Heart of the Country (46 page)

“It's hard work,” he said, lifting a hand to wave as Zac turned back one last time before disappearing into the trees.

“No one's complaining about that. We're very lucky.”

Joseph pulled on his hands and Thomas lifted his son to his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his wife.

“Very lucky indeed,” he said as the last wagon rolled out of sight.

Septimus watched Fowler inspect the shed.

“You've made no improvements since last year.” The shearer crossed the rough wooden floor and came to a stop barely a foot away from Septimus, forcing him to look up.

Septimus stood his ground. He wasn't going to back away. They had a partnership but he carried the trump card. Fowler knew it, for all his bravado.

“My overseer was carted off by that pompous neighbour of mine,” Septimus said. “Neales has been little more than useless in Terrett's absence. It took me a while to find a replacement. Now that Rix is here, I expect the situation to improve. Besides, my money's gone into stocking the place, not making it look fancy.”

Fowler lifted his huge head and looked again at the basic structure Septimus called a shearing shed. “It'll have to do,” he snarled. “But rougher conditions means rougher work.”

“I hope these shearers are better than the mongrels you brought last year. We had to kill a lot of stock, from what I remember.”

“My men will do the best they can with what they've got. I've taken a look at some of those miserable excuses for sheep you've got in the yard. They're lucky to grow wool, let alone survive having it cut off.”

“It's been dry,” Septimus snapped. “There's been hardly a drop of moisture fallen in a year. Some of those sheep I got cheap from another farmer because he couldn't feed and water them.”

“Your neighbour seems to have done all right, and he's had no rain either.”

“Luck,” Septimus said. “Baker's got permanent water on his property and more bush growth in his hills. Smith's Ridge is aptly named. Nothing much grows in the rocks.”

The reminder of his neighbour rankled yet again. It had been a few days since he was pushed into the creek, but his arm was still sore and bruised. He could have broken a limb. They all but drove him off their property. Baker would be sorry. Septimus had ridden straight back to Smith's Ridge to give Rix full encouragement to do what he could to undermine Baker's apparent good fortune at Wildu Creek. Rix would be a thorn in Baker's side, one not easily discovered or extracted.

“If our luck holds he'll have two fewer bales of wool to feather his nest with.” Fowler's voice was a loud rumble.

Septimus glanced around. The rough-looking group of men Fowler had brought with him were resting, talking among themselves; no one was paying much attention to their boss. They'd have plenty to do soon enough.

Septimus kept his own voice low. “You managed to swap a couple of bales then?” He needed the extra money Fowler brought him with the unmarked wool.

“Just two this time: don't want to arouse suspicion.”

“And you're sure they didn't notice.”

“They would have spoken up but nothing was said. I was surprised. That brother-in-law of Baker's stamped every bale and kept checking them. I was sure he'd notice the two we swapped but I got 'em loaded while he was busy elsewhere. He'll be delivering them to the port for us by now.” Fowler laughed. It was a deep guttural sound.

“Just one of many little discrepancies that Baker won't notice but that will bring him down.” Septimus smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. “Thomas Baker doesn't know it, but one day Wildu Creek will be mine. I will enjoy sending him and his pathetic family packing.”

“All of the bales from here will be marked.”

Septimus opened his mouth then closed it again as he saw the smirk on Fowler's face. He glared at Fowler. “Don't forget who pays you. And I need at least half of these sheep to survive to get my money back. Make sure your men take care.”

Fowler gave a snort then strode away, barking orders at his men.

Just outside the shed, Septimus caught a glimpse of Neales moving some sheep. He wondered how long his pathetic shepherd had been lurking by the door. Septimus's eyes narrowed. He must be sure to remind Rix to keep an eye on the man, make sure he knew who he was working for.

The heat in the shed was already overpowering in spite of the early hour, but Septimus resisted the urge to remove his jacket. He planned to have one last talk to Rix and then be on his way. He'd been on the road a long time, organising Rix and Pavey, purchasing stock and provisions. He was looking forward to a treat, a short holiday with Dulcie in the hills. He had to check on Ned at the inn of course, but that wouldn't take long.

He'd brought a tin tub to the hut and, in spite of the dry, Dulcie always managed to find water to fill it and massage away what ailed him. Septimus smiled. He might even stay a week.

“What do you mean business has dropped off?” Septimus had taken longer than expected to reach the inn near the pass through the hills. His horse had gone lame and he'd had to purchase another. The farmer had driven a hard bargain, not wanting to part with one of his horses. Septimus had paid him far more than the horse was worth and left the lame one in the deal. Now here he was, sitting at the bar of his inn, the only customer.

“The long heat has affected everyone,” Ned said. “There's no feed for the bullocks so we've had fewer teamsters through, and those that do pass by camp over near the creek. Not many of them have called in lately. Saving their money, most likely. We've had few other customers. No one wants to travel in the heat.”

“Let me see the ledger.”

“I can get it if you like but it won't show any different.”

“Let me see it.” Septimus thumped his hand on the bar.

“Who's doing all this hollering?” Ethel came bustling out of the kitchen. “Well, well,” she said as she laid eyes on Septimus. “It's the boss. Why didn't you tell me, Mr Wiltshire was here, Ned? I bet you're hungry after your travels. I've got a nice possum pie just out of the oven. Sit down at a table.” Ethel tugged at his arm.

“Don't fuss, woman,” Septimus said, but she manoeuvred him to a seat before he knew it.

“It's not fussing.” Ethel laughed loudly. “Nothing's too good for the boss. Get him some of that ale we've had cooling in the cellar, Ned.”

Septimus hadn't planned to eat at the inn and he didn't often drink ale, but before he knew it Ethel had a plate of delicious-smelling pie in front of him and Ned had produced a mug of beer.

“Once you've got that inside you, I've a nice steamed apple pudding and some clotted cream.” Ethel appraised him as if he was a child. “The dear old cow has been giving us a nice lot of milk, hasn't she Ned?”

Septimus's mouth watered. Pavey was a capable cook but he had been travelling a long time and living on dry mutton and black tea for most of it. He settled back and enjoyed the feast Ethel provided.

It was almost dark by the time Septimus mounted his horse and made the journey over the hills behind the inn to his hut. After the meal Ethel had made a pot of tea and they'd all sat out on the verandah, enjoying the gully breeze and the changing colours of the sky. They'd offered him a bed but he'd said he'd prefer to camp out, as he always told them when he visited.

He tethered his horse at the front of his hut and pushed open the door. The main room was empty, as was the bedroom. There was no sign of Dulcie and no coals in the grate. His longed-for bath was not happening tonight by the look of the empty tub. He went out the back towards the shed, through the bush either side of the hut, where she sometimes sat and made an open fire, then out the front. There was no sound except for the evening breeze moaning through the trees. It was the one thing he'd never liked about this place – it sounded like a woman crying.

He walked down to the creek and under the large gums, with their roots reaching down to the creek bed. It was here he'd first taken Dulcie as his own. There was no water in the creek now, but the memory of that encounter had blood pounding through him, kindling the desire that had been building all day.

“Damn!” He thumped his fist against the tree and returned to the hut.

He slept the night alone in the bed. His sleep was restless and he arose early the next morning. Birds were busy carolling in the new day but there was still no sign of Dulcie. Once more he walked around the hut, the now-empty shed and dilapidated sheep yards. He had no use for this place any more. It was only Dulcie who brought him back here and she had always been waiting for him or appeared not long after he'd arrived. It had been two months since he'd seen her last. He needed her badly.

Blast it. He decided to continue on to Port Augusta. At least he knew Harriet would always be home. He'd grown used to the flies but that morning they were particularly thick, crawling all over his face and hands with no breeze to carry them away. They added to his irritation as he batted at them only to have them return as soon as his hand was still. It was barely spring and the heat was wearing. For the first time since he'd arrived in this rugged country, he didn't look forward to the heat of summer.

He made his way through the hills below the inn and joined the road that wound down through the valley and then across the plain to the port. He overtook several bullock drays loaded with copper ore trundling in the same direction as he was taking. The men driving them acknowledged him as he passed but kept their heads lowered beneath their floppy hats.

He urged his new horse into a gallop, keen to escape the dust cloud created by so many hooves and the discomfort of being in the saddle as soon as he could. It wasn't until he was halfway to Port Augusta that he remembered he'd not gone back to look at the inn ledger. Still, Ned was probably right. It had been a difficult twelve months for everyone, with the prospect of continued dry.

Luckily for Septimus, his investments were spread about. He didn't think Baker would have the common sense or the funds to make such arrangements. Septimus got the impression that paying off the debt would clean the fool out. The thought gave him some cause to smile as he traversed the dusty road towards the port.

1857

Thomas shielded his eyes against the heat haze: something moved on the ground ahead. He moved his horse cautiously forward. The creature paused, twisted its head then spread its huge wings and launched itself skywards, the insignificant form of a lamb clutched in its talons. Thomas looked back to the ground where the eagle had been. The carcass of a ewe was split open in a pool of dark blood, buzzing with flies. Wild dogs would have taken it down and the eagle had come to claim the lamb they had somehow overlooked.

It was late afternoon on another long, hot January day. The sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky. Further off to his right along the dry creek bed was a waterhole, one of the last of his permanent supplies to still hold water. The vegetation had been stripped for miles around it, leaving a desolate landscape.

Thomas slithered from his horse; his legs began to crumple beneath him. He gripped the saddle with one hand and thumped his backside with the other, trying to get the circulation moving again. Every day he rode out to keep his sheep from straying too far. The summer had been relentless in its ferocity, but his drive to keep his stock safe was just as ferocious. He was so tired he'd been nearly asleep on the horse when he'd noticed the movement of the eagle. Under such conditions the sheep struggled to find enough food and then make it back to the waterhole. They were easy pickings for dogs, eagles and even the natives.

Gulda did his best to discourage his people but Thomas knew from the prints he'd learned to read around the muddy edges of the waterhole that barefoot men took his sheep as well as the wild creatures of the bush.

Timothy rode in from the other direction. He brought his horse to a stop beside the dead animal and slid to the ground with ease. Thomas envied his energy.

“What a mess,” the shepherd said as he bent over the poor creature. “Those blackbirds have got its eyes.”

“At least it was dead,” Thomas said. “I've found them pecking at the eyes of living sheep too weak to move.”

“This is the tenth carcass I've found today along the boundary.”

Thomas felt his spirits sink lower. He couldn't afford to lose so many sheep. He squinted skywards but saw not a glimmer of a cloud to give him any hope.

“Only one was ours though.” Timothy brushed the flies and ants from the dead animal's ears.

It was then Thomas noticed the two notches he'd missed before. This poor creature was from Smith's Ridge. He gazed in the direction of his boundary.

“Those shepherds don't do much of a job,” Timothy said.

Thomas knew Rix brought sheep to the Wildu Creek waterhole. There were other permanent sources of water on Thomas's property but they were all low as well. He would happily have shared if Smith's Ridge still belonged to Jacob and Zac but he had no interest in being neighbourly with the likes of Rix and his employer.

“It doesn't matter what we do,” Thomas said. “We've got too much land and too many sheep to be in one place all the time. Zac and Gulda have got their work cut out.” He wiped a trickle of sweat from his cheek. “No matter how much time we put in to shepherding, this boundary is a problem.”

“That Mr Rix knows we've got water and bluebush. They don't have much of either on Smith's Ridge,” Timothy said.

“You've been there?”

“A few times. Just to get a bit of a look. I didn't neglect my duties here,” he said quickly. “First time I found myself there by accident. I was following the trail of some sheep. They've got too much stock for the kind of country it is.”