The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  The sheep grazing on the steep slopes threw their heads up in the air and pulled their ears back. They began to trot, congregating in a whirling mass. Jack cupped his hand on one side of his mouth and whistled a ‘steady’ command so that both dogs slowed to a walk. Then the dogs guided the mob steadily down the mountainside, like a flowing river. Jack barely said a word, only occasionally directing Moss to work the wing harder or whistling Kelpie to stop to take a bit of pressure off the mob. He sipped at his tea.

  ‘This chair is wonderful for mustering, gentlemen, I can tell you. Why take a horse on the Sabbath when you can obey God’s law and take a chair?’

  Within a few minutes the sheep had flowed down the side of the mountain and across the paddock. Now they were milling about in front of the verandah. Moss and Kelpie, tongues lolling and feet dancing, moved their eyes over the stock, intent on keeping the mob in order. Even the pups, who had been playing at the men’s feet, had cast out on their little legs and, ears pricked, were setting the sheep and padding around them, showing natural hold and cover. The men shook their heads in disbelief, and smiled.

  ‘But can they shut the gate behind them?’ teased Quinn, knocking Jack’s legs away from the verandah post so that tea splashed over his britches.

  ‘Well, if your yard gates swung properly they could!’

  ‘You’re a bloody show-off, Jack Gleeson,’ said Tom Keogh. ‘You’ll be mustering sheep in your sleep next, and the boss’ll have me out working to re-swing all the gates!’

  The men burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, to prove I’m not a skite, I’d like each of you gentlemen here today to pick yourself one of those little pups,’ Jack said. ‘Go on! Take your choice!’

  The men stood still, not believing what Jack proposed.

  ‘Are you certain?’ said Steve Apps. ‘Surely you’ll want payment for pups as sound as these?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Jack. ‘I’ve vowed never to sell a pup for money. They’re to go to men like yourselves, men who have an understanding of what it is to train the likes of a proper dog properly!’

  ‘But, Jack,’ said Tom, taking him aside for a moment and whispering, ‘you could make a small fortune selling dogs as good as these. It’d be enough to buy you land … and then, young Mary Ryan would be yours for the taking!’

  Jack shook his head and replied so that all the graziers could hear, ‘Lance Ryan can take me as I am. Land or no land. I’ll not sell a dog to buy a wife!

  John Cox shook his head. ‘You’re a daft bugger, Gleeson. Old Ryan was hell-bent on not letting my young brother Pat court his daughter Grace. But since Pat bought a run of his own on Yalgogrin, Ryan’s approved of the match! A property’s a secure home for a girl.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Jack, a flash of hurt bringing colour to his cheeks. ‘A good man is a secure home for a girl … and for a pup. That’s why you, John Cox, can have one of these.’ His face brightened as he strode out to scoop up a pup and carry it over to the men.

  Word of Jack’s Sunday afternoon muster-by-chair spread quickly around the district, along with the news that he had handed out Kelpie and Moss’s fine pups for just a smile and a handshake. The story of Jack’s generosity reached the ears of Launcelot Ryan as he sat in the London Hotel. Ryan’s cheeks turned an angry pink when he heard that the Irish stockman had refused money for the pups. If the man wanted his daughter, why didn’t he aim for a handsome profit on such a litter and put it towards some land?

  On the ride back to Wallandool, Launcelot Ryan mulled over the fact that Gleeson had followed the Ryans to the Mirool area. It was clear Jack was well liked in the district, but what did he have to offer his daughter? Already his older two girls, Kate and Grace, had been matched with fine, hard-working graziers. He had given Kate away to Harry King, who owned the impressive Wollongough station, and Grace was certain to have a good life with Pat Cox on their patch of red-soil country on the Yalgogrin run. But Mary! His thoughts became tangled when they turned to his fairest daughter. He wanted the very best for her, but she just would not give up when it came to Jack Gleeson. Ryan turned to his son who sat astride Mary’s old black pony.

  ‘No word of Mr Gleeson’s exploits to your sister Mary now,’ he said sternly.

  Then Launcelot Ryan spurred his horse into a canter and banished all thoughts of Jack Gleeson from his head.

  Chapter 29

  Rosie felt the calf’s sharp hoof meet her shin.

  ‘Ouch! You little bugger!’ she exclaimed, hopping on one leg, before she reached up between his legs for the sac of his scrotum. She got the knife in position, the way Jim had shown her.

  ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ said Jim as he loaded another electronic tag into the applicator. It was his first attempt at a joke all day and Rosie looked up at him and smiled with relief. She’d been worried by his silence.

  Today they were drafting the early calves off the cows and running them up the race. At first Rosie assumed Jim was tired and just didn’t feel like talking. But as the day wore on, it was obvious there was something wrong. With cows bellowing in the next yard and calves crying out from the shock of the knife as they were earmarked, Rosie didn’t even attempt to ask what it was. It would have to wait until tonight.

  She reached for the vaccine and jabbed the needle through the calf’s tough hide. Then she moved to get the next calf up.

  ‘That’s the one I’ve been looking for,’ she said at last, as she let the final calf out of the crush.

  As she sat on the tailgate of the ute and began to tidy up the eartags, Rosie looked up at the distant ridge where the hut was hidden in the bush. She thought back to the nights she had spent there with Jim. Even though it had only been a few months, it felt like a lifetime ago now. So much had happened with her family and the farm since then. Rosie sighed. In those early days she had felt that they were meant to be together but lately Jim was often distant and withdrawn. She wondered what she could say to convince him how much he meant to her. That she didn’t just want him around to work on the farm. That she didn’t give a damn what people might think.

  He came to sit beside her now. She put her hand on his thigh and, with relief, felt the warmth of Jim’s hand as he laid it over hers. She turned to him, ready to tell him how much she loved him, but Margaret called from the homestead.

  ‘Visitor for you, Rosie!’

  Dubbo stepped out from behind Margaret. He walked over to the cattleyards, neat and tidy in moleskins and a red-striped shirt. His boots gleamed and his fine blond hair was freshly trimmed.

  ‘Blimey!’ he said, taking in Rosie’s battered hat, grimy face, and the dried blood on her hands and clothes. ‘Never seen you in your work clobber!’

  Rosie looked down and shrugged. Jim hauled the half drench drum filled with the marking gear noisily out of the tray of the ute. He nodded briefly at Dubbo.

  ‘I’ll get this gear washed up,’ he said to Rosie and disappeared inside the quarters.

  ‘I’ve come to see Sam’s pups,’ Dubbo said. ‘If you’ve got time.’

  Sam’s pups, Rosie thought with a jolt. Of course. But she now thought of them as hers. Hearing Sam’s name gave her a strange, guilty feeling. She realised she hadn’t thought of him in weeks, and now here was Dubbo reminding her. She turned on her heel.

  ‘Come on then. I’ll show you Sam’s pups,’ she said, but Dubbo missed the sarcasm in her voice.

  She ushered him through the stable, pointing out Sassy’s colt, Morrison. Dubbo, not keen on horses, glanced quickly at him.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said absently.

  At the dog pens, the pups jumped and clawed at the wire. Rosie made them all wait and settle before she let each one out.

  ‘They’ve all had obedience training so they sit, stay and come when they’re called,’ she said. ‘Jim says the next thing will be to start them on stock. Do any catch your eye? Do you want a bitch or a dog?’

  ‘What’s going on with him anyway?’ Dubbo asked suddenly, turning to
face Rosie.

  ‘With who? Jim? What do you mean, going on?’

  Dubbo shook his head.

  ‘I hate to have to say this, but you can’t be too trusting of workmen, you know.’

  Rosie frowned.

  ‘How well do you know this Jim bloke anyway?’ Dubbo asked.

  ‘Well enough,’ Rosie said, anger prickling her cheeks.

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing some checking up on him. Asking about his background. Just as a precaution, you know.’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Look,’ Dubbo stepped forward and put a hand on her arm, ‘I’m just watching out for you. I kind of feel I owe it to Sam.’

  ‘I don’t need your protection!’

  ‘I care about you, Rose. That’s why I’m here. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I need to tell you what I’ve found out about Jim.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie said. She felt sick in the stomach.

  Dubbo lowered his voice. ‘From what I’ve heard, our friend Jim has used his Irish charm like this before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just say the man is after property. Apparently, he’s been engaged twice before – at the same time. You know, hedging his bets. Both girls were the daughters of big grazing players up in the Territory. One had an arse the size of a fitball and the other was part-way dippy. Apparently both weddings fell through when the fathers sussed out his scam.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ Rosie said, backing away.

  ‘Just think about it, Rosie. How fast has he wheedled his way into your life? He turns up just after you’ve lost your fiancé. Bang. Right on time to save the day. Look, I’ve spoken to a former employer. He confirmed it all.’

  Rosie felt confusion swamp her. Jim had seemed like a dream come true. But the same sick feeling crept into her that she’d felt when she’d found out about Sam and Jillian. Jim always seemed to be there to support her, but was he really just like Sam? Doubt crept through Rosie’s whole system like a virus. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  The next thing she knew Dubbo was holding her in his arms. She had her face pressed to his chest and tears were pricking at her eyes. Just then, Jim walked out from the stables and stood stock still. Rosie pushed Dubbo away.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Dubbo said. ‘I’ll pick out a pup another day, eh?’

  He walked straight past Jim, ignoring him, and was gone. Jim stood in front of Rosie, silent. She could see his jaw muscle twitching in anger.

  ‘Please tell me it’s not true,’ she said, tears rising up to her eyes.

  ‘What’s not true?’

  ‘That you’re just after me for the property. Like you were with those girls in the Territory.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ Jim said.

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘And you believed him?’ he said, flinging down the bridle he was carrying.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe! Maybe all men are arseholes after all!’

  ‘It shows how much you think of me then.’

  Jim turned and stormed into the quarters, slamming the door so hard that the windowpanes shook and the pups scuttled nervously to sit at Rosie’s boots. Rosie, sobbing, called the pups back into their pens. She sat for a time, clinging on to Chester as he licked at her tears. She knew as soon as she’d said the words to Jim that they couldn’t be true. Dubbo was lying. He was jealous, and still grieving for Sam. Rosie hugged Chester once more and stood up. She had to apologise to Jim.

  She found him in the stables, leading his horses from the stalls. The door of his float was open in the courtyard beyond. His grim face was flushed red.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rosie said, trying to cover the quaver of fear in her voice.

  ‘What does it look like?’

  He loaded the mare and his colt and hauled up the heavy float door with a bang. Then he brushed past Rosie and went into the men’s quarters. Rosie followed him, panic bubbling up inside her as Jim began to fling clothes into his grubby old canvas bag.

  ‘I’ve had it with this family, and being treated like scum by your snobby mates,’ he said tightly.

  Rosie opened her mouth to argue, but no words came as she watched Jim ram his clothes into the bag.

  ‘It’s not going to work between us, Rosie. We’re from different worlds.’ He tugged at the zip.

  ‘But you can’t leave me!’ Rosie said, grabbing his arm.

  Through narrow eyes Jim glared at her.

  ‘Why? Because you need your hired hand?’

  ‘That’s not what you are to me! Will you just drop it? You know it’s so much more than that. Don’t you feel it too?’

  ‘After what you said before, I don’t know what to think.’

  Jim strode to the ute, slammed the bag on to the tray and whistled his dogs on. He opened the passenger door for Bones and scooped the old dog in.

  ‘Jim. Don’t. Please.’ Rosie was sobbing. Jim slammed the ute door. He wound down the window and looked at her. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘You know I love you, Rosie.’ His voice seemed to choke for a moment, but he soon gained control. ‘But you’ll be better off with someone else.’

  ‘Jim, don’t go. Please. Let’s talk this through.’

  But he turned the ignition over and he drove away.

  WALLANDOOL STATION, 1878

  As the fiddler dragged his bow across the strings, Jack swung Mary high in the air, his large hands clasping her tiny waist. Her white gown was trimmed prettily with tiny roses made from silk. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing. Friends from the district clapped and danced around the bride and groom, while the younger Ryan children and their gang made mischief on the side verandah where the grog was kept.

  When Jack held Mary close he could smell lemon blossom in her hair. He shut his eyes and swung her around again on the dance floor. Mary Ryan was now Mary Gleeson. At that moment, dancing in the dusky evening in front of Wallandool homestead, Jack felt he was the happiest man alive.

  ‘Surely it’s time to go soon?’ Jack said, kissing Mary on her neck and breathing in her scent. She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll find Ma to organise my things. Da can get the buggy.’

  Jack pushed through the rabble of dancers and went to find Launcelot Ryan. He was sitting by a bonfire that was sending sparks shooting into the dark July sky. He nodded at Jack.

  ‘Mary’s set to leave. Are the horses all tacked up to go?’ Jack asked.

  Ryan stood.

  ‘You’ve got persistence, Jack Gleeson, I’ll grant you that.’ He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and looked directly at him. ‘But you hurt her in any way and I’ll be after you.’

  Jack shook off his touch.

  ‘You’re the one who’s been hurting her these past few years, by keeping us apart! Her life begins now, tonight, with me.’

  ‘You might be the hero about these parts with your fine stockmanship, but you’re well beneath my Mary. You always will be.’

  ‘No man would be good enough for her in your eyes,’ Jack said.

  Ryan sighed. Jack had a point. Mary was his golden girl, his favourite child out of eleven.

  ‘I’ll go fetch the buggy,’ he said wearily, then walked into the darkness surrounding the garden.

  Jack watched the rising sparks darken and die as they shot heavenward. He closed his eyes and thought back over the years that had led to this wedding night.

  He recalled his time in the Mirool district on Bolero. Kelpie had whelped with a second litter in the eighteen months that he had worked there. The pups were another bright-eyed batch sired by Moss.

  At twelve weeks of age they were bursting with herding instinct in their style of play. Again Jack sent them into the world to the trustiest of flockmasters, whether they were shearers or squatters.

  It had also taken eighteen months for John Cox to persuade Jack into resigning from Bolero as overseer to become manager on the Cox family place, Yalgogrin. With
Jack climbing the ladder, and word of his stock skill spreading far and wide, Launcelot Ryan could no longer ignore him. Through his gentlemanly ways and his generosity with stock dogs, Jack had earned enough standing to ask for the hand of Ryan’s daughter. And so a deal had been struck.

  ‘You can only have my Mary if you promise to take up land for selection and build her a decent home.’

  Jack had at last agreed.

  Mary’s sister Grace was married to Pat Cox, and it was Pat who had shown Jack a portion of land on Bolero where a house could be built.

  ‘Take it, Jack,’ he urged. ‘There’s forty acres of open plains country for you. And because it’s next to Yalgogrin, Mary can see her sister whenever she needs. Ryan is bound to like that idea.’

  ‘Ah. Forty acres, Pat,’ said Jack doubtfully. ‘You’d barely be able to swing a cat.’

  ‘What do you want with cats? It would run a few milking cows, some killers for mutton and think of the vegetable garden that can be grown in that red soil around the homestead. Mary will love it.’

  ‘And water? What of water, Pat?’

  ‘There’s bores can be dug.’

  Jack thought of Mary and the years they had spent, longing to be together. It was time he settled.

  ‘I guess it will do.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Jack,’ said Pat.

  In his hut Jack folded the application for the forty-acre title and wrote the address of the Department of Lands in his best hand. As hot wax dripped onto the parchment Jack felt as if his fate was sealed.

  Now here he was on his wedding night, with his bride making herself ready for him inside the house and his friends outside, leaning all topsy-turvy about the bonfire, singing loudly to the stars.

  Tomorrow, he’d set about building Mary a house on land he would soon own.

  ‘Promise me, Jack,’ he heard Mary’s light-hearted voice in his head, ‘you won’t build me a kennel to live in.’