There’s been no stock in there for ages, most killed by hunters in the early days, and the rest gone feral in the bush.
At the gate, my tyres drop into the wider wheel tracks made by the trailbike. This must be where Ramage rides in and out.
I’m halfway to the hayshed when the idea hits me. If I set fire to the shed, Ramage is likely to come ahead of the others on the trailbike to investigate. He’ll come through that gate in a hurry, looking over at the burning shed…
I head back to the gate, risking turning the torch on to have a good look around. The tyre tracks are deep and spread wide, as though he has accelerated through. I walk along the fence looking for any loose wire.
It takes me a while, but eventually I find a length that’s been broken at one end by a branch falling across it. I trace it back to the nearest post and start to work it up and down to break it.
The wire is hot in my hands but it soon comes free. I reckon it must be about five or six metres long—enough to stretch across the open gate at chest height. This is all eating up time when I should be sleeping. I’m going to need all my energy tomorrow to outrun the Wilders, but within half an hour I’ve tensioned off the wire on both sides of the gateposts. My hope is that Ramage won’t see it and will hit it at speed. I’m not sure what I’ll do then, but if I get to the trailbike I can do some damage to it.
By the time I’m bedded down in the hayshed the moon has set and the night has enveloped the paddock. I struggle to get to sleep—the plan keeps running over and over in my head—but eventually I drop off.
At first light, I start to get organised by riding my bike out along the track towards the road heading to Pinchgut Junction.I hide it in the bush, marking its position by the hanging branch of a wattle.
Back in the shed I break open a few bales to loosen the hay. Then I drag a couple of dead branches out of the bush to keep the fire burning once the hay gets going. Finally, I empty the jerry cans over the top and I’m ready to put a match to it. The sun’s been up for a good hour; I don’t have time to waste. Still, I take a minute to rehearse the plan in my head one more time, knowing that once I light up the shed there’ll be no going back. Then I strike the match, flick it from a distance and run.
The petrol makes the whole thing explode with a loud whoomp , and by the time I’m in my hiding place by the gate the fire has taken hold. I hadn’t realised how quickly it would burn. The smoke plume, darkened by the burning petrol, rises well above the tree line and the northerly blows it down towards the coast. The flames take hold of the walls and roof, leaping wildly into the sky. I just hope the Wilders see it and panic.
It burns fast; the whole shed is consumed in about twenty minutes. Luckily, it keeps smoking even after the flames die down.
I’m not sure I actually hear it at first; the muffled noise of the trailbike is almost swamped by the sound of the wind and the final collapse of the shed’s frame. But I pick it up again, louder this time and coming fast.
I bury myself in the low bracken and hold my breath. As I’d hoped, Ramage has come up from town the same way I did last night, straight up to the ridge and along the fence. He’s in a rush too, throttling along, his head turned to the burningshed. It’s hard to judge his speed, but by the time he swings into the gateway he must be doing at least thirty or forty. He hasn’t seen the wire.
He hits it with force and his body seems to prop in mid-air while the trailbike lurches and continues on for a few metres before falling on its side and stalling. Ramage lands on the ground with a thud and an eerie quiet falls across the paddock. All I can hear is the hissing of the exhaust pipe against the wet grass.
Ramage stays on his back, but I can see his hands moving as he tries to work out what has happened. I have to hit my legs to get them moving,
At the gate, my tyres drop into the wider wheel tracks made by the trailbike. This must be where Ramage rides in and out.
I’m halfway to the hayshed when the idea hits me. If I set fire to the shed, Ramage is likely to come ahead of the others on the trailbike to investigate. He’ll come through that gate in a hurry, looking over at the burning shed…
I head back to the gate, risking turning the torch on to have a good look around. The tyre tracks are deep and spread wide, as though he has accelerated through. I walk along the fence looking for any loose wire.
It takes me a while, but eventually I find a length that’s been broken at one end by a branch falling across it. I trace it back to the nearest post and start to work it up and down to break it.
The wire is hot in my hands but it soon comes free. I reckon it must be about five or six metres long—enough to stretch across the open gate at chest height. This is all eating up time when I should be sleeping. I’m going to need all my energy tomorrow to outrun the Wilders, but within half an hour I’ve tensioned off the wire on both sides of the gateposts. My hope is that Ramage won’t see it and will hit it at speed. I’m not sure what I’ll do then, but if I get to the trailbike I can do some damage to it.
By the time I’m bedded down in the hayshed the moon has set and the night has enveloped the paddock. I struggle to get to sleep—the plan keeps running over and over in my head—but eventually I drop off.
At first light, I start to get organised by riding my bike out along the track towards the road heading to Pinchgut Junction.I hide it in the bush, marking its position by the hanging branch of a wattle.
Back in the shed I break open a few bales to loosen the hay. Then I drag a couple of dead branches out of the bush to keep the fire burning once the hay gets going. Finally, I empty the jerry cans over the top and I’m ready to put a match to it. The sun’s been up for a good hour; I don’t have time to waste. Still, I take a minute to rehearse the plan in my head one more time, knowing that once I light up the shed there’ll be no going back. Then I strike the match, flick it from a distance and run.
The petrol makes the whole thing explode with a loud whoomp , and by the time I’m in my hiding place by the gate the fire has taken hold. I hadn’t realised how quickly it would burn. The smoke plume, darkened by the burning petrol, rises well above the tree line and the northerly blows it down towards the coast. The flames take hold of the walls and roof, leaping wildly into the sky. I just hope the Wilders see it and panic.
It burns fast; the whole shed is consumed in about twenty minutes. Luckily, it keeps smoking even after the flames die down.
I’m not sure I actually hear it at first; the muffled noise of the trailbike is almost swamped by the sound of the wind and the final collapse of the shed’s frame. But I pick it up again, louder this time and coming fast.
I bury myself in the low bracken and hold my breath. As I’d hoped, Ramage has come up from town the same way I did last night, straight up to the ridge and along the fence. He’s in a rush too, throttling along, his head turned to the burningshed. It’s hard to judge his speed, but by the time he swings into the gateway he must be doing at least thirty or forty. He hasn’t seen the wire.
He hits it with force and his body seems to prop in mid-air while the trailbike lurches and continues on for a few metres before falling on its side and stalling. Ramage lands on the ground with a thud and an eerie quiet falls across the paddock. All I can hear is the hissing of the exhaust pipe against the wet grass.
Ramage stays on his back, but I can see his hands moving as he tries to work out what has happened. I have to hit my legs to get them moving,
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