready to go off at a moments notice. If any buggery is perpetrated by these here boys in the near future I'll know what's to blame. Now,” he hitched up his pants, “I need a drink, and if I see that nigger again I'll having him clapped up with the rest of them and they can finish what they had underway. Get my drift?”

Johnny had no idea why he was so surprised. He had witnessed this kind of thing before, but always from the other side. It was easier to demand a pardon when you were already banged up, he thought, looking at the guiltless men mincing back to their work.

"Now clear off – and shut that damn dog up; my head can't take it," the trooper said, climbing back upon his horse.

By the time Johnny and Caesar came trudging back, horses in tow, Mary and Father McGuire seemed to have become quite chummy with one another. As Johnny approached, a conversation was winding itself down.

"It's a deal, Mrs Draper," said Father McGuire, turning to the two men, “Ah, boys. Got that out of your system have you? Good, then lets see what Mr Lynch's word is like and I'll show you the way to his shack … only after showing you about the town of course.”

For the rest of the afternoon they strolled about the young, nameless town. McGuire pointed out all the best fishing spots and the place he hoped to build his church (nodding and winking to johnny and Caesar all the time as if they knew the answers to his problems). So when finally the sun began to fall and their legs to tire, they were all glad to hear McGuire suggest a hasty retreat from the dark, to Lynch's new property.

McGuire, Johnny and Mary sat up front as the dray ambled down a narrow side road while Caesar elected to sit on his own with legs dangling from the rear. As the road slid beneath his feet, and the hot day meandered to an end, he wondered of the vengeance those natives must surely be planning to even themselves with those iron-gang boys. But then, had he himself sought vengeance upon his old masters? All he had ever really wanted was to get away from them. For so many generations his family had known slavery, and yet setting eyes upon the men who'd once owned him was the last thing in the world he wanted. After he had found out that his own emancipation must wait another six years the only men he felt any hatred for were all sat up in downing street upon their plump behinds, sipping tea and playing with their toy soldiers.

"Mary here, was telling me you were a catholic boy yourself, Johnny?" McGuire began, eyeing him off over Mary's curved back as she drove the horses forward.

"Yeah?" said Johnny, wandering what more, exactly, Mary had spilled upon Father McGuire's greedy confession-starved countenance.

"Do you have a second name?"

He didn't like the way McGuire had put it. Somewhere between smug and contemptuous. He tried to remind himself he was just a farm hand now; not a dangerous convict, nor a cultured dramatist as he had dared to think of himself leading up to the disaster at St. John's.

"Just johnny," he said.

"Tell me, Father McGuire," said Mary, a wicked smirk playing about her lips, “what's your sense of danger tell you about Johnny here? Bit suspicious don't you think, not wanting to reveal his surname and all?”

"Well let's start with what we can guess, eh? What do you suppose his age is?" McGuire crossed his arms and leant back to consider.

In the back of the wobbling cave, Caesar's silhouette turned to listen.

"Hmm, I'd say late fifties?" suggested Mary.

"So we have two possibilities then. Convict, or immigrant?" said McGuire. “Maybe we'd do better to estimate his time spent in Australia? That's quite a bronze tan you've got there Johnny boy.”

"That sunburn runs deep," Mary reasoned. “I reckon he'd be mid to high forties. This sun ages you quick out here, and I'd wager he's spent most of his life slaving under it.”

"I concur, Mrs Draper, I concur." McGuire leant forward toward Johnny's ever whitening face. “Hmm, all this time on the land, and still no selection? You don't look like a waster to me. Didn't even finish your drink when the trouble started. Nope, I bet you're real tight with your money, you are.”

"Am I?" said Johnny slapping his empty pockets.

"I'm not so sure come to think of it. Half of you tells me you could have been a convict and the other half tells me you were more the – dreamer type."

Johnny said nothing.

"Well? Am I correct? An artist without an art?"

"You're a perceptive man," he finally said.

"When did you finish your term?" said McGuire, squinting into the setting sun.

"A week ago."

"Really?" said McGuire.

"The both of'em," added Mary. “Real chums they are too.”

"Hah! A week did you say?" McGuire rubbed his peppered stubble. “Funny, I'd have been in Melbourne round that time. Only ship that came in was a prison hulk and as far as I know she didn't port at all.”

"We came over on longboats," replied Johnny. “They didn't want to scare the population and as a rule don't let the government men near a port unless unloading the lot.”

"Terrible thing," said McGuire, “all those men at the mercy of those red jacketed brutes.”

The sun was low on the horizon, burning the bush orange through her heat. To their left a line of naked fence posts stood casting lumpy shadows over the scoured earth.

"Ah, here we are then. And if I'm not mistaken," said McGuire, sniffing the air “he has slaughtered a pig in our honour.”

As they turned through a half-finished gate Mary felt a compressing sensation in sympathy with the closely cropped trees that seemed to arch over the narrow causeway hewn through thick, dry bushland. The spindly wooden shack glowed against the setting sunlight and a tall pyre of flames spewed fireflies up into the heavens above.

In the creeping chilly air, as the embers danced into twinkling stars peeping through the deep blue hues of night, Mary experienced a strange yet beautiful prickle, of ghosts on the wind. This seemed to arise from the densely packed wall of bushland and all the jumbled, rusted out odds and ends littered about the place, giving the impression of womb-like claustrophobia.

In Lynch's warm grin, hands before flames, rested the curious excitement of a man wallowing in the victory of acquisition. As Mary's dray approached, another kind of satisfaction seemed to supplement this demeanour. The flames framed by his welcoming eyes shifted to the dark alighting figures. He unclasped his fingers, made a little bow and motioned for them to approach.

"Ah, come stand by the fire," he sang. “I'm afraid this wooden shack lacks a hearth, but it's on the mend, I assure you.”

Something in Lynch seemed to retreat as Father McGuire strode up from the darkness to Mary's side.

"I hope you will pardon my intrusion," said McGuire, “but I offered to show these good people the way, and –”

"And you've decided to appraise my intentions, no doubt, of what I intend to make of this place?" finished Lynch.

"You've boasted of the prospect many a time –"

Lynch cut in once more with thinly veiled irritation. "And you're here to investigate? Very well. I shall be happy to have your company and esteemed wisdom to guide me – as usual. I beg you all to excuse me for one moment and to make yourselves comfortable."

Lynch stalked off into the shack, leaving Caesar, Johnny, McGuire and Mary to take their places upon the giant redwood boughs that encircled the vast, glowing pyre. By the time their host had returned, carrying a large ceramic flagon (similar to the one Mary and McGuire had syphoned off), everyone had settled around the warming flames. McGuire and Mary smoked from clay pipes while Johnny twisted his fingers before the flames, and Caesar examined the two pistols he had failed to return to Best.

Lynch took a moment to enjoy their apparent comfort before stooping to manoeuvre the large sloshing jug upon his shoulder. "This is no blood of Christ, father McGuire," he said, filling five wooden beakers and passing them round.

"Ah, but you are forgetting the wonders of transubstantiation," replied McGuire gaping at his beaker, “I will give it my blessing.”

"Keep it for your own cup, father," replied Lynch. “I can't stomach blood pudding let alone the life fluids of our saviour.”

"I'll change your ways yet, Lynch." McGuire toasted his vessel and drank before anyone else could follow.

"A proposition now that I've got you here, father," said Lynch, refilling McGuire’s cup as a sinister grin danced about with the firelight. “I turn your spuds into spirits and you stop visiting your godly flirtations upon me. What do you say?”

"Done," McGuire replied without a thought. “Definitely one of the more pleasurable outcomes I could have hoped for in forcing myself upon your company.” He toasted once more.

"Good, now, before I get to you two," Lynch motioned to Caesar and Johnny, “I must make it clear to Miss –”

" – Mrs," said Mary.

"– Mrs Draper, that my intentions on inviting you here tonight were entirely professional and in no way – unbecoming."

"There's no danger of that, Mr Lynch, I assure you," replied Mary.

As Lynch continued, neither he nor anyone else noticed Caesar picking up a glinting object in the scorched clay by the fires edge. Reflected in his two great eyes the silvery pocket watch looked to be in perfect working order. After a squirrelly peek, to make sure no one had seen him, Caesar deposited the delicate object in his pocket and poured himself another drink.

"Yes, well, on to brass tacks," began Lynch. “May I ask who is responsible for the manufacture of those coffins you are carting in your dray? I hope I am not being too inquisitive, but there's something about your business that appeals to me greatly, Mrs Draper.”

"My husband's business," she replied.

"Yes – the Draper Undertaker business. Now what use is it – your husband being abroad as I understand it – that a little lady should have the burden thrust upon her to carry out all the duties and to not have any help along the way. Hauling these caskets for instance: might I enquire –"

"You will understand," cut in Mary, “that it is a personal matter for the family involved, but my client has had a great loss you see, and we offer the complete package – both of the material world, and the spiritual one.”

"That's where I come in," said Father McGuire with an industriously smug inflection, “should any business come to my future endeavour for a church.”

"You two have come to an agreement already, have you?" said Lynch with a sick kind of pleasantness that did not suit him at all.

"I'd heard there was a priest in these parts," said Mary over Johnny's raised brow, “so decided to proposition him, on the subject of any future business regarding his thoughts of providing burial services to the surrounding population, which is sure to grow soon enough.”

"So you meet your priest halfway. Why not your caskets, too? I propose that I can manufacture anything your own carpenter can build for half the price." Lynch slapped the back of his hand to his palm. “What do you say?”

"Forgive me in saying, but that seems not to make any financial sense to me what-so-ever," said Mary through the darkness. “How many people do you suppose meet their ends out here that would request an undertaking service to begin with?”

"Well ... I ... What's to stop me," said Lynch, “from cutting you out all together? McGuire, and I could have all your business taken to the north, and to the west of here.”

"Knock yourself out, Mr Lynch, it is no business of mine, but it has become quite the fashion to be buried in Melbourne or Geelong where the blacks and the wild beasts can't get at your bones, so I'll still have my business just the same."

"Well let us see if I might have more luck with your friends here," said Lynch, masking damaged pride with good humour, “but forgive me. You must all be famished to the bone. Come in, come in to my humble abode.”

As Johnny followed Mary toward the shack, he leaned forward into her ear:

"There's not much I won't put up with, but involving the Priest – a good catholic man – in whatever scam you're running here – it's not right and I won't have it."

To this Mary said nothing, but answered his demand with a smile and a skip to her heal.

"I sure am hungry," she said, “aren’t you?”

"Now where's that pesky mutt got to?" said Johnny.

"Over there somewhere, in the dark." Mary pointed in the direction. “Can't you hear her? Must have found a bone to chew on.”

Johnny strained his eyes and ears, and so it was true. Through the dark he could just pick out the occasional flash of Nigger's white ivory teeth gleefully throwing themselves back with the queer clip-clopping sound of tooth on bone.

Caesar was the last to enter the shack. The whole business of the thing seemed foreign. It did not sit right with him – in being waited upon by this creep of a man of all people. Before disappearing into the shack, he paused in the firelight to examine the prize he had stowed in his pocket.

The pocket watch was an impressive affair, but the winding mechanism looked to be badly scratched. Although he did not have the key he had already decided upon keeping it. There was writing on the back that he could not read it, but what did it matter? Finders keepers was the colonial way, so why not exercise that same logic against it? Finders keepers, loses weep'ers. He wondered if his mother had wept for him when the blackbirds had taken him all those years ago.