Heart of the Country (38 page)

“We'll get a good cut for this information?” Rix broke into his thoughts.

“Yes, yes,” Septimus said. “You'll be paid once the Smith's Ridge stamp is on those bales. See to it and I'll be back in town next week to pay you.”

Rix nodded and Septimus turned, happy to get away from the foul stench of rotten fish.

1856

“What is it, Thomas?”

He looked up from the paper he was holding into Lizzie's eyes. The cornflower blue was as pretty as ever in spite of years of hardship and loss.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Why are you frowning over nothing?”

She came over to the little desk where he sat in the corner of their good room. Times had been tough but at least he'd been able to build a house with Jacob's help, and the structure kept out most of the dust and flies. They'd used solid pine trunks and filled the gaps with plaster made from mud. The paling roof kept out the rain. There was no ceiling but the house had glass windows and wooden floors. The two main rooms were large enough for them to move in without bumping into each other and there was a third room right across the back for cooking and stores.

“I'm doing my sums.”

“That would explain it,” she teased.

“The wool cheque should be in when I get to Port Augusta.”

He put the paper back on the desk and stood up.

“Do you have to go?” she asked.

“You know I'd rather not but we need another shepherd.”

“You wouldn't if Zac –”

“It's a much bigger job now,” he said quickly. He didn't want to go over Zac's shortcomings again. He'd hoped his youngest brother-in-law would have settled with time. He smiled at Lizzie, not wanting to add to her worries. “And I want to pick out a new ram myself. I hear there are some for sale at the port.” Thomas wouldn't add he didn't trust Zac to do that job either. “I'm going to bring back another horse and cart too.”

“Don't you go getting too grand, Thomas Baker.”

“I'm not, Lizzie. But if we're to lower our sheep losses we need another shepherd; and the cart we brought with us from Penakie is not ours.”

“You're a proud man. You know my father won't ever want it back.”

“I know. But I want everything to be our own. To come from the work of our hands.”

“You'll be gone a month or more.”

“I'm sorry, Lizzie.”

Since that first trip away when Annie had died, Thomas hated leaving her, and now his two-year-old son, Joseph, behind. The year before he'd sent Zac to the port with their wool but he hadn't returned. Thomas had had to go looking and bring his drunken brother-in-law home.

“Don't be sorry,” she said. “I can manage fine without you.” She gave him a wink and lifted her head to kiss his lips. “It's Joseph who misses his father.”

“And you won't miss me – just a little bit?”

He pulled her close in his arms and smothered her lips with his. Lizzie still made him feel like he was the luckiest man alive, in spite of everything they'd suffered.

“Who will keep you warm at night when I'm not here?” he whispered in her ear.

“The nights are warm enough without your –”

“Give it a break you two.”

They pulled apart and turned to the figure swaying in the open doorway.

“Zac, have you been drinking again?” Lizzie moved towards her brother.

He held up his hand. “No.” He wobbled against the door-frame. “Well maybe a little.” He chuckled and staggered away from the door.

Lizzie turned to Thomas in exasperation. “Where does he get it?” she muttered.

“He must have another still going.”

Zac's curse was something neither of them could understand. He would spend weeks as sober as a judge then something would set him off. When he was sober he was a good worker, and Joseph doted on his merry uncle.

Thomas squinted into the bright sunshine beyond Zac. “Where's Joseph?”

Zac put his head to one side as if he was thinking.

“You were looking after him,” Lizzie said. “Where is he?” She pushed past her brother and Thomas came around his other side.

They stopped at the sight of Daisy leading two giggling toddlers up the hill. They were both naked and streaked with mud. One little boy had black skin and dark curls like Daisy's and the other was white skinned with fair hair like Lizzie's.

“The boys been in the creek, Mrs Lizzie. I been telling them off.”

“Thank you,” Lizzie said.

Thomas reached down and picked up his son. Daisy swept her boy to her hip and carried him away.

Lizzie rounded on Zac. “You said you'd look after him.”

“There's hardly any water there.”

“He could have drowned.”

“Lizzie, I'm sorry.”

“You keep saying that, Zac.” Lizzie glowered at him. “But it makes no difference. You're sober for a while and you work hard, then in no time at all you're back drinking again.”

Thomas put a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder. “Joseph's all right.” He put the squirming boy into her arms. Joseph giggled at his mother and clasped her cheeks in his dirty hands. She kissed the top of his head and, with a final glare at Zac, carried him inside.

“He's a good boy.” Zac's words slurred over his lips.

Thomas swallowed his frustration. “Go and sleep it off, Zac. You can't leave all the shepherding to Gulda and Tarka.”

Zac tipped his head to one side and tried to look at Thomas but his eyes kept shutting. He wobbled to the end of the verandah and staggered in the direction of the original little wooden hut that had become his quarters.

Thomas leaned against the verandah post and looked down the slope towards the creek. Zac was right. There was barely any water. During their first three summers at Wildu Creek there had always been pools fed by occasional cloudbursts in the hills behind them. This last summer had been long and hot and even though they were well into autumn they'd still had no rain to feed the creek. It was the same all over the property. His sheep were spreading further in their search for water, making it harder to look after them. They had lost a lot more to wild dogs in the past few months than ever before.

At least he didn't suffer many losses to the natives. Gulda's presence seemed to make the difference. Not that he or Tarka stayed permanently – Gulda was sometimes away for weeks. He always returned and spent time at Wildu Creek, though. He and Daisy were camped with their son, Tommie, in their usual spot further up the hill. Thomas desperately needed another shepherd. With the natives' occasional disappearances and Zac's lack of reliability, he was often doing the work of three men alone.

The sound of hooves approaching fast made him step down from the verandah. Gulda emerged from the bushes, bouncing on the back of Derriere. “Mr Tom, bad thing.” He was yelling before his horse had come to a stop.

Thomas took the reins as Gulda slid from the horse's back, waving his arms and pointing behind him.

“What's happened?”

“Bad thing, bad thing,” he said and shook his head vigorously.

Thomas put a tentative hand on his friend's heaving shoulder. “What bad thing?” He had learned over the years that Gulda could exaggerate the importance of some events.

“Terrett.”

Thomas frowned and looked past him in the direction of Smith's Ridge. He'd met Wiltshire's overseer, Terrett, on a few occasions and had found nothing to like in the man. He'd also recognised fear in Zac's eyes at any mention of the overseer's name.

Thomas looked back at Gulda. His chest had stopped heaving. Thomas pointed to the shade of the verandah and called Lizzie to bring some water. The April sun wasn't as intense as in summer but the heat was still oppressive.

Lizzie brought a drink for both of them. She raised an enquiring eyebrow at Thomas as Gulda drained the cup but she didn't speak. Joseph was at her side, clean and wearing clothes.

“Now,” Thomas said. “Tell me about Terrett.”

Gulda gave the empty cup back to Lizzie with a nod of thanks and immediately began waving his arms about. “He said black men stole your sheep. They didn't, Mr Tom. I saw signs around the waterhole. Many sheep came there and horses herd them away.”

“Are you saying we have sheep missing?”

Gulda nodded. “Young ones. Not marked yet. They were at the waterhole close to Smith's Ridge.”

Thomas knew the waterhole Gulda was talking about. It had to be a spring: there was always water in it. It was on his land, a few miles from the boundary he shared with Smith's Ridge. Once more he cast his eyes in that direction. Terrett let his animals use it and there was little Thomas could do about it, but if the overseer was stealing his sheep that was another matter.

“What will you do, Thomas?” Lizzie asked.

“I'll have to go and see for myself.”

“Bad thing.” Gulda began to get agitated again.

“You should let it go.”

They all turned to see Zac standing in the dirt at the end of the verandah. His face was blotchy and his eyes red.

“I can't let him get away with stealing my sheep and blaming it on the natives.”

“You won't get the truth from Terrett,” Zac said.

“I don't like that man,” Lizzie said. “He looks at me as if he can see right through my clothes.

“He's evil,” Zac rasped and he shuddered. Then he turned and walked back to his hut.

Thomas and Lizzie looked at each other. They both knew something bad had happened while Zac had been working with Terrett but he'd never talked about it.

Thomas clenched his jaw. “I've got to go,” he said. “If he has taken some sheep and he thinks he can get away with it, he'll do it again.”

He stepped inside and took the firearm from its hook on the wall.

Lizzie put a restraining hand on his arm as he passed her. “Be careful, Thomas,” she said, her face creased in concern.

He kissed her and ruffled Joseph's fluffy hair. “I'll be home by tomorrow evening.”

Thomas didn't look back but he could feel their eyes watching him as he rode away. It took him a couple of hours to reach the waterhole. There were prints everywhere, made by sheep and horses, and no way of working out how many or who they belonged to. He turned his horse west towards the ridge that gave the neighbouring property its name. The afternoon sun bounced off the red and brown rocks. Sweat trickled down his back under his shirt and yet he knew when the sun went down, the night would be very cold.

He crossed one dry creek and then another. There were plenty of hoof prints but nothing for their owners to drink. Terrett would have trouble keeping his own stock watered let alone stealing someone else's. When they'd mapped out their runs the creeks had been flowing through Smith's Ridge but there'd been little rain since Wiltshire had taken over.

The sun was low in the sky when he heard the bleating of sheep and saw the smoke of a fire up ahead.

Terrett turned from the sheep he'd been holding at the sound of Thomas's approach. Thomas didn't recognise the man with him, though he knew Wiltshire had employed a shepherd to replace Zac. He watched the man push the sheep away. Blood dripped from the ear clippers he held in his hand.

“Well, well, Neales, we've got a visitor.” Terrett put his hands to his hips. His bare arms were thick as tree branches and covered in black hair. “I don't believe you've met our neighbour, Thomas Baker.”

Neales nodded. Thomas responded then cast a look around the makeshift camp. The only sheep visible was the one Neales had just pushed away, but he could hear the occasional bleats of others nearby.

“What brings you here?”

Thomas turned slowly back to Terrett. “I'm missing some sheep.”

“Blacks, the thieving bastards.” Terrett spat to the side. “We've lost some too. That's why me and Neales here thought we'd best do a check. Make sure our stock's got their ears marked.”

“That won't stop natives stealing your sheep,” Thomas said.

“No, but when I catch 'em with 'em I'll know they belong to Smith's Ridge and the bastards will be dealt with.” His face split in an ugly grin. “Speaking of Smiths, how's that lovely wife of yours and her young brother?”

“My family are well and no concern of yours, Mr Terrett.”

Terrett dropped his arms to his sides and took a step towards Thomas. “No need for that tone, Baker. I'm just being neighbourly.”

“Neighbours return what's not theirs,” Thomas said. Once more he cast his eyes around but there was nothing to suggest they had tagged his sheep. When he looked back, Neales had moved closer to Terrett.

“Are you saying we have something of yours?” The grin had left Terrett's face.

“No,” Thomas replied. “I'm saying keep to your side of the boundary and make sure the sheep you tag are Wiltshire's and not mine.”

Terrett glowered at him. He opened his mouth to speak then apparently changed his mind about what to say. “Mr Wiltshire was only here yesterday.” His lips twisted into a grin. “He was checking up on things. Says I'm doing a mighty fine job.”

“Does he?” Thomas said carefully. He'd never managed to pin down the elusive Septimus Wiltshire but he thought it time he met his unwelcome neighbour. He was also keen to find out how Wiltshire's wife had come to be in possession of his mother's book. “I'm sorry I missed him again. I'd like to talk to him myself.”

“You'll have to go to Port Augusta.” Neales grinned.

“Shut ya stupid face,” Terrett snarled at him.

Thomas's horse shifted under him. So Wiltshire was in Port Augusta. Maybe even lived there. It would make sense. Far enough away and yet close enough to pay a visit to his property once or twice a year.

“He asked after you too.” The sneering grin was back on Terrett's face. “Asked if I'd seen your drunk of a brother-in-law. Wanted to make sure he hadn't come snivelling back here.”