Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  “I’m afraid the ladies won’t find much by way of creature comforts here,” Moran murmured.

  “Don’t be concerned, Mr. Moran—we won’t be staying long,” Rowland replied. “I just want to have a look around, see if I can’t pick up Simpson’s trail somehow.”

  Moran’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, Mr. Sinclair, I don’t follow.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Moran?”

  “With respect, sir, I’ve worked for folks like the Sinclairs for years. They’re lucky if they even know who works for them.”

  “Your point, Mr. Moran?”

  “Why is it that you come out here personally to look for Simpson?” Moran flicked the bumper of his rolled cigarette onto the floor and stepped on it. “Makes a man wonder if it’s because the Sinclairs trust Simpson, or because they don’t.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” Rowland’s voice was calm, almost casual, but his eyes flashed threateningly.

  “See, I’ve gone after men myself, Mr. Sinclair. It was never to do ’em a good turn.”

  Rowland put his hands in his pockets as he stared hard at the stockman. Moran was serious. Shaking his head, Rowland looked away and laughed. “Believe me, Mr. Moran, there is no price on Harry Simpson’s head.”

  Moran’s lip curled. “Then what are you doing here? What’s Simpson to you?”

  Now the edge was apparent in Rowland’s voice. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? The fact is I’m here and I intend to find Harry Simpson.”

  Moran grunted. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “We might see about supper and settle on some sort of sleepin’ arrangements.” He walked out of the hut.

  Rowland watched him go, still a little shocked by Moran’s presumption. Clyde and Milton moved to stand by him.

  “What do you think that was all about, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Milton spoke ominously. “You watch him, Rowly.”

  “Not just him,” Rowland muttered, as he looked out of the open door to all the men in his employ.

  Lofty Cassidy it seemed was the camp’s cook. He set to work adding ingredients to a large camp oven which sat on the coals of the fire pit. Sarah Brent bombarded the stockman with suggestions and advice. Lofty grumbled sourly under his breath but otherwise tolerated her input.

  The stockmen who had ridden in with them ate in sullen silence, and then busied themselves with the horses. Blue and Andy Cassidy were friendly to no one but Edna, and to her, excessively so.

  Edna found their attentions unsettling, but she tried to be pleasant in the face of their crude charm. There was something devious about these men. She was aware that Rowland was within arm’s reach, watching her, though he seemed to be engrossed in whatever it was he was drawing. Milton also hovered nearby talking to Sarah Brent. Perhaps for these reasons she did not feel vulnerable.

  “Would you care to take a stroll, Miss Higgins?” Blue Cassidy suggested. “The plain can be really pretty at sunset.”

  “I’m a little cold actually—I might stay near the fire.”

  “I could fetch you a blanket,” Andy offered.

  Blue laughed. “Only way you’d get a good sort in your blanket, Andy!”

  Rowland looked up from his sketchbook. His eyes glinted angrily. But Edna smiled.

  “Did you gentlemen work with Mr. Simpson?” she asked brightly. They were here to find Harry Simpson—perhaps she could help.

  “Yeah, till he took off,” Andy replied.

  She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and whispered conspiratorially. “What was he like, really? I take it that Mr. Moran didn’t like him.”

  Blue grinned, his gaze lingering below the sculptress’ neckline. “Moran’s used to being the boss… he don’t like being told what he can’t do.”

  “Oh.” Edna’s eyes widened as she looked up at Blue Cassidy. “What could Mr. Simpson want to stop him doing? Was it dangerous?”

  Andy interrupted, clearly disgruntled that his brother was getting more attention. “Simpson just liked sticking his black nose into other people’s affairs. That can be dangerous up here.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Course, you’ll be safe with us, Miss Higgins.” Blue winked at her. “But you’ll want to stay real close.”

  “What do you think happened to Mr. Simpson?” Edna asked, looking about her nervously.

  “Shot through,” Andy said, moving a little closer. “Lot of places a man can get lost on the scrub leases… even if he didn’t cross onto anybody else’s land there’s more than four thousand acres on the Sinclair lease for a man to disappear into.”

  “Simpson knew his way around the scrub, but I guess they do,” Blue added. “I reckon the bludger’s still here somewhere, waitin’ till we’ve done all the work.” Blue seemed incapable of lifting his eyes to Edna’s face.

  In the periphery of her vision Edna could see Rowland, ready to intervene.

  “What exactly is it you gentlemen do out here?” she asked, glancing reassuringly at Rowland.

  Blue got between Edna and his brother. “We look after Sinclair’s… I mean Mr. Sinclair’s cattle, and keep an eye on the bogs in case any get stuck. We brand any calves…”

  Edna nodded encouragingly. “Is that difficult, poor creatures.”

  Andy laughed. “They get over it pretty quickly and your Mr. Sinclair wouldn’t thank us if half his mob got mistook for the neighbour’s cattle.”

  “We’ll be beginning to round them up in a few days.” Blue obviously felt the need to offer more information than his brother.

  “And is that dangerous?”

  Andy winked. “Naw, not really. We’ll start putting salt on the ridges to call them out and then we’ll round them up from the outer pastures into the closer ones. It can take a couple of months to get them all… then we work out whose cattle we’ve got—that’s where the brands come in handy.”

  “You might want to stay for the muster, after Sinclair’s headed back,” Blue suggested. “We’d look after you.” He put his arm around her. Edna stiffened. Andy also pushed in beside the sculptress. She removed his hand from her leg. He put it back.

  Rowland stood. “Ed,” he said, offering her his hand. “I believe Clyde’s sorted out something in the hut for tonight. Shall we go and see if it’s satisfactory?”

  Edna took his hand gratefully and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Blue Cassidy got to his feet, annoyed, and glowered at Rowland.

  Rowland returned his gaze coldly. “Why don’t you go ahead, Ed. I need to have a quick word with these gentlemen.”

  “Rowly…” Edna started, and then thinking better of it she turned and walked into the hut. Milton broke away from Sarah Brent and joined Rowland.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

  Andy stood at his brother’s shoulder. “Problem’s not ours, Sinclair.”

  Moran stepped into the circle. “What the hell are you boys playing at? We work for Mr. Sinclair.” He shoved Blue Cassidy. “You two go make sure all the branding gear is ready for tomorrow. Fisher saw some cleanskins near Flannagan’s Waterhole.”

  Still glaring murderously at Rowland, the Cassidy brothers retreated.

  “They don’t mean nothin’, Mr. Sinclair,” Moran muttered. “Been up here without a break for three long months, a man forgets his manners.”

  Rowland did not take his eyes off the Cassidys. “I meant what I said, Mr. Moran. I won’t hesitate to sack any man whose manners I find wanting… regardless of how long he’s been up here.”

  The other cattlemen watched on dourly. Rowland was aware he and his friends were out-numbered.

  Sarah Brent stood by the hut’s door beside Edna, her arms folded fiercely. Clyde stepped out.

  For a while there was nothing as Rowland and Moran stood silently against each other.

  Moran surrendered. “I’ll speak to them, sir. You won’t have any more trouble.” He turned and wa
lked towards Blue and Andy Cassidy.

  “Come on, Rowly.” Milton put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go see how we’re going to sleep tonight.”

  “With one eye open, I expect,” Rowland murmured.

  19

  THE BOGONG HIGH PLAINS

  AN UNEXPLORED PLAYGROUND

  On Dungey’s Track a few miles below the plateau there is a hut and there is another at the foot of Mount Fainter on the Tawonga Hack while at different parts of the plateau itself there are three huts. These huts are the property of the farmers who lease portions of the high plains as cattle runs but they are always available to travellers.

  The Argus, 1926

  Inside the hut, Clyde had sectioned off a corner of the second room with a blanket. “Ed and Miss Brent can sleep in there,” he said. “We’ll put our swags just outside.”

  Rowland glanced out the window as the last of the natural light was lost. He could see Moran and his crew gathered about the fire. He groaned, angry with himself. “I don’t know what I was thinking bringing you ladies out here,” he said. “I’d send you back to Rules Point now if it wasn’t dark…”

  Edna touched his arm. “Rowly, you’re overreacting.” She waited till he was looking at her. “They were just a little forward, that’s all.”

  “It’s not just that, Ed.” He smiled. “I have no doubt you could have put Andy and Blue in their place, but to tell you the truth I’m not sure how long it’ll be before they mutiny outright.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sarah Brent lost patience. “We are not on the high seas, Mr. Sinclair. I know it’s fashionable for Sydneysiders to regard the country as some uncivilised wilderness but you will find the stalwart people of the mountains are as law-abiding and reasonable as their city counterparts.”

  Rowland blinked. “I beg your pardon…”

  “These men work for you. Treat them with a modicum of respect, acknowledge their worth as men of skill and endurance in this most rugged part of our great nation. Of course they’ll be hostile if you come down here threatening to sack them. If you’d spent any time in service you would understand the inherent integrity of the working man.”

  “Miss Brent, perhaps you don’t understand…”

  “What I understand, Mr. Sinclair, is that you and Mr. Moran are carrying on like two young bulls in a paddock. It is tiresome to watch and quite preposterous on the eve of a muster! It’s very late in the season to be testing your horns against the men who will bring your stock in.”

  Rowland stared at the writer in disbelief. Milton was trying not to laugh. Clyde had more sense than to get involved.

  Edna spoke up. “Rowly doesn’t really care about the mustering, Sarah—not really. He’s looking for Mr. Simpson.”

  Sarah Brent’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you and Mr. Moran at odds?”

  Rowland looked out at Moran arguing with the Cassidys. “I’m not sure, Miss Brent. Perhaps he doesn’t want me to find Harry.”

  “So what do you plan to do?” Sarah Brent folded her arms again. “As far as I can tell, all you’ve been doing is putting people off-side.”

  Rowland’s jaw tensed. He didn’t want to fall out with Sarah Brent, but the woman was a shrew. “Do you have any suggestions, Miss Brent?” he asked.

  “I do indeed. Suppose you speak to Mr. Moran and let him know that you are not here to review how he deals with the cattle. Let him get on with the mustering while you search for this Mr. Simpson of yours. Though why you’d think Simpson would linger here like some stray cat, I don’t know.”

  Rowland leaned back against the wall, biting his lower lip pensively. “I think you and Edna should go back to Rules Point tomorrow. Clyde, would you mind escorting the ladies on their return?”

  Clyde didn’t have time to respond before Sarah Brent exploded in protest.

  Edna simply said she wasn’t going. Rowland toyed with the idea of insisting.

  “Rowly,” Milton caught his attention whilst Sarah was still loudly refusing to be dictated to by a man who was neither a relation nor had authority over her. Rowland followed Milton’s gaze to the door. Moran was standing in the frame with his men behind him.

  Sarah Brent halted her invective. Moran smiled broadly, his gold teeth gleaming in the light of the kerosene lamp.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” he said, stepping aside to allow Blue and Andy Cassidy forward. “These fellas have somethin’ they wish to say.”

  The Cassidy brothers held their hats in their hands like errant children. “Miss Higgins,” Andy started. “Me and Blue’s sorry if we offended you earlier. We were outta line but we really didn’t mean nothin’…” He lifted his head and said loudly, almost shouting. “We’d be grateful if you’d see fit to accept our apology.”

  Edna eyes flickered just briefly to Rowland, before she smiled. “Of course, gentlemen. There was no harm done.”

  “Look Mr. Sinclair,” Moran spoke up again. “We all seem to have got off on the wrong foot. The fellas were just a bit surprised to see you, is all. We’re just tryin’ to look after your mob the best we can.”

  Rowland replied carefully. “I appreciate that, Mr. Moran.”

  “The boys and me are riding out at first light tomorrow to put out the salt blocks.” He smiled again as he looked around at the hut. “So the homestead will be all yours for a few days. We’ll camp in the caves while we’re working the boundary.”

  “I didn’t know there were caves on the lease,” Rowland said. “Are you sure they’ll be adequate if the weather turns?”

  “We’ll be fine, Mr. Sinclair, and it’ll give you gentlefolk a few days to enjoy the mountains without us ill-mannered cattlemen.” He clouted Andy over the head with his hat as he said the last.

  Rowland nodded. Perhaps he’d misjudged these men. God forbid Sarah Brent was right. “As long as we’re not throwing you out, Mr. Moran.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland sighed. He tried appealling to this newfound goodwill. “Do you blokes have any idea what happened to Harry Simpson?”

  There was a general mumbling and then Clancy Glover answered for them all. “Sorry, Mr. Sinclair—he just took off. Rode off and didn’t come back.” A chorus of agreement.

  Rowland gave up. “Very well then.” He checked his watch. It was still reasonably early. “What do you chaps do of an evening?”

  “We put the Cassidys in frocks and we dance,” Crane replied curtly.

  Rowland met his eye. “As entertaining as that sounds, how about we play cards instead?”

  Crane smiled faintly. “Do you mind if we drink?”

  “Insist upon it.”

  20

  THE WOMAN’S WORLD

  WANDERING WITH PAINT BOX AND PALETTE

  Art does not usually run in families unlike blue eyes or freckles, and there is a special interest in the remarkable talent of Miss Nora Heysen, daughter of South Australia’s greatest artist. Her self-portrait, which has just won the Melrose portrait prize in the Society of Arts Federal exhibition, shows strong individuality of treatment. Miss Heysen studied for several years under Mr. P. Milliard Grey at the School of Fine Arts.

  The Advertiser, 1933

  The stockmen proved to be rowdy company. Once it was established that Rowland was not going to demand sobriety, Moran produced the bottles he had brought in from Rules Point, from behind a stack of firewood. The stockmen drank with a singular commitment. Apparently, it had been a fortnight since they had last restocked and the camp had been dry for several days. Perhaps it was fear of an extended prohibition that had made the stockmen so hostile to the presence of their employer.

  They were, however, less than extraordinary card players, and Rowland and his companions had to be careful that they did not take every hand. Lubricated, the men became lively and even friendly. Rowland and Clyde created a subtle buffer between Edna and the stockmen, in case the alcohol made them too forward once again. Sarah Brent retired behind the blanket with a kerosene lamp to write in
her diary, a thick leather-bound journal in which she wrote in what appeared to be a shorthand code.

  “We’ll leave the magic stew behind for you tomorrow,” Lofty Cassidy said congenially.

  “The magic stew?”

  “In the camp oven. Just add a few spuds and whatever’s in the rabbit traps to it each day and you’ll never reach the bottom… it’s been feeding us all for weeks now.” The stockman laughed at the look of horror on Rowland’s face.

  Milton nudged Rowland and grinned. “Close your mouth, Rowly, your silver spoon may fall out.”

  Clyde was similarly unperturbed. “The flavour really improves after a few days,” he assured Rowland, who was now convinced they would all die of disease within the week.

  True to their word, and despite a late night of drinking, the stockmen were up before dawn the next morning. Clyde and Rowland rose with them and helped saddle and pack horses by lantern. The dogs, now off their chains, ran excitedly amongst the steeds as they sensed the impending departure. With the first light of day, the men who worked the Sinclair snow lease rode into the hills.

  Clyde turned to Rowland. “The Sinclair brand’s a flying ‘s’, isn’t it, Rowly?”

  Rowland nodded vaguely. “I think so.”

  “One of those horses—the black gelding they were using as a pack animal—has a Sinclair brand.”

  Rowland shrugged, wondering what his friend what getting at. “So they’re using Sinclair horses—they do work for us.”

  Clyde frowned. “As a rule, stockmen have their own horses, Rowly… and none of the others are Sinclair animals—I checked.”

  “What’s on your mind, Clyde?”

  “Simpson would have ridden a Sinclair horse, wouldn’t he?”