Heart of the Country by Tricia Stringer Page B

loud crack and the bullocks moved forward. He clutched at the reins as his horse turned in a circle.
    â€œThe horse will get used to it.” Bert grinned and tossed the whip up to Thomas. “Good luck,” he said as Thomas gained control of his mount and moved away beside his steadily plodding bullocks.
    He looked back to see Bert lift a hand in a wave then stride off to his own team. Thomas turned again to the track leading away through the bush; his rear end ached already at being back in the saddle but his spirits, high with anticipation for what lay ahead.

Eight
    Septimus pulled his wagon into the shade of some large gums. He was pleased to see water in the bottom of the stream below. In the last few hours the breeze that had helped cool him had dropped right out and the late afternoon sun had beat down with more ferocity than he expected for early spring.
    He stretched and looked around. This patch of trees and thick bush was off the track and afforded him protection from the sight of anyone following the road north. He’d kept moving steadily for two days since leaving Adelaide, avoiding the busy inns along the way and only making a basic camp each night, not even lighting a fire for his billy. He knew his wagon was distinctive and that it was best to remain cautious. He wasn’t yet confident he’d put enough space between himself and any trouble that might have come if the real owner of the horse he’d sold to the gullible Baker should make a fuss. At least Baker had never seen the wagon.
    Tonight Septimus would set up a better camp, maybe catch something to roast over a fire and – he wrinkled his nose as he inhaled a breath. He’d have to go through his wagon and work out what that terrible smell was. He’d noticed it briefly the previous night then again once the breeze dropped out a few hours before. Perhaps one of his potions had leaked or, worse still, some of his bottles had broken. He couldn’t think what else among his things could make such a stink, unless of course there was something in the trunk.
    A smile spread across his face. It had given him great pleasure getting Baker to buy the horse: a touch of delight from the good old days in England. He’d made a good living from trading behind his employer’s back until he’d slipped up and been caught red-handed. That had resulted in his transportation to New South Wales. He’d survived that and now he was set to make a good living from the unsuspecting folk of South Australia.
    Septimus tutted to himself and climbed down from the dray. Of course, tricking someone so wet behind the ears was almost too easy. The money from the sale of the horse had enabled him to purchase an assortment of goods to sell and taking the trunk had been icing on the cake. At a quick glance he knew there were several items he could peddle on his travels. Serve the man right for being so green.
    The sun was dropping quickly. Septimus rubbed at the seat of his pants, stretched his arms back then reached under the wagon to retrieve his animal trap. The small cage had served him well in the bush before. He’d become quite adept at snaring a small furry creature, snapping its neck and roasting it. Now he had some provisions he could make damper to go with it.
    He busied himself finding a grazing spot for Clover, setting the trap and preparing a fire. Just as he neared the wagon again to locate his flour and tea, he stopped short and listened. Birds chirped from the nearby bush and Clover ripped at some grass and munched, but Septimus could swear he’d heard a moan. He tugged the new hunting knife from inside his trouser leg, wishing he’d spent some of his cash on a firearm as well, then he heard it again. Groaning, coming from his wagon.
    Septimus undid the straps that held the cover in place and carefully lifted the canvas. There was very little space in the wagon. He had packed a lot of supplies around his potion