The Great Plains

by Nicole Alexander

  Wes chuckled. ‘She’s a watered-down version. A cheap imitation. Her blood’s more half-breed and greaser than white. You should have listened to your father, Tobias. You should have left her in America where she belongs. For the life of me I can’t even come to understand why you would bring her here.’ The overseer let out an exasperated groan. ‘She’s a looker, I’ll give you that, but so was her half-breed trouble-maker mother. Send her back to America, Tobias. There’s plenty of women in this land to choose from and I swear they won’t be half the trouble.’

  Tobias skolled his drink. ‘Abelena, go to your room.’ He waited until the girl left. ‘I think it’s best that you leave, Wes.’

  ‘Me? You forget, this is my land now, Tobias. I’m not going anywhere.’ Wes placed his hat on his head, tugging at the brim. ‘She hates you. She hates us all. I know you don’t see it, can’t see it, don’t want to acknowledge it, but she’s got more Injun inside her than all the others. The Apache have taken her soul.’

  Chapter 52

  September, 1935 – Condamine Station, Southern Queensland

  Three days had passed since Abelena’s capture. Three days she’d spent watching and waiting, learning the movements of everyone who resided on Tobias’s land. Some stockmen left at daybreak to work in the sheep-yards, while other men rode in all directions of the wind. Breakfast was brought to her room a little after six in the morning. Her tray was collected at six-thirty. The washer-woman arrived soon after, trundling down the road like a potato with legs, a scarf tied about her head. Then the never-ending dusting of the homestead began. The house-maids sang and told stories as they worked. Their tunes spoke of wild colonial boys and of a man who lived near a snowy river, lives of adventure under an Australian sun.

  A little after seven the gardener and a young boy appeared; the former to water and prune and the boy to chop firewood for the wood-burning stove, which he stacked at the rear of the garden. Prior to their arrival, Tobias would walk the garden’s perimeter. For the past couple of mornings Tobias and Kirkland had not breakfasted together. The overseer spoke to Tobias politely but something had changed for it was now Tobias who listened to Kirkland.

  Wes Kirkland ate fried eggs and bacon with fresh bread and home-made jam. Abelena could smell the food as it was carried outdoors. Her breakfast was a glass of milk, bread and dripping. She knew Tobias hoped that she suffered. She didn’t. She knew he hoped that she’d behave.

  A little before seven-thirty the boy began chopping wood. There was a rhythmic action to his chore and he sang as he worked, a simple ballad that coerced a refrain from the washer-woman, who was stringing bed linen across a line. Abelena counted between each axe swing and with a piece of blanket held against the window pane hit the ceramic water jug against the surface in time with the axe chop. Once, twice, three times she banged the window. She’d caused a crack to form in the glass yesterday and this time she was rewarded with a definite break. Prising the sharp angle of glass free, she stuck her hand carefully through the hole in the corner and pushed away the length of timber that had kept her locked in.

  Scrambling through the window Abelena walked across the sloping iron roof. Light streamed across the plains. At the far corner of the building a wooden trellis held the prickly branches of a climbing rose. The flowers were long gone, burnt and withered by the spring heat and wind. Looking below to the ground Abelena checked to ensure no-one was about and then quickly climbed down the ageing wooden structure. She worried the trellis would break with every step or that someone would see her as she shimmied from the second storey, but the timber held and no-one appeared.

  Crouching, she peered through the orchard and listened, then she looked around the corner of the homestead. She ran quickly across patchy lawn to the vegetable plot, where she fell to her knees and began picking fresh sage and other herbs. Her nails grew thick with soil as she plucked at the aromatic plants, stuffing them into a pillow case. It was too late in the season for most of the root vegetables but she dug up a handful of late potatoes and added two scrawny carrots to her hoard. She imagined that Mrs Brightman would have a pantry of jarred preserves and vegetables like Mrs Blum but Abelena needed to move quickly, which limited what she could take. Vine tomatoes were a last addition, before she glanced over her shoulder and ran to the rear of the garden.

  Slipping through the fence she kept to the outbuildings, dashing behind one structure and then another, wary of being seen. There were dogs barking and men yelling in the sheep-yards and it was towards the woolshed she headed, hoping that the boy would be there. He’d not been a part of the initial search for she’d spied him climbing down from the windmill and recognised him on approach when she’d ridden in with Kirkland. That suggested that either he was not old enough for such things or that his duties confined him to the homestead block. Nor did he appear to have ridden out this morning. The figures on horseback were older men with round shoulders, not a young man at the beginning of his life.

  Abelena skirted the blacksmith’s hut. She hoped to find the boy alone. She couldn’t be sure if he could be trusted, but her choices were limited and apart from the few words she shared with the housekeeper, the boy was the only other person she’d spoken to who could probably be persuaded. He seemed kind and she was not averse to his appearance. If it were not for the overseer she wouldn’t have needed assistance, but Wes Kirkland was a good tracker. She’d never get away without help.

  Nearing the stables she smelt the stockmen before hearing them. Theirs was a pungent scent, horseflesh and saddle grease, stale breaths and tobacco smoke layered with rum.

  ‘She’s been locked inside for three days.’

  Abelena flattened her body against the wall of the stables.

  ‘Well, I think it’s wrong. Clearly she doesn’t want to be here and how do we know that Mr Wade isn’t belting her or something?’

  She recognised the voice. Peering through the ill-fitting boards she saw the young man.

  ‘You stay out of it,’ the scraggly bearded man chastised. ‘What happens to that girl is none of your business.’

  ‘Mrs Brightman reckons that Mr Wade and Kirkland have had a falling out.’

  ‘It’s none of our business, Nicholson,’ the bearded man replied.

  ‘That’s because Kirkland hurt the girl. There was mud on his rope and she was filthy.’

  ‘Shut up, Will,’ the bearded man snapped. ‘Don’t go sticking your nose into other people’s business.’

  ‘But it’s wrong,’ Will argued.

  ‘And who are you to say what’s right and what’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s a girl,’ Will reasoned. ‘You know I’m right, Mr Crawley.’

  The older man stopped checking the contents of his saddlebags. ‘Well, there we have it. You are a do-gooder. It would have been better, boy, if you’d stayed a heathen. In my world do-gooders can’t be trusted and heathens can.’

  The men resumed saddling their horses and then walked out of the stables into the morning light. Abelena edged around the corner of the building. The bearded man was giving orders for the day. They were heading to the wether paddock first before riding west to a far boundary to bring in sheep for lamb-marking. They expected the job to take three days.

  ‘So check your swags. Make sure you’ve got enough supplies,’ Evan told the riders.

  ‘What are we doing heading out to the wether paddock? That mob’s been done. Besides, we’re down men, what with the two blacks still gone,’ Nicholson complained. ‘It’ll take more than three days with only five of us.’

  The men swung their bodies into the saddles. The horses nickered softly, shifted the weight on their legs.

  ‘So you keep saying, Nicholson,’ Evan half-grunted. ‘In fact you’ve been saying it since daylight, which is why we’re running late. And that’s four of us,’ Evan corrected. He nodded and pointed at each man in turn. ‘Me, Nicholson, Sprout and Bob.’

  ‘And the boy,’ Sprout added.

  Evan shook hi
s head. ‘I don’t think so. Young Will’s suddenly got a little too interested in what’s right and wrong.’ He rubbed his beard. ‘And that don’t sit too well with me when his own father’s a thief. No, I think we’ll leave the boy to bin the late wool from the sheep that were missed during shearing.’ He turned to him. ‘Move the fleeces to the two bins closest to the press then you can sweep out the woolshed and set up the cradles for marking. That’ll give you time to have a think about what it means to mind your own business.’

  ‘But, Mr Crawley?’ Will pleaded.

  The boy watched the men ride off and then kicked the dirt. ‘C’mon, Pat.’ The horse dropped a load of warm dung on the ground as Will unsaddled the animal and carried his gear back into the stables.

  Abelena kept a safe distance, waiting until the horse was turned out to graze and the boy had walked to the woolshed. She peered through the double doors of the cavernous building. Slanted rays of light shone down through the skylights, highlighting slatted tables and wicker bins. Running parallel to the five large tables was a long polished board. The wall had many narrow oblong holes cut into it and bits of metal resembling stretched-out arms hung in front of each space from a long rod overhead.

  The boy was lifting up armfuls of wool from one of ten wooden bins that were built into a wall. He’d removed his shirt and worked in a singlet, the muscles in his arms bunching and curling as he lifted wool from one bin, walked the length of the stalls, and threw it into another. Dust particles sprinkled the air.

  ‘Hello.’

  He turned warily. Abelena sat on one of the slatted tables swinging her legs.

  ‘Are you meant to be here?’ he asked, shocked.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Picking up his shirt Will wiped his sweaty face. ‘Sheep were missed in the muster during shearing and there’s a presser coming next week to press this late-shorn wool into bales.’ He lifted another fleece and walked from one bin to the opposite end where he threw it on top of the growing pile.

  ‘You’re right. Wes Kirkland is nasty. He roped me and dragged me from the river.’

  ‘You heard that?’ He turned awkwardly back to the pile of wool, concentrated on the task. ‘I hope you told Mr Wade.’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t care. He keeps me locked up.’

  Will dumped another armful of wool. ‘Why did you come out here with Mr Wade if you don’t want to be here?’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. He made me come. My parents are dead.’

  ‘So you don’t have any family?’

  ‘Or friends.’

  ‘Well, you could go to the police.’ Will looked at the girl, with her bare legs and long hair and lovely face. ‘He’s got no right to treat you that way.’

  ‘They wouldn’t help. You know what it’s like when a person has money and another doesn’t. My word wouldn’t mean anything.’ She walked to the bin where he stood and crushed the crinkly-cream wool between her fingers. ‘Do you know much about sheep?’

  ‘There’s money in them, but to be honest I just muster them up and either walk them to or from a paddock. The days are a blur of horses and dogs and cranky stockmen,’ he added.

  ‘That bearded man, Mr Crawley, doesn’t like you.’

  Will wrinkled his nose and sneezed. ‘Not at the moment. It’s lanolin,’ he explained as Abelena wiped her fingers together and sniffed them. ‘It’s in the wool. That’s what makes it greasy.’

  ‘I like sheep. Where I once lived everything was ploughed up and when it stopped raining the wind blew the land away. We’d wake with the taste of grit in our mouths, in our throats. People died from the dirt and dust in the air.’

  ‘Heck, it must have been a bad drought.’

  ‘Uncle George told me that it was wrong to put land under the plough, to wreck the earth, that we had to tend the land like a loving mother and, like a mother, consider the dangers that could come to us if we didn’t look after her.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that, but it sounds like your uncle was a smart man.’

  ‘He was.’ She moved towards him and touched his forearm. He started. It was strange to feel the warmth of another’s body. Abelena lay a hand on his arm, running her palm the length of sinew and muscle, feeling the curve of skin next to her own. ‘I’ve not touched a man this way,’ she breathed, stroking the bone at the base of his throat. Will didn’t move. ‘You’re hard and soft, like a woman but in different places.’

  ‘I guess.’ Will swallowed.

  ‘What do you call that?’ She touched the concave space at the base of his throat.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He leant slightly forward, sniffed her hair.

  ‘Is your father really a thief?’

  ‘No, well, sort of. My ma’s sick and we needed money.’ He brushed his hand down the length of her hair and rested it on her hip.

  ‘I know what it’s like not to have money. To be hungry.’ Abelena thought of the hard-edged wanting in Tobias’s face and stepped a little closer to Will until their bodies touched. She wanted this man to kiss her. Was it because she’d lost everyone dear to her? Because she was so very alone in the world?

  ‘I think you should leave,’ Will said but didn’t move. ‘I mean, we’ll both get in trouble.’

  ‘Have you been with a woman?’

  Will stepped away and put his shirt back on, dressing hurriedly.

  ‘Well, have you?’

  ‘Do you always say what you think?’ His cheeks were pink.

  ‘It’s just a question,’ Abelena replied. ‘It’s what most men want, isn’t it? To lie with a woman?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Can we go riding?’

  Will looked around the interior of the shed.

  ‘The men have gone. No-one will know.’

  He scratched his head. ‘I don’t know, Abelena. I could lose my job.’

  She gestured to the bulging pillowcase sitting on the slatted table. ‘I brought food for a picnic. Besides, if anyone sees us we’ll say you found me out riding and brought me back.’

  ‘But you’ll get in trouble.’

  Abelena flashed hazel eyes, took Will by the hand. ‘I’m always in trouble.’

  They were galloping across ground fraught with ridges, Abelena’s mare responding to the slightest pressure of her legs. If she needed to veer right or left she would direct the animal accordingly with a slight shift of her weight. To slow or stop she simply patted the horse’s neck and told her mount to do so.

  ‘How did you learn to ride like that?’ Will marvelled. ‘You hardly use the reins.’ They had galloped straight across the plains in the direction of the river.

  ‘My people have always been good with horses.’ She patted the horse’s sweat-glossy neck. ‘But this mare listens. She’s a fine animal.’ The horse slowed to a trot. ‘She would be better without a saddle, then she would feel me and I her and we would understand each other better.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  Abelena threw her head back and laughed.

  The dark mass of an eagle’s nest was visible up ahead. Situated in the tallest branch of a dead gum tree, its mess of twigs and branches jutted against the pale sky. Abelena cajoled the mare onwards as a wedge-tail appeared about the ruffle of timber in the distance.

  ‘Look.’ Will pointed.

  ‘I’ve seen him. Isn’t he magnificent?’

  ‘I didn’t think you liked eagles.’

  Abelena twisted her hair across one shoulder. ‘I didn’t think they would travel so far.’

  ‘So far?’ Will’s brow furrowed. ‘They live here.’

  The eagle’s wings stilled as it soared on an upward current. It held something, some small animal clutched in its talons, food for the young that waited in the woody shell high in the tree. The mare nickered quietly, lowering her head to nibble at dry grass. They were a mile from the trees that led to the river.

  ‘Save me, Will,’ Abelena begged. ‘Take me somewhere where I’ll be safe.’
r />   ‘Huh? Abelena, I can’t. I’ll lose my job and you’ll be in real trouble.’

  A long rising keek, keek, keek sounded. A bird was flying rapidly towards them from the prominent eagle’s nest. A Goshawk had attacked the nest, a bird was clutched in its claws. Behind it, the wedge-tail had quickly deciphered the severity of the strike and dropped its carrion instantly. The Goshawk descended swiftly. Abelena caught a glimpse of the hawk’s underparts, grey-brown finely barred with white, as it headed towards the open plain. The eagle was gaining on the smaller raptor and the hawk, as if sensing the danger, began to circle back towards the safety of the timber, clearly burdened by the young eagle in its grasp. It slowed slightly and dived lower to the ground. The trees it aimed for grew closer.

  The wedge-tail swooped and attacked the hawk midair, accelerating as it gathered the enemy between its claws. The hawk released the young eagle on impact and the young bird found itself airborne and began to flap its wings desperately. It dropped through yards of space until a stubby bush broke its fall and then the scrub was quiet. The parent flew off towards the creek, the struggling hawk in its grasp.

  Abelena cantered across the ground, her fingers entwined in the horse’s mane. Will was calling out for her to stop, to slow down, but she kept riding, intent on finding the injured bird. The young eagle was at the base of the bush. Brown in colour, it flapped a broken wing and walked in circles, clearly confused by its ordeal. There was blood on its breast and its damaged wing dragged in the dirt as it moved. Dismounting, Abelena walked after the injured bird and quickly gathered it up. The young eagle was heavy. She folded the hurt wing against her chest, hoping the body warmth would soothe the wounded animal. It struggled fiercely and set about pecking at her hand, squawking in alarm.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ Will waited as she remounted, the bird clutched to her chest.

  Abelena clucked her tongue and the horse resumed walking towards the river. ‘You can’t leave something helpless to die.’

  ‘Now where are you going? We should head back.’