A Changing Land Read Online Free PDF Page B

shaded with disbelief. ‘Her eyes are soft as a rabbit’s, but her heart is strong. She says that this is not our land anymore. I say it is not for the owning.’ He glances over his shoulder to the line of dense trees behind them. ‘Them fellas out there, Boss. Might be they come too close.’
    There had been little trouble with Aborigines this trip, apart from the usual skirmishes and a bit of bartering for safe passage.Luke glances at the trees behind him, pats his carbine rifle, gestures to Mungo with a quick incline of his head. They have been followed these past two nights. Both of them have been waiting for the blackfellas to appear. They have sat under trees drooping with coldness, hugged rawhide gloved hands beneath their armpits and wiped at their snotty noses between sips of tea and snatches of conversation. Luke wonders about his friend’s woman. He wants to tell Mungo to speak to his father, Boxer, who is an elder. He doesn’t for fear of offence and the cautionary thought that it is blackfella business.
    The familiar red and white of a bullock’s hide flashes through the trees. Mungo looks knowingly at Luke as a loud bellowing announces trouble. The tail of the mob are a good three hundred feet from the tree line. Luke doesn’t feel like an altercation today. Having woken a little less stiff than usual and with a portion of Wangallon beef stuffing his belly, he was hopeful of a more leisurely start. Instead he finds himself following Mungo.
    They walk their horses into the timber, ten feet, twenty, thirty … Luke pulls quietly on Joseph’s reins, Mungo points to the right. They walk single file through the trees, Luke with one hand on his rifle. There is the crashing noise of a large animal charging through the dense woody growth. The sound echoes loudly for long minutes. An ambush is a distinct possibility, especially here where the trees grow so tightly they appear to have been planted in rows. Another thirty feet on, Mungo heads left. Luke grimaces at the noise of hoofs on leaf litter, his eyes searching for a patch of sky in the canopy above. Joseph pricks his ears and halts midstride. Three Aborigines block their path.
    Two of them wear torn white men’s clothing. Renegades from a station, Luke assumes. The other is tall with a long spear in his hand and alert eyes stare from within the roughness of bark, like skin. He has a wiry beard and a narrow, bony chest, which carries a number of scars thick with age. A possum skin coat, the fur nextto his skin, is dragged over one shoulder. Behind the trio a freshly speared bullock kicks its last amid the trees. Luke draws his forefinger tight against the rifle’s trigger, lifts the weapon very slowly. He is ready to shoot. Mungo climbs down from his horse and lifts his empty hands towards the trio. The two renegades carry nullanullas. One blow could crack a man’s head. Luke knows he and Mungo are in a precarious position. Yet his old friend is talking softly and taking a step towards the warrior with the raised spear.
    The black answers with a string of unintelligible words, his eyes a yellow white pricked by brown. He points at Luke as if he were a leper, the horizontal crack of his mouth spitting anger. Luke would rather shoot the man dead. They are wasting time and his gut tells him that this is one black that should be put down. Mungo is still talking when the spear is raised and thrown. Luke manages to fire off a single round at one of the renegades, then his flesh is pierced and he is thrown back out of his saddle as Joseph rears in fright.

In the kitchen Sarah made coffee for three, strong and black, adding milk and sugar to soften the bite of her own cupful. She couldn’t imagine Shelley showing herself for at least an hour, so Sarah decided to wait to have breakfast with her. On the old pine kitchen table she placed a notepad and pen, a blue and white bowl filled with apples and mandarins and