‘So what’s your next move?’ Kendal flicked his reins, whistled for his dog to keep up.
Harold snorted. ‘Next move? I’m buggered. While there was no family around I figured there was a chance Absolution would eventually be left to me to manage. She can’t do the work that she used to on account of that leg of hers, so I figured that eventually she’d be looking for someone to leave it to. After all, what else would a single woman do with it? In time I expected you to take over the running of it.’ He gave Kendal an apologetic shrug. ‘Nice little spread like this . . . well, you could have had the pick of the local girls when it came to marriage and eventually I’d have a fine view of those box trees outside the cottage in my retirement. I had no idea there was any family left. Hell, I thought the Hamiltons and the Mannings were done and buried. The best I can hope for is that this current job I have continues and then I’ll slowly drift into retirement. But you, my lad, well you’re buggered.’ Harold swatted at an unseasonal fly buzzing around his face.
‘This is ridiculous. There must be something we can do,’ Kendal replied.
‘If it all goes to the dogs I’ll become another busted-arse unemployed bushman. Ellen will love that. She’s spent twelve years trying to become a member of the local Town & Country Club. She’ll just love it if we have to move.’
‘I don’t get how Cora Hamilton can even own this land. It’s just wrong.’
Harold reined his mount in. There had been speculation aplenty over the years as to whether Cora actually did own Absolution Creek. There had been talk of leasing agreements and management fees, but no one he’d ever spoken to could confirm or deny that particular piece of information. Everything else, however, had damn well happened in the main street of Stringybark Point. Harold knew those bits – the worst bits – were true. ‘Don’t be thinking you can change things here on Absolution Creek, Kendal,’ he warned. ‘Everyone for miles around knows who Cora Hamilton is and where she came from and she’s been left alone.’ He spurred his horse onwards.
Kendal drew abreast with his uncle. ‘So are the rumours true?’
‘Yes –’ Harold flicked the reins and trotted onwards ‘– they’re true.’
The hay shed was only a short ride ahead. The twenty-six-foot-high wooden roof was an obvious landmark. Over the years Harold continually pestered Cora into boarding up the northern end, the direction most of their weather came from, but she’d refused. Harold didn’t agree with her argument that the oaten hay at that end was always fed out first, negating the need for the expense of protection. This year he wanted it done.
Kendal glanced over his shoulder. ‘No sign of him.’
‘You go ahead. Once he reaches the fence line he can only go left or right. I’ll see him from here.’
A half hour later, Harold was on the verge of considering a search party when Sam appeared. Sure enough he’d followed the fence around and was now cutting across the paddock towards the homestead. Harold raised an eyebrow. The man had a bit of a sense of direction at least. They met up at the gateway leading into the homestead block.
‘Everything okay?’ Harold leant down, unhooked the chain from the gate post and rode through.
‘Fine,’ Sam replied through gritted teeth.
‘Shut it, will you?’
‘No problems.’
It was ten minutes before the lad caught up. Harold waited under the shade of an old brigalow tree; his left leg strung out across his mount’s long-suffering neck. He slapped at sticky flies, cleaned saddle grease from his thumbnail and pulled at a sun scab on the back of his hand with his teeth. He had to admit, it irked him his own nephew had to take second place to an ignorant try-hard.
A hazy mirage of horse and rider finally appeared on the dirt track. Harold held few expectations regarding Sam’s mustering ability, however the lad did have enough nous to follow his lead. And he’d stuck to him like the proverbial, shadowing him as they walked the rams to the yards, only moving to a wing when directed. He got points for that at least. Unfortunately, Sam Bell was a poor rider with no livestock experience, and now here it was late morning with a good day’s work ahead of them. Harold was too old for this stuff.
‘How’re the legs?’ Harold reckoned the furrow between Sam’s eyes had more to do with pain than glare. The boy rode with a stick up his arse, and those washy green eyes made you feel he was accusing you of something.
Sam tried to give a nonchalant flick of the reins, but struck his mare in the eye and a second later found himself sitting in the middle of the tack-hard track.
‘I should have said bum,’ Harold stated solemnly, dismounting his own horse and extending a hand to pull Sam up from the ground.
Sam brushed himself down. ‘Not sure what happened.’
‘Save it for the women,’ Harold advised remounting.
‘That obvious?’ Sam winced.
‘I didn’t pay much attention at the beginning.’
‘Too busy watching the young fella, eh? He’s a bit of a tear-arse.’
Harold burst out laughing, holding the mare still as Sam did one, two, three, eventually five standing leg hops to mount up. Harold flinched, expecting Sam to go straight over and land on the impressive ants’ nest on the other side. The mare whinnied in disgust.
‘What’s so funny?’ Sam queried, pleased at last to be moving again.
‘Tear-arse, you say? Didn’t think he was the one yelping?’
‘What’s wrong with Cora’s leg?’ Sam asked, choosing to ignore the manager’s remarks. The old man was forgetting something: he was family, not staff.
‘Accident. Long time ago,’ Harold replied. ‘We’ll be out again day after tomorrow. You better get yourself a pair of pantyhose.’
‘Pantyhose? What the hell for?’
‘It’ll help with the chafing.’ Harold nodded at Sam’s look of scepticism. ‘You’ll see what I mean in a few hours. Everyone uses a pair in the beginning.’
‘Yeah right. Anyway, what accident?’
‘One that you’d know about if she wanted you to.’
‘Secret, is it?’ Sam gave a snort.
Harold walked his horse on ahead. ‘You ask her yourself,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘you’re family. In the meantime you better tell Cora that the rams are yarded. We’ll have a quick cuppa and be ready to go in twenty.’
There were five sets of sheep yards scattered around Absolution Creek, as well as the central main yards at the woolshed. The yards they approached carried memories so raw that Cora barely used them, electing instead to walk any sheep on this eastern side of the creek across to the main yards, much to Harold’s continued frustration. ‘Time is money,’ he would comment. Cora knew that better than anyone. Nonetheless, when she did choose to sleep she wanted her time on the pillow to be free of dreams of the past.
This year her paddock rotation had all the flock rams running on this part of the property, along with Montgomery 201 and a two-year-old drop of his son’s selected as weaners. Montgomery, in the habit of wandering in an easterly direction, usually pulled up stumps from his flock of ewes once he’d considered his business concluded. Meandering across the creek a good three miles, his preferred spot was a patch of soft green grass that was bordered by gum trees. Cora couldn’t blame him. It was a nice spot, with water views of the creek when there was a run down it.
Today Montgomery was standing in the middle of the large receiving yard when they drove up. Dust swirled around him as the rest of the rams ran away to bunch up in a far corner. Cora could tell Montgomery was peeved. A single strike of his hoof in the caked dirt confirmed her suspicions. Curly and Tripod, the only dogs allowed near the rams in an onlooker capacity, trailed Cora as she walked through a gate into the sheep yards. They sat obediently near the gateway, their eyes fixed on Montgomery.
‘Have you got that dog of yours chained up, Kendal?’ Cora checked.
‘Sure thing. Bouncer’s in the back of the work truck inside the sheep crate.’ Kendal nudged Sam in t
he ribs as he walked past and said under his breath, ‘Might be safer if you get up in the back too.’
‘Very funny.’ Sam, hands on hips, admired Montgomery as the ram turned sideways to display his full glory. He was a large-framed animal with a soft white muzzle, an apron of wool that clung to his front like ermine on a king, and large horns that scrolled impressively. ‘Nice sheep.’
‘You should see him when he’s in full wool,’ Harold replied, keeping close to the fence as he skirted Montgomery to open a gate.
‘We shear the rams twice a year on account of the flies,’ Cora explained as Kendal followed his uncle. ‘Old Montgomery here will never quite look the way he did when he first arrived on-farm.’
Harold and Kendal walked around the main mob of rams, pushing them into the next yards. They avoided Montgomery, who stalked their every move.
‘He’s not very friendly.’ Sam nodded to where Montgomery was following Kendal. The animal rushed forwards and bit the jackeroo on the back of his leg. Kendal turned and raised a leg to kick out at his attacker. Montgomery quickly backed up, dropped his head and was striking the ground again with his hoof, readying for another go.
‘Don’t even think about it, Kendal,’ Cora warned. ‘He’s always been a pretty good judge of character. Well, Sam, you better go learn something.’
‘What about him?’ Sam pointed to Montgomery. ‘Shouldn’t he be with the other sheep?’
‘Sure thing.’ Cora nodded. ‘So, do you want to be the one to get him up the drafting race?’
Sam looked at Montgomery’s horns and hurdled the fence.
Kneeling in the dirt, Cora scrimmaged in her pocket and held out a piece of apple on the flat of her palm. Montgomery trotted over and nibbled delicately at the offering.
‘Good boy. How are things going then?’ Montgomery blinked large brown eyes and, finishing his apple, stood stock still. Cora ran her hands lightly over his frame, double-checking for any injuries or the slightest sign of fly strike. ‘You’re good to go. Not sure how your offspring will do, though. Not all of them will be up to the task of following in your footsteps.’ Montgomery snuffled for more apple, nudging Cora in the thigh before tailing her to the gate. Curly and Tripod padded quietly aside as the ram lumbered out into the paddock.
‘Look after yourself, Montgomery.’ The old bugger cost Cora a fortune in ’62, but there was no doubting the benefit he’d given the flock. This year’s wethers carried Montgomery’s larger frame genetics and as proof had cut nearly five per cent more wool compared to last year.
‘Are you ready, Cora?’ Harold called from the drafting race.
Kendal and Sam were on either side of the timber railings as Cora took up position under the bark-covered shelter, which ran the length of the narrow race. With instructions to her two youngest crew members to watch for any rams who attempted to leap over the railings, Cora went through the young rams carefully. Montgomery’s drop were boxed with the rest of Absolution’s flock rams and she made certain they were all packed two abreast within the narrow race for ease of inspection and to prevent injury. In the past plenty an aggravated ram had jumped over or upwards to knock down an unsuspecting stockman.
Cora had selected twenty young rams originally, giving them time to grow out to assess their potential as future sires. Running her hand down each of their backs, she parted their wool carefully on the shoulder, back and side, mindful not to pull at the wool and therefore the sensitive skin beneath. After an inspection of staple length and colour she then ran her palm over the opening, ensuring the wool closed up properly. A check of their body confirmation and teeth came next. Harold stuck beside her like glue, a blue raddle stick in hand that he used to dab on the muzzle of any ram that didn’t make the cut.
‘He’s a bit small,’ Harold commented.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’ In spite of the cold breeze Cora wiped perspiration from her brow. ‘We’ll leave him in with the pick.’
Harold let out a barely disguised sigh.
They were just nearing the end of the race when a four-year-old reared upwards. Cora backed off quickly.
Harold had the raddle out. ‘He got me last year.’
‘Laid him out flat in the dirt he did.’ Kendal gave a low whistle. ‘Like a dropped bag of flour.’
‘Thanks for that, Kendal. I don’t think we need details,’ Cora reprimanded.
‘Bet you ain’t seen nothing like this before, Sam.’ Kendal lit a cigarette. ‘That one looks blown.’ He pointed to a ram stained along the flanks. ‘Have a look.’
Sam walked forward, deftly jumping over Kendal’s outstretched boot. ‘Nice try.’
‘Nothing’s blown here.’ Cora straightened her back. ‘And you forget, Kendal, you’re from the city too.’
By the time they finished going through the mob there were only six young rams that Cora was happy with. ‘Well, let’s draft the pick into this yard and then we’ll double-check their confirmation.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Harold opened the drafting gate at the opposite end, switching the two-way gate from left to right as he speared the culls into one yard and the remainder into another. Out of nowhere, Kendal’s dog Bouncer flew over and into the race. The kelpie went berserk, biting and barking as if his very life were under threat.
‘Get out of it!’ Cora yelled, trying to grab the barking dog.
Kendal rushed forward yelling obscenities, as Harold secured the gate. Curly and Tripod arrived to stand by their mistress’s side, barking in solidarity. The rams buckled backwards and three jumped the railings and immediately boxed themselves with the culled mob. Another struck Cora in the shoulder as he leapt skywards, collecting Harold as well. Both of them ended up on their backs in the dirt.
‘Cora, can you hear me . . .?’
Sunlight filtered down through the bark roof caressing the papery wood worn soft by the elements. Jack was balanced on the railings, hammering a lifted piece of bark back into place. He turned towards her, his hand reaching for hers. Cora lifted her fingertips towards him, strained with all her might to close the distance between them.
A gust of wind blew up, turning the yards hazy with twirling dust. The draft blew Jack’s hat up into the heavens, then it was tumbling over and over, across the earth’s crust . . . ‘What would I do without you?’ he called after her as Cora chased the spinning hat. ‘What would I do?’
‘Cora?’
She woke to Harold kneeling by her side.
‘I’m fine.’ Accepting his hand, she got to her feet, her head reeling.
‘You okay?’
Cora felt her shoulder. ‘Jarred, that’s all. But you’re bleeding.’
Harold touched his forehead. ‘Flesh wound, I’ll survive.’
They brushed their clothes free of dirt and then turned towards Kendal, who was chasing his dog across the paddock in the opposite direction to Montgomery. Sam meanwhile was walking the boxed rams back around to the penning-up yard so they could be re-drafted.
‘That’s what I’m meant to be doing, yes?’ Sam checked, a worried expression on his face.
‘Yeah, you’re right, mate,’ Harold answered.
‘One of them’s bleeding,’ Sam yelled from three yards away. ‘Back leg.’
‘We’ll cart the culls home and they can run in the house paddock,’ Cora told Harold, walking back towards Sam, her mind fighting an image so real she could have reached out and touched Jack again. Joining Sam in the yard she scanned the mob as Harold rushed in and, grabbing the injured ram, flipped the animal over onto his back.
‘Well go on, Sam,’ Cora ordered, ‘give him a hand.’ She inspected the wound as the two men held the animal steady. The ram was ripped near its backside. ‘He’ll have to be taken home and dressed.’ She didn’t like the sheep’s chances. Rams were proud animals with a bad tendency to end up dead under a tree even with blanket and bottle care. Curly and Tripod slunk under the railings to sit at Cora’s feet. ‘You might want to have a word with Kendal,�
� she suggested to Harold as they set the ram free. ‘There’s no place for a dog like that on a sheep run.’
‘He’s never done it before.’
‘Makes no difference. The dog has to go.’ Cora rubbed at her shoulder, her thoughts going back to another dog, a yellow one, on Waverly Station. ‘Will you be right?’
‘Yeah, no worries. We’ll finish up.’
Cora felt both the men watching as she walked back to the ute. While her shoulder was sore, her back and hip were also suffering the repercussions of being slammed into hard ground.
‘Is she okay?’ Sam asked.
‘Tough as nails, Cora Hamilton,’ Harold replied gruffly.
Cora gave a grimace and opened the utility door. Curly and Tripod were inside in a flash, fighting over the prime position next to the passenger window. Ignoring their antics she delved through the mess on the dashboard. Notebooks, a busted wool bale stencil and spent cartridge rounds cluttered the surface. Eventually she located the emergency box of Bex powders. ‘Thank heavens.’ She downed the powders with a swig of rainwater from a bottle and leant back against the cracked upholstery. In the swirl of yard dust mushrooming skywards, Cora envisioned Jack Manning, saw him standing in the yards, perspiration mixing with dirt on his tanned face, his grin lighting up the longest day. Sometimes it was pretty hardgoing being tough as nails.
Chapter 25
Absolution Creek, 1924
Every day at dawn Jack rode out to check on his sheep. By late morning he would be back, cutting scrub in a circle leading out from the rear of the hut, piling and burning it as he went. He hoped to have a substantial area cleared and ready for the spring rains. Sweet green grass was a high priority for his fledgling flock. Squib followed Jack about slowly, helping to stack branches and swish any sneaky tongues of flame escaping into the grass. The heat and smoke from the fire stung her eyes, especially her injured right eye. It was now open but was fuzzy to look through, and weeped as if it belonged to a sick person. Jack had told her that she’d had a cut near her eye the day he’d found her and Squib could feel a slight indent beneath the skin. Her injured leg complained continually. She had two sturdy sticks to lean on now, however she was always tired. Her body compensated for the injured side and she walked leaning one way to take the weight off her still-splinted leg. Jack and she rarely spoke, although he showed her how best to light piles.
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