dappled shade of a tree but it made little difference. They both felt as though they were wrapped in hot, drying blankets.
‘Yes,’ said Shaw, abstractedly. The jack and the handle were on the floor on the passenger side of the Honda. He took them out, and, remembering to put a flat stone under the base of the jack, began to turn the handle. He could hear the engine of the Land Cruiser now and knew he had no hope of changing the wheel before it caught up with him.
‘We’re not going to make this,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to fight him.’ He stood up, leaving the car partly resting on the jack. In the glove box he had a heavy clasp knife. He found it, opened it and handed it to Katie.
‘You use this,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep the jack handle.’
She took the knife. It had a shaped wooden handle and a heavy blade about twelve centimetres long. She wondered whether she could thrust it into human flesh; then knew with sudden certainty that she could.
‘He’ll probably ram the car, but he won’t get us in the truck if we get behind a tree,’ said Shaw, as they stood watching the Land Cruiser.
‘He has the axe,’ said Katie, strangely calm.
‘There’s two of us,’ he said. He glanced to the west. The thin spiral of dust from the Aborigine’s motorcycle was only a kilometre or so away.
‘That bastard,’ said Shaw bitterly.
The Land Cruiser, looking paradoxically harmless and domestic, any country vehicle coming busily down a lonely track, didn’t pause as it reached the turnoff to the soak. It went rolling past, bouncing slightly on the stones at eighty-odd kilometres an hour. The driver didn’t even turn his head as he drove past. In a moment the Land Cruiser disappeared in front of its own cloud. They stood motionless, gazing after it.
‘He’s after the black,’ said Shaw at last. ‘That’s it. He knows we’ve broken down and he’s gone after the black.’
‘But why?’ said Katie. ‘Why the black?’
‘Because he doesn’t want any witnesses,’ said Shaw. ‘He thinks the black is going to get help or something. Who gives a damn? Let’s change that wheel and get the hell out of here. We can get back to Yogabilla.’
He knelt, inserted the handle in the jack and began turning.
It took the Aborigine some time to realise the driver of the Land Cruiser was going to kill him.
When he first saw the vehicle roll past the turnoff to the soak he thought it was just another traveller coming through and that the story the young whites had told him had been nonsense. He was a little puzzled because they had seemed genuinely terrified, but he didn’t care much because he didn’t see what it had to do with him.
The motorcycle rode easily down a single wheel rut between the stones. The Aborigine stayed at around thirty because he knew that a patch of soft dust could turn his front wheel and bring the machine down.
He began to feel uneasy when he realised how fast the Land Cruiser was travelling. Even a four-wheel-drive vehicle rarely tried to take the track at much over sixty kilometres an hour except in some grave emergency.
He speeded up a little and began to seek some break in the line of stones so that he could pull to the side of the track. The motorcycle couldn’t cross the high loose ridges of stones that ran in unbroken lines on either side of the wheel rut he was driving in. He could have stopped and pushed the machine across but he wasn’t really alarmed yet. The normal custom of the bush traveller would have been for the four-wheel-drive to pull out into the desert and go round him if the driver wanted to pass. The Aborigine’s natural obstinacy disinclined him to make it easy for anybody to pass him. He didn’t want to breathe the other’s man’s dust for the next half-hour.
But when the Land Cruiser was within fifty metres, fear touched the Aborigine and he began to speed up. The Land Cruiser kept coming. The Aborigine realised that he had to get off the track
‘Yes,’ said Shaw, abstractedly. The jack and the handle were on the floor on the passenger side of the Honda. He took them out, and, remembering to put a flat stone under the base of the jack, began to turn the handle. He could hear the engine of the Land Cruiser now and knew he had no hope of changing the wheel before it caught up with him.
‘We’re not going to make this,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to fight him.’ He stood up, leaving the car partly resting on the jack. In the glove box he had a heavy clasp knife. He found it, opened it and handed it to Katie.
‘You use this,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep the jack handle.’
She took the knife. It had a shaped wooden handle and a heavy blade about twelve centimetres long. She wondered whether she could thrust it into human flesh; then knew with sudden certainty that she could.
‘He’ll probably ram the car, but he won’t get us in the truck if we get behind a tree,’ said Shaw, as they stood watching the Land Cruiser.
‘He has the axe,’ said Katie, strangely calm.
‘There’s two of us,’ he said. He glanced to the west. The thin spiral of dust from the Aborigine’s motorcycle was only a kilometre or so away.
‘That bastard,’ said Shaw bitterly.
The Land Cruiser, looking paradoxically harmless and domestic, any country vehicle coming busily down a lonely track, didn’t pause as it reached the turnoff to the soak. It went rolling past, bouncing slightly on the stones at eighty-odd kilometres an hour. The driver didn’t even turn his head as he drove past. In a moment the Land Cruiser disappeared in front of its own cloud. They stood motionless, gazing after it.
‘He’s after the black,’ said Shaw at last. ‘That’s it. He knows we’ve broken down and he’s gone after the black.’
‘But why?’ said Katie. ‘Why the black?’
‘Because he doesn’t want any witnesses,’ said Shaw. ‘He thinks the black is going to get help or something. Who gives a damn? Let’s change that wheel and get the hell out of here. We can get back to Yogabilla.’
He knelt, inserted the handle in the jack and began turning.
It took the Aborigine some time to realise the driver of the Land Cruiser was going to kill him.
When he first saw the vehicle roll past the turnoff to the soak he thought it was just another traveller coming through and that the story the young whites had told him had been nonsense. He was a little puzzled because they had seemed genuinely terrified, but he didn’t care much because he didn’t see what it had to do with him.
The motorcycle rode easily down a single wheel rut between the stones. The Aborigine stayed at around thirty because he knew that a patch of soft dust could turn his front wheel and bring the machine down.
He began to feel uneasy when he realised how fast the Land Cruiser was travelling. Even a four-wheel-drive vehicle rarely tried to take the track at much over sixty kilometres an hour except in some grave emergency.
He speeded up a little and began to seek some break in the line of stones so that he could pull to the side of the track. The motorcycle couldn’t cross the high loose ridges of stones that ran in unbroken lines on either side of the wheel rut he was driving in. He could have stopped and pushed the machine across but he wasn’t really alarmed yet. The normal custom of the bush traveller would have been for the four-wheel-drive to pull out into the desert and go round him if the driver wanted to pass. The Aborigine’s natural obstinacy disinclined him to make it easy for anybody to pass him. He didn’t want to breathe the other’s man’s dust for the next half-hour.
But when the Land Cruiser was within fifty metres, fear touched the Aborigine and he began to speed up. The Land Cruiser kept coming. The Aborigine realised that he had to get off the track