Police Magistrate Robert Dawson
rode with Doctor Lewis Davidson along the final miles to Boloco Station, ahead
of the rest of the party. They were near the end of a forty mile journey on
this Saturday – a long days ride for horse and men.
They were travelling towards
the only hint of green on the dry dusty plain around them. Further away, in the
distance, the high mountains of the alps – shimmering deep blue in the late
afternoon heat.
They had worked together
before. Dawson respected Davidson and, unlike the rest of the medical men,
Davidson did not whine about the pay for this work. He was quiet. Dawson liked that.
Dawson pulled up his horse at
the top of the rise. Boloco Station was ahead of them – a collection of
buildings surrounded by tall trees nestled into a bend of the river. He looked
at it for a moment, his face closed. “We will wait here for the clerk and the
tracker.”
Davidson watched him carefully.
Dawson was an older law man, his hair greying and home cut, whiskers catching
the last of the sun, in full suit and tie despite the sun’s temper. Tall and
independent, he ran this district with an iron fist.
“Been here before?” Davidson
started, conversationally. Dawson reached for a water bottle and drank the last
of it before answering. “I don’t get here often. But I have been right through
this country, over the mountains. All
the way down the river and into Gippsland and the Southern Ocean. ” Davidson
protested, “I heard Buckley opened up the cattle track.” Dawson responded, “I
opened up the road to Mallacoota and into Gippsland along the Coast myself,
years ago. Only cattle thieves like Buckley used the mountain tracks. Take care
around men like him and Kirwan.”
They watched the shadows start
to fly over the land towards them, as the sun set in the mountains.
“Let’s go”, Dawson said as the
others pulled close. He gave his horse its head and, sensing water and feed
close, the horses slipped into a trot, raising dust behind them.
Senior Constable Henry Bryan
met the party a little way from the station. He gave instructions for the rest
of the party to make camp at the station, but drew Dawson and Davidson to the
creeks edge to water the horses.
Dawson started. “The message
you sent said the Long Tailor was dead.”
Bryan nodded and told how he and Constable Ford
had set off in pursuit of the bushranger but had been informed on the way of
the discovery of his body. He had been found dead at the top of the rise beyond
Boloco Station near Mowenbah and his body taken there.
Dawson looked at him sharply.
“Who killed him”? Bryan fought the urge to look away. Dawson was twenty years
in this job – the last ten as Police Magistrate of the region, No one knew it
better than him, and he knew every crack and crevice Bryan might run for. “It
looks as though he fell off his horse, sir.” Their eyes stayed locked tight until
Bryan shrugged.
Dawson asked, “What
arrangements have you made for us?”
“Master Brown has offered you
accommodation and meals until the inquest on Monday, sir”.
“That is kind of him, but we
will hold the inquest tomorrow, Sunday.”
“Can you do that? Master Brown
said that Coroners cannot conduct hearings on Sundays?”
“I am not a Coroner. I will
conduct the proceedings as a Police Magistrate once the local church service is
complete and Lewis finishes the post-mortem. Where is the body and his
belongings now? Is Kirwan mixed up in this? Have you questioned him?”
“I have left the coffin at
Mowenbah – it is cooler up there and the body is going bad fast. I have made arrangements
for the tack and horse to be brought down when needed. No-one has seen Kirwan.”
Dawson thought quickly. “There should
be no excuse for the men of this District to attend the proceedings. You will
be giving evidence so Constable Ford will assist me. Now, let us go and avail
ourselves of the hospitality of Boloco Station.”
That evening they were treated
to roast lamb, followed by fine pale imported ale. The owner of the Station,
was not happy about the changed plan but put the annoyance behind as he toasted
Queen Victoria, the Governor of the colony and the coming prosperity. They
traded stories of the early days, Brown telling stories of heavy snowfall at
his other holding at Mowenbah – on the high rise closer towards the alps.
Dawson restricted his contribution to a brief
reflection about his youngest son, Percy, who was just starting to speak. He
withdrew with apologies at the first opportunity and walked with his pipe to
speak with the tracker in his party.
He found him a little way from
the buildings, looking into the bush. “What is it, John?” The tracker was
tense, hardly moving. “Someone was out there, watching you”, John said softly.
They waited a little longer before the young tracker shook his head, “Gone now.”
Dawson relit his pipe. “I want to know who it was. Leave it now until morning.”
But in the morning, John found
no tracks, “Swept clean”, he said. "Just a cockatoo feather."
Peter Quinton
Palerang
December 2014
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