Hanson jumps to his feet, hand clasping Reardon's shoulder. “Now you're talkin', Bucko!” he exclaims, jubilantly, “It's a two hour drive to the turn-off, an we need to be there before daylight. Three O'clock - We'll leave at three in the morning…”
The headlights probe the dark road ahead. Both men dressed in gray cotton shirts and long trousers, faces barely discernable in dull glow of dashboard. There was a strong smell of diesel fuel wafting through the cabin, reminding Reardon of other times, occasional grating of gear stick, roar of engine as they power upwards, with Jimmy yelling above it all. Full of optimism, reflects Buck, as always when on some new venture.
The truck surges over the top of the range, coasts out across a river, the dense scrub thinning to forest country as the distance stretches out behind them, “Nearly there,” the passenger ululates in driver's ear. Buck Reardon doesn't need to be told, but he nods, slowing the truck to a crawl, switching off the lights, face almost touching the windscreen as he peers into the gloom. The steering wheel rotates to the left, straightens as the big rig slides into the forest. Behind them they hear the swish of tyres on dew dampened bitumen as an early morning motorist speeds by. “Lucky,” mouths Jimmy.
They proceed on into the forest with the Sunday morning daylight emerging,
expanding around them, revealing pristine forest, birds chirping form tree tops, kangaroos bounding across their path. The Mack, with the engine barely exceeding an idle, penetrates deeper and deeper into the domain of Parks & Wildlife, periodically the nose dipping down into waterless gullies, tilting up as the scale the father side.
Two hours from the highway, while passing a turn-off familiar to both of them, they look at each other, neither speaking… On they go, down into a creek bed, crawling up the other side. “Know where you are, Bucko?” Jimmy's face split with a big grin.
“Sure,” answers Buck, “Two hundred metres ahead, on the left hand side.”
Reardon pulls the Mack in under a towering Cedar tree, they climb down out of the vehicle, walking around the butt. Reardon whistles, the girth, over the years, become enormous.
Jimmy indicates two sets o initials, B.R and J.H carved into the trunk. “She was ours the day we put them there, Bucko, and she's been standin' out here for a life time - just waitin' for us to come and claim her…”
Buck Reardon, remembering when, as fifteen year old boys, they'd carved their initials on the tree, observes, “she sure has grown some in thirty years,”
“Let's put the billy on,” suggests Jimmy, “Karl oughta be here any minute.”
Reardon frowns, he hadn't liked the idea of anybody else being in on the caper, but Jimmy assured him it was necessary. “How's he traveling”
“Walkin'” informs Jimmy, “he only lives over the creek a bit.”
Reardon's head jerks up. “In the old house we used to camp in?”
“Yer,” grunts Jimmy, turning to gather wood…
“He must be a hardy bastard,” ejaculates Reardon. They are sitting with backs against the Cedar tree, sipping black tea laced with rum, watching the approaching sleeper-cutter. A tall raw-boned man in his early twenties, wearing only a pair of tattered shorts to combat the cold of the high country. The man's fair hair, straight as a horse's tail, hanging down past his shoulders, he appears to glide, rather than walk, through the forest.
Jimmy makes the introductions, offering, “Cup of tea, Karl?”
“Tea, me arse,” snorts the German, reaching for the rum bottle, taking a healthy swig, smacking his lips. “I'll go get the dozer now.”
Jimmy looks at Buck, explaining “There's a gang pushin' a road through about three kilometers over - they all go home on weekends - Karl's gonna borrow their bulldozer.”
The German hasn't covered fifty metres when the sound reaches them. He freezes, it's obviously a vehicle, and coming their way. “It's the park ranger's four-wheel-drive!” he yells, running back to the others.
Jimmy's on his feet, instantly. “Get across that creek and stop him, Karl. I don't care how you do it - but stop him…”
“You come on with any rough stuff,” threatens Reardon, “you'll answer to me, Mate…”
The cream Toyota bouncing along the corrugated road, lean, fair headed motorist whistling as he drives. Being Sunday he is out of the regular uniform, wearing shorts and a long sleeved cotton shirt. He's here today because he'd been tied up in the office all week, not because he expects anything untoward. He sees the shirtless man standing at the turn-off, applies the breaks. “How'ya, Karl?” he greets.
“Not bad, mate,” says the German, adding, “I've got a bit of a problem, and I was wondering if you could give me a hand?”
“Sure,” agrees the ranger, “What's the dilemma?”
“My tank-stand,” replies the German, improvising as he goes, “It's rotted out. I need to shift the tank onto some blocks so I can make the repairs.”
The ranger pushes the passenger door open. “Hop in,” he invites, and when the man's seated beside him, turns the Toyota into the winding side road…
Half hour hence, after manhandling the tank onto four sawn blocks, the ranger prepares to take his leave. “Thanks, mate,” says the German, “I was lucky you came along when you did,” he pauses, ensuing, as if on afterthought, “I think I can return the favour. Those road gang blokes reckon they seen a lot of pig diggings out at the end of the track. I figured I might score a young sucker for the pot, so I drove out there first thing this morning,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I had no luck but it might save you a bit of rubber.”
“You sure about this, Karl” questions the ranger.
“Certain,” assures the German, and the ranger, looking undecided, drives off.
The men at Cedar tree sigh with relief on hearing the Toyota turn back towards the highway. Jimmy wipes a hand across his forehead. “Phew - I coulda done without that.”
“Yer,” grunts Buck, confiscating the rum bottle, “You've had enough of this stuff, too…”
They watch the sleeper cutter come up out of the creek. “Things have changed, boys,” he tells them.
“How you figure that?” Jimmy's eyes veiled with suspicion.
“I'm in this up to my neck now. I pitched that ranger a tale to get him off our backs. I don't think he believed me and,” he gestures at the tree, “when he finds this gone he'll know l lied, and why - I want an even ten thousand dollars now…”
“You long haired kraut bastard!” snarls Jimmy, “You told me he never came out here on Sundays.”
“Can it,” cautions Buck, “It sounds reasonable to me. Anyway - he's got us by the short and curlies.”
Karl looks from one man to other. “agreed?”
Buck nods. “Go get the dozer,” the sleeper cutter lopes off through the forest.
Jimmy boasted the tree worth $80000 but, the deal being black market, their cut only half the amount, $18000 a piece for Hanson and Reardon, $4000 for the German, who'd been going to claim he was away when the tree was stolen. The unexpected appearance of the ranger changed things and, as he said, he was in it up to his neck now. Buck kicks the empty tea billy. Two days ago he'd been three hundred kilometers south of here, broke - but without complications. Jimmy's telephone call certainly altered that…
Hanson circles around the tree like a prize fighter around an opponent. “Let's get on with it, Bucko,” he exults, “We'll drop her into that gap in the north.” He goes over to cabin of truck, returning with two chain-saws, handing the smaller one to Reardon, “You can cut some skids while I'm workin' on the tree, Buck.” Both men fall to their tasks…
Inside half an hour, having completed the preliminaries, they are sitting with backs against the Cedar tree, a yellow D-6 bulldozer, looking like some pre-historic monster, cruising through silent forest towards them - a grinning Karl at the controls.
Jimmy raises a hand halting him well clear of the action arena. Buck drives the truck over beside the bulldozer. He and Karl watching Jimmy Hanson administer the final touches -
A huge scarf had been cut into northern face of the tree, determining the direction of its fall. A single blade cut started into the southern side, in which, Jimmy now enters the saw, revving the motor, sawdust flying out as the chainsaw penetrates into the tree's heart, and the scarf on northern side squeezes closed. A creaking, tearing sound as the mammoth Cedar's last resistance gives out. Jimmy steps back, chainsaw idling in his right hand, left forming a funnel around his mouth. “Timber!” he yells, and the three men watch, with awe, the soaring descent of the great tree, ending with an earth shaking thud on the forest floor.
The Cedar barely hits the ground before Hanson's on it, chainsaw slicing into the top and, when this is severed, measuring the overall length, marking the center. “Get a couple of skids under here, boys,” he tells the others, assuming total control, “I'll push her up and halve her,” he starts towards the bulldozer.
“Why bother?” inquires Karl, “The truck can handle her as she is - and you'll be traveling at night, anyway…”
Hanson turns on him. “Seein' as you've promoted yourself to a major share-holder in this venture, Karl,” Jimmy's voice tinted with sarcasm, “I'll tell you why. There's a lot of timber bein' trucked down from further west of here. Once we get on the highway we'll be just one of the mob. The only reason we're liable to be pulled over is - if we are overloaded - or exceeding in length - I don't intend to be either…”
The German gives no further argument while the tree's being halved and pushed up on to the truck and jinker. When this ambition's achieved, tie chains fastened, the three men roll and light cigarettes. Jimmy glances at his watch, remarking, “It's three O'clock. We've got a few hours to put in before dark. You better get the dozer back, Karl. It won't take 'em long to jerry we used it - but it might just give us that bit of extra time. When you get back we'll figure out where you can pick up your share of - ”
“I'm coming with you,” interrupts the German.
”Why?”
“Because, as I said earlier, when the ranger finds the tree gone he'll know I lied to him - and why. Besides, when you get this baby to it's destination - where-ever?
Whenever? I want to be right there with you, Mate…”
Jimmy throws the cigarette down, grinding it into the dust with his boot. “Trusting bastard - aren't you?”
Karl shrugs his shoulders. “Where's the rum, Mate?” he inquires of Buck.
“Under the passenger's seat,” replies Reardon, “but hang on until I turn the truck around and we'll all have a drink,” he climbs up into the Mack.
Minutes on, truck and cargo facing north, the three men sitting in the shade of the cabin. Reardon removing the top off a bottle of rum salutes, “Here's to a successful mission,” far of they detect the murmur of a vehicle in transit.
The others taking their turn at the bottle, Karl inquiring of Buck, “On the way out can you take a run down to the house so's I can chuck a bit of gear together?”
“Like hell,” snarls Hanson, “I invited you in on this caper because I thought I could trust you - now you're holding us to ransom and - ”
“Listen!” intervenes Reardon, the murmur has increased to a persistent drone.
“I told you he didn't believe me,” blurts Karl.
“Are you sayin' - what I think you're sayin'?” demands Hanson.
“The ranger's coming back,” confirms the German.
They lurch to their feet, three men trapped in a dead-end road, as the vehicle emerges into view, cruises towards them, getting nearer, louder, realer. ”Fuck world heritage!” rants Hanson, hurling the empty bottle away, “This is our tree! We found her long before they ever came near this forest…”
Buck shakes his head, refuting, “No, Jimmy. The Cedar was only ours as long as it remained standing. Now,” Reardon's gesturing at the great tree, halved an secured to truck and jinker, they'll send it to a timber mill, where It'll be sawn into a thousand pieces - and belong to nobody…”
