by Pete Kahle
"It's four hundred and fifty a week, plus keep," I told him, brushing the clinging flies away from my face. "You sleep in the singles' quarters. You work hard. You follow orders. You keep your job. Okay?"
A blast of wind shot across the homestead, stirring the dry soil into red curtains.
"That'll do," Matt said, reaching down for his duffel. He tilted his head up at me. "You got pigs here? Hunting?"
We had them, all right. Three good seasons in a row and thick grass carpeted the soil, drying out now after a baking hot April. The mulga undulated like a grey-green sea between the red stone hills. The feral pig population had more than doubled in year. "Help yourself. Just don't shoot any cattle by mistake or it comes out of your wages."
He grunted as he straightened, the bag thudding against his back. "I won't thin your herd." He walked down the steps, a gangly post-adolescent in jeans and a grubby t-shirt. His boots were scuffed, the heels worn.
"Hey," I called to him, "I'm going into town tomorrow. I'll pick you up some new boots. What size?"
"Nine and a half." He turned, walked backwards and tugged his forelock in a mock salute. "Thanks Paul, I owe you."
I retreated into the cool of the house. Ellie was sipping iced tea, her nose buried in Country Life. "Who was that?"
"New hand. Skinny bugger. Might be all right."
But Ellie had already stopped listening. "Don't forget to pick Ashley up from the station tomorrow."
"I know," I said. As if I would forget to pick up my own daughter. I swatted at a fly that had snuck into the house to crawl across my lips.
# # #
Jules came to see me a couple of days later, when the wind had washed the flies away but stirred the red dust into choking clouds. The kitchen door banged shut behind her. Jules was the wife of my overseer, Bob, and the best station cook we had ever had. She pulled off her hat, brushing away the wisps of white hair. The skin on her face was permanently reddened, with dark spots from too many years in the wind and sun.
"We have a problem."
"What?" I had the accounts spread out on the table in front of me, and my tax return papers next to it. It was all I could do not to open the door and sling the lot out into the driving wind.
"Our new bloke. Matt."
"What about him?"
"I spent a couple of hours last night stitching up Davo after he and Matt had a set-to."
"So?" I shrugged. "Boys will be boys, and they fight sometimes, when the drink flows and the words get a little close to home." Although Davo was in his thirties now, and should be past that. "Will he be all right for the muster?" If I had to hire a 'copter pilot from out of town, that would cut deeply into our profits.
"Davo will be fine. It's Matt you need to talk to." Jules shook her head. "He likes to fight, that one. Likes the blood. It will mean trouble in the end."
I looked over at the home yards, the fences standing straight for the first time in years thanks to Matt, and shrugged again. "Come back and tell me when he won't work."
Jules left without another word, but I wasn't worried. She had a kind heart and never kept her grumps for long. She was probably just upset at having to doctor the loser.
I buried myself in my paperwork and promptly forgot Jules had even been here.
# # #
Davo recovered, but two days before the muster my head stockman, Lacey, got thrown and nearly killed by a demon horse that would not be broken.
I walked down to the yard with my rifle under one arm. Molly and her son Ozzie, my two blue heelers, shook the dust from their coats and followed me. I bent down to scratch at the eager heads, tongues hanging out even in this mild weather.
I passed the cluster of demountables that formed the stationhands' quarters. Matt was up to his armpit in one of the tank pipes, looking for a blockage that would periodically flood the men's bathroom. Two of my stockhands, Steve and Joe, were helping by scenting the air with nicotine and holding down the soil. As I approached, Matt grunted and withdrew his arm, pulling out the decomposed body of a large rat. The boys cheered and hosed him down. He shook like a dog getting water out of its coat.
"Whatcha doin, Paul?" Matt called as I passed.
"Going down to shoot a horse."
With this entertainment on hand, the boys threw down tools and followed. Matt jogged up beside me, pulling on his shirt.
"Don't shoot her, Paul. She's a good horse. I can ride her."
"No, Matt. I've seen horses like this before. She's a killer."
As we approached the rails, she snorted and kicked out. Her hooves hit the wooden rails with a crack. The fence shook.
"She's strong, is all. Come on, let me ride her."
"No. I've already got a health insurance claim to deal with and a head stockman in plaster. I don't need any more trouble."
"She won't be trouble. I know I can ride her. She's meant for me."
"I said no."
"Come on, Paul. Do right by me. Do right by me, or-"
"I am doing right by you." I raised the rifle, aimed. "I'm saving your life." Squeezed the trigger. Thud against my shoulder. Thud on the ground as she fell.
Matt pouted, a childish face that looked ugly on a grown man.
"There are other horses," I said.
"I was supposed to have that one."
I shrugged and walked back up to the house. When I looked down later he was butchering the carcass, throwing the joints into bins to be fed to the dogs. The hide hung over the rails, dripping, the tail stirring in the breeze.
# # #
Joe was a big, beefy lad, sunburned, fond of beer and utes and horses and country girls like most of his kind. To see him crying, rubbing his eyes like a child, was unsettling, unwelcome. I shoved a box of tissues towards him and retreated to the other end of the table. He grabbed a handful, balled them up and thrust them at his eyes as if he could push the tears back inside.
"I know what I s-saw," Joe said.
"Yeah, well, you were mistaken." I stepped over to the window and looked out. Mark, our local policeman, was talking to Matt and Steve. The boys stood with arms folded, pants and boots stained with blood. The tailgate was down on the ute, and a pair of pig legs dangled over the edge, exciting the dogs. There was still dew on the grass. The police had been here since dawn.
As I watched, the cops shook hands with the boys and got back in their 4WD. Matt and Steve waved as they drove off. Steve turned to the ute and the pig carcass without a glance at the homestead. Matt turned and made his way up towards the house.
Joe blew his nose. "Paul, you've got to believe me. He's-"
"Dead?" I watched Matt trudging up to the house, graceless but sturdy, to lean on a verandah post. "He looks pretty alive to me." I turned back to face Joe. "You must have seen Steve killing the boar, in the dark, and-"
"I know what I saw." Joe was calmer now, a cold, pale calm. "He stuck that pigsticker in. Stuck it in and held Matt down and he squealed and squealed-"
"Stop it!" I snapped. I swallowed the bile in my throat. "Just stop it. Matt's alive. Steve did not kill him. And if they're dumb enough to hunt pigs with a spear, well…." More fool them, I thought, but it would end today. "Go back to quarters. Have a day off, get drunk, whatever. And you'd better say something to Steve, since you just accused him of murder."
"I've got something to say to him, all right," he rasped. "But I won't stay here. I'm off."
"Don't be an idiot. Let it go."
"No." He shook his head, stood, knocked the chair over in his haste. "No, I'm going. And if you had any sense you'd run that bastard off before you lose something important to you." Joe backed towards the door, fumbled, opened it. "Bye Paul. Good bloody luck."
"Joe--" I started, but he was gone. "Joe, you bastard, now I'm two hands down," I muttered under my breath, but to be honest, I was relieved. Joe's screaming entry before dawn, the story, the tears, had all been dramatic and awkward and unsettling.
The door opened and Ashley came in. "Joe ok?"
she said.
"No. He's leaving." I watched him out the window. Matt pushed off the post and stepped towards Joe, but Joe backed away hastily and headed for the ute where Steve worked on the pig carcass. I couldn't hear what they said, but the next moment Joe was down in the dust. Steve made a kicking motion towards him and he shuffled backwards, then got up and ran. I sighed. So ended a friendship. "And we're shorthanded already."
Ashley reached up and put her arm around my shoulders. "Never mind, Dad. Chris will be home next week. And I'm not completely useless, you know. We'll manage."
"Sure we will."
She planted a kiss on my cheek and was gone.
Matt was still on the verandah when I came out. "Did the police charge you?"
"Nah."
"Say anything about the spear?"
"Nah."
I grunted and headed down to the ute. The spear was strapped across the back. I reached for it and Matt grabbed my arm.
"That's mine, Paul. I made it."
I shook him off, grabbed the spear and hauled it from the back of the ute. "You want to hunt pigs, you use a gun like everyone else. This is too dangerous."
"I can handle it, Paul."
I stared into the pale eyes and shook my head. "This is my property, Matt. You can take it with you when you leave – I don't care what you do then. But while you work here, you do what you're told. Understood?"
Colour bloomed on his cheeks, drowning the freckles. "That's twice you've defied me, Paul."
"Righty-o." I hauled the spear off, grunting. It felt heavy in my hand, slick and warm. Steve stepped in front of me.
"Don't you start anything either." After a moment, he stepped out of my path. I turned to face the two of them. "Next time you want to do something stupid, don't do it on my property." I turned my back on them and walked up to the house. The spear I shoved behind the hot water system in the laundry.
When I looked out again, the boys were carrying tools over toward the hay barn. The gutted pig carcass hung from the lowest branch of the wandoo tree, dripping blood onto the dry soil.
# # #
I spent the next few weeks mending fences that Joe should have been mending, for steers that Lacey should be managing. I looked over the fence at the broad backs, the thick necks, listened to the sound of them tearing at the pale, straw-coloured grasses under the mulga. I threw my hammer down and went back to the ute for a drink.
Old John crouched in the shade beside the ute, where my lunch and my canteen were slowly getting warmer.
"You got big trouble, Paul," he said by way of greeting. John had been gone for months, gone walkabout on some private business of his own, and since it was John's job to maintain the windmills and tanks, he had been missed.
I grunted and reached for the canteen, almost committing a dreadful social gaffe in the eyes of the old aborigine by asking him where he'd been.
"You're telling me. Lacey's going to be out for weeks, Joe's gone, and now I'm two hands down."
"Going to be more than that by the time it's over."
I turned to look at John. "What do you mean?"
"He's bad, that fella. Bad clear through. You got to get him off your land, Paul."
“Who?”
“Matt.”
"For what?" I took a long pull on my canteen. "For being young and hot-headed? He's no worse than any of the other jackaroos we've had here." I shrugged. "He gets the job done and he doesn't backchat."
John just shook his head.
"What is it that bothers you? What's he done?" I knew it was pointless asking – John would be no more likely to say something derogatory about another person than I would be likely to start drinking Ellie's herbal tea.
"You just be careful, Paul." He stood up and came over to me. "You want me to finish up?"
"No, I'm almost done. But one of the boys said the windmill in the south paddock wasn't turning freely."
"All right. I'll fix it."
When he had gone I shook my head, but a nagging doubt wormed its way into my chest. It must have cost John a lot to come and say that. So what could he see in Matt that I couldn't?
# # #
I'd been expecting Chris all morning, but it was after four by the time he pulled up in front of the house in a cloud of dust.
"You're late," I said.
"Had a flat tyre out near Pinjar. Stopped for a beer after." Chris grinned and took the three verandah steps in one long stride. He draped an arm over my shoulders. "Good to be home. What have I missed?"
Ellie and Ashley came out to claim his attention, and I went to get a beer of my own. Later we sat on the verandah and watched the clouds pile up over the hills. Chris was arguing with me about tax deductions when Matt came out of quarters and walked across to us.
"Hey Paul. Can I have a day off?"
"What for?"
"Want to buy a car."
I grunted. "We're short-handed."
"Yeah, I know. I'll work extra. We won't get behind."
I had no reason to refuse him. Matt did the work of two men. "When?"
"Whenever you're going into town next."
"Not for a while."
Chris leaned forward. "I'll take you. Got to pick up some new duds."
Matt took a moment to look at my son, taller and broader than he was though they must have been around the same age. A slow smile broke out on his face.
"Fine by me." I said, and introduced them.
Matt nodded his thanks and headed for the horse yard.
"Where'd he come from?" said Chris.
"Some place in Europe. Came over on a working visa."
"He all right?"
I thought about Davo and Joe and Old John's warning. "Works hard. I got no complaints."
# # #
Matt came back from town with a brand-new Hilux ute. First thing he did was tie the cured horse-hide across the roof, the tail hanging down over the tray.
Chris came in that evening with his gun.
"Where you off to?"
"Going to break in Matt's new truck."
I looked out the window. Steve and Matt were loading the ute. A flicker of memory stirred; Matt and Steve and Joe going out into the bush.
"Be careful, huh?"
Chris looked surprised. "I'm always careful, Dad."
"I know." Old John's warning came back to me. "Just… don't do anything stupid."
Chris laughed at me. "I won't."
"Going to be back tonight?"
"I don't know." He shoved his hat on his head. "Depends on whether we get anything."
Warnings pressed against my lips but I kept quiet. I had no reason to warn Chris. It was just nerves, brought on by Old John and his worries.
"Have a good hunt."
"Thanks."
I watched them drive off into the dusk.
# # #
Ellie kicked me out of bed at two in the morning, when my restless tossing and turning had woken her for the third time. I went downstairs and lay on the couch under the fan, listening to the distant lowing of cattle, the metallic rattling of the dog chains. Something creaked every time the wind blew, and I remembered that there was a loose sheet on the hay shed. I'd forgotten to tell Matt about it.
"Dad."
I woke to find Chris leaning over me, grinning, and sunlight seeping in the windows.
"Did Mum kick you out?"
I rubbed my face. "Yeah. Have a good night?"
"We did."
Ellie's voice floated down the stairs. "Is that you, Chris?"
"Yeah, Mum."
"Put the kettle on, will you?"
Chris winked at me. I saw his gun leaning against the door. I picked it up and looked out the window. There was no new pig carcass hanging from the Wandoo. I glanced over at Chris. Dried blood had spattered his boots. Oh well. Maybe the carcass hadn't been worth bringing back.
# # #
We waited in the fog-choked morning air, shivering in our jackets, listening for the sound of the chopper.
When the fog lifted, Davo would be flying over, flushing the cattle out of the brush so we could herd them down the sandy river bed to the yards. Five days on the muster and my bones were complaining, the cold eating into fingers broken many times, nipping at faces chapped by the wind and scoured by dust. This was the high point of our year, when we found out how much the herd had increased by, whether we would be celebrating a paycheck fat with bonuses or drowning our sorrows in cheap beer.
There was a breath of wind on my cheek, and the mulga started to take shape around us, spider webs in the grass with clinging droplets of water that would burn off at the first touch of the sun.
"Coming in!" someone cried, and then I heard the thud-thud of the chopper in the distance and we were off.
The rising sun boiled off the mist as we rode through it. The cattle pounded the dust with their hooves, stirring it into choking clouds. Whips cracked away through the scrub as we drove stragglers toward the main herd, and the cattle dogs darted fearless among the herd, snapping at hocks and missing death by inches.
Seeing Matt ride I could almost believe he could have ridden the horse that threw Lacey. It didn't matter which horse he picked in the morning, they moved to his will, eyes rolling white as they streaked across the landscape after breakers. By day five Matt had the prime position near the front, where the dust wasn't nearly as bad.
Chris and Matt worked together more often than not. I didn't notice anything odd about that until I handed my plate back to Jules one night after dinner.
"Poor Steve," she said.
I followed her gaze to where Steve sat, slightly apart from the other stockhands, tearing a grass stem to shreds. I turned my head a little more to see Matt leaning on a tree, listening to Chris tell some tale with lots of arm waving. Their laughter floated across to us.
"Why poor Steve?"
Jules gave me a pitying look. "He's out in the cold, that's why."
"He's got a damn jacket," I grunted and walked off. I had no time for spats, or sulks, or whatever Steve was going through.
