Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  “Rowly you’re not—” Edna turned to him alarmed.

  Rowland smiled, aware that he was reacting a little childishly… but still, it was a matter of pride. He had ridden some bloody flighty polo ponies in his time—he knew how to stay on a horse.

  Milton, too, was startled. He had not really expected Rowland to accept his challenge.

  Clyde, who had always considered himself the most sensible of the three, rolled his eyes. Even so, he did not try to dissuade his friends.

  Edna on the other hand was not so judicious. Unfortunately she succeeded only in setting their resolve to try their luck in the ring.

  Rowland went first. The stockmen who watched him mount seemed more than a little amused that someone would attempt to ride in a three-piece suit. Admittedly, Rowland felt a little overdressed for the task at hand, but he was not inclined to change clothes for the few seconds he would be on the horse.

  Lawrence Keenan was apparently the judge of the buck jumping events. He studied Rowland critically for a moment and called him a few names under his breath. “I don’t do refunds, you know,” he said. “You get yourself killed, them horses are still hired as far as I’m concerned. It won’t be the first time I’ve collected payment from a dead man’s pocket.”

  Rowland ignored him and listened to Clyde’s last-minute advice. “Just watch your hand, Rowly. You want a good grip, but it’s better to come off than break your hand trying to hold on.”

  Rowland nodded. Clyde’s warning was that of a fellow artist. They needed their hands. He climbed up onto the rough stall. The mare was larger than the one he’d seen before. Her name was Gunpowder, but then he supposed that one would be unlikely to name a bronco Peaches.

  “Good luck, Rowly.”

  The gate flung open. For a heartbeat there was nothing and then the mare exploded into the yard. She pig-rooted and bucked at least two dozen times in the ten seconds that Rowland managed to stay on. He came off in rather spectacular fashion, crashing into the fence at the end of a skid. Still, he landed well and most of the damage was done to his jacket. He dusted himself off as he straightened his tie. He was oddly exhilarated now that it was over, and in truth a little surprised that he had stayed on so long or ended up intact. He accepted the applause with a polite nod to the crowd.

  The general opinion was that the toff from Sydney had done remarkably well, all things considered. Clyde was impressed, Edna relieved. Rowland climbed out of the yard to join them as Milton climbed into the stall.

  The poet had removed his cream jacket and retied his cravat into a flamboyant silk kerchief.

  “He might need his jacket,” Rowland said, as glanced at the torn shoulder of his own. He would have a tremendous bruise anyway. Shirtsleeves were unlikely to give Milton a great deal of protection.

  The gate was opened. Milton’s horse was more volatile than the last beast. It bucked and twisted as if it was trying to bite him. Rowland watched in a half-flinch expecting it to end brutally very soon. It didn’t. The horse failed to throw Milton at all. Indeed the poet won the buck jumping.

  Rowland was astounded and ecstatic, as was Clyde. Edna was happy but less surprised. “Milt was always entering the buck jumping at Hyde Park—he’s quite good, isn’t he?”

  “Hyde Park? There was buck jumping in Hyde Park?”

  “Every Sunday.”

  Milton’s triumph and Rowland’s respectable performance at the event had an additional unforeseen benefit. In the rounds of congratulatory drinks that followed, the stockmen seemed more willing to talk of Moran and Simpson.

  Michael Schulz worked a lease out near the Currango Homestead. He was a squat man who, despite his name and a distinctly Eastern European accent, insisted that he was an Irishman. Since the war, it was not uncommon for those of German origin to pretend to be Swiss or Danish, but Rowland thought Irish was a bit optimistic. Regardless, Schulz was forthcoming about Moran.

  “Dere was talk—desecration of da graves, fights, shenanigans of dat sort.” He crossed himself. “Mine God! Dat was before Simpson. I hear on da wind dat he was trying to sort out Moran’s crew.”

  “Have you heard what happened to him?” Rowland asked hopefully.

  “Simpson? Whisked away by da little peoples as we say in de old country.”

  Admirably, Rowland managed not to laugh.

  “Dat snake-handler says he was in Corryong,” Schulz added.

  Rowland nodded. “He told me.”

  “I’ll tell yer dis for free, young’un.” Schulz checked over his shoulder. “From what I hear of Moran and his boys, it would not make me surprised if your man Simpson is dead.”

  16

  ON THE TRAIL TO YARRANGOBILLY

  Two Girls and Three Horses on a 140-Mile Trek

  Camping out on the open spaces and tethering the horses in the freezing wind was not at all a cheerful prospect. Then a house came into view just beyond the hut, and inquiries elicited the astonishing and delightfully welcome information that we were only two miles from Rules Point; our, as we imagined, still distant goal! Greatly elated, we pushed on in the gathering gloom till suddenly loomed up a gate labelled “Rules Point Hotel”. Here, in spite of our outlandish appearance, we were hospitably received and obtained accommodation for ourselves and our steeds without question.

  The Sydney Morning Herald,

  Women’s Supplement, March 1933

  The Sports Day Ball at the Rules Point Guesthouse was a large and eclectic affair. There were at least a couple of hundred people in attendance. Many had made the trip up from as far as Adaminaby, Tumut and Batlow. The formality of dress varied. Some wore traditional ballroom attire, others were less extravagant, but even the saddlesore stockmen made some attempt to be more presentable.

  Rowland unbuttoned the jacket of his dinner suit. The main festivities were being conducted in the garage and it was quite warm as the crowd milled and danced to a band of accordians, violins and a piano, which had been carted up from Caves House.

  Milton and Edna were on the floor, foxtrotting in the arms of locals. Rowland hadn’t been able to get near the sculptress since she had joined the dancers. Her dance card had filled quickly and, at times, the competition for her attention flared dangerously.

  Clyde handed him a drink. Rowland spotted Moran making his way towards them. The stockman wore a jacket and tie and seemed to have groomed himself somewhat. He offered Rowland his hand. “Mr. Sinclair, sir, I hear you done well on Gunpowder this afternoon.”

  Rowland smiled. “I managed to hang on for a bit.”

  “Well that’s better than many.”

  “We’ll be collecting our horses early tomorrow, so we’ll join up with you and the men as you ride past Long Plain Homestead.”

  Moran’s face tensed. “So you’re still set on coming out?”

  “Yes, we are. In fact we’ll be bringing Miss Higgins and Miss Brent with us.”

  “Yer joking, ain’t you? You can’t be bringin’ women into a stockmen’s camp. The boys ain’t gonna put up with that.”

  Rowland’s eyes darkened. “I’m not joking, Mr. Moran. Perhaps you’d better warn the men that the ladies will be joining us. You might also like to tell them that I will not hesitate to sack any man who gives any sort of offence to Miss Higgins or Miss Brent.”

  “But you can’t…”

  “I believe I can and I intend to.”

  Moran’s mouth twisted as if it was all he could do not to swear at Rowland Sinclair. Perhaps it was, for he turned on his heel and stalked away in disgust.

  Clyde sipped his beer as he stood beside Rowland. “He could be trouble, Rowly.”

  Rowland nodded, his eyes still flashing. “Mr. Moran has a hard time remembering that he works for me.”

  Clyde nudged him. “Wilfred would be proud. I might have to talk to Moran about joining a union.”

  Rowland looked startled for a moment, and then he laughed. It wasn’t like him to be so high-handed, but Moran rubbed him the wrong way. “They�
�ll probably get over this no women thing once they see Ed,” he said wryly.

  Clyde took another sip of beer. “True… but then there’s Miss Brent.”

  “Mr. Sinclair! Mr. Sinclair, I’m so glad I found you, my word!”

  Rowland turned to the red breathless face of Mrs. Harris.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Harris?” he asked, offering her his arm in case she should faint.

  “The Arnolds boy just rode up from Caves House.” She clutched his arm, wheezing a little. “Your brother’s been trying to reach you. I’m afraid there’s some terrible emergency.”

  Rowland stiffened and took the note she held out to him. The message said only that there had been an accident and that Wilfred Sinclair needed to speak with his brother as a matter of urgency.

  Rowland’s voice was calm. “Thank you, Mrs. Harris.” He ran his hand absently through his hair. “I’ll drive down to Caves House and telephone Wil now.” He didn’t wait for her response.

  “Would you please inform Miss Higgins and Mr. Isaacs of where we’ve gone?” Clyde called to Mrs. Harris as he followed Rowland out.

  They wasted no time in getting to the car, but driving out of Rules Point proved to be a challenge as there were now many cars, and the odd horse-drawn vehicle, parked in rather haphazard and congested rows. Rowland engaged the supercharger as soon as he pulled onto the road and the Mercedes roared towards Caves House.

  The carpark outside the hotel was all but empty. The headlamps of the Mercedes illuminated a black Chevrolet, but otherwise it appeared that all the guests had gone to Rules Point for the dance.

  Rowland jumped out with the car idling, leaving Clyde to cut the engine once it had cooled. Rowland moved quickly towards the reception at the front of the building where he would find the manager and a telephone. He was worried. Wilfred was not predisposed to sending alarmist messages for no reason. The entrance stairs were badly lit and it was quite late. Rowland nearly ran into the man before he noticed him.

  “Excuse me…”

  The figure answered with a punch that sent Rowland to the bottom of the stairs. Two men were there to meet him. One winded him with a kick to the ribs while the other pressed the muzzle of a gun to his temple.

  “Not a sound.” The command was whispered directly into his ear as they dragged him roughly to his feet.

  The figure from the top of the steps walked down and shone a torch into his face. Rowland blanched in the bright light. “You’re coming with us, Sinclair. It’d be a lot less trouble to just shoot you, so don’t tempt me.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Rowland doubled over as he took a fist beneath the ribs once again.

  “You don’t speak. Last warning.” The man lit a cigarette and in the glow of the match Rowland glimpsed his face. He was fair. A telltale T-shaped scar on his cheek spoke of razor gangs, but he wasn’t familiar. “Now we’re going to get into my Chev like gentlemen, and we’ll go for a little ride.”

  Rowland said nothing. The muzzle of the gun was now pressed into the arch of his back. He was still unsure what was going on, but it was clear he was in trouble. Instinctively he knew that getting into the car was something to be avoided at all costs.

  They pushed him past the Mercedes toward the black Chevrolet. One of the men broke off to walk around the car to the driver’s side. Rowland saw his chance. Feigning a stumble, he dropped away from the line of the gun. In what seemed like the same moment a sizeable rock was flung at the man holding the weapon. He reeled as it struck him in the head. There was a clatter as the gun was dropped and Rowland threw himself towards it. The horn of the Mercedes blasted repeatedly. Caves House stirred in response. Rowland struggled on the ground with two men, the third started the engine of the Chevrolet. A shot—and then the men were scrambling. Apparently neither had fired.

  “Rowly, get down!” Clyde’s voice. “I’ll blow these bastards away.” Another shot for good measure.

  The wheels of the Chevrolet screeched and the two men abandoned their attempted abduction and jumped onto the running board as the car accelerated out of the driveway.

  Clyde knelt beside Rowland, a revolver in his hand. “You all right, Rowly?”

  Rowland rolled over gingerly and wiped the blood from his lip. “Is that my gun?”

  “Yeah… you probably shouldn’t keep it in the trunk, it’s not all that secure.”

  Rowland coughed, still a little winded. “Lucky it was there though. Thanks, Clyde.”

  “Don’t mention it, mate.”

  Clyde stood and offered Rowland his hand. By now people were spilling tentatively out of Caves House. Wilson, the manager, reached them first. Rowland told him briefly what had transpired and why they had come.

  “There was no call from your brother, sir. I’ve been manning the office all evening.”

  Rowland was relieved. That, at least, was something. Kate and the boys were probably fine.

  Wilson dropped the beam of his torch to the blood on Rowland’s dress shirt. “Shall I call you a doctor, sir?”

  “No thank you, Wilson. I’ll be fine. I could use a drink though.”

  “Certainly, sir. Why don’t you come inside, and we’ll see if we can’t find some ice for your jaw.”

  They proceeded inside where Wilson offered them brandy and spoke anxiously of calling the police. “I don’t know what the senator’s going to say about all this,” he said. “One doesn’t expect a respectable establishment to require the attendance of the police.”

  “There’s probably no point in calling them now,” Rowland suggested. “Report the incident in the morning—three men in a black Chevrolet. The boy who delivered the message to Rules Point, Arnolds I think, should be able to give them a description. I’ll stop in at Kiandra and talk to them when I get back.”

  “We’re still going to the camp?” Clyde asked, surprised. “Rowly, don’t you think…?”

  “We’ll only be gone a few days, Clyde. It seems that they know I’m at Rules Point so it’s probably not a good idea to stay there anyway.”

  Clyde snorted. “You’re going to be a stubborn blue-blood about this, aren’t you?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “Well then, there’s no point trying to make you see sense.”

  “Absolutely none.”

  Clyde exhaled, resigned. “You may be right. Those bastards look like they’re from the city. They’re unlikely to saddle up and follow us onto the plains… but maybe you should at least talk to the police before we go.”

  “Wilson can tell them everything I know.”

  Wilson agreed without hesitation, keen to avoid the attendance of the police at his hotel. The gunshots were bad enough, but luckily most of the guests were still at the Rules Point dance.

  Rowland put down his brandy and checked his watch. “I might call Oaklea if I may, just to make sure…”

  “Of course, Mr. Sinclair.” Wilson hastily moved the telephone on his desk closer to Rowland. “I’ll just leave you to it, sir.”

  Rowland spoke to the exchange telephonist, and booked a call to Oaklea. It was several minutes before they rang back and connected him. He spoke and then argued with Wilfred. Clyde left the room to smoke as the words became heated. Eventually the Sinclair brothers stopped arguing, and Rowland joined his friend in the foyer of Caves House.

  “Wil didn’t call—there wasn’t any sort of accident, thank heavens. It seems as though it was just a ruse to get me out here on my own… I presume they didn’t count on you.”

  “Did you tell Wilfred?”

  Rowland nodded. “He overreacted of course—wants me to come back to Oaklea now.” Rowland smiled. “I think he plans to call in the army.”

  “If anyone could…” Clyde muttered.

  Rowland rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “We might be wise to tell Wilson and Mrs. Harris that we’re heading back to Sydney, just in case these blokes make enquiries again.”

  “What about Sarah Brent?”

  Rowland groaned.
He’d forgotten about the writer. “I’ll speak to her when we get back to Rules Point… explain…”

  Clyde laughed and backed away. “You’re on your own, mate.”

  Rowland’s interview with Sarah Brent did not really go as well as he had hoped. For one thing, he had neglected to change his blood-splattered shirt before he went to find her. She was immediately suspicious.

  “I must say that Aubrey would never have slunk back to Sydney like a whipped puppy over some minor altercation.”

  Rowland bristled at the reproach.

  “I don’t believe Wilfred would either. What are you not telling me, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland offered to reimburse her for the money she had already paid Keenan, who he doubted would refund it.

  “No,” she said, folding her arms defiantly. “I don’t accept for a moment that you are going back to Sydney, Mr. Sinclair. You are not changing your plans and nor will I be. I don’t require you to tell me what trouble you’re in—gambling debts I expect, I’ve seen the way you and your friends play cards—but I do intend to ride with you tomorrow, regardless.”

  He tried to change her mind.

  Her mind was unchangeable.

  In the end he gave up. Sarah Brent was tenacious if nothing else.

  He returned to the garage as the musicians announced the last dance. Edna claimed him for the final waltz, demanding to know what had happened. Rowland told her of both the encounter at Caves House and Sarah Brent’s insistence on riding out with them, as they cut across the dirt floor. The latter, he recounted somewhat ungraciously.

  Edna laughed. “Poor Rowly.” She frowned slightly as she ran her hand over the bloodstains on his shirt. “We’re going to have to be more careful though. If Clyde hadn’t been with you…”

  “I’ve always been taught to be cautious,” he murmured.

  “But you haven’t learned so well, darling.”

  He led her into a turn, smiling. “Keenan’s giving us a shotgun, remember?”