CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The years had left their mark on the Palmer Road. The well worn rocky trail which had once carried thousands and thousands of diggers, each spurred on by his own personal dream of a new El Dorado on the Palmer River, now lay buried beneath thick spear-grass.

Here and there along the trail, only a broken wagon-wheel, or a shovel, or a pile of human bones, bleached white by the searing sun of the Cape York country, bore stark silent testimony to the diggers' passing. Ben knew the hopes and dreams and weathered bones of hundreds more lay beneath the spear-grass—those who had their lives taken slowly by tropical diseases, or suddenly, and without warning, by an Aboriginal's spear as they trudged along that terrible road.

The Chinese store-keeper in Cooktown had told Ben even the Aboriginals in the region who had escaped decimation of so many of their number by the Snider rifle, had long since deserted the awful road of death. But sometimes at night, when he lay quietly beside his camp-fire, Ben was sure there were hidden eyes nearby, watching his every move.

Ben's passage down the Palmer Road had not been easy, but he was satisfied with his progress. Along the way there had been adequate feed and water for the mare, and she had taken to the Cape country as if she had never left it. On the morning of the eighth day out from Cooktown, Ben saw the big flat rock which marked Ah Sing's grave on the hill above the Palmer River.

When he came closer he dismounted and walked the rest of the way to Ah Sing's resting place, now a barely discernible mound in the spear-grass beside the rock.
`I have returned old friend,' Ben said aloud. He looked down on the Palmer River which lay sparkling in the morning sun. `I see your resting place is as peaceful as the day I left it. I only wish in life I could enjoy the same peace.'
Ben turned and led the mare to a clump of tall scrub where he tied her up in the shade, unsaddled her, and laid the supplies she was carrying down on the ground. Then he took the shovel and walked over to the humpy which was now unroofed, and had all but yielded entirely to the elements.
Inside the humpy's mudbrick walls, Ben used the side of the shovel to mow down the long grass which now covered the floor. Then he began to dig in earnest in the same place he had so many years before. With the passing of the years the ground had compacted, and he found the going hard.
After fifteen minutes, sweat was pouring from his body. Ben laid down the shovel and walked back to the clump of scrub where he stood in the shade and took a drink from a water bottle. When he raised the bottle to his lips to take a second swallow he thought he saw something glinting among some big rocks on the hillside about two hundred yards away. When he looked again he saw nothing, and after a few minutes he walked back to the humpy to resume digging.
It was nearly an hour before he had dug deep and wide enough to be able to lift the earthenware jar out of the hole in the ground. And once again Ben found himself staring at the nuggets inside with the same wonderment he had on the day he had first seen them.
There was no more than two hours of daylight left by the time he had finished transferring the gold to his saddle-bags and saddled up. Ben knew, with the extra weight the mare had to carry, the return trip would take considerably longer than the outward journey. In order not to make it any longer than necessary, he set about discarding anything which would not be essential to him in the days ahead.
Just before he mounted up Ben stood beside Ah Sing's grave once more.
`Again, I must leave you Ah Sing. And I must go quickly. Once again I take with me wealth that you have given me. This time, I take it to keep from losing everything you have already given me. But this time, old friend, you may be sure, I leave you a wiser man. It is not likely that I will let you down again. I....'
Ben's mare suddenly whinnied and jerked on the reins. He looked up in time to see a white puff of smoke from amongst the rocks where he had seen something gleaming in the sunlight earlier in the day. He heard a loud crack. Simultaneously he felt a searing stabbing pain when a bullet tore through the flesh of his right shoulder. Ben knew at once he had been shot.
The impact sent Ben reeling against his horse. As he fell, he reached out and snatched his carbine from its holster on the mare's back. He landed heavily on the ground, the rifle beneath him, and firmly in his grip.
The mare moved away and resumed feeding off the grass just a few yards away. Ben lay motionless, feeling the blood pour from his shoulder. Ever so slowly he cocked the hammer of the rifle, afraid the slightest sound or movement would draw more gunfire, and hoping against hope his attacker would think his single shot had been fatal.
It seemed an eternity before Ben heard voices, shrill and high pitched, calling out excitedly to each other. Ben waited until the voices became louder before he dared half open one eye. Through the blades of rough, dry spear-grass in front of his eyes, he could see two big men.
One was much closer than the other. The first was approaching cautiously, walking in a half crouched position with a rifle at the ready in his hands. The second man followed some distance behind and held the reins of two horses—one set in each hand.
`Is he dead, Pat?' the man with the horses called out.
`I can't tell,' the man with the gun yelled. By now he was less than twenty five yards away.
`Give 'im another slug to be sure Pat.'
The man with the gun stood up from his crouching position, pushed the wide brim of his hat back on his head, and took aim. Ben recognized him as Pat Flannigan from Cooktown. Ben knew he would have only one chance. It was now or never.
He rolled over quickly, raised his carbine and took aim. Flannigan hesitated for just a moment, as if he couldn't believe his fallen prey had suddenly sprung to life. When Ben squeezed the trigger he saw a look of fear mixed with astonishment on Flannigan's hairy face. Less than a heartbeat later, Ben's bullet passed between Flannigan's eyes, and he dropped stone-dead to the ground.
The Snider left its terrible trademark: a neat aperture at the point of entry of the bullet, and a hole the size of a man's fist at the back of Flannigan's head.
Ben almost passed out from pain when the recoil of the Snider slammed hard into the gunshot wound in his shoulder. With his head swimming he watched Whitey Flannigan, who, needing no confirmation of the certainty of his brother's death, desperately scrambled onto one of the two horses in his charge and rode off, wildly flailing his bushman's hat over the horse's flank as he went.
Seconds later, with his long white hair streaming out behind him, and the second riderless horse in hot pursuit, the albino reached the ridge at the top of the hill and vanished from sight.
Ben staggered to his horse and holstered his rifle, then with his good arm, led the mare by the bridle down to the steep slope to the riverside. He knelt down quickly when he reached the edge of the water, tore open his shirt, and using his hat for a ladle, splashed water over the wound in his shoulder.
When the water began to ease the flow of blood Ben realized the wound felt a good deal worse than it looked. He was relieved to find it was only a flesh wound, and probably from a small caliber rifle. Fortunately the bullet had missed the bone, and passed in and out, through the soft flesh just under and inward of his armpit.
Ben rose to his feet slowly, opened up a saddle-bag and pulled out a spare shirt and his bandy flask. He tore the shirt into several long pieces, then carefully soaked one with brandy, and pressed it firmly against the bullet hole. Soon the flow of blood had all but stopped, and Ben fashioned the remaining strips of cloth into crude bandages and fastened them as best he could over the wound.
By now the shadows of dusk were lengthening. Ben decided to conserve his strength and make a fresh start on his journey at sunrise the next morning. He walked unsteadily back up to the humpy, and tied the mare to a tree outside.
Soon it was dark. Ben lay on his bed-roll in the humpy, staring up through the twisted hardwood rafters at the myriad of bright stars in the night sky, and tried to ignore the persistent throbbing pain in his shoulder.