Acknowledgements – My two muses;

Arthur W. Upfield: author, one-time jackaroo, stockman, drover and murder mystery writer. His knowledge of the indigenous people of Australia and his skill in portraying that great continent in all of its wild beauty is the inspiration for this little tale. It is thanks to his unsurpassed stories that Gertie and all of her little foibles came into being.

Major Les Hiddins AM, ARA (Retired): Vietnam veteran, botanist, author, survival expert and the original Bush Tucker Man. His astonishing expertise, scrupulous honesty and big grin has made him one of my all-time heroes. Thanks to him, Eliot has his bush skills and in Part Two, Hardison has Bernadette and Oggie.

All chapter headings are from the works of A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson, one of Australia's greatest poets. He wrote 'Waltzing Matilda.' 'Nuff said.

I have never been to Australia, so all mistakes are entirely mine.

Wapanjara Cattle Station, Northern Territory, Australia

April 2006

The old Ford Courier ute* trundled steadily along the single-track red-dust road on this early evening, the sun setting as it dropped towards the far Tanami Desert, long, dark shadows pierced by fingers of heat and light setting the bush aflame.

The road wound its way through a landscape of grassy savannah dotted with mulga and gumtrees, and the stark, statuesque outlines of termite mounds sprouted from the grasslands enriched by the rainfall of this year's wet season, now over and done with for several weeks.

Soapy Munro was a happy man.

His first draft of fat bullocks were gone from the homestead yards and had fetched a good price, and Soapy had marched into the bank on his slightly-bowed legs that spoke of a lifetime on horseback, and deposited the cheque into the Wapanjara Station account.

There were more mobs of fat cattle still grazing the grassland in the huge thousand-hectare paddocks, so the station coffers would be in good shape this year if the prices held.

As he drove, he glanced over at his wife.

"How's life, old girl?" he asked.

Jo Munro smiled back at her husband of over thirty years, taking in as always the contrast between his lugubrious hang-dog face and the mischievous black eyes that had a glint of love in them every time he looked at her.

"Soapy love, I've had a super day and you know it." Jo ran fingers through the riot of auburn-silver curls on her head and laughed out of sheer pleasure, her skin tanned and covered in fine laughter lines that made her face light up with humour. She had spent the day visiting friends at Tennant Creek, and had seen to stocking up on dried goods and ordering non-perishables for the house which lay deep and lonely in the Barkly lands, away from the noise and bustle of the small town which lay on the road between Darwin and Alice Springs. She would be glad to be home, though. A nearly three hundred kilometre round trip was a long day, and she missed the sprawling, single-storey house they called home.

Soapy grinned. He loved making his wife laugh. It was rich and throaty, a testament to the humour and patience of her nearly six decades of life, and Soapy never tired of hearing it.

"OH GOD, Soapy – WATCH OUT!" Jo let out a shriek as a dark shape, silhouetted against the sun now dipping below the horizon, suddenly appeared from nowhere in front of the ute.

"BLOODY HELL!" yelled Soapy, and desperately swinging the steering wheel he tried to avoid whatever-it-was by veering sideways onto the stony edge of the dirt road.

He didn't quite make it.

The shape was hit broadside-on and clipped by the right front wing of the Ford. Then it hit the door as Soapy managed to swing the ute off the road and onto the rough ground beside the dusty road surface. He carefully applied the brakes and finally brought the Ford to a shuddering halt.

He immediately turned to Jo, his black eyes wide with concern.

"Are you okay, love?" he asked urgently, and his hand strayed to Jo's shoulder, but she looked at him and nodded, and then unfastened her safety belt.

Soapy scowled.

"Bloody 'roos!" he swore. Red kangaroos were a common hazard here in the Top End, and a big boomer** could make a mess of a vehicle if they were hit.

"Didn't look like a 'roo," Jo said shakily, and she opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the coarse grass and stones of the land of her birth. Closing the door behind her, she turned and squinted at the indeterminate shape now lying unmoving at the side of the road a few yards away in the encroaching gloom.

Her eyes widened.

"Soapy …"

Soapy was unclipping his rifle from the rack behind the seat. He hated seeing animals in pain, so he would mercifully put the kangaroo out of its misery if required.

"Yeah?"

"Put the rifle away, will you, and get me the first aid kit."

Soapy stopped what he was doing and frowned, puzzled.

"First aid kit?"

"I think it's a man," Jo said starkly. "Bring a torch too," she added before hurrying towards the figure sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

Oh God, she thought. What if he's dead?

But then she was crouching down beside what she discovered was the body of a young man, sprawled on his side and face hidden by an up-thrown arm. Jo frantically felt for the pulse under his jaw, and nearly went boneless with relief when she felt the throb of life, even though she thought it fast and a little thready.

Her touch brought an immediate response.

"Leave … leave me 'lone …"

And the man's whole body flinched away from her, as though her touch was acid. The arm over his face lifted and he swiped shakily at her, fist clenched. Even as weak as he was, if the fist had landed, it would have hurt.

But Jo, after a lifetime of living on a cattle station which had a whole team of work-toughened stockmen to look after it, was a seasoned avoider of cattle, horses and stockmen with hangovers, and she swayed easily to one side and caught hold of the fist, her small hands encasing his wrist and firmly controlling the hand.

"No … no, don't … let me go, dammit –" he muttered.

He was an American, and from the south if the soft, lilting twang in his voice had anything to do with it. That surprised her. What on earth was an American doing in the middle of nowhere here in the northern heartland of Australia, miles from civilisation, wandering around on foot?

"Easy, lad … I'm here to help, alright? I know what I'm doing, so let me get a look at you –"

This time the man tried to shift his entire body and failed spectacularly.

"Don' need help. C'n … c'n take care of m'self … gotta go …" he slurred, and the man shook Jo off and managed to ease himself over onto his back. He let out a yelp of agony and his hand unfurled and clutched at his opposite shoulder.

Even without the aid of a torch, Jo could see that the shoulder was dislocated.

"Here," Soapy said, worry rife in his voice as he crouched down beside Jo and handed her the big old metal first aid box. "Is he –"

"He's alive and complaining," Jo said, slightly amused, although she couldn't stop the concern from sounding through her words. "Soapy dear, can you give me some light?"

Soapy nodded and switched on the torch in the fast-encroaching night, giving them both a first good look at the young man they had mistaken for a kangaroo.

He was not that young, Soapy thought, maybe around thirty or a little bit less, and hazy, weary blue eyes blinked painfully in the sudden bright light, his face bruised and stained with dried blood from a days-old cut running down his left eyebrow and continuing to his upper lip. His hair was dark and shaggy, as though he was letting an expensive haircut grow out, and the jeans, shirt and jacket he wore were of good quality but much worn, as were the boots of sturdy leather. He looked as though he had been roughing it for a long, long time.

"Let her take care of you, son," he said gently. "My wife was a midwife for nearly thirty years and patches up our stockmen – and me, once in a while – when we need it, and then we'll take you into the hospital at Tennant Creek –"

"NO!" The man was vehement, his voice a mixture of fury and distrust, "No hospitals … don't need … don't need a hospital … I'll be fine … jus' … jus' leave me alone … hate hospitals …"

And his eyes closed as he battled to keep talking … to keep the words coming and make these people understand and –

Jo, worried even more, let go of his wrist and tried to soothe him as best she could.

"Shhh now … it's all right … at least let me look at you and sort out that shoulder. Please. The longer we leave it the harder it'll be to put back in, and then you'll be in real trouble."

"Goddamit, I c'n do it myself –" the man growled weakly, his voice rasping with pain.

"Hold him, Soapy," Jo said, and as her husband quickly but firmly held the man down Jo grasped the American's wrist and elbow with strong hands and rotated, feeling the ball joint slide into the socket with a soft click.

The man's body convulsed with the pain, but he didn't utter a sound, and it was only as the throbbing agony began to recede that he let out a soft groan and he bared his teeth, trying to control his reaction.

"Easy now …" Jo's voice was soft and understanding, and she eased the damaged arm over the man's ribs to help support the battered shoulder, "it's done … Soapy, can you get my jacket from the ute so I can fold it under his head? I want to check him over –"

But as Soapy relaxed his hold the stranger managed to get his good arm under him and tried to struggle upright and away from both of them. Soapy caught a glimpse of the look in the young man's eyes, and he was shocked to see the feral visage of a wild, dangerous creature trapped, unable to escape.

Jo, startled just for a second or two, hesitated, but she snapped into action and reaching forward, she cupped the stranger's bloodied face in her hands and looked him square in the eyes.

"Stop it, boy … hear me? Just stop. You're safe … no-one is going to hurt you. We're just trying to help, alright? You're hurt, and I need to check you're not bleeding internally or have any broken bones. If you don't want to go to the hospital, that's fine … for now … but in return, you let me look you over." She smiled. "How does that sound?"

The man's breathing was rasping in his chest, shallow and painful, but his blue eyes gazed at Jo, and he saw the truth and honesty in her smile.

And then it was as though someone had knocked the breath out of him as he suddenly began to sag bonelessly, and Jo had to let go and catch him as he slumped into her arms. She felt his body tense with pain, and for the first time she felt the raging heat in him.

Looking up at Soapy, her eyes widened.

"Sweetheart, I think this boy's very sick!" she whispered. "Help me lay him back, will you?"

Soapy frowned at the fear in his wife's eyes. He didn't like it when Jo was afraid. She was a determined, tough woman in her own way, common sense written into her very being, but now … he realised she was very concerned for this fiery young man who had suddenly – and violently – dropped into their lives.

He helped Jo ease the man back onto the ground and then he hurried to the ute, retrieved Jo's jacket and a bottle of water and rushed back to his wife's side. Easing the folded jacket under the lolling head, Soapy watched Jo check the young man's arms and legs for damage, and he heard her murmur to herself as she did so.

"Right leg … seems okay … oh, left knee's swollen … probably sprained … no breaks." She moved to his torso and gently unbuttoned his shirt and gasped. "Oh my goodness," she said quietly, as she discovered the filthy bandage wrapped around the American's ribcage. Old bloodstains soaked the right side.

"What? What is it?" Soapy asked as he held the torch for Jo, letting her examine the bandages.

"I have no idea," she replied worriedly. "And I can't check whatever he's hiding under these bandages here, love. He needs to be back home where we can get a good look at him." She felt the stranger's brow and his bare chest. "He's burning up. He's running quite a fever, he's badly dehydrated and bouncing off the ute hasn't exactly done him any favours either. Apart from the shoulder and the knee, I think the rest of the damage he already had before we hit him," she added.

Soapy handed her the bottle of water.

"Here. Let's see if we can get some water in him, that might help a little," he said.

Jo cracked the lid and Soapy lifted the man's head, cradling it gently. The blue eyes opened slightly and studied both of them.

"C'mon, son … try and take a few swallows of this, it'll help."

Soapy saw the almost imperceptible nod and Jo managed to trickle a mouthful of the cool water into the stranger, and she was pleased to see his throat work, swallowing the fluid. She got nearly half of the contents of the bottle into him before he turned his head away slightly.

"No … no more … had enough …"

Jo smiled, relieved.

"Well done … that's good. Now then … do you feel able to stick travelling in the back of the ute for another hour or so?"

The man frowned, struggling to think it through.

"Look … I'll be okay …" he croaked, his eyes closing as he desperately tried to stay awake, "Jus' … jus' leave me …"

Soapy sighed, exasperated.

"Son … that's not going to happen, so live with it. I know, I know …" he added with a smile, noticing the pained frown on the American's face, "Life's a bit of a bugger, hey, but you're going to have bite the bullet and deal with it, mate."

The stranger's bone-tired features grimaced.

"Not … not your son …"

That made Soapy laugh, a dry, warm chuckle.

"Well, if you tell us your name, son, then I won't have to keep using the word like a galah with the needle stuck in a groove, now will I?" Soapy thought he might quite like this stubborn fool of a man, "So stop being arsey and let us help, lad." His voice softened. "Don't worry. You're safe, and Jo will take good care of you."

"Not … not safe …" The southern accent became hoarse with stress, "Never safe … he won't stop an' … an' he'll go right through you to get to me … can't … can't keep you safe …" The blue eyes were intense with feeling now, and the man's good hand clutched Soapy's sleeve. "Leave me … please …"

Soapy and Jo looked at one another. Was this the raving of a hurt and delirious man, or was there something behind his words? Jo eased the stranger's hand from Soapy's arm and held it, and was surprised when the fingers curled around hers and hung on.

She nodded, and Soapy smiled. Trust Jo to do the right thing.

"Listen, boy," she said softly, and rubbed her thumb over the stranger's knuckles in an attempt to calm him. "Soapy's going to back up the ute and we'll get you comfy in the flat-bed, alright? You're coming home with us and we'll get you cleaned up and this fever dealt with. We'll have you feeling better in no time," she added, gentleness in every syllable.

The young man's blue eyes caught Jo's green gaze. His words, when they came, chilled her to the bone.

"Let me die," he whispered. "It's safer that way."

Soapy rested a hand on the man's good shoulder. He had no idea what was going on with this young American, but he was damned if he was going to leave anyone out here in the bush to die. And the man hadn't been afraid for himself. He was afraid for them.

"We're hard to find out here son, and we're not exactly helpless," he said. "C'mon, man … you're bloody crook***, and you need help. It'll be a cold day in hell before we leave anyone to croak out here."

The stranger was so quiet for long moments that Soapy thought he had slipped into unconsciousness, so he started when the soft, gruff voice came again.

"Eliot …" the man said, sounding as though the name had not been a part of him for a long time. "My name … it's Eliot."

"Hello Eliot," Soapy replied with gentle humour, "nice to meet you. This is my wife Jo, and I'm Soapy Munro. You're on Wapanjara Station land, and for your information we're clicks away from anywhere, so we're pretty remote. So whoever this fella is that you're worried about, he'll find it bloody hard to find you here. I take it …" Soapy took a deep breath, "I take it you're not in trouble with the police? Sorry, but I have to ask." For some reason, Soapy knew Eliot would tell him the truth.

Eliot scowled.

"No!"

The indignant tone in his voice made Jo smile. He's a proud one, she thought. He's insulted at the idea.

"Alrighty then," she said, now happy that Eliot seemed to accept the possibility that he would live through the next day or so. "Home it is, my lad. And then you can rest and heal. How does that sound? Think you can deal with that?"

"Have to," he huffed, and Jo's heart lurched when she realised he really meant it when Eliot had told them to let him die. Hmmm … he was going to be quite a challenge.

She looked up at Soapy, who winked at her. He knew her so well after decades together, and she smiled back.

"Soapy love … let's take Eliot home," she said.

To be continued …

Author's note:

*Ute – a 'utility vehicle', what would now be regarded as a pick-up, but the Ford Courier in Australia has the 'ute' chassis built specifically for Australia's demanding landscape.

**'Boomer' – a large male kangaroo.

*** 'Crook' - sick, ill.