Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  “I’ll show you. Let’s go muster some ticky cows.”

  “I shouldn’t have any.” Ride some more—just what he needed. His backside would never be the same.

  Bohra came running across the dooryard on stubby, chubby legs with Marty’s big brown Waler in tow. Proudly the cherub handed the reins to Marty and stepped back while his uncle mounted. Marty reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair. And he was off again, further punishing his poor innocent saddle.

  They crossed a broad, treeless basin and a claypan. They rode through brigalow for hours. Scattered trees studded the barren ground, and under each tree lay a cow. Most of the cows lurched to their feet as the riders passed. Some simply watched them with huge, vacant eyes.

  Marty pointed to a cluster of a dozen beasts. “That one of them?”

  “The red one, yair.” Jase indicated a particularly droopy looking beast with a ragged coat. “I was out this way looking for billabongs to dig into and happened to notice her.”

  Marty drew his horse in. “Not Pop’s or mine. Too much shorthorn in her.”

  Jase shook a coiled rope out and rode forward. He bore his horse down upon the cow in question and with a swift flick of the wrist tossed the loop over her horns. Just that quickly Marty rode in behind her and threw his loop as she charged aside, catching up her hind feet. He loved doing this. Splack she was down on her side in the dust.

  Marty dismounted and stood on the cow’s neck. Leaning over, he probed the crook behind her front leg. “Look at her. Ticks stacked on ticks. I checked them over before we cut the deal. They’d just been dipped. This ’un’s never been dipped. She’s absolutely loaded.” He ran his finger across the dense mass of dark sand grains behind her ears.

  “Got your brand on her.”

  “Yair, but I didn’t put it there.” Marty poked at the mark on her rump. “Not my iron. Look at the uneven lines. And there where a line crossed over. Some ring artist tried hard to make it look good.”

  Marty remounted and stared at Jase. “Why? Why go to the trouble of…” And the truth dawned.

  Jase nodded. “Find your raiders and you’ll find the ring artist who planted tick-blown cows in your mob to infect the others.”

  “Bet she’s bringing me red water as well as ticks.”

  “No bet. What I want to know is, who thinks we’re so dull-witted that we wouldn’t notice she isn’t ours? Let’s go find some more.”

  Until nearly nightfall, the bedraggled cow in tow, they sought out other cows with ticks. They amassed a mob of a dozen very sorry shorthorn crossbreeds before waning sunlight ended the operation. They returned home so hungry Marty was sure he could eat his saddle.

  As the sun burned red on the edge of the ridge, Jase rode ahead and opened the gate to the hospital paddock. The dispirited cows plodded in without so much as flicking an ear. Jase swung the gate shut and chained it. “Good thing the sun’s going down, eh, Cuz? Doesn’t leave so much time for more things to go crook.”

  “Stone the crows.” Marty stared, startled and unbelieving, into the distance. From away down the road came a small buggy drawn by a single horse, and in it a driver in derby hat. Even from this distance, a diamond flashed in the orange light. “So you think the day’s as bad as it’s gunner get, huh? Wrong, Jase-oh. Look who’s our houseguest.”

  Jase appeared to have been stepped on by some huge giant’s boot. He stared a moment and deliberately banged his forehead against the fencepost. “Uncle Edward.”

  ****

  “A beautiful young girl was well-known among all the tribes and clans for her graceful dancing. Blowing hot and dry, the North Wind saw her dance and fell in love. He tried to carry her away, but two lake spirits heard her distress and saved her by turning her into a brolga. Today still, the brolga likes to be near lakes. And she dances beautifully.”

  The brolgas were dancing now. Out on dry, treeless flats a quarter mile away, because there was no lake, a loose company of the stately gray cranes leaped and bobbed. They stamped. They flapped. They dipped their heads forward and arched them back, the long beaks slashing skyward. What exuberance! As Goonur completed her translation of his tale, Indirri watched the dance and smiled, enjoying their unbridled enthusiasm for life.

  He felt that same enthusiasm here in Marty and Jase. They weren’t dancing, of course, like brolgas. Their enthusiasm was an inner thing, expressed neither in words nor actions. Yet it was there, this joy of living, and it emerged whenever they talked about Pinjarra.

  Jase and Marty turned their horses aside and headed home. Indirri did, too. Goonur rode up beside him. The old white mare that hated being separated from Goonur’s gelding fell in behind, with Bohra perched on her back. Indirri watched three-year-old Bohra ride with mixed feelings. She was a gentle horse, true, and one that would not likely stray. Still…

  They copped the rise and rode abreast down into the dooryard of Pinjarra. From this gentle ridge, the land sloped gracefully into a shallow basin and on out flat to the east. The buildings whitefellers treasure so highly sprawled out across the basin in wide variety. There was the elegant main house with its verandahs, some old and some new. A roof on posts connected it with a summer kitchen in back.

  Across the dooryard to the north loomed a two-story barn, a monstrous structure. To the east under a large roof were parked drays and wagons. To the southeast behind the house were sheds and lean-to’s, Luke’s old hut still flattened on the ground.

  The five of them rode up to the front door of the main house. Marty swung down and handed his horse off to Bohra. The child beamed.

  As Jase turned his roan over to Indirri, Uncle Edward came storming out the door. “Where’ve you bludgers been? You’re supposed to be tending to business, not wandering through the bush like a flock of galahs.” He lowered his blustering voice. “I told you to get rid of those cattle you found. Instead, you go out picking rosebuds, and not attending to business. Now you’re gunner wish you had listened to me. You’ve a man to see you, Marty. Constable Edding.”

  The exuberance Indirri felt only moments before chilled instantly. Marty studied his uncle as he drew a deep breath. Whatever he would have said he swallowed unspoken. “Indirri, you come along inside. Goonur, take the horses over to the hospital paddock. Don’t put them away yet.” He went inside.

  Indirri tried to act nonchalant as he gave his horses to Goonur. Probably he didn’t fool her. For the very first time he was entering a building other than a barn. He paused before he went inside. There was no animal smell in here and no dust. It was brighter, too, for the walls were nearly all windows.

  Inside here were even more walls and doors than on the outside. Beyond a door down a narrow passageway Indirri caught sight of a boxlike piece with blankets smoothed across it. That must be the bed Goonur talked about, where whitefellers sleep at night. The woodstove in the kitchen was cold. He looked up and was startled to see the house end so quickly. The flat roof of the room was so low you could almost reach up and touch it. There was no sense of sky here at all.

  Here were the pieces of wooden furniture they had brought down from Elizabeth Downs, the table and the chairs. A whitefeller in a thick moustache and black wool tunic stood up at the table as they entered the room.

  He nodded to Marty. “Good to see you, lad. Sorry this is business.”

  Marty reached across the table to shake hands. “I’m not. You saved me a trip to town—I wanted to talk to you about business, too. Glad you came. Sit down.”

  Marty, Uncle Edward and Jase folded themselves upon chairs across from Constable Edding. Indirri had never sat on a chair before and he had no intention of doing so now. He stood aside, his back to a cool plaster wall, crossed his arms, and watched.

  Uncle Edward’s voice rang loudly in the confining space. Insides of houses do strange things to sound. “Constable Edding here is accusing you of cattle duffing, lad. I told him how preposterous that is, but he thinks it’s—”

  Constable Edding interrupted him. “M
r. Frobel, I’ve your complete statement here in my notes. Now I must get Marty’s statement independently of yours. Standard drill.”

  “Well, certainly. He’s the one found those scraggly strays.”

  Marty sighed. “He means, Uncle Edward, you should wait outside.”

  “Nonsense. I’m twice your age and I know about these things.”

  Jase leaped to his feet. “Uncle Edward, Constable Edding’s teacup is empty. Why don’t you go make some more.”

  “That’s that black girl’s job. Just tell her to—”

  Jase gripped Uncle Edward’s arm and bodily lifted him out of his chair, and his face was not kind. “Come with me.” He guided his uncle toward the door. “While you’re helping Rosella make tea, I’m sure you’ll notice she isn’t a girl. She’s a lady your age, and a dignified one.” And out the door went Uncle Edward, protesting forcefully.

  Marty tried to hide a grin behind his hand and couldn’t do it. His eyes crinkled up into telltale creases when he smiled.

  The constable frowned. “I’ll get hard on to it, Marty. An anonymous tip says some missing cattle are in your paddock where they shouldn’t be.”

  “How anonymous? A note under your door or someone you know?”

  “Someone I know.”

  “You’ve been through the place here looking, eh?”

  “Quick check. I’d like to look around a little more.”

  “Good, ’cause I want to show you some things.” Marty stood up. “Start with the hospital paddock. Uncle Edward’s back in the summer kitchen, so let’s go out the front door.” He led the way. Indirri was powerfully glad to get out of the heavy air in that enclosed space. They strode out across the open, inviting dooryard with the sky stretching forever upward. He jogged along beside Jase.

  “Mr. Edding, who besides Cyrus Bickett runs shorthorns?”

  “Most people. Manning, Ward, Sealy, Sheldon, Fairburn, Hopkins. That’s just the runs south of here with purebred. You get into crossbreeds and anything north of your father’s run, you find most everybody does.”

  “And everybody with tick problems and red water.”

  “Just about. Inclusive. What you getting at, lad?”

  Marty climbed onto the top rail of the hospital paddock and waved a hand. “They’ve got shorthorn in them and they’re not ours.”

  The constable peered over the rail. “You admit you put your brand on cattle that aren’t yours?”

  “Not at all, sir. I tried to find any mark on these that would tell me where they’re from. Nothing. Clean skin until they were ringmarked.”

  “That’s nonsense, lad. No ring artist would put someone else’s brand on a stray cow.”

  “And no squatter would brand a cow with a makeshift iron when his proper branding irons are a hundred yards away over there. Here’s the mob, there’s my irons. Goonur. Go run me that red one up into the squeeze pen.”

  She hurried to her horse. Goonur loved riding even more than Indirri did, if that were possible. Indirri opened the gate and she rode inside. He hopped back up on the rail to watch.

  With a practiced flick of her whip she separated the red cow from the mob cowering in a corner and chased it through a small gate. Indirri wouldn’t have had the slightest notion how to proceed, but Goonur knew exactly what to do. Jase pulled a long iron stick as Goonur slammed the gate shut from horseback. The cow bawled once and accepted the indignity of being squeezed inside the narrow pen.

  Marty and the constable walked over to the confined cow; Indirri followed. The constable gazed up close at the cow’s disputed brand mark.

  Marty reached through the slats. “Look at her. Wasted. Fevered. Sick enough to die of red water. And the ticks. Pop built himself a dip just before he sent me his thousand head, and the mob I brought down from Julia Creek were dipped before we left. Help me find out whose these are, and we’ll know who’s behind the harassment out here. It’s a moral certainty they’re one and the same.”

  “Or else my informant is correct and you’re picking up a few extra head here and there to round out your fine new mob. Perhaps covering up with false tales of raiders.” He shook his head. “You buy stock and pay cash on your lease and no real source of money. The evidence is against you.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Jase exploded. “Some of that money’s mine, drafted off the bank in Opalton. You can’t say that.”

  Marty looked perplexed. “Who’s been talking to you like that? Nobody local. Everyone around here has known me my whole life, and Pop before me.”

  “I’m sorry, lad.” Constable Edding rubbed his chin a moment. “Based on your uncle’s statement, plus this stock in your paddock…”

  “My uncle’s statement! He wasn’t even here.”

  “…plus this stock, I’m arresting you in the name of the Crown for cattle duffing. Since you freely admit the stock in question isn’t yours, and you’re cooperative, I’m sure the magistrate will release you on your own cognizance pending a court date. And I’m gunner take these beasts with me as evidence.”

  “Mr. Edding…” Frustrated, Marty waved a hand helplessly.

  Jase stepped in close. “We appreciate the favor: nice of you to take a dozen tick-blown, dying cattle off our hands so we don’t have to feed them hay at twenty-two the ton. Got a pencil and paper handy?”

  The constable gave him a small stick and a scrap of something thin.

  Jase rubbed the stick on the paper and handed them both back to Edding. “This is my lawyer, up in Jericho. When these cows die—and most of them will—you’re to deliver the rawhides to him. We’ll want them to prove the brands aren’t our work. Need a hand droving?”

  “I think I can handle my prisoner and a mob of twelve by myself. You can put your statement to writing in town, lad.

  “You, young James, had better tell your lawyer what’s going on.” The constable climbed aboard his horse with its fancy flat saddle and black saddle cloth.

  Jase swung the paddock gate open wide. The constable entered, and with a couple whistles and hoots drove the dozen sorry cows out into the dooryard. He was forgetting the cow in the squeeze pen; Indirri poked Jase’s arm and pointed. Jase hissed “Sssh!”

  From the verandah, Uncle Edward came boiling out across the dooryard, teapot in hand. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

  “Your nephew’s under arrest for—”

  “Oh no he’s not!” Uncle Edward summarily dropped the teapot. It broke in two, spewing tea. Fumbling in his pocket, he yanked out a short, heavy gun weapon. “Stand aside, sir! I knew this would happen if I weren’t present. You’ll not commit this gross miscarriage of justice while I still breathe.” He waggled the weapon. “Stand aside, I say!” He took a dozen steps forward.

  Quietly Jase took Goonur’s bullwhip in hand. It lashed out suddenly, snaked around Uncle Edward’s arm and jerked it downward. The gun roared aimlessly, sending the cattle bolting away down the track, their tails stiff.

  The constable whipped out a set of metal rings and slapped them on Marty’s wrists. “Sorry, lad, no release. Resisting arrest demands mandatory incarceration.”

  Jase exploded, “But it wasn’t him! It wasn’t him who—”

  The wild flurry of arguments that followed came to no avail. The constable and his prisoner clattered away down the road in pursuit of the runaway evidence.

  Uncle Edward turned on Jase. “How dare you…”

  Jase ignored it. He wheeled. “Goonur. Turn that sick cow loose.”

  She ran back inside, shoved the iron bar up and swatted the bony rump. Freed of her restraints the cow lurched forward and out into the paddock, looking confused.

  Jase locked his dark eyes onto Indirri’s. “You’re still wild enough to track a flying bird. I want you to study this cow’s trail so that you can return to where we found her—backtrack her clear across the continent if need be. Understand?”

  Indirri had no notion how far a continent might extend, but he got the general idea. He also saw an
opportunity. “I track him like; him take care of Mungkala all day every day.” And he tested out a word whitefellers often used. “Deal?”

  “You track I like, and I’ll take care of Mungkala. Deal.”

  Jase shook hands with him—a strictly whitefeller gesture—and swung aboard his horse. He dropped a loop over the cow’s horns and dragged her out into the dooryard, then walked her, jogged her.

  Indirri dropped to his knees in the dirt and bent low. He studied the marks of each cloven hoof in turn. He studied the way they occurred together, both at the walk and at the jog. He studied the exact angle with which the cow put her feet down and the slight scuffs she made as she picked them up. He stood up, held Jase’s eye with his own and nodded.

  Jase smiled. “Go get ’em.”

  Indirri understood the challenge, understood that far more than pride of accomplishment hinged on his skills—skills he had not used for a long time. He threw aside the hat. He pulled off the tight, hot boots. He took off his whitefeller shirt and pants. He put behind him the ways whitefellers called “civilized” and set his face toward the ways he knew best. Following the tracks this cow had made six days ago coming in, he set out east from the station.

  By and by, Jase caught up. He brought with him two full neck bags of water and a big bag of tucker, food for two days at least. He rode his roan and led a saddled horse for Indirri. He brought the old cow along still on the end of his rope.

  This leg of the track was easy. The sickest of the mob, she had trailed at the back; her spoor lay on top of the others. He didn’t even have to stoop over yet. With an easy stride Indirri backtracked her to a broad scuff in the dirt.

  He pointed. “There him fall down ropes. You and Marty.”

  Jase cooed in admiration.

  “Now comes harder.” Indirri rested his eyes a few minutes and set out through the dry, open woodland. Here the cow browsed, and he could tell what she ate. Not much. “Here she him lie down night. See? Possum tracks cross. Possums only at night.”

  Because the cow lay under trees so much, Indirri tracked her through three days’ roaming in just a short time.