The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  Beneath a large papier-mâché kelpie suspended from the ceiling, the whole town danced. As the band drummed out ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot …’ the crowd joined arms, forming a rough circle, kicking their legs and singing. Some footy club boys pushed to the centre of the circle and, now stripped naked from the waist down, began to waltz around together. Margaret stepped into the circle and started smacking the boys on their bare white bums. The Western District women, who had once shared Melbourne Cup Day champagne and small talk with Margaret, watched with nervous smiles on their faces while their husbands cheered and clapped.

  ‘Definitely time to go home,’ laughed Rosie as she scooped up her mother and steered her to the door. Outside in the winter’s night she tugged open Neville’s door and slid her mother on to the bench seat. She was about to go back inside to find Duncan when Carrots stumbled out of the hall.

  ‘Bleaurrrk,’ was all he said as he bent double and vomited into the gutter.

  Rosie watched him with an amused expression.

  ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ she said to Billy, who stood inside the doorway. She kissed her father goodnight and disappeared back inside the hall.

  Chapter 37

  The next morning Rosie made her way to the sportsgrounds beside the river. She stood in front of the stock and station agent’s truck with a hangover settling in her head and stomach. Like the rest of the vendors, she wore her kelpie auction cap and a large auction number pinned to her Driza-Bone coat. As the auctioneer read out the conditions and proceedings for the day, Rosie swallowed down nerves and the stale taste of alcohol.

  Billy put an encouraging hand on her shoulder and winked at her as he walked past, while from afar, sitting on top of big square bales, Evan and Julian waved their catalogues at her and gave her the thumbs-up. She waved back.

  ‘Make sure you’re here well before your demonstrations so we’re not having to chase you up,’ said the auctioneer to the vendors. ‘If you miss your time slot, you’ll have to demonstrate last. I think that’s all we need to cover. So enjoy yourselves and good luck with the sale.’

  The crowd of vendors dispersed and Rosie went over to Neville to unclip her sale dogs from the back of the ute. She led them into a big white marquee that was lined with golden straw bales and short, evenly spaced dog chains. Rosie searched for her lot numbers, walking with all four dogs behind her on their leads.

  ‘Scuse me, ’scuse me,’ she said as she pushed past both vendors and buyers. Men turned to look at the pretty girl with the four handsome dogs. The local women looked at her too, trying to connect her to the same sheltered girl who had been set to marry Sam Chillcott-Clark.

  At last Rosie saw the spot for her dogs on the far side of the tent and made a beeline for the empty chains. Pinned above the chains were signs that read Clyde, Coil, Chester and Sally, with Rosie Jones printed in bold type beneath each dog and the individual lot number. Despite all the noise and excitement generated by eighty dogs, her dogs seemed comparatively settled and spent most of their time looking up at her face for eye contact and reassurance.

  After she had clipped them to the chains, she patted each one and watched buyers wander down the rows, looking up at the lot numbers and comparing the dog with the catalogue notes. Most of the kelpies on offer were black and tan or red and tan, so Chester really stood out with his blue-coloured coat.

  From where she sat on the straw bales, Rosie looked up at the potential buyers. It would be a long day. She had four dogs to demonstrate, spread out over the whole program. Then the auction would begin in the late afternoon. She looked along the rows of kelpies and thought of Moss and Kelpie and Caesar. Imagine if Jack Gleeson could see this, she thought. He would be smiling, that’s for sure.

  Rosie was third on the list to demonstrate Sally in the arena. She stood looking at the crowd that sat perched on large square hay bales and on grandstands and semitrailers. She’d heard at least three thousand had come through the gate so far. The wind blew strongly from the west and chilled her as she tried to quell her nerves. Billy climbed onto the truck and clicked on the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gents. Welcome to the demonstrations at the first Casterton working kelpie auction. Today’s event is the culmination of years of work from our community and we hope it will become a long-running national and international fixture. Numbers here today reflect the need for an event that showcases the highest-quality dogs in this country. But before we move on to seeing what the kelpie dog can do, I’d like to thank a few people …’

  Rosie was so nervous she barely heard Billy mention her name.

  ‘I should add,’ Billy said, ‘that this whole event was inspired by one man … an exceptional stockman by the name of Jack Gleeson. It’s a celebration of his life and his achievements, and of the bonds he forged with other skilled stockmen and dog breeders from here to New South Wales. The vision and generosity of this young Irishman made this event possible today. So, in closing, may the work of Jack Gleeson, and men and women like him, be celebrated when you are bidding for the high-quality kelpies on sale here today. To those of you who buy dogs: treat them well, treat them kindly, because their blood is more valuable than gold. Thank you. Now over to our agent to tell you about each dog in your catalogues.’

  Applause swelled up in the crowd and was carried away on the wind.

  Out in the large yards, Rosie licked her lips. She didn’t have a hope of whistling when her mouth was this dry with nerves. Using body language instead of a whistle, she cast Sally out around the mob of sheep. Sally’s wide cast steadied the mob in the strong winds that seemed to have put the sheep on high alert. Rosie shut out the noise of the commentator, the flapping sponsorship banners and the colour and movement of the crowd. She had to support Sal in her every move from now on. It wasn’t like a trial; here she could move about and encourage the dog and sheep as much as she liked.

  ‘Just work her like you’d work her at home … none of this plant-your-feet-and-whistle trial stuff,’ Billy had said. ‘Show her off, praise her up. Be a showman.’

  Rosie thought of Jim and his focus on using energy when working a dog. She thought of Jack casting his dogs up the hillside at Yalgogrin station … showing off and having fun.

  As Sally brought the skittish sheep steadily towards her, Rosie began to relax. She called out, ‘Yes, good dog!’ Sally flicked her tail in recognition of the praise but kept low to the ground as she anticipated covering any breakaway sheep that dared run from the mob. In the race and the draft, Sally worked like clockwork and the crowd laughed when Rosie said ‘Thank you, Sally’ in a polite voice when the bitch had done what was asked of her. At the end of her demonstration, a smile beaming from her face, Rosie scooped up Sally and patted her as she climbed out of the yards. The crowd clapped loudly, impressed by the pretty blonde girl and the biddable little kelpie bitch.

  Later in the program, Clyde and Coil put in solid demonstrations too, although Clyde did get buried in the race and Rosie had to coax him out. He was a tough dog, so he was back among the action without a whimper, despite being trampled by the sharp hooves of the wethers. After she had worked three of the four dogs, Rosie’s nerves had settled, but now she was confronted with Chester – Mr Arrogant. He could potentially do anything. She thought he might single out a sheep and chase it down just to spite her, or challenge her leadership by not sitting when she asked. But instead, when she cast him out in the large yard he dropped to his belly on balance and waited for the sheep to steady. From then on he worked smoothly and worked for her. He seemed to sense her needs. He was a little reluctant on his stops in the yard when she asked him, but Rosie played along with his games, talking to him as if he was a naughty child.

  ‘Excuse me, Chester!’ she said to him. ‘I said stop! Now STOP … please! Thank you!’ She held up her hand to enforce her command so that soon Chester reluctantly laid his belly on the ground and gave her a sideways glance.

  Rosie feared people would think he was disobe
dient, but, in fact, the crowd collectively decided he was a character and laughter rippled through them as they appreciated his antics and the strong relationship he clearly had with Rosie. Potential buyers marked asterisks next to Chester’s name in their catalogues. He was a dog that stood out … and not just because of his colouring.

  The day raced by. Rosie barely had time to eat. When she wasn’t demonstrating she sat in the big tent on the hay bales by her dogs, talking to the people interested in bidding on them in the auction. She stroked each dog as she talked and told the buyers about their strengths and weaknesses in work and temperament. She asked each person what they wanted the dogs for. Some wanted a dog for cattle work, others for sheep; some for work on Kangaroo Island, others for the vast plains of the Riverina, or the bush run country of Tasmania. People seemed to have come from all over. As the auction time neared, Rosie’s nerves again began to rattle.

  An agent called out for vendors to bring their dogs in lot order and asked them to assemble at the back of the big semitrailer. Stairs led up to the makeshift stage where the broad-shouldered auctioneer with a booming voice stood at a microphone. Rosie looked up at the football stand in front of the truck and it seemed to be overflowing with people.

  Sally was seventh in the draw. When she took to the stage the little kelpie looked out and gave a gruff woof at the sea of people. The crowd laughed.

  ‘Now here’s a good-looking bitch, ladies and gents. And I know you know I’m talking about the little kelpie that’s here on display, even though her handler’s easy on the eye too,’ he said cheekily.

  Rosie laughed and crouched down to pat Sally as the auctioneer opened the bidding. She felt colour rise to her cheeks when the bids reached $2000 and kept moving up. The hammer came down at $2500 and the crowd clapped loudly. The best price so far. But Rosie knew there were another seventy dogs or more to come.

  It was like a blur. Clyde sold for $3000. Up on the stage with Coil, Rosie, a little calmer now, tried to spot where the bids were coming from, but she couldn’t place them. The auctioneer rattled on at such a pace she had a good job to hear the final price. The crowd clapped loudly when Coil sold for $3700. The bids were really hotting up. The kelpie before Coil had sold for $4000 … a record so far.

  Back in the tent Rosie felt a wave of sadness wash over her as she clipped Coil to the chain and put Chester on the lead to take him to the stage. In a few moments all these dogs would be gone from her life. She prayed they would go to good homes. She was giving a twelve-month guarantee on each dog, in case of personality clashes with their new owners.

  She made her way up onto the stage for the final time and sat Chester down by her feet. The auctioneer gave the description of him that was printed in his notes.

  ‘This blue and tan male of sixteen months has Beloka, Pandara, Capree and Moora bloodlines on his side. He’s good in the paddock, very good in the yard, shed and truck. With a strong personality, he has all-round toughness that carries through in the yards; a forceful dog that backs and barks freely. He will work cattle and could, with an experienced handler, be used for trialling once mature. Ladies and gents, Rosie Jones has done a fabulous job of training this dog. Who will start me on Chester … what am I bid?’

  Rosie couldn’t believe the response. The bids flew up from $2000 and kept climbing. She tried to spot the bidders, but all she saw was a lady in a red jacket nudging her partner’s elbow. She must’ve wanted the dog badly. Perhaps it was his colouring that appealed, or his strength in the demonstration. Whatever it was, several people were keen to buy him. When the bids reached $4500 the auctioneer paused for breath. As far as Rosie could tell, it was between three parties and one had just pulled out. When the auctioneer started again, he offered to go up in halves, and the hammer finally fell on $5000. The crowd applauded loudly and Chester barked as if thanking them. Rosie leapt down from the truck and people came to slap her on the back.

  ‘Well done,’ one man said.

  ‘You’ll be getting top price with him,’ said another.

  Rosie walked back to the tent feeling a mix of joy and sadness. She had made good money on the dogs … at least three times the amount she’d expected. But the money left her hollow. She loved these dogs and would miss each one. She’d have to get tougher if she was going to keep on breeding dogs for sale, she thought to herself.

  The buyers trickled in to show their receipts to the agents and collect their dogs, and the tent began to fill again with barking, chatter and laughter. People came and left with their dogs. Rosie shook hands with Sally’s buyer and was pleased to see the man’s wife stooping to pat and talk to Sally. The small woman with grey hair glowed with happiness at meeting both Sally and Rosie. Rosie remembered talking to them earlier in the day and had hoped they would buy a dog from her.

  ‘She’ll be fine, love,’ the woman said in a broad accent. ‘She’ll have three thousand sheep to play with when she gets home. I’ve got a kennel all set up on the back verandah. We’ll ring and let you know how she’s getting on.’

  Coil and Clyde had been bought by a father and son who ran cattle in Gippsland. Both had liked the way the dogs had worked with the same style, yet one was softer and had more distance from the stock, while the other had more force.

  ‘They’ll make a great team,’ said Rosie. ‘And I’m so glad they’re going to the same home. Any problems, let me know.’

  It was almost dusk when Rosie sat down again on the bale and called Chester to her. He rested his head on her lap. He was tired from the excitement of the day and seemed sick of all the action. The tent was nearly empty and lights shone out enticingly from the footy clubrooms where people were drinking, but Rosie had to wait for the last buyer to come. Sadly she stroked Chester’s head, fighting back tears. When the buyer approached, Rosie’s head was bowed over the dog. She was talking to Chester, telling him it would all be okay, when she sensed someone standing above her. She saw his boots first, and as her eyes roamed upwards to his broad shoulders she was struck by the height and size of the man who stood before her. Then her eyes came to rest on the face that was shadowed by his hat.

  ‘This would be lot 73 then?’ came the voice as rich as honey. He held out his receipt in a broad, tanned hand.

  Rosie felt tears well up in her eyes.

  ‘Jim?’ she said, barely believing it.

  She stood up and threw her arms about him. Jim returned her embrace with passion and strength. She hugged him closely and breathed him in. He smelt of horses and of the dust of the road. He smelt of faraway places. He smelt so good. He looked down at her with questioning eyes, searching for her reaction. At first she thought she was going to punch him. He had left her. He had been away so long. He’d barely called her. She had thought he was dead. But instead she found herself clambering up onto the straw bale so that she could kiss him. Drinking in the taste of his warm mouth on hers. The electricity of his touch running through her.

  ‘Rosie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he said, stroking her back. ‘I should never have left you. I was an eejit.’

  ‘Yes, you bounding bastard!’ Rosie pulled away and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me you’ve realised that you were the one being the bloody snob!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘I was wrong. So wrong.’ He looked at her with tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t live without you, Rosie Jones.’

  Rosie kissed him hard and held him tight, running her hands over his neck.

  From behind them, the voice of the auctioneer cut in. ‘If I’d paid top price for a kelpie would I get that kind of bonus? It sure looks like it’d be worth it!’

  Rosie pulled away and laughed, but Jim’s face was serious. He looked into her eyes.

  ‘Rosie, I am sorry. You know I love you, and I’ll never leave you again. I promise you that.’

  ‘I love you too,’ Rosie said, hugging him close.

  Chester, sensing their excitement, barked and put a paw up on Rosie’s leg. They both looked down at him.

>   ‘What do you want?’ Rosie said to him. He looked at her and made clicking noises with his teeth and wagged his tail.

  ‘I think he’s trying to tell you that he’s glad to be going back to Highgrove station to live,’ Jim said.

  ‘Now he’s a five-thousand-dollar dog, he’ll be wanting to live in the homestead,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Actually,’ Jim said, ‘he’ll be wanting to live with us.’

  ‘With us? Where? In the quarters?’

  ‘No,’ Jim said. ‘In our hut up on the ridge.’

  ‘Are you serious, Jim Mahony?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Old Ronnie Seymour said if you’ll have me back he’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Rosie, laughing.

  ‘Believe it or not, Ronnie’s one of the richest men in Casterton. Everything he’s won on the dish-lickers and horses has been invested for years. We’re the closest he’s got to family, and he thinks we should stick together. He says he wants to help us out in some way.’

  ‘With the hut?’

  ‘With whatever you like. But if you did want to live up there, like you said, it’d mean we could afford solar power. And build some sheds and yards. Doze a proper track. Do the hut up a bit … well, a lot actually. Don’t you agree? It’s possible?’

  Her skin tingled with excitement as she began to see a future with Jim up in the bush. A log cabin with no fences and a garden of gum trees, with a track down to the river and the farm beyond. Just her and Jim and the horses and the dogs …

  ‘So?’ Jim asked, waiting anxiously for her response.

  And Rosie grinned.

  ‘With you, anything’s possible.’

  Epilogue

  SIX MONTHS LATER