Fire Eye (33 page)

Thor lands with a ringing clang of steel-clad hooves and fights for grip on the rock surface. Alex rides him lightly, sensitive to balancing control and her weight, letting him have his head within the parameters she allows. The rock surface is dry and rough, allowing the horse’s hooves to find a grip and his muscular hindquarters to launch him upward. This is no place to walk. Momentum and speed will minimise the possibility of an untidy death on the rocks below. Alex has no intention of dying this day.

The surge of speed carries them up the slope toward the sharp hairpin turn they will be forced to make on an almost level shelf of rock that is a lot smaller than she allowed for. Seconds out from the turn Alex rehearses in her mind the commands she will give, like a pilot on a crosswind landing. Her judgement has to be perfect. There will be no second chance. Just as the spot comes under Thor’s nose, Alex thrusts her weight down and back into the saddle. One hand takes the direct rein out to the right to indicate direction while her left hand lets the indirect rein apply gentle pressure against his neck. With the movements coordinated to perfection, Thor stops, squats on powerful haunches, spins on his hind legs and launches himself again up the slope toward the crest that approaches in a mesmerising clatter of steel shoes ringing against the rock.

Only momentum will get them over the top. Alex lets Thor have his head. He is a horse with spirit and savours the challenge.

Just below the top of the ridge, the slope pitches up in front of them, steeper than expected. There is no alternative but to go on. Another hairpin turn to the left is impossible. Failure now will be catastrophic! She dares not look down to her right where the rock face slopes away into a void. A slip will result in a tumbling journey to destruction, smearing their flesh across the rock and smashing their bones against the jumble of jagged boulders at the foot of the ridge. Thor propels himself up with the remaining power in his hindquarters. Hooves spark fire from the rock as he scrabbles for purchase before finally dragging himself onto the top of the ridgeline. Thor comes to a stop, flanks heaving with the effort of sucking air into his lungs and legs quivering with the release of tension the effort demanded. Alex pauses for a moment to stroke Thor’s neck. She dismounts. To north and south, the ridge continues in a ragged line of rock tinged with pink, red and purple. To the east Alex has a clear view of the country they covered yesterday. She can visualise Charcoal and Jed waiting impatiently behind the first ridge, now bathed in the morning sun that has driven away the shadows. The land is painted in rich tones of red and pink, splattered by the pale yellow and dark greens of grass and trees.

To the west, more of the same country stretches away to a far horizon. Sparkles of light catch her eye, blinking occasionally among the scrub, like the faint glimmer of a lighthouse in an empty expanse of ocean. It is a windmill, pumping water from deep within the earth into a tank. She realises it is her target and studies it carefully. She can make out a faint cloud of dust drifting away on the faintest of breezes. Down among the scrub there will be no distant ridge to guide her. She uses her watch to take a bearing off the sun toward the faint cloud of dust and the flickering metallic glimmer.

The boys and the cattle are on the move she guesses and looks in despair at the slope beneath her. Riding is impossible. She will have to walk Thor down along the best route she can find. Charcoal has done so it must be possible somehow. The man can ride and trained his horse well! What trust it must have taken to hand Thor over to her. Trusting anyone is always a high risk gamble. She will not betray the trust of either of them!

Time is crucial. She can’t afford the luxury of exploring the scenery at leisure. She forces herself to see rather than just look. She scans to the left and right, working down the slope until she finds what she is looking for. A faint trail, really a line of wind-blown dust, forms a path of least resistance between outcrops worn smooth by hooves, paws and feet over a span of time stretching back into eternity. Having picked it out, she follows it back up the slope to where it starts its twisting journey down off the ridge.

She spares more precious moments to stroke and massage Thor’s neck as she whispers encouragement. She is rewarded by a snort and enthusiastic neigh that punches the air out from deep within his chest. It almost conveys a sense of expectation for the next challenge but cannot hide the tremors still pulsing through his body. He is fit, tough and spirited but she can sense the ride is draining him. And it isn’t over yet. She takes the reins loosely in her hands and starts down the ridge toward the plain, and the end of their cross country dash. Thor drops his head in submission and steps forward to follow her.

Andy has worked cattle across Northern Australia for as long as he can remember. He is tall, lean and tanned with sinuous muscles toned by hard work over more than fifty years in the outback. His craggy features are shaded by a battered Akubra that has shared his life for decades. A straggly grey moustache hangs beneath his nose. His fingers stroke the grey stubble decorating his face as he watches the boys load cattle into the truck. It is time to move them to better feed and fatten them for sale. The boys work well as a team and he has a fatherly fondness for them.

Johnny is a young fella but shaping up well. He hasn’t yet seen his twentieth year but is keen to work. He can spend all day on a bike checking cattle, tanks and fences. Like most up this way, he is also lean, tanned and tough. He has bugger all growth on his chin, even after two days camping out, but his long dark hair is barely kept in line by the Akubra perched precariously on his head at a rakish angle. It never seems to come off, except when thrown by a horse or bull.

Billy is older and wiser. He is the chopper pilot and can turn his hand to anything, from handling a helicopter at low level among the trees to wielding a strainer on the fence line. He carries a serious air of wariness about him. They often stir him that he has the constant jitters characteristic of crop duster pilots. “Why wouldn’t I have the shakes?” he often retorts. “If something bad hasn’t happened, then it’s about to!”

Maybe he has a point,
Andy reflects. He’s crashed twice mustering cattle, the second time only last week when the tail rotor of the R22 clipped a tree after a control failure. He’d staggered out of the wreck and been back in the air the next day in the R44 on cross hire from another operator.

A bloody good team,
Andy thinks as he pumps fuel into the R44 from one of the drums on the back of the Toyota. They’d allowed themselves a leisurely breakfast of fried eggs and sausages clamped between slices of bread, flavoured with a touch of sauce. Once they finish loading they are outta here and onto the next job, repairing to the stockyards further south. Billy will be taking the chopper east to another muster. He is under pressure to keep it in the air, earning its keep. There’s always something that demands time, effort or money on cattle stations.

“Full!” Andy calls as he lifts the pump out of the drum and screws the lid back on. He shoves his hip against the drum and removes the block of wood under its edge, holding the drum tilted at an angle to prevent the pump picking up dirt or flakes of rust. He jumps down and swaps places with Billy so he can do a water check on the fuel in the chopper’s tanks.

Andy vaults the stockyard fence and encourages the last of the cattle through the gate and up the loading ramp into the truck. He and Johnny slam the tailgate shut, shake hands with the driver and walk over to the chopper as the truck pulls away through a cloud of dust.

“A good bit of work boys. Didn’t take as long as I thought thanks to you. That was fuck’n good flying Billy. Your bloody nerves ain’t shot yet!” he chuckles.

“Fuck’n oughta be! I’m think’n of applying for a safer job with the SAS. Maybe Afghanistan or somewhere in Africa! Would you miss me?”

“Course we would Billy boy! You can even rely on me for a bloody good character reference. You’ll be fuck’n good at crash’n choppers! Those big ones just come down with a bigger thump!”

Billy is used to the sparring and doesn’t rise to the stir. “Stuff your fuck’n reference Andy. How ‘bout you get the kettle on before we head out. It’s goin’ to be a bloody long day again!” He opens the access panel on the side of the helicopter to start his checks. Billy has switched into pilot mode and barely hears the reply.

“Good idea Billy! There’s still dust to wash down. Johnny, go put the kettle on!” Andy delegates.

“Sure fellas, coming up. I got noth’n better to do!” Johnny throws back as he finishes checking their truck for the day’s long haul.

“That’s the boy! Just love working with you guys.” Andy tosses their swags into the tray of the Toyota and wheels the Suzuki onto the bike trailer. He loves the work and the comradeship. Stirring up the fellas is just a bonus!

Johnny tosses dry sticks onto the coals and coaxes them back into life with a wave of the fry pan to encourage ripples of air across the lingering glow of red. The explosion of flames has the water boiling in no time. Johnny makes two cups of coffee and an English Breakfast for Andy, just the way they like it. He calls them over to squat beside the fire. They sip their choice of brew in the shade of an arching boab tree while they toss around idle banter. The boys have shared a lot of hard work and discomfort under demanding conditions and are comfortable with each other. Any brew tastes better in good company and from their point of view they are in the best company of all

On an unspoken command honed by years of experience, they finish their brews with a final sip and stand up together, each moving off to his own tasks. Andy checks the tie downs on the loads while Johnny kills the fire with a dose of water and kicks dust onto the steaming embers. Billy heads for the helicopter with his relaxed but confident stride to do a final circle of the machine, running his eye over it before climbing into the cockpit and strapping in.

A subtle change comes over him. He is now a different person. He focuses on the task and barely hears Andy call out, “We’ll wait till you’re outta sight before we head off!” It is standard practice in case there is an unexpected problem. Billy waves vaguely in response without interrupting his checks. He has over a thousand hours in helicopter flight time but doesn’t let familiarity breed carelessness.

He is totally professional and sticks to the checks embedded in his mind from constant routine, but also listed on the knee pad strapped to his leg as backup. His fingers fly over the switches and his eyes flick over the instruments as he runs through the start up procedures. His life depends on consistent professional discipline.

He keeps his left hand on the throttle, wary of the governor taking control and rolling up to full RPM. Before cranking the engine, he checks again that the throttle is closed to prevent any over speed of the engine. A mistake like that means boxing up the engine and sending it off for repair at huge expense. He turns the key to crank the engine and it fires first time. He waits for it to warm up as the downdraft stirs up a cloud of dust whipping into a violent frenzy around the machine.

The engine has dual ignition with two magnetos. Checking them involves flicking a switch from
Both
to
Left
and then
Right
magneto. He counts down two clicks to test the first mag and two clicks back to return to
Both
. Then he counts down one click to test the other mag and one click to go back to the
Both
position. Flying away on only one magneto could cost him his life. He keeps his feet on the pedals as he does the clutch check and then checks the hydraulics to confirm he can turn them off if they start making undesirable inputs.

Just before lift off he runs his eyes over the instrument panel again—upper warning lights out,

RPM one hundred and four percent and governed, manifold pressure less than fifteen, lower warning lights out, temperatures and pressures okay, magnetos on both, fuel on, carburettor heat in, hydraulics on, hatches and harnesses, area clear left, right and above. Satisfied at last he raises the collective to lift the machine then pauses at seventeen manifold pressure to check the RPM is holding at one hundred and four percent.

Even though he is clad in dirty jeans and dusty shirt with his sleeves rolled up, Billy is no longer a cowboy but a pilot and takes pride in the fact. The machine shudders under the power of the spinning rotors beating the air into submission in a thundering roar. With a fingertip touch on the collective and cyclic controls, he leaves the earth and the boys behind.

Alex leads the way down the west slope of the ridge, following the game trail with Thor stepping gingerly behind. It is steep. They have to pick their way around and between the rocky outcrops jutting randomly out of the ground. Every step carries the risk of a slip that could twist or break an ankle or leg. It is slow going and Alex frets at the delay. The drovers are due to finish work today. She wants to mount Thor and cover ground as fast as possible but she has to preserve his energy and descend the slope safely. He is now her only ally. Her survival depends on him.

The minutes tick by and break through the half hour as Alex and Thor pick their way down the slope. Alex evaluates every step and turns around regularly to check on Thor and murmur words of encouragement. The ridge isn’t high but it is rugged. She is glad they are going east to west. The reverse journey would be as tricky as hell. The climb up from this direction wouldn’t be that bad but going down the other side would be something else. She wonders whether Charcoal has ever done it and promises herself to ask him if, no when, she sees him again.

Finally they pick their way down onto the flats of the savannah country, red soil covered with clumps of tall yellow grass and some kind of miniature palm-like tree Alex can’t identify, dotted randomly between the ever present eucalypt. With final words of encouragement to Thor, Alex thrusts her foot into a stirrup and hauls herself back into the saddle. It is becoming a comfortable place to be and sitting astride Thor gives her confidence a welcome surge. She leans forward in the saddle on a bearing from the sun, arms stretched down and back behind her. Thor picks up the cue and launches himself into a canter, guided by the pressure of her knees. Alex has no idea how far they have to go. Judging distance from the top of the ridge would have been difficult at the best of times but she’s tired, and she is a stranger to the country. She estimates more than eight kilometres but less than fifteen.

Alex settles into the saddle and maintains a steady pace, twisting between the trees and scrub but always coming back onto a line that keeps the sun in the same position over her shoulder. She uses shadows on the ground as another indicator of direction. She is tempted to go faster but is unsure how far they really have to go and can feel that Thor isn’t as spritely as yesterday. It would be a disaster to destroy his stamina before they reach the tank but an equal disaster to get there too late. She keeps up the canter, fighting the urge to go faster, eating up distance at a steady pace.

Gradually, she becomes aware of a beating rhythm pulsating through the trees. She brings Thor to a stop, listening to the sound as he skits sideways in impatience. Alex turns her head from side to side but can’t identify the direction of the sound. It dances over and between the trees like a phantom butterfly. Suddenly it becomes louder, its direction clearer—directly in front of her. A helicopter!

“Shit!” she spits out and impels Thor into a gallop. They’re leaving! The time for restraint is gone. She needs every last bit of Thor’s energy now! The thunder of his hooves drowns out the sound of the helicopter so she only has the angle of the sun and the shadows to guide him. She nurses Thor deftly between trees and patches of scrub but just as she needs speed, the vegetation increases in density. She uses the quarter horse’s heritage to full advantage, twisting and turning to maintain her charge to the southwest.

Now she can hear the helicopter over the sound of Thor’s hooves pounding the hard red earth. She catches a hint of white between the trees. It is airborne, flashing overhead in a tight turn. She is too late! She reins Thor in, disappointment welling up inside her and tears threatening to explode as he rears up in frustration and excitement. Her rational mind kicks emotion out of the way. It is a small helicopter. There must be men on the ground if they are working cattle. They would need one vehicle at least, or a truck for the cattle, unless the cattle are penned up. Not likely! They’d wait for the helicopter to lift off. If they are still there they will head southeast on the track Charcoal described, back to the homestead.

She takes a gamble, turns Thor’s head the long way round in a sweeping turn to the right and exhorts him once again into a gallop, not caring as branches claw at her face and tug at her clothes. There! A cloud of dust is rising above the scrub! She has guessed right! Someone is heading down the track. They are already some distance away and building up speed. The vehicle is shrouded behind the swirling red dust but she catches the occasional flash of reflection as it bounces along the track. There is no wind to speak of and the track is smothered by dust. She veers Thor to one side and spurs him into a final effort, twisting left and right around the scrub that seems deliberately planted to stop her closing the final gap.

In sudden horror she sees a fallen tree whose grey trunk and dead branches rear up between clumps of dust-covered straggly scrub. Before she can react, she feels Thor’s muscles respond instinctively as he launches himself over the obstacle, aiming between branches reaching like skeletal fingers to claw her from the saddle. She feels the end of one branch thud into her shin and snap as Thor thumps back onto the ground and regains his pace with barely a falter.

They are so close, but not close enough. In spite of their efforts, Thor is faltering and they are losing the race. In desperation she swings her hand back onto the Colt and draws it from the small of her back. From the saddle of a racing horse thundering through the bush, Alex struggles to remember what she has been taught. Is it in condition one or two? She risks a quick glance down at the gun in her hand, flicks the safety off with a definite downward push of her thumb and pulls the hammer back. She holds the Colt out at the end of her outstretched arm, has a brief flash of concern over whether Thor is desensitised to gun fire and pulls the trigger anyway. The stakes are too high not too! The Colt bucks in her hand as Thor pounds on without flinching. She lets the Colt roll back with the recoil, taking her hand up with it, then drops it back down and pulls the trigger again.