The wagon rolled to a stop. Rix groaned. “You call this a homestead?”
Septimus watched him try to spit with no result. “There’s another job for you.” Septimus climbed down from his horse. “You can build a new hut.”
He looked around. There was debris of human habitation everywhere but no sign of Neales. The carcass of a sheep hung from a tree in the shade with one leg missing. Only one of the water barrels remained upright with a lid on it. Bones were scattered by the fire with tin plates and upturned wooden boxes. Away to one side was a stinking mound of wool crawling with maggots.
Septimus stepped up to the rough, one-roomed dwelling and kicked the door with his boot. The smell of stale sweat and rotten food wafted around him. He put his sleeve to his nose. The hut had two raised wooden boards that served as beds, and was carpeted with a jumble of clothing, dirty plates and food scraps, but Neales wasn’t among it. Septimus stepped around Rix, who was trying to see inside.
“You might need to live under the canvas until you can build a new hut,” he called over his shoulder.
Rix growled in response. For the next few hours, Septimus sat in the shade of a tree, taking sips of water and watching Rix clean out the hut. Pavey kept out of his way, busy unloading the wagon and stacking the provisions in the rough lean-to behind the hut. By the time the sun was a low orange ball in the sky, he’d set a fire going. The smell of roasting meat had Septimus’s stomach rumbling. One thing about Rix: he might grumble but Septimus had discovered he was reliable and kept the idiot Pavey in check most of the time. Rix was the brains and Pavey was the brawn. Up until the recent upset at the port it had worked well for all of them.
They’d just made themselves at home by the fire, sitting on the upturned boxes, plates of meat and potato on their knees, when Neales rode in.
He slithered from his horse and struggled to stand upright. He was filthy, with a temper to match.
“You’ve brought more sheep,” he yelled.
Septimus glared at the man. When Terrett had been there he’d hardly spoken, let alone in such a manner.
“Lucky I have, Mr Neales,” Septimus said in a steady tone. “You seem to have let quite a few of my other sheep die.”
“There’s no water and little for them to eat. Didn’t you see the bodies along the way here, you fool?”
Rix gave a low growl, put down his plate and rose slowly to his feet. “You don’t speak to your employer like that.” His thick body was twice the bulk of Neales’s, who looked much thinner than the last time Septimus had seen him.
“Who are you?” Neales pulled the hat from his head and looked from Rix to Pavey. His hair was plastered flat with sweat and a dirty brown line ran across his forehead.
“I am the new overseer. Mr Rix to you.”
“That’s all I need, another bloke with no brains telling me what to do.”
Quick as a flash Rix crossed the space between them. He twisted Neales in a headlock.
Septimus could hear the fool gasping for breath as Rix put pressure on his neck. “Don’t harm him too much, Rix,” he said. “You will need him.”
Rix held Neales a moment longer then let him go. Neales fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Rix put a boot on his hand and twisted it. The other man let out a guttural cry. “You ready to do what you’re told, Mr Neales?”
“Yes.” Neales’s reply came out in a whisper.
“Good, because my friend Pavey has used some of that sheep you’ve helped yourself to and cooked us a fine meal.” He crossed back and picked up his plate. “You got enough for this fellow, Pavey?”
“Plenty.”
“There you are, Neales. You go and get cleaned up and you can come back and eat with us.”
Neales struggled to his feet. The filthy clothes he was wearing were even dirtier now. He threw a cautious look at Rix then began to hobble towards the hut.
“And Neales.” Rix spoke through a mouthful of food. “You can sleep under the stars tonight. Pavey and me are having the hut.”
Neales disappeared into the gloom beyond the firelight. Septimus cut off another piece of meat. He placed it carefully in his mouth and began to chew. He was quite confident he could leave Smith’s Ridge in the care of Rix. The next morning he’d be on his way again. He was finally going to come face to face with Thomas Baker again after all these years.
Septimus arose the next morning in a bad humour. A gusting wind had come up in the night, stirring the ash of the fire and dousing the camp in the stench from the rotting wool pile. It had infiltrated his nostrils so that he could smell nothing else and he had slept restlessly. He’d be glad to get on his horse and move on. Smith’s Ridge was a money-making venture, but he found no joy in it. He certainly couldn’t imagine why men would work their own leases, let alone bring wives and families to live in such desolate conditions.
Neales was boiling the billy over the fire by the time Septimus was dressed. There was no sign of Rix or Pavey.
“You’ve let my property run down,” Septimus said as he took the mug offered by the sour-faced Neales. “Lucky I got here when I did.”
“There’s too many sheep for one person to manage,” Neales whined. “The blacks and wild dogs help themselves and now there’s little water and feed.”
“I thought Terrett found some permanent water.”
“Not on your land,” Neales said. “It’s across the boundary on Wildu Creek. Mr Baker keeps a close eye on it these days.”
“You’re making excuses for your lazy work. Mr Rix will soon have things back in order.”
Neales gave a small snort into his tea. He squatted and stared into the fire.
His disdain irritated Septimus. “This camp was disgusting when we arrived and there’s more cleaning up to be done.” Septimus waved a hand towards the wool. “You can get rid of that stinking pile.”
Neales continued to stare at the fire. “That wool might just save your bacon, Mr Wiltshire.”
“In what way?” Septimus studied the sideways profile of his shepherd and remembered a time, years earlier, when he and Harriet had bought dirty wool from farmers, cleaned it and made a pretty penny.
“I’ve been cutting it from the dead sheep.”
No wonder it smells so bad, Septimus thought.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to throw good money after bad,” Neales said. “There’s not enough feed and water for the stock that’s here now and you’ve brought more – which are already on their last legs by the look of them.”
“It’s your job to look after them, Neales. Make sure they improve.”
Neales turned and studied him through eyes narrowed against the swirling smoke. It gave him a disturbing look.
“With no feed?”
Septimus glowered. He’d made a profit off Smith’s Ridge until Terrett had been carted away. He tossed the bitter tea at the fire. Obviously this lazy scum knew nothing. Septimus couldn’t stand the man or the place. “Mr Rix is in charge now,” he said. “You will follow his instructions.”
As Septimus spoke, his new overseer staggered from the hut. When he saw Septimus, he straightened up and strode over. “You’re off then?”
Septimus nodded and Rix walked beside him to his horse.
“I’m relying on you to keep your eye on things here, Rix. The place has gone downhill since Terrett left. You will report to me when you bring the wool after shearing. I will visit you to check on things mid-year after that.”
Rix scowled back at him. “You’re not going to leave us here to rot, are you, Mr Wiltshire?”
“You need a place to lay low for a while. I’m offering you another chance, Rix. Bring Smith’s Ridge back to scratch and we’ll see how things are in Port Augusta. There’s no reason we can’t eventually resume our business ventures there.” He leaned down. “I encouraged Terrett to make the best of the opportunities these isolated ranges provide. You’ve seen how wild dogs take their toll, and the blacks. My neighbour puts his unexplained sto
ck losses down to these, if you get my meaning. Between you and me, I expect you to do what you must to turn a profit, Mr Rix.”
Rix nodded slowly and Septimus noted the glint in his dark eyes. He lifted a hand in farewell. Perhaps it was fortuitous that his business had taken a turn for the worse in the port. Rix might have come to Smith’s Ridge reluctantly but he would make a go of the job he’d been given, Septimus was sure of that. He squared his shoulders and turned his horse in the direction of Wildu Creek.
His nosy neighbour, Thomas Baker, had visited Harriet. She had been quite rattled by it. Worried he was going to come back and take away her precious china. Septimus had forgotten the bits and pieces she still liked to use, like that tea set and the old shawl, had come from Baker’s trunk. He cared little. It was long ago and Baker could prove nothing. Septimus had torn the inscribed pages from the books. Let Baker make his allegations if that’s what he wanted – get it over and done with. Septimus knew the note of debt he had safely in his bag gave him the upper hand now.
Baker had been busy during his trip to the port. Septimus had heard he’d also made enquiries about missing wool bales. There was no way he’d be able to trace them. That was the one part of his port business still under way. He had another means, unknown to Rix and Pavey.
Septimus had discovered he knew the man sneaking unmarked bales of wool to the port, so he cornered him and made him a deal he couldn’t refuse. Fowler had worked alongside him in the road gangs in New South Wales. Only thing was, Septimus had done his time and had a ticket of leave, but Fowler had escaped before his time was up. He’d made it to South Australia, where he was making a living shifting gangs of shearers around the countryside, well away from the eyes of the New South Wales police.
It had therefore been easy to get Fowler to send the bales his way. Between them they had a nice little sideline slipping the odd unmarked wool bale away from under a farmer’s nose and putting the Smith’s Ridge mark on it once it reached the port or simply passing it off as off-cut wool.
There was no way Baker would find out where his missing wool had gone or be able to pin any of his losses on Septimus. It was high time they came face to face. Why, he was even planning to apologise for Terrett’s attack on Baker’s wife. They would see Septimus as a caring neighbour and be grateful for his concern. He would extract a nice extra sum of interest from their debt. The thought gave him reason to smile as he made his way to Wildu Creek.
Fifty-five
Septimus reined in his horse as he rounded the last of the thick bush in front of Thomas Baker’s home. He blew out a long, slow breath. Two huts sat on the hill above the creek. One was hardly more than a lean-to, but the other was solid, well constructed and much bigger than the first, with a wide verandah across the front. He could see water barrels lined up along one wall and a fenced area nearby, with a fruit tree reaching above it. He moved his horse forward. On the small cliff above the creek, a set of chairs and a table nestled in the shade thrown from the trees, and a canvas canopy stretched between two boughs.
Now that he was closer he could hear the sound of sheep, many sheep, and he could smell them. Shouts and whistles pierced the bleating. He passed under a group of larger trees closer to the house and had a clear view up the slope to a plateaued area. A shed had been built in the middle of the flat, and it was surrounded by yards full of sheep, some with wool and some without. Baker was shearing.
That would explain why he’d seen no animals on his journey across country from his own lease. He’d stopped to water the horse and take a break at the permanent waterhole a few miles inside Wildu Creek land. There was a large wooden bucket hanging from a nearby tree. He’d made use of it to gather some water for his morning ablutions. It had been a relief to wash away the smell of the Smith’s Ridge camp and don a fresh set of clothes. Baker was lucky to have such a place. There appeared to be no permanent water on Smith’s Ridge. However, the long dry year must have taken its toll on Baker’s stock as well. There were several carcasses piled to the side of the last yard, probably animals not strong enough to make the trek to the shed and then be shorn.
From where he sat in the saddle he could see vegetables growing inside the fenced area in neat rows around the fruit tree. At the back of the main house a third room ran its length and a small lean-to was attached to that. Baker had been very busy. Septimus thought of the rough camp he’d left at Smith’s Ridge. His property should be established like Baker’s by now. Of course, Septimus didn’t have to live there, so what did it matter, as long as it made money.
He looked around the neatly laid out house area and thought of the note of debt he carried in his coat pocket. Now that he’d seen the property he wasn’t so keen for Baker to pay him in a timely fashion. Baker probably had no other income and he’d endured the dry the same as Smith’s Ridge. Septimus smiled. Perhaps there was a way he could acquire Wildu Creek too. There was more than one way to fleece a sheep.
“Hello?”
Septimus looked up from his musing to see a woman coming down the slope. She carried a wide, flat basket empty except for the blue and white checked cloth that covered its base. A small bare-footed boy trotted at her side. This woman was George Smith’s daughter and she’d married Baker. She was a lot more solid than he remembered, but he could still see evidence of her fair hair under the ridiculous straw bonnet tied to her head. Her shirt and skirt bore several patches. Either times were indeed difficult for Baker or he didn’t waste money on his wife.
“Hello, Mrs Baker,” he said.
She hesitated and Septimus performed his best smile. “I am your neighbour, Septimus Wiltshire.”
“Mr Wiltshire?” she said and stepped closer as he climbed from his horse.
“I am glad to find you looking so well, Mrs Baker.”
Septimus saw a look of recognition cross her face and then a small frown. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The little boy beside her stared up at him with large blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr Wiltshire, but you won’t find a warm welcome here,” she said.
Septimus removed his hat and lowered his gaze to the ground. “I’ve come to apologise, Mrs Baker, for my previous overseer Mr Terrett’s terrible actions.” He looked up with a smile that he imagined oozed charm. “I am most relieved to see you looking so well. I hope he caused you no permanent harm.”
“I didn’t suffer too much, Mr Wiltshire, and I thank you for your concern but I do think it best if you continue on your way.”
“It’s my dearest wish not to cause you any further distress but I’ve come at your husband’s request.”
“Thomas?” Her expression was one of complete puzzlement.
“When he was last in Port Augusta he called on me, but sadly I was away on other business. He left a message with my wife to seek him out at Wildu Creek when next I came to Smith’s Ridge.”
“I do recall …” Lizzie shifted the basket to her hip. “My husband is very busy with the last of the shearing but he was hopeful cut out would be this afternoon.”
“Perhaps I can go up there. Take a look around and let him know I’m here.”
“I think it best you wait here.” Lizzie glanced over her shoulder again. “Would you care for a cup of tea? They’ve just had their afternoon break in the shed but the kettle won’t take long to boil again.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that. I’ve been riding all day.”
“Why don’t you sit over by the creek? It’s nicely shaded at this time of day.” She nodded towards the seats he’d seen on his arrival. “I’ll bring you something to eat as well.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
She bent to take the hand of the child and hurried to the back door of the house. Septimus tethered his horse and strolled across to the seats in the shade. He was slightly amused at her attempts to get rid of him. Lizzie Baker wasn’t keen for him to stay. No doubt she carried a grudge for her brothers over his taking Smith’s Ridge away from them, but he’d d
one nothing illegal. It was hardly his fault if George hadn’t read carefully what he’d signed. Surely that was all behind them now.
He sat on the rough wooden seat. From here he could see along the dry creek bed in both directions and out across the plains to the foothills, the distant rugged terrain of his property and the mountains beyond. It was quite a view. Septimus settled back in the chair. Now that he’d seen Wildu Creek’s improvements he was more interested than ever to chat with Thomas Baker.
Fifty-six
The clicking of the blades fell silent. Thomas turned around to see the last man stand up, put his hands to his hips and arch himself backwards.
“That’s it,” Fowler said. He strode along the boards, collecting the shears from each man. “Go and get yourselves washed up and be back here for rations before dark.” The snarl of his voice echoed through the shed.
Thomas hadn’t liked the boss of the boards the first time they’d met over a year earlier. Nothing he’d seen since had changed his opinion. Fowler was a big man. His shoulders were as wide as an axe handle and he was a good head taller than Thomas. He had a thick black beard and dark brooding eyes that missed nothing. He goaded his men with language far worse than anything Thomas had heard before. He never let Lizzie or Joseph hang around once the food had been consumed.
The men tugged off their soft moccasin shoes and sat around pulling on their boots. They were a different crew, bar one, from the men Fowler had brought the previous year, but just as rough. Shearers were hard to come by this far north, so Thomas had been thankful to see them arrive. Now he’d be thankful to see them go. He understood most of these men were ex-convicts from Van Diemen’s Land. Nearly four thousand sheep they’d shorn, almost a thousand more than last year. Some of them were very rough with the blades – a few of the sheep were so badly injured he’d had to slaughter them – but the wool was off. He moved among them, thanking them for their work.
“Thomas.”
He looked up at Zac’s call.
“A word outside,” he said.
Heart of the Country Page 34