The Steam Mole (24 page)

Linda knew, from having been on the breakfast table fringes of politics, that they didn't usually treat Westralian businesses that harshly. She had to wonder just what her father and some of his friends, like Colonel Clifford, were up to. It was more than just a murder investigation or cover-up.

“So, what do we do when we get to Queensland?” asked Tim.

Tired, dusty, but with the tender filling up with a stock of short sections of hardwood that were, hopefully, going to work on the conveyor. Otherwise they'd have to hand feed the furnace, which would be hot and difficult. Using the axes and bow-saw had been hard work already, but it might save them later. Wood was scarce out on the plains, but quite available in the gullies. They'd stopped near a huge tangle of flood-washed, bone-dry wood in a braided river bed. They'd spent most of the daylight hours cutting wood, except during the middle of the day, when they lay in the shade, drank water, and talked. And talked. It seemed like years they had to catch up on, not weeks.

“I guess the first question is how do we even know when we're
in
Queensland?” said Clara, wishing of all things that she could have a bath. “I know there are tropical forests on the coast, but his letter said it was very hot and humid at first, but the country outside the prison was baked brown. He said he'd landed at Rockhampton and been transported as far inland as the railway would go. It was called Winton Prison, so I suppose it must be somewhere near Winton. Looking at the map it appeared to be about two hundred and fifty miles east-southeast of Dajarra.”

“Well, I suppose tomorrow, really early, we better start heading east-southeast, then. And burrow if we see problems and sneak in at night. I'd start tonight, but I am so tired I'd fall asleep. I'm sorry, Clara.”

“And why should you be?” she said, reaching out and giving his arm a squeeze. “It's barely a ton of wood we've shifted, to say nothing of a few little adventures with wild savages.” He was like that, always thinking he should do more.

“They weren't exactly savage,” he said, slightly defensively.

“It's what they'd have been called back in Fermoy,” said Clara. She hadn't meant it nastily or anything. They just didn't wear a lot of clothes and used spears. Obviously Tim was bothered by it.

He yawned, then said, “The world's a bigger place, and not quite everything in Fermoy was perfect. Like that school you talked about…”

“Fair enough, Tim Barnabas.” She yawned, too. “We're not in Fermoy. And we're not on the
Cuttlefish
, either. I'll fall asleep on my feet any moment now. Which means you get to kiss me good night.”

He grinned. “It's not all bad here.”

They awoke long before dawn. Clara had slept well for the first time in what felt like forever, feeling the warm comfort of Tim lying against her back. It was most improper, she knew. But then, having finally found Tim, there was no way she was sleeping anywhere but right next to him. And there were dingoes and wild aboriginals out here. She wasn't sure how dangerous either were, but there was no sense in taking any chances. She knew that the snakes, scorpions, and spiders were deadly enough.

They ate. The steam mole was provisioned for two men for a couple of weeks, but much of what there was was in the form of flour and other dry goods. Despite working in the galley for Cookie on the
Cuttlefish
, neither of them were too confident about cooking. The condensed milk and biscuits they knew what do with, however. And tea. Clara had always wondered just why her mother made such a fuss about tea…until she hadn't had it for a day or two. In the dawn they got the steam mole primed and going and set out. It was just so much easier with two people.

Jack and Lampy and the soldier, McLoughlin, had ridden for another two hours before stopping. Lampy noticed the horses were pulling south and guessed what it meant. “They smelling water, Jack. Give 'em their heads.

The horses took them to water, which was amazing in itself, nearly as amazing as water existing out here. Jack had a feeling that the billabong—which was what Lampy called the long, limpid pool that remained on this bit of otherwise dried-up river—wouldn't look so good in the daylight, but right now it saved them water, and there was a little feed there for the horses to supplement the rations they carried. It was hard to add looking after the horses into the list of things that had to be done, but Lampy just couldn't. His ankle was swelled up like a balloon. Jack had him lying on his back with it up, kindling the fire, while he unsaddled and hobbled the horses. The saddlebag had revealed, among other things, a small bottle of rum, and Jack gave the soldier some. He wasn't sure, medically, if it was a good idea, but the man was in pain. He offered some to Lampy, too, for the same reason. The young half-aboriginal lad—Jack had found out that his father had been a “whitefeller”—shook his head violently. “I don't drink that stuff, man. I seen what it does. My pa wasn't a bad feller when he wasn't drinking.”

“Some people can't tolerate it. My friend Padraig was a doctor, and he reckoned the tendency ran in families.”

“I'll have his,” said the soldier, his voice weak and tremulous, betraying his bravado. “I feel a little rough, and it might smooth the ground.”

“I'll save it,” said Jack.

He let them sleep a while, and sat there looking at the stars reflected in the narrow band of water tucked between the trees. Their chances had improved vastly with the horses, water, and rifles, but from what McLoughlin had let slip there were other hunters out there, other groups searching the desert, mostly to the south of them. They couldn't be that far away. He regretted that he hadn't shot to kill the tracker. But Jack came from a background that held
life as precious and not to be taken lightly, or if there was choice. But by now, the tracker could have found another party. And then the chase would be on again. The question in Jack's mind was just how far it was to the underground railway of the Westralians? Would he find it? Or would he simply ride over it? And what did he do with the boy? Lampy was so set against the Westralians, with good reason, but with that foot he was in no state to cope with the desert.

Jack dosed a bit. Some rest he had to have, but years of practice had made him quite good at not sleeping too deeply. Mary slept like the dead when she slept, and if his little Clara had called out, it had been Jack who had got up to tend to her. Thinking about his wife and daughter and being free to maybe see them again one day made that light sleep more refreshing. He woke, somewhat later, when the soldier groaned in his sleep.

Long before sun-up they rode somewhat north of due west. “Might be chased by the other soldiers,” Jack explained. “If the tracker finds them and tells them. Where do you think's best, lad?”

They were on a slight rise, and in the clear sunrise they could see right across miles of flatland into the rougher country beyond. It all looked so endless, and so empty.

Lampy's foot and ankle felt better when he woke, but it didn't last with riding. The throbbing wasn't helping him think. But the Irishman was right, it wouldn't take the tracker all that long to find the other soldiers. They'd probably get some other men, too, now that he and Jack had guns.

Jack called him “lad.” Asked for his advice. He was a different whitefeller to the ones Lampy had met around his father. Different to the prisoners and the guards, too. “Look, we stick to the side of the channel. That big plain…it would be faster to cross, but we'd be visible for miles.

“We go a little north. And then you can see that darker line. That's a channel. Got some scrub trees. They won't see us so easy, we won't raise so much dust. We go 'long that. In them hills over that side, we can rest out the hot time of day. If they come for us…we'll see them, too. We can run then.”

So they turned north and then along the edge of a braided dry creek set about with scattered, scrubby bushes rather than trees, moving across the plain just a few feet lower than the skyline. It was pretty flat, this country. They crossed the broad central braid of the dry river and then went north until they found another dry course going west. It was a good part to get across before the midday heat, and it was already warm.

Lampy ached. Both he and the soldier had chewed quids of Pituri leaves he'd spotted on a nearly dead plant, which had helped a bit. But he was still sore. The sun was starting to get toward where they'd have to find some shade—maybe something in the rocks in the rough country. And then Lampy spotted the smoke trail a little to the south out on the plain. He pointed it out to Jack, who rode south a little away from the slight valley.

Jack called back, “I've never seen anything like it, but it's not chasing us.”

Lampy and the soldier rode over to him, and there, out on the plain, maybe two or more miles off, in the shivering heat, was a machine, smoke coming out of its low stack. At this distance, Lampy couldn't see a lot more.

“Looks like a steam car of some kind. The question is, whose is it?” asked Jack.

The soldier was slumped on the horse, staying on more by habit than any reflection of his condition. He was as white as a ghost. “Ain't ours,” he muttered. “Mus' be them Westralian bastards.”

“Well, we'd better see if we can signal to them or catch them,” said Jack.

Lampy held up his hand. “Jack…you hear something?”

He definitely could, and it was nothing he'd ever heard in the desert before. Then he worked out what he was hearing. Up in the sky was one of those flying balloons. He'd heard of them. Never seen one. It was long and white, and even from here he could see the Union Jack painted on the tail. The noise came from its motors.

“Back to the dry bed,” said Jack urgently. “It's got to be hunting us.”

Tim and Clara had made slow going across the rougher country. There were rocks and gullies and steep spots they just had to avoid. Tim saw what he'd believed was a power station in the distance two days before. In the early morning's clear dry air it was obviously just a tall, monolithic rock. They moved past it and out onto a vast, flat plain, not a tree to be seen, just a distant, heat-quivering horizon.

“Well, at least we'll be able to move a bit faster,” said Tim. “No gullies to fall into, anyway. But I hope we have enough fuel. There's nothing out there, is there?”