Fire Eye (24 page)

Jed reassembles the Colt and holds it in his right hand, admiring the light sheen of oil covering its restored metal parts. He hits the magazine release with his thumb and the magazine slides out as it should. He racks the slide back with the fingers of his left hand, showing the gun is clear of ammunition. Then he inserts the magazine and hits the slide release. Then the slide slams forward with a clunk as it would to chamber a round if the magazine had been loaded. The hammer is back and he places his thumb on it, gently pressing the trigger and lowering the hammer.

“Perfect!” he mutters, partly to himself, but Alex is watching with intense interest. “Your turn,” he says as he hands her the Colt. “It’s a big pistol but don’t be daunted by it. You handled the .357 Magnum well. This is really no worse in recoil, although it may feel bigger to hold. When you fire it, it will kick back and up and maybe want to twist in your hand. Take command and it will do what you want,” Jed instructs as he demonstrates two versions of the double-handed grip.

He talks Alex through its operation and makes her repeat it over and over. Dropping the magazine, operating the slide, inserting the magazine, operating the safety, slide release and practising a two-handed hold to bring it up to a target. She chooses to wrap her left hand around her right with her forefinger on the front of the trigger guard, right arm fully extended, feet spread with her left foot slightly in front and knees slightly bent. He has sorted through the ammunition and picks out the rounds in best condition. He gives her one round to insert in the magazine.

“When you are ready, load and fire,” he tells her. “The sights aren’t brilliant… and expect the trigger to be a bit gritty,” he adds as an afterthought.

She works through the motions, loads the pistol, brings it up and fires at the improvised target carved into a tree.

“Whoa!” she spits out as the Colt kicks up, twisting in her hand. She rolls with it and finishes with the sights lined up on the target. The slide is locked back so she shows the gun is empty.

Jed walks forward to inspect the trunk. “That’s pretty good. Seven metres is a standard combat range but we made it ten and you have a good hit! Well done!” He gives her three more rounds, one at a time, and steps back to watch. She loads the rounds, cycles the action and brings the gun up to fire, snapping off the first round. On the second, there is an audible click as the firing pin hits the cartridge but doesn’t fire. Alex twists the pistol in her hand to look at it with a startled expression.

“That’s real good Alex. I gave you what I thought would be a dud round with too much corrosion. It failed to fire. The good news is I can see you didn’t jerk the trigger and you kept the barrel pointed in a safe direction. Just work the slide, eject the dud, reload and engage,” he commands. He enjoyed being a range officer during his time when he shot competition pistol and takes to the teaching naturally.

She racks the slide back to eject the dud round, letting it slide forward, and then fires the third round, hitting the target within a few centimetres of the first.

“Good control!” Jed confirms. “Show me the gun is clear,” he orders, watching as she drops the magazine and shows him the empty chamber.

“Excellent!” You learn quick!” he acknowledges as he walks up to the target to inspect the splintered holes in the dead timber. He places the palm of his hand against the trunk, covering all the holes easily. “A novice shooter, Colt .45, ten metres. That’s good Alex, very good indeed. You’re a natural!” he adds in a tone conveying obvious respect.

She doesn’t say anything but feels a sense of pride. She never lets it show, but it is scary doing something so different in front of someone who is obviously good at it. Jed’s genuine compliments are some of the only ones Alex has ever received. She has had few meaningful friendships and every man she has been with was in awe of her intelligence, wanted to dominate her or just get her into bed. Decker was the worst of the lot. Only Jed can acknowledge what she has done as an equal. Alex is compiling a list of what it takes to get his attention. So far it is dancing, flying and shooting! Oh, and an appreciation of German and aviation history. It’s a start.

“Shooting at a target is one thing. A man is something else. You’ll only know if you can do it when the time comes,” he says, trying to impart a lesson he learned the hard way.

In return, she looks at him with eyes that pierce him like the cold, sharp steel of a Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife. She doesn’t have to answer because the look says it all.

He has no doubt she could do it if she needed to. “A rifle can generally beat a handgun any time,” he adds contemplatively. “A handgun is a fairly useless tool unless you know how to use it. There is a basic rule to remember and that is—hurry up, but take your time. You need to be fast, but you also need to hit with the first shot. It’s about achieving balance in the face of death. There ends the sermon.”

“Are you going to have a go?” she asks to divert their thoughts.

Jed would love to but the ammunition is limited. He experienced twenty years of pistol shooting. He doesn’t want to be seen as a show off and they need the rounds, so he declines. He loads a fired case in the pistol and practises some dry fires to become familiar with the trigger pull and leaves it at that. He has handled the pistol enough to make it familiar. “We don’t have too many good rounds. Better save them. There is a last lesson though.”

He takes the pistol from her, loads a few rounds in the magazine and gives it back to her. “Now you have rounds in the magazine, chamber empty, safety on and hammer down; that’s condition three. Very safe to carry but to fire you have to flick the safety off and rack the slide to load a round. Now rack the slide, carefully drop the hammer and engage the safety; that’s condition two.”

He makes sure she is paying attention before continuing. “To fire, disengage the safety and pull the hammer back.” He can see Alex concentrating and keeping up with his instructions. “Now pull the hammer back and engage the safety. That is condition one, the fastest way to get it into action. Just draw, flick the safety off, aim and fire. It may have a round in the chamber and the hammer back, but with the safety on it is safe because there is also a grip safety.”

He makes her repeat the conditions and then again after that, but she has it down pat. He is impressed, very impressed indeed, and tells her so. “We’ll go through it again later.” He sees her eyes roll in pretend frustration but also recognises the intense satisfaction within those brown depths. They reflect the confidence that comes from mastering any firearm and the big Colt is a real challenge. “It’s late. We need to get back to our camp, rustle up some food and talk about tomorrow.”

“Food! I’ve been distracted and my stomach is on the verge of rebellion!” she agrees eagerly, camouflaging her euphoria at the afternoon’s lesson. Her achievement has left her feeling satisfied and empowered. She is no longer a helpless victim on the run but finally has some power to control the outcome of this latest situation in her life. “Let’s chase up dinner,” she says, tossing the Colt to him. “I could eat a buffalo!”

“No doubt you could and shoot it, gut it and cook it too,” Jed says. “And that would be starters only!”

He tucks the Colt into his belt while she picks up the fishing spear she left stuck in the sand. They head along the beach to the camp they left that morning. He stuffs some sections of aluminium and pieces of leather he scrounged from the aircraft into her bag and slings it over his shoulder, still wondering if his planning is too much of a gamble. He is thinking like Decker. He’d want to knock her down so he can stand over her so she knows what is coming. A slow, agonising departure from life as a plaything. A head shot would be out. Arms and legs too small a target and a chest shot too risky, maybe killing her too quickly. Jed would go for a stomach shot. A nice big target almost guaranteeing a slow, painful death. Only time will tell if his plan will work. He can’t think of anything else that will give them an edge.

Jed has no idea whether she will have the stomach for it—a poor choice of words given what he has in mind. He has learnt she craves safety and protection, yet he is thinking of risking her life based on his interpretation of Decker. It is a high-stakes gamble. It is better if she doesn’t know the full story. He wants to get out of this alive, with Alex as well. If he doesn’t try something she could be dead anyway, but that isn’t much consolation. It would only be proof of failure. He struggles with the whole idea and feels the nebulous danger he first sensed in the café on top of Q1 coming home to roost.

As they walk side by side down the beach Jed gives no clue to his thinking. They both turn at the same time to look back at where they have come from. The aircraft is hidden from view and their eyes meet at the same time. “It’s like a dream!” Alex says in a wistful tone. “It sat there hidden for so many years out of sight.”

“It is indeed Alex,” Jed agrees. “After we announce the find it will be a while before a recovery team gets here. In the meantime, you’ve started closure for many families. That’s an achievement to be proud of.”

She nods her thanks and they continue down the beach, side by side, with the weight and bulk of the Colt providing a comforting feeling as it nestles against Jed’s body.

The faint greying of the sky to the east gives early warning of the new sun that will soon bathe the landscape once again. Charcoal is sleeping lightly, senses alert for any unusual sound as he rests next to the black man he rescued only a few hours before. He hears Davey stir and then sit up to put his boots on. Charcoal joins him and together they coax a small fire into life, careful to avoid any smoke. Their camp is well screened by scrub and the rise of the land, but they take no chances.

“You have to ride today,” Charcoal tells Davey. “Take that boy with you, back to the station. Be a slow trip. He hurt’n bad and can’t talk.”

“What about you?” Davey asks with concern clouding his face. He’s worked cattle with Charcoal for many years, a bond stronger than brotherhood, forged by long, dusty days, camp fire talk, a deep love of country and the outback lifestyle. Charcoal had filled him in on what he had seen and heard during the night.

“You gotta get back and let the boss know he’s got some bad fellas out here and some people in trouble. Take you a good two days to get back with this fella. I’m staying to keep an eye on things until some help gets here. You can get the boys to bring the boss out here in the mustering chopper. He can be here morning day after tomorrow and sort things.” From what Charcoal can see, these bad fellas have trespassed through the property, roughed up the black fella and are planning more mischief. Shouldn’t be too hard to sort. “Boss can let cops know too,” he adds as an afterthought.

While they are talking they make a broth of the beans, dried meat and bush tucker still left over. They crush it in a spoon, cool it by blowing gently on each spoonful and between them manage to get some into the boy’s mouth. It isn’t much but it brings some life back into his face.

“What’s your name boy?” Charcoal asks as he feeds the last of the broth into his mouth. They hear a sound forced out of his throat—“bRAAD!”

“You Brad?” Davey guesses, recognising the sound before Charcoal can put it together.

He is rewarded with a nod as Brad points to the remaining broth in the billy. They feed him the last of it and Brad feels a warm inner glow as his body welcomes it. Charcoal and Davey stuff the remaining unrecognisable lumps into their mouths with their fingers.

Charcoal puts his hand on Brad’s shoulder to get eye contact. “Davey go’n to take you back to the homestead. Be there couple of days.”

Brad makes an effort and groans out a sound. “Bruvver… zzhhoo,” he manages to get out of his smashed jaw.

Charcoal and Davey look at each other but Davey beats him to it again. “Joe” he says, looking into Brad’s eyes and is rewarded by another nod.

“Don’t worry brother,” Charcoal replies. “I’m staying and I’ll look after Joe. You get out of here with Davey!” he encourages with a gentle touch on his shoulder.

By the time they finish, the new sun is bathing the land in its light and gentle early morning heat, highlighting the red in the soil and rocks and the green of the leaves in the bush around them. It is a beautiful time of day with colours at their richest, just like late evening as the sun slowly sinks below the horizon. It is a sight they have seen on many mornings that never loses its magic, but today they have to get organised. Charcoal intends to keep the campsite as it is, well concealed. He helps Davey pack his small amount of gear and get Brad mounted behind him on the horse.

“Let the boss know,” Charcoal tells Davey. “Look after our brother but don’t waste time. You know what to do.”

Davey nods.

Charcoal slaps the horse on the rump and watches Davey and Brad disappear through the scrub. Picking up his Winchester, he slides it back into the leather scabbard strapped to Thor’s saddle.

He will wait and see what the day will bring. He can’t move around the scrub too much in daylight. He knows those bad fellas are staked out on the high country, the hill or the ridgeline or even both. He will have to find a vantage point and wait the day out. He brushes Thor, gives him some water and moves him to where he can get some feed. He steps away to find a good spot but, on an afterthought, goes back and pulls the Winchester out of its scabbard, works the action to load a round and then slips a few more cartridges into the magazine. Seven rounds all up and nothing in his pocket to clink at an awkward time. He heads out for what is going to be a long day—good thing he has learned the patience of the hunter from childhood.

Joe covers a lot of ground during the day, unhindered by the clumsy white bastard. He spent the night in a relatively comfortable camp, well fed on bush tucker. He is worried about Brad, but in the circumstances is as content as he can be. Better to be away from those white fellas, who radiate a bad energy. He wishes he picked it up earlier but they acted their part well. He was sucked in well and truly.

Standing rock still, balanced on feet that each claim their own boulder, his legs take the weight of his body with ease as he uses the extra height to ponder the landscape. To his left is a jump-up, a long bluff with steep, smooth sides that blocks his advance. It isn’t the nature of the country that blocks him as much as its significance. It is sacred country to which he has no right of entry. It has ceremonial significance going back eons. He has heard the stories of Ungondangery, the stories that say this was his country and that he is still there in spirit, his bones laid to rest somewhere among its rocks.

It is a barrier that is insurmountable to him. He knows the man and woman headed in that direction and probably found a way over. The big water is not far away. He continues to stand absolutely still, balanced on the balls of his feet, feeling the breeze gently caress the skin on his face, smelling the complex mixture of fragrances in the bush. Faintly he hears a noise that doesn’t belong and cups his hands behind each ear to magnify the sound. He hears it again and then again and a few more times after that. One shot is almost impossible to place accurately in terms of direction. Here he hears two, three… six at least, carried inland by the gentle breeze. He swivels his head in the direction he identifies and takes a bearing against the sun beginning its descent off his left shoulder.

He studies the country in front of him. Swamp country. It will be thick, dark, wet and dangerous, but not impossible. It is not sacred country. A challenge surely, but easy in comparison to breaking the taboos of his upbringing. He jumps lightly off the rocks and heads north, skirting the jump-up country toward the place where the shots had come from.

He knows he’s heading into dangerous times. He will do anything to save Little Britches but can’t trade these people in return. The day bought time to formulate a plan, a dangerous plan but one that can work if he uses the country in his favour. He is feeling more confident that he can do a trade, the man and woman for his brother. Do the swap in sight of the white bastard boss man but give the man and woman an escape route down the creek line below the bluff. It is all a matter of timing and location. It is deceitful but done for a good cause to save all three of them. He has no one to talk to and has to come up with a plan on his own. It is the best he can devise. Acting to trade, but aiming to deceive. He will be playing both parties but with the best of intentions. He is not comfortable about it. He has no choice but to continue down a route where he cannot predict the outcome.

With no one to slow him down he covers ground at a comfortable trot and soon reaches the beginning of the swamp country. He isn’t going in there with darkness approaching but has enough time to scout the best way in. He starts on the channel side and, as he expects, there is too much water. It doesn’t take long to work out the mud will be soft and deep. Toward the middle is looking promising but he continues west to the edge of the bluff, expecting to find an easy route along the base. Instead he finds thick, tangled scrub that he has to fight through, only to be confronted by a still and dark pool of water, thick with mangrove, backed up by mud washed down during floods. He backs out, knowing it will be too thick and deep to get through easily. It is also a likely haunt for a crocodile and he doesn’t need to add to his problems. Joe heads back to the middle where it seemed promising. His gut instinct tells him that if there is a way through, it will be here. Silt washed down from many floods has built up to make a ridge of slightly higher ground that might allow a way across the swamp.

He needs time to set up a camp for an early start in the morning so he backs out of the swamp and finds a comfortable spot to spend the night. Coaxing a fire into life, Joe throws on enough timber to keep it going while he scouts around for something to eat. He is hungry and a kangaroo would be welcome but he has nothing to hunt with. He breaks off a branch to use as a digging stick and goes looking for whatever he can find.