Coming Rain Read Online Free

led to the wild disused land along the riverbanks.
He passed between swamp banksias and paperbarks.
    Wetland birds rising from the reeds. The heavy lifting of pelican through the cumbungi
and bulrush. Smelled the clean air coming from the river water and drove through
casuarinas. He stopped the truck once to relieve himself and then he drove on. After
a quarter of a mile he came to the old barge horse path near Mason’s Landing. It
was overgrown with wild oats and prickly dryandra.
    He bumped through the bushes scraping along the sides of the truck. Followed the
sunken dirt track until he reached their camp. Stopped in a small clearing and switched
off the engine. Cicadas were loud in the sunshine and two or three ringneck parrots
flew away through the trees, calling out their number; being cheeky bastards Painter
would say, listen to them, the twenty-eights.
    Lew got out of the truck, slammed the door, said fuck it and began to pack up his
tent. He rolled his swag and put canvas bags in the back of the truck. Threw the
tent poles, clattering, into the tray. Raised one hand in greeting towards Painter
who was standing next to the campfire.
    ‘Didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow son. Maybe day after,’ he said, holding a
fork. ‘Looks like our time in the big smoke’s over, is it?’
    ‘I’m off. You coming?’ Lew, using his elbow and palm as a template, began rolling
up a length of rope. ‘I heard there’s a bit of fencing work down south round Dardanup.’
    Painter scratched his arm with the fork. ‘Dunno bout that but we still got that charcoal
contract northeast of Boddington. Should start it next few days.’
    ‘Well fuck that,’ Lew said.
    ‘Yep.’ Painter scratched his shoulder with the fork again. ‘Then, next month, north
and further out, four days shearing on the Drysdales’ place. You want to fuck that
as well?’
    Lew finished coiling the rope and looped two holding hitches into the middle of the
roll. Threw it next to the swag and tent poles in the back of the truck. Opened the
truck door and stood holding it open. One boot on the running board. ‘Think you’re
funny don’t you? Sayin’ that? You been drinkin’?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. What about that fencing job?’
    ‘By the time we finish the charcoal, be time to start shearing at Drysdale’s anyway.
I just told you.’
    Lew hadn’t let go of the truck door. ‘I been thinking about doing some prospecting.’
    Painter walked over to the truck, reached in, pulled Lew’s swag out and dropped it
beside the back wheels. ‘You have?’
    ‘Yep.’ Lew, watching what Painter was doing, continued to speak. ‘There’s an old
bloke out there, past the Drysdales’. I heard about him. He’s got some gear we can
use. Way out by that abandoned town, Thompson’s Find, something like that.’
    ‘That’s what they call wajil country son.’ Painter shook his head as he returned
to the campfire. ‘Mulga, jam tree. Useless bloody land. Good for bugger all and no
one in their right mind goes there.’ He placed a few more small pieces of wood on
the flames. ‘I know about that old bloke, scratches a living fetching sandalwood.
Fossicks for gold. Old Dingo Smith, some of the farmers call him. There is no gold,
but he needs a reason to make butter. A top dog man, shooter. That’s how he gets
by for the most part. Taking dingo, there’s the name.’
    ‘I thought he was a gold miner.’
    ‘No. He is a dingo hunter, gold was an excuse, why else would he stay there? He loves
being alone and he loves killing dogs. Some say he doesn’t know his arse from his
elbow, drinking and barking at the moon, dances with one of them goats he keeps.
Calls her Eunice, everyone knows. But as far as cleaning the place up? Best there
ever was, some say. Wanted to be a miner, no good at it.’
    ‘Eunice? Dances with a goat? Cut it out.’
    ‘Well.’ Painter looked directly at him. ‘I dunno. But when it comes to gold and goats
and women a lot of blokes go