Master of Ransome: An Australian Outback Romance

by Lucy Walker

  ‘No broncho jumping?’ Sara asked the stockman alongside her.

  He gave a short laugh.

  ‘Not with Greg Camden and this kind of hoss. You won’t see no jumps and you won’t hear no barracking from the rails this go, lady. You keep your eyes on Greg now. He got the halter on the colt yesterday. Today he’ll make a friend of him.’

  Greg was quietly walking to the horse now. The horse, terrified but curious, stood still. In a minute, almost imperceptibly, Greg had the halter on and had moved back. Then began the prettiest picture Sara had ever seen. Greg stood so still. There seemed a steel strength in him, yet his movements of the body and the hands were fluid as molten silver. The hands moved up the halter rope ever nearer the horse’s nose.

  At a point they stopped. The horse, legs braced, ears back, stared hypnotised at them. It, too, was a picture of fluid strength … of an animal torn between the opposite desires, to flee or to stay and inquire.

  Everything in and around the yard was silent with concentration. It was like the moment before an electric storm broke. You could almost feel the gallery holding its concerted breath. Would the colt make a break for it?

  Only Greg was easy. Easy and confident yet compelling. His eyes were on the eyes of the horse. He did not waver his gaze, and though one was conscious of compelling command there was so much kindness in it one felt the horse just had to understand it.

  For five minutes nothing moved. Then gently, imperceptibly the horse lifted its head the fraction of an inch. It was smelling the air. Still there was silence. Greg did not move. His hands invited. His eyes invited. Then delicately, nervously the horse stretched its neck towards the hands on the rope. It pulled back. Nothing happened.

  Greg was saying something so softly no one but the horse could hear. Its head went forward again and then the sensitive nose was touching the hands. Greg did not move. The horse tried again and Greg’s fingers gently, tenderly stroked its nose.

  That was all. Greg slipped the halter and quietly walked away to the opposite fence. He took a lighted cigarette from one of the jackaroos and smoked it. The horse, still frightened, raced back into a corner of the yard. The gallery remained silent.

  Greg handed the rope to the jackaroo, stubbed out his cigarette and walked back into the centre of the yard. His movements were full of an unconscious strength and grace. Then he stood still and held out his hand. It was five minutes before the horse came gingerly, nervously, but compelled, towards that hand. It was a hand that invited and commanded but offered infinite love and care.

  Greg fondled the horse a moment, speaking very softly and then walked away to the rails. He hoisted himself up between Julia and one of the jackaroos. He pushed his hat on the back of his head and lit a cigarette. His was the first voice that broke the silence.

  ‘All right, Blue-Bag. Let him through the slip rail.’

  A stockman dropped from the fence, lowered a slip rail, and in a minute the horse was out in a grassed paddock.

  ‘Smoko!’ someone said from the rails, and there was a general breaking of the silence. Figures began to slip from the rails and comments about the horse were flying in all directions.

  ‘He’s a little beaut!’

  Sara remained sitting on the rails, unaware that those beside her were already on the ground and she sat alone. She had been deeply moved by the scene. It had touched a chord in her and she was trying to fathom it all out. She could not imagine any picture of action, of battle or of endurance that could have conveyed so much of compulsion and strength as Greg’s stillness had conveyed in that moment before the horse touched him.

  One of the jackaroos had come across the yard to her.

  ‘Billy tea in the stables, Sara,’ he said. ‘Coming?’

  Sara blinked her eyes and shook herself.

  ‘Thank you … yes. I’d love some tea.’

  The jackaroo was laughing at her as he helped her down from the fence.

  ‘You wouldn’t read about it in a book, would you?’ he said.

  ‘I thought it was a wonderful sight.’

  ‘You won’t see it anywhere else but at Ransome. There’s no one north of the twenty-sixth can do it quite the way Greg does it.’

  ‘I thought there’d be broncho-jumping.’

  ‘Sometimes there is too. There’s other ways of breaking horse, but that’s Greg’s way. Mind you, that colt was pretty flighty the first day Greg had him in the yard.’ Sara walked with the jackaroo to the group on the far fence. Julia was talking about horses and she gave no sign of recognising Sara’s presence. The men all smiled, however, and Greg nodded his head. She found it difficult not to stare at him too hard. She wanted to read for herself what it was he had in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw and the fine lines of his face that commanded so much authority.

  ‘Tea, Greg?’ It was one of the stockmen shouting from the entrance to the stables.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Two ladies coming up,’ the jackaroo shouted a warning.

  ‘We got Wedgwood china for them.’

  There was a shout of laughter.

  Greg put out his hand and Julia took it as she jumped lightly from the fence. She brushed her primrose jodhpurs with her fingers, walked the few paces that put herself between Sara and Greg and proceeded to walk towards the slip rails with him. Julia went through first, and when the men stood aside for Sara to follow, the two girls found themselves side by side. As the men had to come through on the right of the girls Sara found Greg walking at her side.

  ‘I enjoyed watching that very much,’ Sara said. She knew her words were inadequate but there was too much constraint in her feelings for her to have spoken what was in her mind.

  ‘You rode down from the homestead?’ Greg inquired politely. ‘Did they give you a good mount?’

  ‘It was Gentle Annie. Andy promised she wouldn’t throw me. I’m a beginner at riding.’

  Greg looked at her with some surprise.

  ‘I hadn’t realised that,’ he said. ‘You’d better get Andy to give you a few lessons.’ Sara’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Oh, I would like that.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Andy.’

  They were in the shadow of the stables and there were boxes scattered about on which a great medley of stockmen and rouseabouts were sitting with their tin mugs of tea in front of them. Sara could not thank Greg because he moved away from her and ordered one of the rouseabouts to collect a ‘decent clean’ box or two for the ladies. He left the jackaroo to fetch the two newest-looking mugs … the Wedgwood china … for Sara and Julia. By the time Sara was seated and someone had put a mug of boiling black tea in her hand Greg was some distance away. He was standing, mug in hand and one foot up resting on the box, talking to the overseer and one of the stockmen. Sara noticed his attitude was the same as when she had first seen him in the billiard room at the homestead. He had one foot up and often he seemed to concentrate his gaze on the toe of that boot. Now and again he would look up and far away. Sara wondered what the distances did for his thinking powers, he was so often gazing thoughtfully into them.

  On this occasion he was not being talked to. He was doing the talking and the other two men were paying great attention.

  Andy came over to Sara.

  ‘I suppose you need that police escort home, young lady.’

  Sara was about to say, ‘Yes, please,’ when she changed her mind.

  ‘I think I’ll ride up to the homestead alone. Are you game to let me try, Andy?’

  ‘Takes no courage on my part.’ He grinned but Sara could see he was pleased with her.

  Julia had stood up as if to depart. Greg suddenly looked up.

  ‘You going up, Julia?’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to sit here all day watching you all wasting time,’ Julia said. ‘I can waste my own time much more effectively and conveniently elsewhere.’

  Julia’s words brought a laugh from the men and a lop-sided grin from the overseer. Greg smiled quietly and hi
s glance flickered to Sara. Sara stayed put and looked into her mug as if she had yet more tea to drink. She was not going up to the homestead with Julia. She wouldn’t be able to ride, even Gentle Annie, if Julia was galloping by on a thoroughbred.

  It was Andy who came to Sara’s rescue. ‘You come out and look at that wee hoss kicking up his heels in the paddock now. He’s had time to think about it and has decided being in with the humans is not going to be such a bad go after all.’

  Sara walked with Andy around the stables and stood a few minutes watching the young horse she had so lately seen with Greg in the yard.

  She felt grateful to the kindly stockman beside her but she didn’t know how to convey it.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Andy said after peering round the corner of the stables. ‘If you’d ridden up with Julia she’d have ridden the guts out of Annie at the quarter-mile mark.’ Sara looked soberly at Andy.

  ‘What makes Julia like that?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Too much money when she was too young. Too much spoiling and too many good looks. She hasn’t had a fair go.’

  Sara admitted the fairness of Andy’s summing up. Everyone on Ransome treated Julia with the tolerance of one dealing with a spoilt child. Only Greg seemed to regard her with greater seriousness. Maybe it was because he had once been in love with her.

  Maybe it was because whatever he found lovable in her might still be worth salvaging if he could win her away from her preoccupation with herself, and with the Ransome earning capacity. Maybe that pretty face and that lovely form brought nostalgic yearnings for a time past when Julia must have had some of the effervescence of youth. Maybe he was so used to a certain grasping indolence in his womenfolk that he took it for granted as part of feminine nature.

  Andy had untethered Gentle Annie and brought her round to Sara. He had just helped her mount when Greg came round under the shade of the coolibah.

  ‘You going up with Sara, Andy?’ he asked.

  ‘She wants to go up on her own. Best way to learn.’

  Greg looked at Sara thoughtfully.

  ‘You think you’ll be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite,’ said Sara.

  Greg came close to her and began to examine the stirrup.

  ‘Better make it longer, Andy,’ he said. ‘I don’t think Sara will be riding a hunter over the fences.’

  ‘Better to teach her that style,’ said Andy. ‘She’s not going to spend her life riding round the boundaries of a cattle station.’

  ‘She might have some long rides while she’s still here. And I never heard of any of my stockmen who couldn’t clear a fence as well as any of the pink coats. Teach her a stockman’s way to ride, Andy.’

  Greg said all this pleasantly yet there was no further argument for Andy began at once to lengthen the stirrup.

  ‘Ease off your knees, Sara,’ he said. ‘You won’t need ’em any more riding this way. Use the ball of your foot and the calves of your legs. Well, ready?’

  ‘I hope so. Good-bye.’

  She gave a quick wave to the two men. With them both as onlookers she was determined to rise in the saddle from the first trot. With Gentle Annie’s co-operation she managed it. She was delighted with herself and half turned and waved again. The last glimpse she had of the two men before the stable out-houses hid them was of them standing side by side, their thumbs stuck in their belts, and Greg’s grin was as wide as Andy’s.

  Sara laughed. Perhaps he thought even chattels could supply entertainment on occasions.

  She didn’t feel quite so hurt any more. The morning’s events had salved her wounds.

  Chapter Seven

  Sara was grateful to Greg for having given her the opportunity to ride. For several evenings she went out with Andy and when she proved a good pupil he handed her over without misgiving to Marion. He saw that she was mounted on a good but thoroughly reliable horse.

  ‘You’ve outgrown Gentle Annie already,’ he said. ‘But I’m taking no risks. You take Trash from now on. She’ll take you anywhere like the lady she is and she’ll do it lady-like fashion. Plenty of speed but no nonsense.’ Sara was happier than she had ever been, and Marion appeared quite pleased to have Sara’s company on her sundown ride. For the first time she saw something of the immediate environs of Ransome homestead.

  She saw the river with its nearby cluster of workers’ quarters, she saw the grove of coolibahs and several great banyan trees. She reached the foothills of the range and skirted the timbered country. Even more interesting, she rode along the desert track stretching thousands of miles south over parched and treeless plains. In all Marion was good company in that she was never much inclined to talk. She was pleasant to Sara, greeting Sara’s enthusiasm with her usual enigmatic smile, and left the girl to get her own experience as a rider.

  During the day Sara worked carefully and methodically at her office work.

  The invitations had all gone out. Orders to caterers and delivery contractors had gone forward. The station carpenter and his staff were put to work making partitions along two verandas and putting up the framework of innumerable camps on the upper billabong of the river.

  Everything went as effortlessly as Sara and Mrs. Whittle could achieve. Meantime Mrs. Camden went on endlessly chattering as she sat, perfumed and ringed, making her lace. Marion sat about, read books, lacquered her finger-nails and got ready her clothes for the cattle camp and the party.

  Julia pleased herself what she did and when she did it. Sometimes she went down to talk to the stockmen. Sometimes she rode out to one or two of the nearest bores. Often she went out with Greg. Sara had the impression that Julia really thought she was contributing to the management of Ransome affairs.

  Well, Sara reflected with a sigh, she had a share in the place. She was entitled to do what she did. When all was said and done she had probably as much right to Ransome station and Ransome homestead as Mrs. Camden and Marion.

  What a pickle Greg would have if the rest of the Camdens showed this same overseeing, questing but critical interest that Julia did! Sara’s sympathy was all with Greg and so she worked harder and more self-effacingly to keep things running smoothly for him.

  When the replies to the invitations began coming in with the air-mail he asked Sara would she work back in the office with him on more than one night.

  ‘Take tomorrow off,’ he said on the second night. ‘I’ll be out on the run all day now. Everything on this place has got to be in order by the twenty-ninth. We’ll have the first round-up over a bare week before the party … prime cattle to make a good show!’ He paused. ‘You know, Sara,’ he said quietly, ‘families are sometimes the most difficult of all shareholders to please.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sara.

  She could say no more. It would not be in good taste to give Greg a hint of what she thought of his family.

  One night he startled her by pushing back his chair, leaving the office and returning a few minutes later with two glasses, a jug of iced water, a lemon squeezer and a bottle of gin.

  ‘I think we deserve a drink,’ he said. ‘Pure lemon or a dash of gin, Sara?’ He was putting the jug and glasses in the middle of the table.

  ‘What are you going to do for lemons, Greg?’

  ‘They’re in my pocket,’ he said.

  He plunged his hands and brought out three from each side pocket. Sara thought there was something happily domestic about Greg tumbling lemons out of his pocket, unsheathing his knife … like a sailor, a station man always carried a knife … and bisecting lemons on the blotting pad.

  In silence he made Sara her lemon drink and added the merest dash of gin to it. In silence he returned to his seat on the far side of the table, lit himself a cigarette and sipped his drink. Sara didn’t know whether there was something ominous or anticipatory in his silence.

  ‘You know, Sara,’ Greg said suddenly. He was tipping the ash from his cigarette into the ash-tray and did not look up as he spoke. He paused, and then went on, his face serious. �
��You must realise you’ve made a considerable difference to affairs here …’

  He paused again, and Sara felt a glow of warmth at being appreciated.

  ‘I’m inclined to think we need you on Ransome.’ He looked up quickly and his blue eyes interrogated her. ‘Do you think you could stay on with us?’

  This invitation came with the shock of surprise. Sara had not realised Greg had so quickly outgrown his first doubts and suspicions. She was pleased her worth was acknowledged and that she was needed. But the invitation had overwhelming implications. In the first instance, for how long would she be needed on Ransome and how much would a long sojourn there jeopardise her job with the company in the city? If Clifford Camden were not agreeable to her remaining on Ransome could or would she afford to throw over her permanent and interesting work in the main offices?

  If she stayed she would have no difficulties with Marion or Mrs. Camden. But Mrs. Whittle? She got on very well with Mrs. Whittle so far, but Mrs. Whittle had never really unbent. Whenever the Camdens, any one of them, was wrong Mrs. Whittle had never admitted it. Her devotion to them was implacable and almost religious. How much would a permanent connection affect her relationship with Mrs. Whittle?

  Lastly, though she would love to stay on Ransome for some length of time, would she like to live there for ever like a shadowy and junior Mrs. Whittle?

  All these thoughts rushed pell-mell together through Sara’s head and she could not sort out one from the other. She felt overwhelmed with the proposition and all it implied.

  Her face must have shown how disturbed she felt for Greg got up, walked again to the window and stood looking out. All that he would see would be moon-washed paddocks through the veil of garden trees, but it was his characteristic way of having a ‘think’.

  Sara did not answer him, because she could not. She wanted to thank him for the compliment and the invitation but was too confused to find adequate words. She was incapable of giving a definite reply at the moment.

  Like every girl in the world she would like one day to marry. Would living on Ransome for a period of years deprive her of that chance? Sara did not put this question to herself but it was an undercurrent of motive in her hesitation.