“You think that could be Harry’s horse?” Rowland rubbed the back of his neck.
Clyde nodded. “It wouldn’t be particularly surprising if…”
“If they hadn’t said Harry had ridden away,” Rowland finished for him.
Clyde nodded. “I should have said something before they left.”
“It’s probably fortunate you didn’t. They’re carrying guns.”
“I noticed,” Clyde frowned. A shotgun probably had its uses in protecting stock from wild dogs and dingoes, but the weapons he’d caught sight of were handguns.
They threw a couple more logs on the last glowing embers in the fire pit and stared silently at the growing flames.
“So what do you reckon, Rowly?” Clyde asked finally, as he took cigarette papers and a tin of tobacco from his breast pocket.
Rowland dragged at his hair. “Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation for Harry’s horse… Perhaps it threw him and came back to camp of its own accord.”
“It’s a horse not a pigeon, Rowly.”
Rowland smiled. “Still.”
Clyde sighed. “No—you’re right.”
“There is something going on though,” Rowland said. “Do you think you could find your way to the next lease?”
Clyde nodded, lighting his cigarette on the fire. “It shouldn’t be too hard. Why?”
“Thought we might go and speak to the men working O’Shea’s—they may have seen Harry or know something.”
Clyde drew on his cigarette. “Not a bad idea. O’Shea’s Hut isn’t that far from here, maybe an hour or so on horseback… if we can get Milt up.”
Rowland looked back towards Rope’s End. It was silent. The others were obviously not yet awake. He checked his watch—it had only just gone past six. “Let them sleep,” he said. “We can be back before midday.” He took his sketchbook out of his jacket and proceeded to scribble a note.
Clyde yawned. “I’ll get the horses ready then.” He glanced at the camp oven which still hung over the fire pit. “You’re sure you don’t want some breakfast before we go?”
Rowland grimaced. “No.”
O’Shea’s Hut was situated in a long valley, sheltered from the winds by sharp rises on either side and conveniently near a small stream on which a water wheel had been constructed. It was not quite a homestead but it was a great deal less rustic than Rope’s End. There were two chimneys on the hut—a large flue of stone which identified the fireplace and a second smaller chimney. The lean-tos were well stocked with firewood, bags of flour, alcohol, and other supplies. Stockyards and cattle runs had also been erected near the hut, but they were currently empty. A freshly slaughtered beast was hanging by a chain from the branch of an old stringy bark.
“These blokes are well set up,” Clyde murmured, as they rode up.
Rowland agreed. “It does seem rather more civilised than Rope’s End.”
There were only two men in the hut, the others having ridden out to check on the cattle. Rowland introduced himself and Clyde, and O’Shea’s men cautiously invited them in and offered them a drink. The inside of the hut was also well appointed. A sturdy table for dining; a cast iron, potbellied stove, as well as the fire; and an Astor radiola, apparently powered by the waterwheel.
“Lou Merrick, Mr. Sinclair.” The solid, bearded stockman shook Rowland’s hand vigorously. “Me mate’s Hans Iverson.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Merrick. Mr. Iverson.” Rowland greeted each man in turn.
“Sinclair? Say, you’re not the fella who buck jumped in his wedding suit?”
Iverson looked Rowland up and down and concluded that he was indeed. His face creased with amusement. “Would have made it easy to lay you out, I guess.”
“Lay me out?”
Merrick grinned. “Most folks figured they’d be burying you after the buck jumping.”
Clyde chuckled.
“You were at Rules Point I take it?” Rowland smiled.
“Naw, but word travels fast up here. What can we do you for?”
“I seem to have lost one of my men, Mr. Merrick. I was hoping that you might have seen him.”
“Simpson.”
“Yes.”
“We heard he’d done a runner. That snake fella, Eichorn, reckons he saw Simpson in Corryong.”
“Did you run into Simpson while he was out here?” Clyde asked.
“We don’t really do much socialising.”
Rowland smiled again. For some reason an image of the Cassidy brothers in evening gowns came too easily to mind.
“That’s probably a good thing, Rowly,” Clyde said, settling into an easychair with his coffee. “If your crew saw this place they’d start to think the Sinclairs weren’t doing the right thing by them.”
Rowland nodded. “It’s certainly what I’d be thinking.”
Merrick seemed gratified. “Mr. O’Shea used to muster his own cattle once, and he ain’t forgotten. We don’t see him no more, of course, but he insists that the men are looked after proper… makes ’em loyal. You wouldn’t find any of my boys wandering off the job.”
“Indeed.” Rowland gave no sign of his annoyance with the widespread insistence that Simpson had walked away.
“So how many head are you carrying up here?” Clyde asked with a sideways glance at Rowland.
Merrick smiled smugly. “Two thousand.”
“Blimey—how big’s the lease?”
“A thousand acres, give or take.”
They talked for a while longer of cattle and feed, and other aspects of animal husbandry which Clyde seemed to understand much better than Rowland. In time Merrick checked his watch pointedly, and spoke of the dog fence that he intended to work on that day. Hint taken, they thanked Merrick and Iverson for their hospitality and remounted for the ride back to Rope’s End.
“Rowly, how big’s your lease?” Clyde asked as they rode.
“About four thousand acres I believe.”
Clyde was surprised. “How’d you manage that? I thought there were limits.”
“I didn’t manage, Wilfred did. The Sinclair holding is, so I’m told, made up of a number of leases. Wilfred applied for the extra land in my name to get around the restrictions.”
“You know, Rowly,” Clyde continued thoughtfully, “Moran said last night that they expected to count out less than a thousand Sinclair cattle in the muster.”
Rowland nodded, remembering the conversation vaguely. “Maybe that’s what Wil meant about the numbers being off…”
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
“So what now, Rowly?” Clyde asked finally.
Rowland shook his head. “I don’t know. Other than this supposed sighting in Corryong, Harry seems to have bloody well disappeared.” He stared towards the horizon clearly frustrated. “Perhaps we should be asking after him in Corryong.”
Clyde frowned. He didn’t for a minute think Rowland was serious about looking for Simpson in Corryong, but they weren’t having much luck here.
Perhaps because they were both unsure of what to do next, their conversation turned instead to other matters. As always when he was in need of distraction, Rowland’s mind went to art. Clyde’s thoughts were quick to follow and soon they were deep into a discussion of Nora Heysen, whose first solo exhibition had caused a sensation in Sydney that year.
“Nora could win the Archibald one day.” Rowland had met the young South Australian briefly. They had a common love of portraiture, although Rowland had a preference for nudes.
“She is good,” Clyde agreed, thinking appreciatively of her work. Nora Heysen was barely more than twenty and yet it was already clear that she was within that tiny circle of artists who could achieve greatness. To Clyde’s mind, Rowland Sinclair was similarly talented, though possibly not driven enough to ever join the artistic elite.
“Are you planning on finishing your painting for the classical figures exhibition?” Clyde’s voice was painstakingly casual. “The one of Miss Marti
nelli?”
Rowland hadn’t thought of the model in some time. “Only if I don’t have to use her again.”
“It’s hard to finish a piece like that from memory,” Clyde mumbled, “and it was coming along so well.”
Rowland’s brow rose. “You think I should get Rosalina Martinelli to pose for me again? Clyde… she’s impossible.”
Clyde reddened, and smiled self-consciously. “We all have to suffer for our art, Rowly.”
“Not that much.” For a time neither said a word.
“Have you forgotten all the weeping and praying?” Rowland asked finally.
“You can’t hold a moral upbringing against her, Rowly.”
“Why not? It’s damned inconvenient.”
Clyde shrugged. “I’m just saying, she’s rather pretty.”
Rowland stared at him. “Why don’t you ask her to model for you then?”
“I’m not really interested in her as a model.” Clyde sighed, coming clean at last.
Rowland laughed. “All the more reason to ask her to model for you, I should think.”
Clyde looked ahead. “That would be highly unprofessional, Rowly.” He smiled. “Besides, I think I’d rather be the shoulder she cries on.”
Removing his hat, Rowland wiped his brow with his forearm. “She does do rather a lot of that, Clyde old man.” He shook his head in disbelief. Clyde had always been the most level-headed of them. “Are you sure? You might find her moral upbringing more inconvenient than I did.”
Clyde sighed again. “Quite possibly. But Cupid’s arrows don’t always fly straight.”
“Cupid’s arrows? Good Lord, you sound like Milt!”
Clyde looked startled. “You won’t mention this to Milt, will you? He’d never let me…”
“No, I won’t tell him.”
“And you’ll re-hire Miss Martinelli?”
“Falling in love with models is rather a bad idea, Clyde.”
“She won’t be my model.”
Rowland groaned. “She’s Catholic at least. That should make your mother happy.”
Clyde grinned. “Thanks Rowly. You’re a mate.”
“So it seems.”
Clyde’s romantic ambitions thus sorted, the conversation moved to more technical subjects. Rowland had been experimenting with the palette knife over the summer. The resultant work was softer and more textured. It suited his style and he was quite intrigued with its possibilities. Clyde was committed to his brushes, insisting that he had no desire to become a plasterer.
It was in the midst of this good-natured debate that they first noticed the smoke.
21
BURNS AND SCALDS
In burns of the first degree pain is most quickly relieved by an application of bicarbonate of soda, made into a paste with a little water, laid thickly on the skin, and kept in place by a sterile piece of flannel or cotton cloth. Healing may be hastened by an application of picric acid, for first aid use, or of the tincture of the chloride of iron.
The treatment of a burn of the second degree consists in the application of melted paraffin with thin sheets of cotton. Before this is done the blisters must be opened, the fluid being allowed to run away, but without removing the outer layer of skin. The application is to be renewed every day, or every second day as it becomes loosened.
A burn of the third degree, and even one of the second, if extensive, calls for management by a doctor, for general as well as local treatment is necessary in such cases.
Gippsland Times, 1930
“What the devil?” Rowland stood in the saddle and squinted towards the smoke. It was clearly more than the output of the fire pit.
Clyde kicked his horse into a gallop. Rowland followed suit. The smoke thickened, a billowing column churning skyward. Rope’s End came into view. It was ablaze.
The horses baulked but Clyde and Rowland urged them on and brought them up to the burning hut in a cloud of dust and panic.
“Rowly!” Edna screamed from near the door.
Rowland slipped off his mount and ran to her. He seized Edna in his arms, forgetting himself in his relief. It was short-lived.
“Rowly, Milt’s still in there.”
“Mr. Isaacs! Mr. Isaacs!” Sarah Brent shouted into the window. It was impossible to see anything through the smoke.
Rowland released Edna. They didn’t waste any further time. Clyde gulped air and entered the hut bent low as the flames engulfed the roof. Rowland dived in after him. The room was black with smoke. Rowland stumbled first on the body facedown in the middle of the floor.
“Clyde!” He kept one hand on the body and reached for Clyde with the other. A beam crashed down somewhere in the hut. Rowland could hear Edna scream outside. The heat was intense, it seemed to suck the air from their lungs. There was no time for anything but a blind frantic lunge for the door, dragging the body between them. They pulled Milton clear of the hut, and collapsed beside him, coughing black soot and choking for clean air.
Edna knelt beside Milton. She rolled him over, calling his name. Sarah Brent loosened the unconscious poet’s cravat. Clyde was still coughing. Rowland was on his knees, gasping.
Sarah Brent took charge. She held Milton’s head in the crook of her arm and dribbled water from a canteen onto his blistered lips. At first, nothing, but she persisted. Eventually, wondrously, Milton gagged and spluttered, and finally he swore.
Edna smiled faintly, reassured by the spontaneous profanity. She passed the canteen to Clyde and Rowland, concerned now for them.
They watched, bewildered, as Rope’s End burned to the ground. The fire did not spread—the area around the hut was too bare to provided passage away from its source. In time, the roar of the flames subsided and Rowland was able to make his hoarse, scorched voice heard. “What happened?”
“A log rolled out of the fireplace and caught.” Edna stared at the remains of the hut. “Milt went back in with a blanket to try and put it out.”
Milton winced as Sarah Brent poured water over the burns on his left hand and wrist. “I knocked over one of the bottles of Eichorn’s Snakebite Cure that were on the mantel,” he rasped. “Bloody thing exploded.” He brought his good hand gingerly to the back of his head. “I must’ve knocked myself out when I fell.”
Clyde raised himself onto his elbows. “That was a close shave, Milt.”
Rowland nodded. “Next time just let the place burn.”
“Well, it did anyway,” Sarah Brent said curtly, tearing some of the fabric from her voluminous skirt to make bandages.
Rowland dragged himself to his feet and offered his hand to Clyde. “If you ladies can take care of Milt, Clyde and I had better go and catch the horses.” He spotted the two saddled animals not far away. “Then we’ll work out what to do.”
As it turned out, Clyde and Rowland were able to retrieve only four of the five horses they had hired from Lawrence Keenan. They took those animals down to the creek for watering before tethering them to a tree.
They returned to find Milton sitting up, demanding the return of his cravat.
Rowland put down the pail of water he had brought up from the creek and sat on a log.
“How’s Milt?” he asked Sarah Brent, because she seemed to know what she was doing.
“He should be seen by a doctor as soon as possible,” she replied, wrapping strips of soaked cloth around the poet’s blistered hand.
“Can he ride?”
“I’m fine,” Milton muttered, straightening.
“The burns will probably be more painful in a while,” Sarah Brent said, frowning. “But he should be able to stay on a horse.”
“We’re down one horse,” Clyde said. “And it’s too long a ride for one horse to take two of us.”
“Mr. Isaacs needs to see a doctor as soon as possible.” Sarah was insistent.
“What if we do this?” Rowland glanced from the horses to his companions. “Clyde, you and Miss Brent ride back to Rules Point with Milt. Ed and I will take the other ho
rse and ride for O’Shea’s. It’s just over an hour away. I’m sure they’ll give us shelter for the night.”
“Shouldn’t you send Ed back?” Clyde asked. “I could stay with you.”
Rowland shook his head. “The weight of the two of us would be too hard on the horse. There isn’t much of Ed at the moment.” He glanced at Sarah Brent and continued hesitantly, fully expecting to cause the writer offence. “I’d be happier knowing you were escorting Milton and Miss Brent… just in case.”
The writer bristled momentarily, but she said nothing.
Rowland moved on quickly.
“Once you get back to Rules Point, send someone back to us with an extra horse, just in case O’Shea’s men don’t have one spare.”
Clyde nodded. He could see the sense of Rowland’s plan. He checked the position of the sun. “Fair enough. If we move quickly, we’ll get most of the way before dark. We don’t want to be stuck out overnight without swags.”
“We’re lucky the saddles weren’t in the hut.” Rowland walked over to his horse and pulled his riding coat from the pack behind the saddle. He’d worn it that morning so it had survived the fire. The day wasn’t yet too cold, but the weather in the mountains was highly localised and temperamental.
“Take this,” he said, pushing the riding coat into the saddlebag of Milton’s horse. Sarah Brent seemed to have a shawl but Milton’s overcoat had obviously been in the hut.
“What about you and Ed?” Milton protested.
“We don’t have as far to go.”
Rowland and Clyde saddled and checked the horses, and refilled the canteens, while Sarah Brent and Edna tried to protect Milton’s injuries for the journey. For the moment the poet did not seem too bad, but he was unusually quiet.
“Look, Clyde,” Rowland watched the poet, anxiously, “as soon as you’ve made sure Milt’s all right, would you get in touch with your brothers?”
“Why?”
“I need some men I can trust. They’d know the locals. I want a dozen men up here to look for Harry. I’ll pay whatever wages they want.”
Clyde snorted. It was clear Rowland hadn’t made the Sinclair fortune. “Okay. I’ll send word to Jim. I’m sure he knows a few blokes who would be glad of a job. What about Moran’s crew?”
Miles Off Course Page 16
