Sam dug his thighs and heels in, and finally his mare steadied up. Dolly was a spritely old girl and, Cora assured him, steady of foot.
It was damn cold in the shade and the path they rode along was non-existent. Cora led them through trees packed so tightly that Sam was certain his clothes would be torn from him. As it was his face was whipped by prickly belah branches and he spent every second ducking, weaving and contorting his body around branches. Eventually they entered a clearing.
‘That’s some track.’ Sam wiped a cobweb from his face and flicked at a greyish spider cadging a ride on his thigh. He didn’t really go much on the plate-sized variety Cora bred.
‘It’s a good place to cross and as we’re now on the south-east boundary it’ll make the mustering easier.’ Cora clucked Horse down a slight bank and then trotted him quickly across a narrow trickle of water.
‘She hates water,’ Kendal whispered as they followed. ‘It’s actually quicker to follow the track and cross a good mile or so to the west.’
‘Well, we’re here now,’ Sam said.
‘Must be nice being so amenable, Sam,’ Kendal commented as they rode up the far bank to where Cora waited. ‘Must have something to do with being paid.’
‘Yeah,’ Sam agreed. ‘It does.’
Cora dismounted and drew a mud map of the paddock in the dirt with her finger. ‘This is us.’ She made a cross on the squiggly creek line. ‘You two split up. Sam, I want you to follow the fence until you get to the next corner, here –’ she tapped the dirt ‘– then come a good five hundred yards into the paddock and muster in a weaving motion in a northerly direction. Got it?’
‘Yep,’ Sam answered. Cora sounded pretty serious.
‘Kendal –’
‘I know the drill, Boss. Halfway down the paddock to start mustering.’
‘If you lose each other just follow the creek. Sam, the plan here is to get the rams over the waterway. I’m going after Montgomery.’ Cora remounted and cantered Horse off into the scrub, Curly tight on her heels.
‘What’s the go with chasing one ram?’ Sam wondered aloud as Horse’s hooves and the crackle of brush echoed through the timber.
‘He’s not just one ram.’ Kendal mounted up. ‘He’s a bit like the Colt by Old Regret. He’s worth a thousand pound.’
Sam followed the boundary fence, skirting wide-girthed trees and the odd gravel-edged ant hill. He eased back into the saddle, relaxing the reins. This was the life. Absolution provided a man with a bit of everything: arguments, honest work, intrigue and a spot of adventure. Who would have thought that Sam Bell, the citified mechanic with a hankering for the bottle and a good fistfight, would be riding a horse over seven hundred miles from Sydney? Sam gave a chuckle. If his Sydney mates saw him now they’d be cock-eyed in disbelief. Well, lap it up, boys, he murmured. He was home and hosed. Sam Bell was on the road to the good life. No grog, no fights, and a wife who knew what side her bread was buttered on. Yes, siree. One day Meg would own Absolution Creek, Sam was sure of it, and no over-sexed vet would be getting his hands on the place. In a few years they’d be riding the high life. All that was required on his part was to be a bit amenable to everyone.
It was some time before Sam realised he’d not travelled the designated five hundred yards into the paddock. He edged Dolly away from the fence and instead of retracing their tracks began to do a half-hearted sweep across the land. He watched birds swooping in and out of a mimosa bush and paused as two young foxes scampered through the grass, snapping at each other intermittently. Sam’s leg began to pain as he steered his horse reluctantly away, rain splattering his face. The sky was peppered with swirling blue-tinged cloud and he spurred his horse, suddenly conscious of the task at hand.
Dolly refused to break into a trot, preferring to walk a zigzag path through the trees. The rain came across from the west in soft waves, and kangaroos hopped by to camp under branches shiny with water as Sam rode past. It was soon apparent he was lost. Every tree looked the same, every angle of the paddock similar in aspect: a flat horizon of stock-clipped pasture interspersed with variegated patches of tall wavering grasses and clumps of trees. With no sun for guidance, Sam turned the collar up on his jacket and let Dolly have her head. The old girl walked steadily across the paddock, oblivious to the rain now pelting down. As the soil was becoming soggier Sam guessed they were heading west from where the rain originated.
‘Good on ya, Dolly.’ Now he knew why Cora talked to her animals as if they were human.
They reached the creek as a crack of thunder sounded overhead. Sam wasn’t a softie, but with no rams in sight, a wet afternoon holed up under a tree seemed a waste – particularly when he could have a go at the feeder that waited under cover back at the work shed. Dolly led him along the waterway where thick lignum grew, the air dense with moisture. Ten minutes later they were across the earth-covered pipe crossing and walking back towards the homestead. Sam gave a satisfied nod, patted Dolly on the neck and rode happily home.
Sam flicked up the visor on his welding mask and turned the gas off on the cylinder. The sharp splatter of rain hitting corrugated-iron sounded like a thousand marbles being scattered on the roof above him. He stood upright, wincing at the pain in his thigh. Meg was right: the cut could have done with a few stitches, however he wasn’t letting any vet stick a cow-sized needle in him. Heck, he probably would have ended up being sown together with bailing twine, while Cora’s vet tried his best to entice Meg with his lopsided grin. Stitched up or not, the painful gash certainly didn’t like the long ride over the creek. He was pleased to be home.
The work shed quickly became an island as the rain thundered down, the wind carrying sheets of moisture into the building. Sam watched the downpour obliterate Harold’s house in the distance, blur tree and sky so that it became impossible to tell what was land and air. It would be a struggle to get back to the house in all the mud the way his leg was feeling, particularly as the wind was becoming stronger. For the briefest of seconds he imagined being lifted into the sky and hurled into the scrub, never to be found. Removing his thick welding gloves, Sam examined his handiwork. The feeder was usable again. Sure, it looked a bit battered and pockmarked from where he’d bashed it into some semblance of its former shape before welding it, however it had actually come up better than anticipated. He began stacking the sharp metal cut-offs against a 44-gallon drum, and rested the heavy mallet he’d used to bash the feeder into shape on the edge of the pile. His thoughts turned to Meg. After all what else did a bush man do on a wet afternoon? Even though he couldn’t promise he’d be at his peak, he’d give it a good go.
‘So you managed to get home.’ Kendal trudged into the shed, soaked through, Bouncer by his side. The dog looked like it could do with a feed.
‘Well, I didn’t see any rams. You?’ Sam wiped his hands on a greasy rag. Rivers of rainwater were beginning to flow into the shed.
‘I got them. They were hanging in the north-west corner. Is Cora with you?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Didn’t see her.’ Bouncer was snuffling at Kendal’s ankles. ‘I thought that dog –’
‘A dog has one bad day and Cora wants them put down. Won’t have anything disobedient on a sheep run, she reckons. As if she’d know anything about that.’
Sam turned back to the feeder.
‘Not a bad job, for a city bloke.’ Kendal gave the feeder a brief once over.
‘And like you could have done better.’ Sam placed the gloves on the workbench and began tidying the tools he’d used.
‘Meaning?’ Kendal rolled himself a smoke, drips of rain falling from his hat brim.
‘Your mother know you’re smoking?’ Sam hoped for a break in the rain; bad leg or not he just knew he was inches from an argument.
‘What’s it like then, having a wife related to Cora Hamilton?’
‘Well, it gave me a paying job.’ Sam wasn’t really sure what Kendal was angling at. ‘What’s really up your nose, Kendal? Lobbing in here unw
anted and discovering you weren’t going to be paid or working for a woman? Cause it sure doesn’t bother your uncle. He mightn’t agree with everything Cora says but I notice he’s still here.’
‘Working for a woman doesn’t sit well. It’s not in the natural order of things.’
Sam slid welding rods into a packet and sat them on the work bench. The shed was getting wet and muddy; a gap in the iron overhead ran water along timber girders to spill in a curtain. ‘It seems to me neither you nor your uncle have anywhere else to go and you resent that.’
‘She couldn’t run the place without Harold. He’s doing her the favour.’
‘Really?’
Kendal took a drag. ‘I suppose if you can’t tell what she is, it doesn’t really matter, but folks know. You ever wondered why no one’s rung up and asked you around for a meal or a beer?’
The kid was angling for a punch in the nose and with the trouble Sam’s leg was giving him it was going to happen sooner rather than later.
Kendal took two steps forward and poked his finger against Sam’s chest. ‘Well?’
Sam gave Kendal a shove. ‘Back off.’ The dog growled.
‘If youse went to the flicks there’d be special seating, you know.’ Kendal took a final drag of his smoke, flicking it onto the now waterlogged ground. ‘But you’d be in one section and the blacks would be in another and Cora Hamilton, well, she wouldn’t be welcome in either.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Sam looked at the youth standing opposite him in the cold and wet of the shed. Kendal was all rangy limbs and attitude, but there was something about his words that bit into Sam’s brain.
‘She’s a darkie. You know, touch of the tar brush and all that. Cora Hamilton probably shouldn’t even be holding this land; which means youse shouldn’t be here and your citified wife shouldn’t end up owning it.’
Sam lunged out with a swift uppercut. It was the same swing he’d used in the mechanic’s workshop in Sydney. He followed his fist with the full weight of his body, a smile of satisfaction lacing anger as he envisioned the boy laid out in the mud of the shed. Sam’s knuckles struck flesh and there was the resounding crack that only came with the shattering of a nose. Kendal gave a yelp like a wounded animal and stumbled backwards. For a moment Sam doubted the kid would fall and he readied himself for another punch, a quick felling jab to the kidneys. Sure enough, Kendal kicked out with his boot, striking Sam in his wounded thigh. Sam collapsed immediately, landing on his backside in the mud, aware Kendal had also fallen to the ground.
The dog hovered about Kendal, snuffling and whining like a tired child. ‘Oh be quiet,’ Sam chastised, struggling upright, using the feeder for support. Blood was soaking through his jeans and they were soggy with mud. He began to wonder if now he would need stitches, thanks to Harold’s hoodlum nephew. ‘Great, we’ll both end up dying of blasted pneumonia.’ He winced as he put equal weight on his injured leg. ‘Hey, Kendal, wake up.’ The boy appeared to be out cold. His face was a grey colour, blood oozing from his nose and a split on his top lip. Sam rubbed his bruised knuckles into the palm of his hand. For a kid, the boy sure had a hard skull. Wait till Lady Cora hears about this, he thought with amusement. It was just damn lucky Harold wasn’t here.
He walked to where Kendal lay, cautious of any underhand tactics. He’d been in plenty of fights in his youth when a ‘sleeper’ had jumped up unexpectedly to land a sneaky right-hander; or worse, lift a leg for an attack on the crown jewels. He skirted Kendal and kicked him ever so lightly in the thigh. The boy didn’t stir. Sam leant down warily and tapped the boy on the cheek. It was then that he noticed the blood seeping out from beneath Kendal’s body. The boy had fallen onto the pile of steel cut-offs. Sam took a step back, his face turning pale.
Chapter 48
Absolution Creek, 1924
Adams spent an hour or so riding about the property, leaving with a none-too-pleased expression on his face. Jack watched as the pair rode past the homestead, the one called Will pointing at the leopardwood sapling growing out from the side of the house. A steely light settled over the countryside as Jack made a point of walking to the middle of the dirt track, sweat masking his face in the noon heat. Adams looked through the dust, coat-tail flapping, and laughed. For the briefest of moments Jack visualised lifting a rifle, aiming it at the solid target of Adams’s back and dropping the man in the dirt of the road. Instead he trudged through the back yard, with its timber fence, wood shed, copper and outdoor toilet, hopeful Squib was hidden somewhere nearby. At the vegetable plot Thomas and Olive could be heard indoors, their voices murmur-soft. Only able to imagine their conversation, Jack gave the wind-twisted trees and scrubby bush a final scan. He knew Squib’s absence was premeditated and he thanked the saints his girl’s intuition was strong.
The kitchen grew silent as he entered. Olive held a skein of wool. Thomas concentrated on a penny-dreadful novel. The pretence at normality angered Jack. Where were they when he battled alone in the scrub? Where were they when he and Squib mustered sheep on foot and checked for maggots in the dusty haze that was Absolution Creek?
‘Well?’ Thomas asked. ‘They didn’t find her, did they?’
‘No,’ Jack confirmed. His thoughts alternated between what he wanted to do and what the law allowed. Maybe Adams was wrong. Maybe the girl they searched for came from a different family. Jack wiped sweaty palms on his trousers. His father’s Bible sat in the centre of the table. Of course she didn’t, the similarities were too great: the fall from the dray, the surname, and then there was Squib’s own revelation of having once lived on Waverly Station.
‘We have little choice in the matter.’ Thomas sat the book to one side and cut a wedge of bread from the loaf in the centre of the table. ‘We have to assist the authorities.’
‘And no doubt you two reached that decision unanimously,’ Jack challenged. Olive didn’t meet his gaze. ‘There’s always a choice. What I can’t fathom is why Adams would go out of his way to chase after the girl.’
Thomas considered his brother’s question. ‘Well, apart from the law, are you thinking revenge for that sheep-thieving business?’
‘Revenge is for fools and madmen,’ Olive interrupted. ‘Besides, the law’s the law, they’re merely doing their duty.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Olive, you’ve been after the girl since the moment you arrived. Why? It’s not like you could have managed without her. You weren’t used to washing or cooking or doing things a bit rough. Why, the first few weeks all you did was complain while Squib did most of the work.’
‘So I suppose I don’t do anything around here then, Jack.’ Olive stopped darning Jack’s woollen socks and stuck her finger through the hole in them, waggling it around for his benefit.
‘I’m not saying that. I’m asking you to appreciate that Squib has done a lot to ease your way into our new life.’
‘She knows no better.’
Jack banged his fist on the table. ‘That comment’s beneath you, Olive.’
‘And I’m sick of having to put up with her attitude. The girl would be a housemaid in my father’s home.’
‘Well, we’re not in Sydney any more,’ Jack replied curtly.
She eyed him back. ‘And you’re not telling me anything I don’t know.’ She tossed the socks into a basket on the dirt floor.
Jack knew his choices were limited. Squib would either have to be hidden until the trouble with Adams blew over or he’d have to find some other tactic to ensure her security. Either way he could not rely on his brother or fiancée for assistance.
‘You look a little peaky, Olive,’ Thomas said. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine, Thomas,’ Jack answered. ‘I was looking for you this morning.’
‘I was helping your fiancée as you never seem to be around.’
‘I see.’ Jack didn’t though, not really. What was he missing that Squib had seen? Olive looked reasonably healthy thanks to the extra weight sh
e now carried and while Thomas was overly attentive towards her at times, there was nothing to suggest there was anything other than friendship between them.
Jack upended the mail bag, grateful for the distraction. A newspaper and a number of letters slid onto the table. He wasn’t an argumentative man and he guessed it possible that Olive’s feelings for Squib were reciprocated, leading to the girl’s destructive comments. Women sure could be difficult.
‘The minister’s due in Stringybark Point next week,’ Thomas read from the newspaper, his voice sober.
‘Thank heavens.’ Olive’s comment was barely audible.
‘Well then.’ Having waited for this moment for weeks, Jack discovered the burst of joy he’d anticipated was sorely lacking. Olive was staring at him, her expression strangely hopeful. ‘All good things come to those who wait.’ His words sounded flat. What was he doing with this woman who was so at odds with this new world? What on earth was he doing?
‘I’m glad.’ Olive squeezed Jack’s hand.
‘Really, I thought you hated it here.’
‘Oh Jack, it’s been hard I’ll admit, but we can make things work.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘We’ll have to make a trip of it. Town for the weekend it is.’
Thomas coughed. ‘Of course, I’m happy for you both.’
Jack wondered if God would smile on him now, if marriage to Olive would clear him of disobeying his father’s dying wish. For surely that’s what this union meant. It was a joining beyond love. It was a chance for redemption. Having patiently waited to consummate his love for Olive, he’d grown tired from the wanting – tired and angry – yet perseverance was undoubtedly the key to salvation. Obviously they were meant to be together. Jack made a point of checking the mail, his thoughts spiralling downwards. There was an abyss opening around him and he knew to step inside was to lose the one thing that gave his life meaning: Squib. Yet she was but a girl and he nearing twenty. The thought was ludicrous.
Thomas rustled the paper. ‘What news then, Jack?’
Absolution Creek Page 39