East of Outback (24 page)

They visited a hotel across the Esplanade from the wharf, and with a knowing wink, Mr. Slotemaker took them downstairs to an old sly-grog shop in the basement. He showed them the dank, narrow passageway to the surface where customers could escape, should the police come raiding. It smacked of intrigue and excitement. Colin could not imagine either Mum or Papa even knowing about this colorful bit of Echuca’s past.

Back at the truck, Colin loaded the mare and climbed into the cab. Mr. Slotemaker drove out the east end of town and over a great iron bridge into New South Wales. Colin hadn’t thought to ask if Slotemaker’s holding was in Victoria. Did it really matter? They were on their way again.

They pressed north toward Deniliquin. The countryside lay flat and smooth, unending. Patches of scrub braided in and out to break the monotony. The sun poured down and glanced up from the parched ground; the hot brilliance forcing Colin’s eyes into a narrow squint. Despite the constant jostling, Hannah dozed off and leaned hard against him.

About suppertime she awoke, long after they had left Deniliquin behind. The apples they’d munched on were gone. Colin thought surely she suffered hunger pangs as much as he did. Why didn’t he stop this nonsense immediately? A telegram to Papa in Sydney would end the Odyssey. Hannah would return safely to her mother’s arms. What anger, what pride of heart drove him to endanger her like this?

And yet, he had never asked for this responsibility. It was she who flung herself across the continent without thinking of the consequences. She was fortunate he let her tag along. The tug-of-war that raged in his heart served only to confuse and frustrate him.

In a blaze of blood-red glory, the sun died. The truck’s headlamps painted bouncing waves of light on the bush. Kangaroos came out like ghosts, and with flashing orange eyes bounded across the road ahead, dodging the light.

At ten that night, the truck lurched into the dooryard at Dresden Downs. “Turn your mare into that paddock beyond the henhouse.” Mr. Slotemaker pointed into sheer darkness. “You’ll have to unload your apples tonight; the cargo for the missus is stowed behind them. You can stash ’em in the henhouse so the ’roos and possums can’t find them.”

“Thank you, sir.” Colin ran the mare down the gangway and handed her off to Hannah. Let Hannah find the paddock beyond the henhouse in the darkness. He watched Mr. Slotemaker disappearing into the house and muttered, “Wish they’d invite us to supper.”

Hannah murmured, “They will. I prayed for it.” And off she went into the blackness with the mare in tow. Max looked half asleep as he followed his lady friend.

What a colossal nerve, to expect divine results in spite of their own foolishness. But she was a child; Colin must excuse her ignorance on that score if none other. He scooted his ten fifty-pound hessian sacks of apples one at a time to the back of the truck bed and dropped them over the side. Then he dragged them two at a time to the henhouse. He felt weary. Pound weary. Stone weary.

Mr. Slotemaker called from his veranda, “The missus says you two will eat with us tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. Coming.” Colin stared at the house. He stared into the darkness that had swallowed Hannah. He stared at the invisible God somewhere above him.
They will. I prayed for it
. She had said it so matter-of-factly.

Hannah joined him presently, waiting for him to close up the last of his apples. She followed him to the house, looking more than a bit trailworn. The sturdy Dutchman appeared and held the door open for them. He led the way through a formal dining room and into a warm, friendly kitchen.

Mrs. Slotemaker looked exactly as Hannah expected she would. No modern, urban bob—her wavy blonde hair was pulled back very loosely into a pile of gold-and-silver braids. She was rather short and square, but by no means fat or even pudgy. She was a solid, strong woman exuding a radiant happiness.

She looked at Hannah, then Colin. “My word! What a ride from Echuca will do to you—let alone from Bendigo. Miss Sloan, you’ll sleep up at the house here; there’s a daybed on the back porch. You three wash up now. The dumplings just went into the pot, and dinner’s almost ready.”

They stepped out the back door to a washbasin. Colin waited for Hannah. A hazy gray form, barely visible in the light from the kitchen, bobbed in the darkness. Mr. Slotemaker took a carrot from a bag on a hook and stepped into the gloom. Colin followed out of curiosity.

An ancient, bony gray horse hung its head over the paddock rail and nickered for his treat. Mr. Slotemaker snapped the carrot into pieces and hand-fed them bit by bit from his palm. “Hector here is my past,” he smiled. “This horse is twenty-nine years old. Dresden Downs was brand new when he was young, and we lived in a stringy-bark shack. He cleared the land. He drove sheep. He pulled the wagons and the plow. He taught my children to ride—” his voice choked a bit, “and most of all, he taught them to trust. He’s as much a part of the downs as the house itself. More. He’s older’n the house.”

“I don’t expect he does much around the place anymore.”

“No. But then, neither does my uncle. And I don’t have the heart to let either one of them go.” Chuckling, the man strolled back to the porch to wash up.

Colin rubbed the horse’s warm velvet nose and dug his fingers into the loose flesh behind his gangly ears. It was awhile before he realized his desire to touch the horse didn’t come from any affection for the animal; he desperately yearned to lay his hands on the past, to find out what yesterday felt like. It felt remarkably like today.

What a drongo you are, Colin Sloan! Such silly thoughts and childish whims. You should be thinking more like a man!

They settled at the kitchen table, with the Slotemakers at either end. Colin and Hannah faced each other. A glorious pot of bubbling lamb stew and dumplings sat before them. Without asking, their hostess had poured milk for Colin and Hannah and strong coffee for herself and her husband.

The pleasant woman looked briefly from face to face, smiling. “Our youngest, Marie, married and moved away last year. She was the last to leave the nest. It’s wonderful to have young people around the table again.” She held out both hands. Hesitantly Colin took her left hand as Hannah took her right.

Even more hesitantly, Colin took the man’s extended hand. Mr. Slotemaker closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, we praise your holy name. We thank you for these two delightful young people you brought among us, and ask your hand and blessing upon them. Now bless ye please this food and us to your service. Amen.” The grip let go. He ladled stew for Hannah.

Hannah expressed her thanks and began to chat amiably with Mrs. Slotemaker, while the woman filled her own plate. The men followed suit and began to eat as though they were starved. Colin knew he was.

Hannah talked with Mrs. Slotemaker as one cook to another, asking how to keep bacon fresh longer, and in what ways you might use sour milk. The two were old friends—and equals—in moments.

Colin could not put the Dutchman’s prayer out of his mind. Papa had always said grace, or asked Colin or Mary Aileen to do so. But they’d never joined hands. Somehow that simple difference made these humble folks’ prayer something other than mere table grace. It left Colin with a strange yearning.

“Help yourself to more,” Mr. Slotemaker offered, refilling his own plate. “So, this will be your first job rabbiting.”

“Yes, sir. I talked about it some with one of the shearers I worked with, and the chemist in Bendigo where I bought the strychnine.”

“Real nuisance this year, worse than usual. I’ll be moving my rams up out of that south paddock—I’ll show you where tomorrow. The wethers are already in. While we’re shearing, you can bait the south paddocks, and when I bring in the ewes and lambs, you can do the north side.”

Colin nodded, and helped himself to more stew. Mrs. Slotemaker’s cooking was almost as good as Mum’s.

______

The next morning, though his whole body protested strongly, Colin rose before dawn to cut a hundred pounds of apples into wedges and soak them in the strychnine solution. At three in the afternoon he rode out to lay his first bait trail as a professional rabbiter. Almost a full day later, the memory of that warm, clasping table prayer still haunted him.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

E
AGLES

It was either old age, or he was going soft. Cole Sloan prided himself on being inured to hardship and long travel. But this train ride across the width of the continent was almost more than he could take. It was hard to imagine his little girl making it. He stepped out onto the bleak platform and looked around. Nothing, absolutely nothing welcomed him to Kalgoorlie. He was depressed already, and he’d only now stepped both feet onto solid ground.

He walked from the railway station, periodically shifting his carpetbag from hand to hand, even though taxis and carts stood by for hire. He desperately needed the exercise. The constable’s office, just a block off Hannan Street, proved easy to find. He stepped from the hot sun into stuffy gloom and set his bag down just inside the door.

An officer in a black wool tunic stood up at his desk. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. Nigel Bowden? Cole Sloan, from Sydney.” He extended his hand in a firm shake.

The man’s expression clouded. “Oh—. I do hope you haven’t come all this way on a wild goose chase, sir. We have not located your daughter, and from what we can gather she is no longer in the area.” He cleared his throat and loosened his collar.

Cole pulled a letter from his pocket. “A man here called Desiderio—Desiderio Romales wrote to me concerning my son. I’d like to meet him, if I can, and then claim my daughter’s schoolbag.”

“Of course. Yes. Uh, do be seated.” Constable Bowden waved toward the chair opposite his desk, and sat back into his own. He folded his hands and leaned forward. “I have questioned Romales several times myself—even put him in jail to soften him up. His friends at the Perseverance mine bailed him immediately and threatened legal mayhem if he were further detained. I doubt he can be of any help to us. He persistently maintains he knows nothing, and never so much as met your daughter.”

“And the railway hasn’t seen her since her jump?”

“Correct. So, she’s not headed east. We would get word the moment she boarded a train. I’ve heard rumors she’s joined her brother down south around Pemberton or Albany, but officials there haven’t actually spotted her. Every office in Western Australia has her description and her brother’s. Sooner or later, Mr. Sloan. They have to turn up sooner or later.”

“And I immensely appreciate your thoroughness, believe me. Where might I find this Romales?”

“I’ll take you by there now, if you wish. Will you take your daughter’s bag now, or come by for it later?”

“If I may, I’d like to get it later, and leave my bag here as well.”

“Certainly!” The man was on his feet bellowing for his assistant, “Hooper!”

From a back room a tall, scrawny fellow appeared, his tunic flapping wide open.

“I’ll be out for a while, Hooper. Take over. And button your tunic.” The constable picked up his hat and charged out the door. Sloan had to step lively to keep up. “Hooper,” the man grumbled, “is not a pretty reflection on the department, but what a fighter—Rafferty’s rules, especially.

Very handy fellow to send in first when quelling a punch-up.”

Sloan chuckled. “I suppose you get calls like that frequently.” They crossed a busy street and climbed into a shiny black two-seater.

“Not so much as the old days. Kalgoorlie’s got her colorful sorts, though, make no mistake.” The car started with some difficulty. The engine was apparently not kept in the same bright shape as the exterior.

“Such as?”

“Oh, the usual low-grade criminals attracted by the Two-up School; gambling seems to be in Kalgoorlie’s bones. And people like Jack the Pickpocket. Specializes in drunken miners, but he’ll tap anybody close by. Then he’ll turn around and buy groceries anonymously for widows and orphans.”

“The Robin Hood of Kalgoorlie.”

“Indeed. Myself would dearly love to play Sheriff of Nottingham to him, but we can’t catch him in the act. We won’t let him near the racecourse. Too many well-lined pockets in one place. I’ll not be one to encourage theft.”

“Speaking of theft, my brothers tell me my son stole their horse—a bay mare, I believe. I’d like to see the police report of the incident, if possible.”

“Your son st—” Constable Bowden gawked briefly, then returned his attention to driving. “They told you your son stole that horse?”

“Yes. And then requested remuneration for it.”

“Indeed. Indeed.” He wagged his head. “Frankly, sir, when you walked into my office I would never have identified you as a Sloan, knowing your brothers. Let me tell you about the incident in question.”

The drive to the little Romales cottage took a mere ten minutes. During the brief interlude, Cole learned more than he ever wanted to know about Aidan and Liam, things he had pushed from his memory through the years. His blood boiled. But then, he was not surprised.

No one answered their knock on the door. Sloan sent the constable on his way with repeated reassurances, and settled on the front veranda steps to wait. He spent some time studying the tiny dwelling. It had been recently painted, and an old bullnose porch covered the veranda. Though not an expensive place, someone maintained it well.

Restless, Cole wandered around to the back. A dun horse strolled out from under its protective tin roof and stuck its head over the paddock fence. He rubbed its face. The animal looked sleek and clean, well kept, like the house.

He walked out front and perched himself again on the veranda rail.

Up the road a happy-looking couple approached. The slim, swarthy fellow looked foreign. The little lady walked with a free and lilting step, a happy woman, if Sloan be any judge at all. Their banter ceased the instant the pair spied him.

The fellow stepped onto his veranda boldly and extended a hand. “Desiderio Romales,
a sus ordenes
.”