by Sarah Lark
“The land right next to the farm? Impossible!”
“I don’t want that bastard for a neighbor! That will never come to any good.”
“Otherwise, he would take money,” Reti continued.
Gwyneira considered. “Well, money would be difficult. We need to make that clear to him. Better land. Perhaps we could arrange an exchange. Having two mortal enemies living next to each other is certainly not wise.”
“I’ve heard enough!” Gerald boiled over. “You don’t really believe that we’ll negotiate with that brat, Gwyn. I won’t hear of it. He won’t get money or land. At most a bullet between the eyes!”
The conflict escalated when Paul knocked down a Maori worker the next day. The man insisted he had not done anything; he had perhaps carried out an order a little too slowly. Paul, however, declared that the worker had become insolent and had made reference to Tonga’s demands. Several other Maori corroborated their tribesman’s story. Kiri refused to serve Paul dinner that evening and even gentle Witi gave him the cold shoulder. Gerald, once again fall-down drunk, dismissed all of the house staff in a blind rage. Though Gwyneira had hoped that they would not take him seriously, neither Kiri nor Moana showed up for work the next day. The other Maori too stayed away from the stables and gardens. Only Marama tinkered ineptly in the kitchen.
“I can’t cook very well,” she apologized to Gwyneira, but she still managed to whip up Paul’s favorite muffins for breakfast. By lunch, though, she had reached the limits of her abilities and served sweet potatoes and fish. In the evening, there were sweet potatoes and fish again, and at lunch the next day, fish and sweet potatoes.
Gerald stomped angrily in the direction of the Maori village on the afternoon of the second day. When he was only halfway there, he was met by a watch patrol, armed with spears. They could not let him through at the moment, the Maori explained gravely. Tonga was not in the village, and no one else had the authority to handle negotiations.
“This is war,” one of the young watchmen said calmly. “Tonga says, war, starting now!”
“You’re just going to have to look for new workers in Christchurch or Lyttelton,” Andy McAran said to Gwyneira regretfully two days later. The work on the farm was running hopelessly behind schedule, but Gerald and Paul only reacted with rage when any of the men blamed the Maori’s strike. “You won’t catch a glimpse of the people from the village around here until the governor has decided this land business. And keep an eye on that son of yours, miss, for God’s sake! Young Mr. Warden is about to explode. And Tonga is raging in the village. If one of them raises a hand against the other, there will be blood.”
12
Howard O’Keefe was looking for money. He was angry, as he had not been in a long time. If he didn’t get to go to the pub tonight, he would suffocate. Or beat Helen to death—though she really wasn’t at fault this time. Gerald Warden was to blame for getting his Maori so riled up. As was Howard’s ill-bred son, Ruben, who was fooling around who knew where instead of helping his father with the sheep shearing and herding up into the highlands.
Howard searched desperately through his wife’s kitchen. Helen must surely be hiding money somewhere—her rainy day fund, as she called it. The devil only knew how she skimmed it from their meager household budget. No doubt it wasn’t going to the right things. And besides, it was really his money. Everything here belonged to him.
Howard ripped open another cabinet, this time cursing George Greenwood, the wool trader having been the bearer of more bad news that day. The shearing gang that usually worked in this part of the Canterbury Plains, first visiting Kiward and O’Keefe Stations, would not be coming this year. The men wanted to go straight to Otago after they had finished their work at Reginald Beasley’s. This was due in part to the many Maori who belonged to the crew who refused to work for the Wardens. Though they did not have anything against Howard personally, they had felt so unwelcome at his farm and had had to undertake so much supplemental work in the past that they had decided against making the detour.
“Spoiled brats!” Howard ranted, not entirely without reason—the sheep barons coddled their shearers, who viewed themselves as the most valuable of the farmworkers. The big farms outdid each other with prizes for the best shearing groups, offered first-class catering, and threw parties for completing the work. The piecework shearers did nothing but swing the knife: the farms’ shepherds undertook the herding there and back, including gathering the animals to be sheared in the first place. Only Howard O’Keefe could not keep up. He had little help, which consisted entirely of young, inexperienced Maori from Helen’s school; as a result, the sheep shearers had to help gather the sheep and then assign them to paddocks after the shearing to make room in the shearing sheds. Howard, however, paid only for the shearing itself and not for the rest of the work. He had also lowered their wages the year before since the quality of the fleece was not sufficiently high and he partially blamed this on the shearers. Today he was paying for that.
“You’ll have to see if you can find help in Haldon,” George said, shrugging. “The workers would be cheaper in Lyttelton, but half of them come from big cities and have never seen a sheep in their lives. By the time you’ve taught enough people what to do, summer will be over. And you’d better hurry. The Wardens will also be asking around in Haldon. But they at least have their usual number of farmworkers and all of them know how to shear. Sure they’ll need three or four times longer to finish with the shearing, but Mrs. Warden will manage.” Helen had suggested going herself to ask for helpers among the Maori. That was the best solution since many experienced shepherds were available because of Tonga’s tribe’s strike against the Wardens. Howard grumbled because he had not had the idea himself, but he did not say anything when Helen set off for the village. He was going to ride to Haldon—but he needed money first.
He rummaged through the third kitchen cabinet, breaking two cups and a plate in the process. Frustrated, he threw all the dishes in the last wall cupboard straight to the ground. Just chipped teacups anyway…but ho! Wait, there was something here. Howard eagerly removed the loose board on the rear wall of the cupboard. Well, all right, three dollars. Now content, he stuck the money in his pocket. But what else was Helen hiding here? Did she have any secrets?
Howard cast a glance at Ruben’s drawing and the lock of hair; then he shoved them aside. Sentimental rubbish! But there—letters. Howard reached deep into the hiding place and pulled out a packet of neatly bound letters.
He needed some light so that he could make out the script…damn it, it was so dark in this hut!
Howard carried the letters over to the table and held them under the paraffin lamp. Now, finally, he recognized the sender:
Ruben O’Keefe, O’Kay Warehouse, Main Street, Queenstown, Otago
He had him! And her! He had been right all along—Helen had been in contact with that ill-bred son of his all along. She had been deceiving him for five years. Well, she’d get what she deserved when she returned home!
Curiosity overcame Howard. What was Ruben doing in Queenstown? Howard hoped he was in rags—and didn’t doubt that he was. Very few prospectors became wealthy, and Ruben certainly wasn’t very capable. He eagerly ripped open the most recent letter.
Dear Mother,
It is my great joy to inform you of the birth of your first granddaughter. Little Elaine Florence first opened her eyes to the world on the twelfth of October. It was an easy birth, and Fleurette is doing well. The baby is so small and delicate that I can hardly believe that such a tiny thing can be not only alive but healthy. The midwife assures us that everything is completely fine, and if the volume Elaine achieves when screaming is any indication, I think it safe to assume she’ll be taking after my beloved wife in strength of personality as much as delicacy of features. Little Stephen is completely enchanted by his sister and never tires of rocking her in her cradle. Fleurette is afraid he’s going to rock the cradle all the way over, but Elaine seems to like the m
otion and only sings more happily the more wildly he rocks her.
There is only good news to report on the business. O’Kay Warehouse is flourishing, including and especially the women’s clothing department. Fleurette was right to push for it back then. Queenstown keeps growing as a town, and the female population is steadily growing.
My work as justice of the peace takes up the rest of my time. Soon we will also be getting a police officer—the town is growing in every respect.
The only thing lacking in our happiness is contact with you and Fleurette’s family. Perhaps the birth of our second child is a good excuse to finally let Father in. When he hears about our successful life in Queenstown he will have to see that I did the right thing leaving O’Keefe Station back then. The warehouse has long been bringing in much more profit than I ever could have generated with the farm. I understand that Father wants to stick to his fields, but he will accept that I prefer a different life. Fleurette would also like to visit you two for once. She thinks Gracie is hopelessly underworked since she only herds children these days and no longer sheep.
Greetings to you and possibly Father too,
your loving son Ruben, your daughter-in-law Fleurette,
and the children
Howard snorted with anger. A warehouse! So Ruben had not looked to him as an example but rather—and how could it be otherwise—his idol, Uncle George. George had probably offered him the seed money too—everything kept secret, everyone in the know but him. The Wardens were no doubt laughing at him too. They could be happy about their son-in-law in Queenstown who just happened to be named O’Keefe. After all, they had their heir!
Howard knocked the letters from the table and leaped to his feet. Tonight he would show Helen what he thought of her “loving son” and his “flourishing business.” But first he would go to the pub. He had to see if he could find a few proper sheep shearers—and a drop of the good stuff. And if Warden was hanging around there…
Howard reached for the gun hanging next to the door. He’d show him. He’d show them all!
Gerald and Paul Warden sat at a corner table in the pub in Haldon, deep in negotiations with three young men who had advertised themselves as sheep shearers a few minutes earlier. Two were serious possibilities, and one of them had already worked for a shearing gang. The reason he was no longer welcome in it soon became clear: the man poured the whiskey down more quickly than Gerald did. In their present state of crisis, though, he was still worth the money; they would just have to watch him carefully. The second man had worked on various farms as a shepherd and learned shearing there. He was not fast but could still be of use. As for the third man, Paul wasn’t sure. He spoke a great deal but couldn’t produce any proof of his talents. Paul decided to offer the first two a fixed contract and take the third on probation. The two that he’d selected agreed at once when he made this suggestion. The third man, however, looked with interest in the direction of the bar.
There, Howard O’Keefe was just announcing that he was looking for sheep shearers. Paul shrugged. Fine, if the fellow didn’t want probationary work on Kiward Station, Howard O’Keefe could have him.
Howard, however, had his eye on their first pick. Joe Triffles, the drinker. Evidently, the men knew each other. Howard ambled over to them and greeted Joe without so much as a glance at Paul or Gerald.
“Hey, Joe! I’m looking for a few good sheep shearers. Interested?”
Joe Triffles shrugged. “Any other time, but I just struck a deal. Good offer, four weeks steady pay and bonuses per shorn sheep.”
Howard puffed himself up angrily in front of the table.
“I’ll pay you more!” he declared.
Joe shook his head regretfully. “Too late, Howie, I gave my word. Didn’t know there was going to be an auction here, or I would have waited.”
“And would’ve been swindled!” Gerald laughed. “This fellow here talks big, but he couldn’t even pay his shearers last year. That’s why no one wants to help him this year. Besides, the rain gets into his shearing sheds.”
“I’ll want extra for that,” remarked the third man, the one who had not yet signed on with Gerald. “That’s how you get the rheumatism.”
All the men laughed, and Howard frothed with rage.
“So, I can’t pay, eh?” he roared. “It may be that my farm doesn’t rake it in like the grand Kiward Station. But at least I didn’t need to force the Butlers’ heiress into my bed for it! Did she cry for me, Gerald? Did she tell you how happy she was with me? Did it turn you on?”
Gerald sprang to his feet and looked Howard over with derision. “Did she turn me on? Barbara, that crybaby? That colorless little gutless thing? Listen, Howard, you could have had her for all I cared. I wouldn’t have touched her with a ten-foot pole. But you had to gamble the farm away. My money, Howard! My hard-earned money. And God help me, I preferred climbing on little Barbara to another whaler. And I couldn’t care less who she was whining for on our wedding night.”
Howard pounced on him. “She was engaged to me!” he screamed at Gerald. “She was mine!”
Gerald fended off his blows. He was already very drunk, but he still managed to duck Howard’s wild punches. As he did so, he saw the necklace with the jade piece that Howard always wore around his neck. With one jerk he pulled it off and held it up high so that everyone in the pub could see it.
“So that’s why you’re still carrying her present,” he scoffed. “How touching, Howie! A sign of eternal love! What does Mrs. Helen O’Keefe have to say about that?”
The men in the pub laughed. Howard reached in impotent rage for the memento, but Gerald did not plan to give it back.
“Barbara wasn’t engaged to anyone,” he went on. “No matter how many baubles you exchanged. Do you think Butler would have given her to a down-and-out gambler like you? You could have gone to jail for misappropriation of the money. But thanks to my and Butler’s indulgence you got your farm; you had a chance. And what did you make of it? A rotten house and a few shabby sheep! Isn’t the wife you ordered from England worth anything to you? No wonder your son ran away from you!”
“So you already know too!” O’Keefe exclaimed, swinging and landing a haymaker on Warden’s nose. “Everyone knows about my wonderful son and his wonderful wife—were you the one who financed them, Warden? Just to get back at me?”
In his burning rage, anything seemed possible. Yes, that’s how it must have gone down. The Wardens were behind the marriage that had estranged him from his son, behind the warehouse that made it so that Ruben could spit on Howard and his farm.
Howard ducked Gerald’s right hook, lowered his head, and butted Gerald heavily in the stomach. Gerald doubled over. Howard used the opportunity to land an uppercut to the chin, and Gerald slid halfway across the pub. His skull landed on the edge of a table with a hideous crack.
A horrified silence came over the room as he sank to the ground.
Paul saw a thin trickle of blood flow from Gerald’s ear.
“Grandfather! Grandfather, can you hear me?” Horror-struck, Paul crouched next to the groaning man. Gerald slowly opened his eyes, but he seemed to be looking through Paul and the entire scene in the bar. With great effort he tried to sit up.
“Gwyn,” he whispered. His eyes became glassy.
“Grandfather!”
“Gerald! By God, I didn’t mean to do that, Paul. I didn’t mean to do that!”
Howard O’Keefe stood before Gerald Warden’s corpse, scared to death. “Oh God, Gerald…”
The other men in the pub slowly began to stir. Someone called for the doctor. Most of them kept their eyes on Paul, who stood up slowly and fixed Howard with a cold, hard gaze.
“You killed him,” Paul said quietly.
“But I…” Howard stepped back. The coldness and hatred in Paul’s eyes were almost palpable. Howard did not know whether he had ever felt such fear before. He reached instinctively for the gun he had leaned on his chair earlier. But Paul was faster. Sinc
e the Maori revolt on Kiward Station he had taken to visibly carrying a revolver. He maintained it was for self-defense; after all, Tonga could launch an attack at any moment. Until that moment, though, Paul had never drawn the weapon. Even now he was not all that quick. He was no six-shooter hero out of the penny dreadfuls his mother had devoured as a young girl, just an ice-cold killer who slowly took his gun out of its holster, aimed, and shot. Howard O’Keefe did not have a chance. His eyes still reflected disbelief and fear as the bullet knocked him backward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“Paul, for heaven’s sake, what have you done!” George Greenwood had not entered the pub until after the brawl between Gerald and Howard was already underway. He wanted to intercede, but Paul pointed the weapon at him. His eyes flared.
“I…it was self-defense! You all saw! He was reaching for his gun!”
“Paul, put that gun away!” George just hoped to avoid further bloodshed. “You can tell it all to the officer. We’re sending for Mr. Hanson.”
Peaceful little Haldon still did not have its own officer of the law.
“Screw Hanson! It was self-defense. Everyone here can testify to that. And he killed my grandfather!” Paul knelt next to Gerald. “I avenged him! It was only fair. I avenged you, Grandfather!” Paul’s shoulders bobbed in time with his sobs.
“Should we tie him up?” Clark, the owner of the pub, asked the group quietly.
Shocked, Richard Candler dissuaded him. “No way! Not while he has that gun…we’re not that eager to die. Hanson will have to deal with him. First let’s get a doctor in here.” Haldon did have a doctor at its disposal, and he had already been informed. He appeared in the pub right then and quickly established Howard O’Keefe’s death. He did not dare approach Gerald while Paul held his grandfather in his arms, sobbing.
“Can’t you do anything to make him let go of the body?” Clark asked, turning to George Greenwood. He was obviously keen to have the corpses removed from his establishment as soon as possible. If possible, before closing time; the shooting would no doubt liven up his business.