by Sarah Lark
“William Deans,” he said, introducing himself, and tipped his cap. “I hope we could help you some.”
Karl thanked the man. “You saved me,” he said. “I need to get these creatures up the Waimakariri all the way to Fenroy Station. Or that’s the plan at the moment, anyway. But by the looks of it, they just won’t follow me. And my little dog here—”
Deans grinned. “Very promising, but just a pup. Still overwhelmed by the sheer number of sheep. And you haven’t been doing this for long either, have you?”
Karl shook his head. “No, I’ll admit it. Besides, I have to find shelter for the herd somewhere tonight. You don’t happen to have sheep too?”
William Deans guffawed. “You’re asking me if I have sheep? Boy, you really are new to the trade. As I said, my name’s Deans. As in the Deans brothers from Riccarton . . . Still nothing?”
Karl shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on the North Island for two years now. It seems many things have escaped my attention.”
Deans gave the sheep a quick glance and whistled to one of the dogs when two of them tried to escape. The animal brought them back under control on its own.
“My brother and I brought the first sheep to the South Island,” he said. “From Australia. Now, we have a farm with a few hundred animals. And in case you want to sell yours here—I’ll make you a good offer. Those are some excellent ewes you got there. Might as well be from Holder.”
Karl confirmed his assumption, not without commending the man for his expertise—and five minutes later, they had made a deal.
For the time being, William Deans would take Karl’s sheep with him to Riccarton. He knew Christopher Fenroy’s place and explained that his farm was on the way. “I can help you herd the animals up there, or I could lend you one of my dogs. And as thanks, you can give me two young rams of my choosing once your sheep have lambed. They’ll fit wonderfully with our breeding stock. How does that sound?”
He held out his hand and Karl shook it, sighing with relief. For his part, Deans was beaming with excitement over the deal and the new blood for his herd. But when Karl mentioned Ottfried Brandmann and his idea of buying land from him, the farmer’s face clouded over.
“What do you need Joe and Ottie for, man?” the thickset Scotsman asked him. “Just do it like my brother and me: choose a piece of land, not too remote if you can. I wouldn’t settle more than three days’ travel from your next white neighbor. Then ask the local Maori if they’ll sell it to you. On lease is best, they usually accept that. It’s basically a gift. You agree on a price of a few blankets or bales of cloth or pots and knives per year—we pay about six pounds, all in all—and there you have your land.”
“But I’d prefer to buy it,” Karl said, “and I heard Mr. Brandmann is selling.”
Deans shrugged. “Aye, he is. He has contracts with the Maori, it’s all ironclad—from the pakeha’s point of view, anyway. But I’m not sure the chieftains understand anyone owning land, rather than just using it. And a slip of paper won’t protect you against twenty warriors. No, lad, better to lease first and wheedle the land out of them later. Generally, they’re quite peaceful if you don’t provoke them, and sometimes they’re downright business-minded. The tribe near the Fenroys is making a killing with good-luck charms and cough syrup. My wife buys medicine from them, and the stuff really helps. No doubt they’re earning more than Fenroy does with his crops. The future has wool and four legs.” Grinning, he pointed at Karl’s sheep, which were still standing together, politely munching grass.
“So, give it a thought,” Deans said and whistled for his dogs. “And if you do decide to deal with Joe and Ottie, be careful. They’re both crooks, especially Joe; he’s up to every trick. Don’t let them fleece ye!”
Karl also whistled for Buddy, but he had to tuck him under his arm to prevent him from following Deans and the sheep.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get them back,” he said, comforting the whining dog. “Once you’re big and strong, they’ll do what you want them to.”
Now that the sheep were taken care of, he had to think about what to do next. Deans’s words about Ottfried had disconcerted him. Granted, he had never liked Ottfried and thought he was a blunderer. But a crook? Of course, Ottfried had always been lazy. He hadn’t let it show in front of his father, but on the fields and as a child in school, Ottfried had never lifted one more finger than he’d had to. That fit with wanting to barter land instead of cultivating it. And perhaps Ottfried didn’t even see the dishonesty. Karl could hardly imagine the dolt had learned fluent English.
Lost in thought, Karl climbed the hill. The land in Port Cooper may have been flat right by the sea, but the settlement was on a slope. Karl counted a dozen homes and shops. Unfortunately, there was no inn yet—but two pubs, at least. Karl strode toward the closer one. After the voyage and his successful trade with Deans, he longed for a beer. He entered the dimly lit pub followed by a slightly indignant Buddy. Now, during the afternoon, the place was quiet. Two men were standing at the bar having a conversation. Another man, who was very well dressed and obviously not from the area, was sipping whiskey. A group was playing blackjack at a table in an alcove.
Karl ordered a beer, but before he could get his bearings, the door burst open and a man came charging in. He was small and muscular. From his leather jacket, boots, and denim trousers, Karl would have thought he was a farmer, but the man’s swaying gait and weatherworn skin placed him as a seaman or a whaler. In any case, the new arrival didn’t even take the time to remove his wide-brimmed sou’wester before barking at the barkeeper.
“I’m looking for Joe Gibson, that son of a bitch. And the weird German, Ottie!”
The barkeeper didn’t look impressed. “Calm down, my friend. If you’re going to shoot somebody, do it outside. Same for brawls. I don’t want to be mopping up blood in here, understood?”
“No worries. When I’m done with those two, I’ll grab the mop myself!” the man drawled. “The blokes in the other pub told me that they hang around here at your place.”
The barkeeper gestured toward the table of card players with a motion of his chin. Karl turned apprehensively to look at them. Had he found Ottfried so quickly? The new arrival rushed over.
“Gibson, you son of a dog! I’m telling you, I want my money back! And if life were fair, you’d also pay me and my wife compensation! First she almost died of fear, and now she’s dying of sorrow! You’re not doing that to me, you aren’t!”
The man raised a fist menacingly.
“Who’s that, Joe?”
Karl recognized Ottfried. He was slouched in his chair, apparently not terribly bothered. He seemed bloated and had shaved his beard. He looked nothing like a good Lutheran anymore, but like one of the drunkards and gamblers who hung out in all the pubs between Auckland and Nelson.
The man snorted before Gibson could answer. “Name’s David Potter—if you didn’t happen to know. But of course you have thousands of satisfied customers! Who’d remember a fur trader from Wellington?”
“Of course, Mr. Potter.”
Karl assumed it was Joe Gibson who addressed the angry man. His tone reminded Karl of Jakob Lange’s preacher voice in those instances where he had thanked God for misfortune.
“What’s wrong? What have we done to upset you? As far as I know, you haven’t even claimed your land yet.”
“But I’ve paid for it, ya cunt!” Potter growled. “And last month I came here with my wife and all our belongings. I thought I should build a log cabin of some sort, and Susan’s brave, a real pioneer. A few days in the tent were a fun adventure for her.”
“And?” Gibson asked innocently. “What happened? A weta in the tent? Some night birds making a racket? It can happen, Mr. Potter, it’s fresh land out there.”
“Some fat Maori with blue tattoos showed up!” Potter yelled. “With spears and clubs; Susan almost keeled over with fright. The blokes came to our fire and made a fuss. We didn’t understand what they wanted a
t first. We’d arrived at night and set up our tent quickly—well, in the morning, I realized we’d been camping in the middle of their kumara patch. Not surprising that they were angry. Only, what’s their kumara patch doing on our land? Next to that, there was a wheat field—and a few huts, with the blokes and their women living there. I showed them my deed of ownership, but they wouldn’t have it. Acted like they were about to roast us on a spit! And they bagged half of our belongings as a compensation for their wrecked field. Fortunately, a traveling merchant came by who spoke a bit of Maori, and he translated. Turns out the land doesn’t actually belong to us! The Maori took a look at the contract and said, yes, they talked to the chief before the last New Year’s festival. And then nobody came to cultivate the land, so the chief gave it to two families who had come from some other place and were relations or something! And now I want my money back, Gibson! Get a move on!”
Gibson seemed to be deliberating this, but Ottfried grinned at Potter. “What is problem? Sure, translator say, sometimes, when settlers not come soon, Maori think never come. Is stupid. You just take next parcel land! We change contract, you settle, all good!”
“What?” Potter clenched his fists. “We’re supposed to ride back out there and ask them politely if they’ll acknowledge a new piece of paper after they wiped their asses with the first one? I don’t know what kind of deal you made with those savages, but it sure as hell wasn’t correct!”
“Of course it was correct, Mr. Potter,” Gibson said in his unctuous voice. “It’s all officially registered and acknowledged in Auckland by the governor. If the Maori won’t recognize your rights, you have to put your foot down. You should lodge a complaint, maybe ask the police or the military for help. To be honest, I’m not sure what to do in such a case, but it’s certainly not our problem. We handled the situation properly; the papers are fine.”
“Not your problem?” In the blink of an eye, Potter had grabbed the man by the collar. “Then let me cause you a few problems, Mr. Gibson. No way am I leading a private war for that land. I’m going to get my money back from you and buy another piece!”
“Calm down now,” the elegantly dressed man at the bar interjected. “You’ll get your money back, Mr. Potter. Don’t worry. If I may introduce myself, my name is Reginald Newton. I’m a lawyer. I have an office in Wellington, and I’m here now because another, um, client of these gentlemen has sought my help. What a coincidence that we should all meet here.” He smiled. “But of course, the South Island is still small, even though the land is big. Anyway, I represent Rudyard Butler—it would seem he’s your neighbor, Mr. Potter. Captain Butler has already settled on the land he’s been sold by Mr. Gibson and Mr. Brandmann. And in his case, irregularities have also arisen. The natives contest his right to certain parts of his land, and they claim to have proof of their rights. In any case, they own maps on which their holy ground is drawn.”
Ottfried groaned. “The tapu. You not tell buyers about tapu, Joe? Cat said is important.”
“Now, stop it, Ottie!” Gibson shook his head. “You were there when we made our deal with Butler. Did you mention the three corners the tohunga was harping on about?”
Newton frowned. “Well, Mr. Butler has no wish to anger the Maori. He was quite disturbed to find that their people had been cheated in the deal as well. He will also lodge a complaint. You can join him, Mr. Potter, when I bring the matter to court.”
Potter snorted again. “What kind of fool are you?” he asked, grinning. “From Wellington, huh? It’s more like you’re from London! And you’ll bring our case before the queen, will you? I’ve always taken care of my own affairs—faster than Victoria can say ‘Albert,’ Gibson!”
He abruptly turned back to his adversary, and in the next second, his fist had crashed into Gibson’s jaw. Gibson was thrown halfway across the pub, slammed against the wall beneath a dart board, and slid to the ground, looking dumbfounded.
“Your turn, Ottie!” Potter made a move to give Ottfried the same treatment, but Ottfried raised his hands defensively.
“Don—don’t hit! I not do anything—we all friends, no?”
“I’ll show you whose friend I am!”
Gibson had regained his bearings and threw himself at Potter with a cry. Potter deftly blocked his blow. One of the other gamblers, who must have been friends with Gibson, attacked him. In seconds, a brawl had started.
The lawyer from Wellington looked unhappily at the melee, and then at Karl, who was also standing at the bar watching in dismay.
“Unbelievable!” Newton remarked.
Karl didn’t reply, but stayed clear just like the lawyer. David Potter obviously didn’t need any help. He’d knocked Joe’s friend to the ground just as quickly as Joe before him, and now he caught Ottfried with a right hook.
“Had enough yet?” the short man asked, slightly out of breath. “Does that settle matters?”
Ottfried nodded fearfully. “You money back,” he mumbled through a bloody mouth.
Joe Gibson got back to his feet. “Yes, uh, I’m—I’m sorry things got out of hand like that, Mr. Potter. But fine, in this case, we’ll make an exception and offer you money instead of an exchange. We—”
“Cough up the dough right now,” Potter interrupted, “or I’ll silence you for good. And spare me your damn preacher’s voice. I fell for that once, but no more!” He pulled Joe up by the shirt again.
“We can’t give it to you right now,” Joe groaned. “Please, you—you have to understand that we don’t just carry two hundred pounds around with us. Here . . .” He searched his pockets. “I’ll give you five pounds, all right? And then I’ll take the next ship to Nelson to the bank, do you understand? I have money in the bank. What about you, Ottie?”
Karl saw he was trying to wink at his partner, but Ottfried didn’t understand the signal.
“I only two pound,” Ottfried mumbled. “And nothing in bank. I nothing more. Sorry.”
Gibson groaned. “Fine. So we’ll take it all from my account. But I have to go to Nelson; there’s no way around that now.”
Potter thought for a moment. “You realize,” he said in a menacing tone, “what’s going to happen to your friend here if you leave me hanging?”
Gibson raised his hands. “For heaven’s sake! I wouldn’t leave you hanging. That’d be pretty stupid, seeing as you’re not our only customer. If I didn’t return, Ottie could bag the proceeds from the other sales. No, no, Mr. Potter, don’t worry. If I’m not mistaken, I might be faster by horse.”
Karl didn’t wait for the end of the proceedings. Ottfried hadn’t noticed him in the melee, and this certainly wasn’t the best time to renew their acquaintance. Besides, he’d seen his chance: if Potter wasn’t entirely stupid, he’d take Ottfried as his hostage and wait in Port Cooper with him. Karl himself would have escorted them both to the bank.
Meanwhile, Karl could ride to Purau and call on Ida. He had to know how she was surviving in the shadow of this “new” Ottfried.
Chapter 52
“There’s another one!” Cat pointed out a rabbit that Chasseur had just flushed out from beneath a bush.
Ida’s bullet hit the small animal’s head and flung it through the air before it fell to the ground dead. Chasseur retrieved it proudly.
“That’s dinner, then,” Ida said curtly.
Cat was beside herself with excitement. She could hardly believe how confidently gentle, shy Ida handled her weapon. She had proven herself more than once now, and the rabbits were a welcome addition to their menu. However, Ida hunted only when Ottfried and Joe were away. She didn’t know why she kept her marksmanship a secret, but something stopped her from telling them, even though she’d greeted Cat and the men with a rabbit roast on their return from the second trade expedition. Maybe it was Ottfried’s unkind reaction that had kept her silent.
“Were you with the Redwoods again?” he snapped at her. “Or did one of them bring the rabbit over? I don’t like that, Ida, two unmarried men in that
house, and you coming and going. Who do you like better, huh? James or Edward?”
Ida had looked hurt and then pressed her lips into a thin line. Yes, she enjoyed the Redwood brothers’ politeness; they always treated her like a lady. They would open the door or take heavy loads from her, and thanked her with kind words for a meal or a small favor. Ida had grown up knowing none of that. The presumption that she harbored indecent thoughts toward Edward or James, however, was insulting. She had never given Ottfried a reason to be jealous.
“Laura is my friend,” she said tersely. “The roast is courtesy of her. So eat it or leave it. I don’t care.”
Of course, Ottfried had eaten, but Ida waited until the men had left the house to tell Cat in what way the roast was “courtesy of Laura.”
Her friend stroked the smooth handle of the revolver incredulously. “I’ve never fired a musket before!” Cat admitted. “I had no idea you could aim so well with it—a rabbit is such a small target.”
Ida smiled. “This isn’t a musket, it’s a revolver. Much smaller and handier. I can show you how to shoot it, though Laura says most people don’t learn so quickly. It comes naturally to me.”
Cat raised her eyebrows, and mischief twinkled in her lovely eyes. “I’m not surprised at all,” she said. “You’re much tougher than you realize.”
Ida had shown Cat how to load and fire the weapon, but her friend never managed to reach the same level of marksmanship. And besides, she didn’t enjoy shooting.
“I can’t help it,” Cat finally told her before giving up. “Guns scare me. Whenever I see or hear one of those things, I think of Te Ronga and the hole in her chest. You take care of the hunting, Ida. I’ll set traps and catch fish.”
Cat noticed Ida’s newfound confidence. The young woman didn’t hide in the house anymore while Cat ranged through the woods to collect herbs and catch birds. Instead, she took her weapon and followed. And her relationship with the babies seemed to have changed too. While she used to prefer holding Linda in her arms, now she tied a length of cloth around her chest quite naturally and tucked Carol inside. The child accompanied her on her hunting trips and got used to the weapon’s noise much faster than Cat or Chasseur. The dog, at least, had let himself be convinced of its usefulness after Ida had begun shooting the rabbits he roused. As a hunter, Chasseur was completely ungifted, but he was a lot better at fetching.
