“I haven’t decided if I need to sack them yet, but I don’t trust them to look for Harry.”
Clyde nodded. “Fair enough.” He glanced back at the smouldering hut. “They’re going to get a surprise when they come back.”
“That won’t be for a few days. Hopefully by then we’ll have sorted this jolly mess out.”
They helped Milton into the saddle, and tethered his horse to Clyde’s. The poet’s hand was too painful to grip the reins properly.
Edna said goodbye a little tearfully. “You look after Milt,” she entreated Clyde. “I’m not sure he should be riding.”
“I’ll be all right,” the poet said slowly. “I won the buck jumping, remember?”
22
CATTLE BRANDS
SINGLETON
The stock inspector, Mr. G. R. Freeman, has reported that a circular has been received, proposing to alter the position of brands on large stock, especially of cattle. The proposal originated with the Tanners and Leather Association, who pointed out that there was a loss in the value of hides to the amount of £100,000. He was of the opinion that if the branding were altered, and an increased price for hides given, not one penny would go into the pockets of either the breeders or fatteners of cattle. There was not the least doubt that the best place to brand a beast was on the cheek, but this could be only done when a calf. When cattle were branded high on the body it was much easier for an owner to pick out his cattle when looking through a mob.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1912
Edna sat rather forlornly on the log bench as Clyde, Milton and Sarah Brent rode from sight.
Rowland sat beside her. “He’ll be all right, Ed. Milt’ll dine out on this for years.”
“I hope so.” Edna sighed. “At least Sarah is with him… she worked in a hospital during the Great War.”
Rowland was comforted by the reminder.
“She was just an orderly… but still, she might have picked up a thing or two…”
Rowland looked down and laughed. “I’m sure she did.”
Edna studied him critically. She pulled a few flakes of ash from his hair. “If we’re going visiting, perhaps we’d better wander down to the creek and clean ourselves up a bit.”
Rowland glanced at the sculptress. Her creamy skin was streaked and her hair stood out in every direction. Even so, she caused the breath to catch in his throat. “You look fine, Ed.”
She patted his knee. “You look like a chimney sweep.”
And so they paused to make themselves presentable. The stream water was clear as glass, but icy, and Rowland was reminded of his fondness for hot and cold plumbing. Still he was grateful to wash the sticky smoke residue from his face and neck. His suit had seen better days, but they were not calling on the king.
Rowland wondered briefly if Moran and his men had spotted the smoke. He supposed it would depend on where exactly they were. He had been quite surprised when they had returned to work, having expected Moran’s crew to try harder to persuade him to abandon his search.
Edna somehow emerged from fifteen minutes of streamside grooming looking entirely kempt, if a little windswept. “After the Hydro Majestic, I never thought I’d miss hot baths again,” she admitted, rubbing her arms against the creeping cold. Kate’s riding habit was the height of chic, or it had been when Edna had first put it on, but it was not really made for the highland chill.
Rowland mounted and sat well back in the saddle so there would be room for Edna in front of him. He pulled her up and put his arms around her to hold the reins. In that way he protected her a little from the wind.
The ride to O’Shea’s Hut was slow going. They stopped often, conscious that carrying two adults would test the endurance of any horse, but the trail was not unpleasant and Edna and Rowland had never found it difficult to be in each other’s company. The way was relatively flat, though the trail wound with the erratic paths of the mountain streams. On occasion they came across small mobs of cattle sleek on the grasses of Long Plain. Once they spotted brumbies. The wild horses roamed the High Country and had never known farrier or stable, blacksmith or brush, and yet they were as handsome as any horse Rowland had seen.
As much as he tried to ignore it, Rowland was very aware of Edna as they rode—on the saddle before him she may as well have been in his arms. But he was a gentleman, and he kept his mind on the task at hand. Still, he was conscious of having to do so.
They were still out of sight of O’Shea’s Hut when they heard the cattle—the strident lowing of beasts being handled. For some reason Rowland reined in their horse.
“What’s wrong, Rowly?” Edna could feel his body tensing behind hers.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing.” Merrick hadn’t mentioned that they were bringing cattle into the yards. It was too early to do so—there was still at least two months before the snow season—and Rowland distinctly recalled Merrick talking about spending the day working on a dog-proof fence. “Ed, would you mind terribly if we walked up the hillside a bit and came down behind those trees?” He pointed out the route.
“Whatever for?”
“Well, if we go that way, I can have a look at what they’re doing before we ride in. It’s probably nothing, but I’d rather like to check.”
She sighed and leaned back against him. “Okay… sleuth all you like, as long as someone feeds us soon. I’m starving.”
Rowland smiled. “Sorry, it won’t take long. I just have this feeling.”
He took the horse off the trail and into the scrub. The undergrowth was not particularly thick and so it was not a difficult path despite being steep in places. As they got closer, they dismounted and led the animal instead. Rowland stopped at a spot where they could see down into O’Shea’s Hut and its surrounds. There were at least sixty head in the yards. Large healthy beasts, with gleaming hides. The cattle were being pushed into the series of roughly constructed yards. A fire roared in a pit beside a rudimentary crush. Several men, on horseback and on foot, went about their business.
Rowland cursed.
“What is it, Rowly?” Edna asked, whispering already.
Rowland pointed. “That’s Moran, and there’s Lofty. I’m not sure but I think those men could be the Cassidys.”
“But what are they doing here?”
“I have no idea.” He tied the horse to a tree. “I’m just going to get a bit closer and see what they’re up to.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Maybe you should stay here.”
“Why?”
“Well, you could always go for help if this turns out to be a bad idea.”
Edna shook her head. “I haven’t a clue how to get out of here, Rowly. I’d get hopelessly lost and die of exposure… or starvation, or…”
“All right, but we’re just going to have a look… just so we know if we need to get out of here.” He stroked the horse’s muzzle. “Won’t be long, old girl.”
Quietly, without any sign to the sculptress, he slipped his hand into his saddlebag and removed his revolver. Edna didn’t like guns. There was no need for her to know he had one in his pocket.
They made their way carefully down towards the hut, emerging from the scrub behind the yards. Crouched low, they were unseen and unnoticed. Rowland followed the perimeter of the yards to the runs into which the cattle were being herded. At the end of the run was a single small pen, within which the cattle were being contained one at a time. Ropes were used to hobble the animal and keep it still. Moran and Joe Cassidy stood by the fire pit with Merrick.
Merrick was shouting at Blue Cassidy who sullenly flung a branding iron back into the coals. “We’re going to have to shoot that one you bloody moron! I told you to be careful… if it’s not exactly in the right spot it’ll be obvious what we’re doing!”
“Settle down, Lou.” Joe Cassidy came to his brother’s defence. “There’re plenty of bloody cows.”
Rowland looked carefully at the cattle in the run. They had already been brand
ed—a flying ‘s’—the Sinclair brand. He watched as Blue Cassidy tried again. The stockman took the glowing iron from the fire and approached the rump of the cow which had been put into the holding pen. Blue raised the iron and brought it down quickly, burning directly over the old brand with a simple red hot circle. The animal bellowed and kicked.
Edna could see Rowland’s jaw harden. The dark blue of his eyes glinted furiously as he gazed at the beast Blue Cassidy had just branded. She grabbed his hand to get his attention.
“What are they doing?” she whispered.
“They’re amending the brand, placing an ‘o’ over the flying ‘s’,” he replied tightly. “It turns the Sinclair brand into O’Shea’s.”
“They’re cattle stealing?” Edna said, shocked.
“I believe that’s what people call it.”
Edna watched in dismay as the rebranding continued. Rowland now looked more disgusted than anything else.
“Rowly, what are we going to do?”
He turned back towards her, his face grim. “Dropping in is probably out of the question,” he said. “We’re going to have to get out of here and hope like hell that the poor bloody horse doesn’t die of exhaustion before we find shelter for the night.”
Edna nodded. It would be dark within a couple of hours but they really didn’t have any other option.
A sudden crack exploded over the noise of cattle and men and echoed through the valley. Edna tried to suppress a scream but she didn’t quite manage it. Rowland barely flinched—from where he was, he could see Joe Cassidy with the stockwhip. Only Moran seemed to hear Edna’s cry and alone moved to investigate.
“Ed, go now!” Rowland whispered. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Realising she’d exposed them, Edna did as he asked. Rowland took the gun from his pocket and flicked the safety. He pushed himself back against the rail, still crouching as he waited for Moran to come around the run. He didn’t wait long.
Moran caught sight of Edna as she darted away from the yards, scrambling towards the scrub. Before he could raise a shout he felt the hard, cold muzzle of a gun in his ribs. Rowland Sinclair’s voice was in his ear. “I’d stop right there, Mr. Moran.”
Moran froze. “The boys will mow you down as soon as you get off the first shot, Sinclair.”
“I’d just worry about that first shot if I were you.”
“Drop the gun, Sinclair.” Blue Cassidy emerged with a pistol.
Rowland eyed the gun. He decided to call the stockman’s bluff. “I think you’re more likely to miss than I am, Cassidy,” he said, poking his own revolver into Moran’s back.
“Blue…” Moran started nervously.
A scream and Edna’s furious cursing from the scrub. The sculptress had been caught.
“Let her go!” Rowland demanded, keeping his gun on Moran.
“Drop the gun, Sinclair, or we’ll brand her like one of your flaming cows.”
Rowland wasn’t sure if they were serious. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, take the risk… and he wasn’t about to shoot a man in the back anyway. Slowly, Rowland pulled the gun away from Moran and tossed it to the ground. “Don’t hurt her.”
Moran turned and punched him. As Rowland reeled back against the rail, Moran picked up the gun he had dropped. Andy Cassidy dragged Edna, kicking and screaming, back to the yard.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?” Moran demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Lou Merrick turned on Moran. He swore at him for a while, until Moran lost patience and threatened to shoot him.
“I thought you took care of this,” Merrick spat. “What happened to your blokes from the city?”
“I don’t know,” Moran replied. “Just shut up and let me think.” He moved back to Rowland. “Where are the rest of your people, Sinclair? The old witch and the ponce with the neckscarf?”
Rowland said nothing.
“Don’t make me hurt the girl, Sinclair, because believe me, I will… or perhaps you’d like to see your brand on her pretty little rump.”
“I sent them back down to Rules Point,” Rowland replied, glancing at Edna.
“Why?”
“Rope’s End burnt down.”
“Why didn’t you and the girl go with them?”
“We lost a horse. We thought we could borrow another from the chaps at O’Shea’s.”
“Bloody terrific!” Merrick exploded. “Their friends will be here looking for them in a couple of days.”
Moran remained calm. “They won’t find them.” He motioned to the Cassidys. “Tie them up and put them on horses. Tell Lofty to bring the forge.”
Clyde reined in his horse, motioning Milton and Sarah Brent to continue along the rough road. The Chevy Capitol was well and truly bogged, all four of its wheels embedded in the mud, up to the axle. Three men stood around the radiator arguing. They were clearly glad to see him. Clyde didn’t dismount.
“You fellas a bit stuck?” he called.
“Can you pull us out?”
Clyde squinted at the man. Flashy pin-striped suit, white hat, brogue shoes now covered in mud. Clearly from the city. Nobody who was a local, or even had the advice of a local, would even consider bringing a motor car out here.
“Where are you blokes headed?”
“Bloody nowhere at the moment. You gonna pull us out or not?”
“I think you’re too far gone,” Clyde said carefully. “It’ll take more than a horse to pull the Chevy out. We have to get back… we’ll send someone for you with a truck, or a pair of bullocks.”
The man swore.
Clyde moved his horse on warily. “We’re only an hour or so from Long Plain Homestead, it won’t take long.” He kicked his steed into a trot before the man had an opportunity to insist. Milton’s horse was pulled along and Sarah Brent urged her own to keep up.
They were half a mile down the track before Clyde slowed.
“What the hell?” Milton asked, wincing. The jarring pace had been hard on his injured hand. “What’s going on, Clyde? We could have got them out if we’d hooked up all the horses. Twenty minutes and…”
“Indeed, Mr. Jones. Your reluctance to give aid to a stranded traveller is nothing less than discourteous and contrary to the tradition of the country!” Sarah Brent was not impressed. “I trust you had a good reason for being so rude.”
Clyde looked anxiously back up the road. “Those are the blokes that jumped Rowly at Caves House.” He scowled at the sun, now nearly one with the western horizon. “We’d better get moving,” he said. “They’re stuck for the moment but I want to get back to Rowly before some more courteous stockman pulls them out.”
23
THE NORTHERN GOLDFIELDS
The Chinese have finished exhuming the bodies of their countrymen, or rather those they intend to take up at the present time, and have left our graveyard in a most disgraceful state. I visited it today, and found six graves left open, with the piles of earth upheaved alongside. The graves, or rather large holes (for they have been re-opened to twice the size) are half full of water, and in some a number of gin bottles are floating alongside the rags taken from the coffins.
Maitland Mercury, 1928
Rowland and Edna had been on horseback for an hour or so, their hands bound in front of them as Moran and Andy Cassidy led their mounts. They were following the faintest of trails which picked through trees into the O’Shea lease. A ravine appeared unexpectedly in a heavily wooded area. The stream was fast moving and the walls of the valley which led down to it were steep and rocky.
Edna caught Rowland’s eye and smiled briefly. She wanted him to know that she was all right. They hadn’t hurt her. They had been rougher with Rowland, of course, but even so… She hoped it meant that the stockmen didn’t intend to kill them.
Lofty Cassidy had galloped ahead with Clancy Glover, and so when they came upon the rough camp at the bottom of the ravine, there was already a fire blazing under the breath of the
bellows. The shadows were lengthening and it was cold, but there was still light.
The area appeared to have been prospected at one time. Wooden sluices and races were visible in abandoned disrepair. The only vegetation in the cleared camp was a half-dead tree growing quite near the stream, around which was a long thick chain. The chain appeared to disappear into the valley wall.
Moran pulled on it. “Get out here, Jackie. You’ve got visitors.”
For a moment there was nothing and Moran pulled again. “Get out here!”
Edna watched as a man emerged from what must have been a cave in the ravine wall. He was a black man, large—taller even than Rowland but broad and solid. His waist was generous and it was only the sheer breadth of his shoulders that caused his torso to taper. He walked slowly, hampered by the iron attached to his ankle. Stopping before Rowland’s horse, he raised his face. An untrimmed beard hid his jaw but it was hard to miss the intense blue of his eyes, a cobalt gaze so like the one that Edna had known for years.
“Well, here’s your man, Sinclair.” Blue Cassidy reached over and shoved Rowland hard.
With his hands bound in front of him, Rowland was unable to right himself and fell out of the saddle, hitting the earth with an ungainly thud.
Simpson reacted angrily. “Leave the kid alone, you bastards!”
“Mind your mouth, Simpson!”
Rowland rose to his knees. “It’s okay, Harry.”
Simpson helped him stand. “Bloody oath… gagamin… what’re you doing here?”
Rowland smiled, relieved to find Harry Simpson, but embarrassed to be doing so as a prisoner himself. “Glad you’re not dead, Harry.”
“We haven’t time for flaming reunions,” Moran snapped. “Shackle them and let’s get out of here.”
“What… even the girl?”
“Of course the bloody girl, unless you’re willing to shoot her.”
Miles Off Course Page 17
