Free The Bark Cutters by Nicole Alexander Page A

trickle of mud that was to have provided water for all would be their sleeping companion, at least for this night. It had been a rough trip. The dray had been lost crossing the Broken River. Hamish had watched as his only spare shirt, his small collection of books and his tent and tools had either sunk to the bottom of the river or been swept away inthe fast flowing water. Ahead he watched the Chinaman muttering under his breath as he rubbed his arse, inspected the creek and rubbed his arse again. It had taken some cajoling to get him aboard the old mare he’d bartered half a pound of rendered sheep fat for. Still, with the loss of the dray, the man surely couldn’t walk around this great land.
    Dave dismounted, leading his horse to the drying creek before stretching out his stiff leg. The horse snuffled miserably at the stagnant pool as Dave removed both saddle and saddlecloth and placed them beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient gum tree. Dropping his swag to the ground, he poured water from a leather-bound bottle into his hat, his mount drinking thirstily as he took a swig himself. Close by, Hamish and Jasperson were doing the same, the muffled snorting of the horses as they snuffled up their paltry share echoing along the river bank. With a deep sigh, Dave patted his horse’s muzzle, then removed the bridle before gathering his swag and limping to the base of the gum. A few feet away Hamish and Jasperson settled on respective trees, one swishing at the flies and poking a pointy stick in the dirt, the other thumbing through a well-worn book that Dave suspected Hamish had read near one hundred times.
    â€˜Mister Hamish, we have little water.’
    The complaining Chinese for once was right, Dave decided as he stretched out in silence. Lee set about gathering small twigs and dried leaves to start a fire. They had bashed across the swollen Broken River, losing their dray and most of their supplies in the process, picked up another mouth to feed in the likes of Jasperson and then four days after finally crossing the Broken, they had reached heaven. Groves of ancient eucalypts concealed kangaroos, pigs, emus and foxes. Fish and mussels appeared fresh and sparkling from rivers and streams and they breathed crisp fresh air with no bleak outcrops of weathered rock to hinder their line of sight. And the sheep; for the sheep alone Dave wascertain Hamish would pull up. They dusted the soft undulating country like wisps of cloud dotting the expanse of sky. ‘Not here,’ had been Hamish’s only remark, as if there were better things in store for them. Two weeks was all that lay between the flooded Broken River and this excuse for a river, two weeks of fine grassed country. Country glistening as morning dew draped its arms about it and embraced it as a lover and Hamish had deserted it.
    â€˜Better things indeed,’ Dave mumbled, squirming his arse in the dirt in an effort to find a modicum of relief. He was keen to stop moving. He was sure he’d be nearing thirty soon and after all his years of wandering, he was partial to the idea of returning to the land to work for one of the squatters on a big sheep spread. A boundary rider, yes, that would suit him fine. He had mentioned it to Jasperson, but that one was a strange character. Lost his party, he’d said; all drowned, he’d said, crossing the Broken; seeking his fortune, he’d said, or seeking it back, for he claimed he and his family were free passengers out from England.
    Lee deftly stoked the fire’s coals before wedging in a rounded shape of dough and a billycan of precious water for tea. Then he sat cross-legged with his saddle bag beside him and, from a tanned piece of kangaroo hide, unwrapped a collection of dried meats. In fact all their bags held the remains of smoked emu, roo, fish and lamb meat. Begrudgingly, Dave admitted that Lee took his self-imposed position of cook seriously, which was damn lucky, for Hamish