Fear Is the Rider Read Free

leave the bar, then saw the Land Cruiser pull away along the dusty street. He sighed, mourning briefly, as every man does, the moving on of a lovely girl; decided he would spend the night in this pub and ordered another beer.

    Yogabilla was a railway town with wide dirt streets, fifty or so timber and iron boxes that passed for houses, the inevitable huge old hotel, two general stores, a pleasant white-painted bungalow that was the police station, and a small brick post office and telephone exchange attended by one woman, sometimes.
    Shaw could see the town for half an hour before he arrived, far across the morning sun-washed plain of sparse saltbush. From a distance, resting in the shimmering heat haze it looked exotic and interesting, but as he drove in it became the usual dull, dirty, despairing outback township.
    He thought about seeking a cup of coffee, abandoned the idea as ridiculous and drove on down the dust road towards Adelaide, two days away.
    He wasn’t actually seeing much of the desert vegetation, he thought, mainly because it was too damned hot to get out of the car and look at it. He had another week before his appointment in Adelaide, but had already decided to go straight through and spend his waiting time by the coast where at least he could swim.
    Ten kilometres south of Yogabilla a track broke away from the road and ran west. By the side of the road was a large sign. Shaw stopped to read it.
    DANGER. OBIRI TRACK. FROM HERE TO OBIRI HEAT, SHIFTING SANDS, SOAKS AND VARIOUS OTHER HAZARDS MAKE TRAVELLING EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. IN THE EVENT OF BREAKDOWN DO NOT LEAVE YOUR CAR. BEFORE DEPARTURE REPORT TO THE POLICE STATION AT YOGABILLA. THERE IS NO DRINKING WATER OR PETROL FOR THE NEXT 600 KILOMETRES.
    To Shaw in his air-conditioned capsule the sign seemed theatrical. He looked out along the track as it disappeared into the great Stony Desert. It did not appear a great deal worse than the main road. A ribbon of dust running due west, not very different from the face of the desert itself except that there was no saltbush growing on the track.
    The girl had said she was going to spend a couple of days at Pattersons Creek. How far out was Pattersons Creek? He had the feeling that it wasn’t all that far. Surely the Honda could travel some distance along the track. It certainly could if it were no worse than what he could see. It would be pleasant to see that girl again. He had five days to spare.
    He could just run out to Pattersons Creek, if it were close enough, for the day and come back to spend the night in the pub at Yogabilla. It was worth talking to the police about it anyway. He might even see some interesting vegetation at Pattersons Creek. He smiled at his own self-deception, turned the car around and drove back to the police station at Yogabilla.
    Only that black-and-white sign POLICE at the front gate of the bungalow indicated its function. On the veranda a middle-aged man wearing shorts held up by braces and a khaki shirt was sprinkling a couple of desiccated plants from a watering can.
    Not quite sure how to address a policeman, Shaw walked up the path towards him. The man turned his heavy, weather-reddened face towards Shaw.
    ‘G’day.’
    ‘G’day,’ said Shaw.
    ‘S’right. C’n I do for you.’
    Shaw moved on to the veranda out of the sun.
    ‘I was thinking of poking my nose out along the Obiri Track, and I saw the sign that says report to the police station.’
    The sergeant stood upright and looked at the small silver Honda parked outside the gate. Further up the street outside the pub were trucks, four-wheel-drives, huge utilities. The Honda looked like a spaniel puppy among wolfhounds.
    ‘You’re going out on the track in that?’ said the sergeant.
    ‘Well,’ said Shaw feeling foolish, ‘I was thinking of it.’ ‘Son,’ said the sergeant weightily, ‘where do you want your remains sent?’
    Shaw smiled. ‘Bad as that, is it?’
    ‘Son,’ said the sergeant again, ‘if you