Redemption

Pieces of the Past

The hot Australian sun scorched the dry earth as he rode slowly through the rough country. A new hat provided some protection from the blazing sun, but he was sweating profusely. Wilkins had warned him not to travel through midday. Harmony had always sought shelter in the heat of the afternoon, so he knew it was dangerous for travel. Having a clearer purpose now, however, he didn't want to wait.

His pace was slow but unerringly pointed toward Prescott's station. After having a local healer treat Wilkens' wrist, the men were ready to call truce. During a simple meal of black tea, seasoned roasted quail, and wild spinach, he allowed Wilkens to ply him for answers about his quest.

"Whatever I did to anger Prescott left me without memory of it," he spoke around a swallow of tea. "They left me for dead."

"You can't keep friends, can you." The remark came with a sly grin, so he took no offense.

"Maybe I'm just not cut out for it," Sitting back, his forearms rested on the wooden table. "Man like myself, I'm starting to think I'm naturally..."

"A loner?" It was a kind suggestion, as both men knew what other terms might easily be applied. Rueben had grinned.

"Perhaps." The memory of Harmony's lavender eyes flashed through his mind, but he shook it off. He wasn't a loner, but maybe he ought to be.

"You now, I knew a bloke who used to work for Prescott, he up an' quit when you started there, said you were too much like a lit powder keg." Wilkens's tone was neutral. "He said you were too eager to fight, always looking for a reason no matter how small."

"Anyone ever say why?"

"No one would dare question you," Wilkins's response had been dry. "You're not exactly warm and fluffy, Lane."

"Rueben." Clear eyes had met dark blue ones. "I think I'd prefer to be called Rueben."

"Jim," they shook briefly. "Don't tell my mother, though. She'd give me proper hiding."

"I won't say it's nice to meet you, because it hasn't been, however... I'm hoping the days ahead prove to be more pleasant."

"Took the words right out of my mouth." Wilkens gestured with his fork. "Speaking of the days ahead, the easiest way to die is to take on Quinton Prescott without a weapon, and I've got a lot invested in your survival."

"I'll figure something out, I don't want firearms," he's been certain about it, his aversion almost extreme. It made him wonder why.

"Don't think I'll let you go anywhere without some kind of defense."

"Taking care of me now?"

"Just protecting my promised payment." Eyeing him, Jim sat back, arms crossed. "Your reputation won't get you far with Prescott and his men."

"True enough." He'd indicated some wedge-shaped tools laying on a piece of cloth near a small workbench. "What about those?"

"The natives consider these tools, not really weapons," Wilkins had explained. "Wo-mur-rāngs like this one," he picked up one made of wood. "Comes back to you if it's thrown correctly."

He demonstrated with his left hand. Rueben had been impressed.

"This one here," Wilkins picked up the one made of bone, "is for hunting, but it doesn't come back. It'll take down a large prey animal if done properly. The natives call it a shaunie, or throw stick."

The three tools he had chosen were large; the two wooden Wo-mur-rāngs a total length of twenty four inches each, hefty and solid tools. The bone shaunie was over thirty inches in length, its widest point being the distance from the tip of his middle finger to the edge of his wrist. It was a formidable tool and Lane gripped it easily in his hand. His sense of confidence was growing.