When Colts Ran by Roger McDonald

boundaries in his well-oiled and ferociously dusty boots. Away from the crossroads there was no edge. There were webs holding yellow coral-backed spiders in suspension between thorn bushes. There were dingo howls and shooting stars. In the coming dark he fancied meeting a man eye to eye and engaging him hand to hand, gristle to bone, clasp knife to scrotal sac. Slim worked it all out. The returned man’s festering drive, the fascist solution of one and one, the disinclination to share what had been rhetorically bought by blood for the sake of the all. Knowing Buckler’s attitudes, Slim didn’t have to ask what de Grey was doing out this far on a mustering camp of Eureka. He said they were roo shooting away from their main camp but there was a definite impression of a meeting being sought. De Grey would be wanting to know what Buckler’s troublemaking propensities were, around this unit he’d put together with pride and wariness of acceptance of colour.
    Buckler came down the line and saw de Grey’s boys turning away from him. So de Grey had said something about Buckler to his team, that he hated blacks.
    That night, pressure lamps hissing, there were two camps under the stars. Abe cooked for both. Buckler looked over at de Grey’s lot as they slurped on mulligatawny soup and chewed fresh damper from the camp oven. Dehydrated vegetables were served, mashed dried peas and sauerkraut, and a fatty cold mutton they hungrily eyed when Abe unwrapped it from a sugar bag and flourished his carving blade.
    By the light of the camp fire Buckler gave de Grey a pointer on the nutritional shortcomings of his race: ‘Abe is correcting it with his grub.’
    De Grey curtly thanked him and went off into the dark to find his swag.
    â€˜Suit y’self, digger,’ Buckler mumbled into his cocoa.
    He worked on irritation, eyes sweeping the dark following infantry patrol routines unpractised in a while. Blow on certain resentments. Keep them bright. Watch men who moved as shadows. De Grey’s band was rather too Australian for Buckler’s taste, taking too much for granted. Look how de Grey came in from nowhere, he griped to Slim, his transport loaded with mere boys holding army-issue Lee Enfields. Buckler recalled de Grey’s words back on the troopship Taranaki in ’19, a pique against land taken without kindness from native inhabitants. De Grey already had his place in history, gloriously rained on him at Dernancourt and Villers-Bret. What more did he want? ‘But the man’s a fucking marvel,’ Buckler conceded.
    A cowboy song with a plaintive kick could be heard from de Grey’s camp. It came with an eerie hum. Inland Australia was a country of spirits, make no mistake. Buckler surrendered himself to the second-rank listening. The blackies were plugged into spirit way up to their tangled eyebrows. The bush itself took on their shapes. When the songs ended Buckler heard them swishing a branch, calling and laughing. They never slept at night without brushing the sand around their fires for fear of the devil man. They worked it smooth as a bowling alley and Buckler thought they were dated but understood their urge. He’d do it himself against them because Adrian de Grey was smarter than piss – knew the outback was not quite the realm of the white man yet. You didn’t have to ask him. It was still to be won. Otherwise he wouldn’t be serving this time round making his push for possession wearing government-issue khakis.
    In the night Buckler’s thoughts went spiralling down until he groaned in his sleep, waking boys fifty yards away like a bull seal yawping on an icefloe. It was a wonderful concern, the army. You could be the definition of its meaning and for that very reason you were made a ragbag supervisor.
    Next morning, talking of maps, de Grey showed Buckler a silk handkerchief with an excellent map of Australia printed on it with technical detail