Miles Off Course (22 page)

“Look Mr. Sinclair,” Moran spoke up again. “We all seem to have got off on the wrong foot. The fellas were just a bit surprised to see you, is all. We’re just
tryin’ to look after your mob the best we can.”

Rowland replied carefully. “I appreciate that, Mr. Moran.”

“The boys and me are riding out at first light tomorrow to put out the salt blocks.” He smiled again as he looked around at the hut. “So the homestead will be all yours for a
few days. We’ll camp in the caves while we’re working the boundary.”

“I didn’t know there were caves on the lease,” Rowland said. “Are you sure they’ll be adequate if the weather turns?”

“We’ll be fine, Mr. Sinclair, and it’ll give you gentlefolk a few days to enjoy the mountains without us ill-mannered cattlemen.” He clouted Andy over the head with his
hat as he said the last.

Rowland nodded. Perhaps he’d misjudged these men. God forbid Sarah Brent was right. “As long as we’re not throwing you out, Mr. Moran.”

“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland sighed. He tried appealling to this newfound goodwill. “Do you blokes have any idea what happened to Harry Simpson?”

There was a general mumbling and then Clancy Glover answered for them all. “Sorry, Mr. Sinclair—he just took off. Rode off and didn’t come back.” A chorus of
agreement.

Rowland gave up. “Very well then.” He checked his watch. It was still reasonably early. “What do you chaps do of an evening?”

“We put the Cassidys in frocks and we dance,” Crane replied curtly.

Rowland met his eye. “As entertaining as that sounds, how about we play cards instead?”

Crane smiled faintly. “Do you mind if we drink?”

“Insist upon it.”

T
he stockmen proved to be rowdy company. Once it was established that Rowland was not going to demand sobriety, Moran produced the bottles he had
brought in from Rules Point, from behind a stack of firewood. The stockmen drank with a singular commitment. Apparently, it had been a fortnight since they had last restocked and the camp had been
dry for several days. Perhaps it was fear of an extended prohibition that had made the stockmen so hostile to the presence of their employer.

They were, however, less than extraordinary card players, and Rowland and his companions had to be careful that they did not take every hand. Lubricated, the men became lively and even friendly.
Rowland and Clyde created a subtle buffer between Edna and the stockmen, in case the alcohol made them too forward once again. Sarah Brent retired behind the blanket with a kerosene lamp to write
in her diary, a thick leather-bound journal in which she wrote in what appeared to be a shorthand code.

“We’ll leave the magic stew behind for you tomorrow,” Lofty Cassidy said congenially.

“The magic stew?”

“In the camp oven. Just add a few spuds and whatever’s in the rabbit traps to it each day and you’ll never reach the bottom… it’s been feeding us all for weeks
now.” The stockman laughed at the look of horror on Rowland’s face.

Milton nudged Rowland and grinned. “Close your mouth, Rowly, your silver spoon may fall out.”

Clyde was similarly unperturbed. “The flavour really improves after a few days,” he assured Rowland, who was now convinced they would all die of disease within the week.

True to their word, and despite a late night of drinking, the stockmen were up before dawn the next morning. Clyde and Rowland rose with them and helped saddle and pack horses by lantern. The
dogs, now off their chains, ran excitedly amongst the steeds as they sensed the impending departure. With the first light of day, the men who worked the Sinclair snow lease rode into the hills.

Clyde turned to Rowland. “The Sinclair brand’s a flying ‘
s
’, isn’t it, Rowly?”

Rowland nodded vaguely. “I think so.”

“One of those horses—the black gelding they were using as a pack animal—has a Sinclair brand.”

Rowland shrugged, wondering what his friend what getting at. “So they’re using Sinclair horses—they do work for us.”

Clyde frowned. “As a rule, stockmen have their own horses, Rowly… and none of the others are Sinclair animals—I checked.”

“What’s on your mind, Clyde?”

“Simpson would have ridden a Sinclair horse, wouldn’t he?”

“You think that could be Harry’s horse?” Rowland rubbed the back of his neck.

Clyde nodded. “It wouldn’t be particularly surprising if…”

“If they hadn’t said Harry had ridden away,” Rowland finished for him.

Clyde nodded. “I should have said something before they left.”

“It’s probably fortunate you didn’t. They’re carrying guns.”

“I noticed,” Clyde frowned. A shotgun probably had its uses in protecting stock from wild dogs and dingoes, but the weapons he’d caught sight of were handguns.

They threw a couple more logs on the last glowing embers in the fire pit and stared silently at the growing flames.

“So what do you reckon, Rowly?” Clyde asked finally, as he took cigarette papers and a tin of tobacco from his breast pocket.

Rowland dragged at his hair. “Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation for Harry’s horse… Perhaps it threw him and came back to camp of its own accord.”

“It’s a horse not a pigeon, Rowly.”

Rowland smiled. “Still.”

Clyde sighed. “No—you’re right.”

“There is something going on though,” Rowland said. “Do you think you could find your way to the next lease?”

Clyde nodded, lighting his cigarette on the fire. “It shouldn’t be too hard. Why?”

“Thought we might go and speak to the men working O’Shea’s—they may have seen Harry or know something.”

Clyde drew on his cigarette. “Not a bad idea. O’Shea’s Hut isn’t that far from here, maybe an hour or so on horseback… if we can get Milt up.”

Rowland looked back towards Rope’s End. It was silent. The others were obviously not yet awake. He checked his watch—it had only just gone past six. “Let them sleep,” he
said. “We can be back before midday.” He took his sketchbook out of his jacket and proceeded to scribble a note.

Clyde yawned. “I’ll get the horses ready then.” He glanced at the camp oven which still hung over the fire pit. “You’re sure you don’t want some breakfast
before we go?”

Rowland grimaced. “No.”

O’Shea’s Hut was situated in a long valley, sheltered from the winds by sharp rises on either side and conveniently near a small stream on which a water wheel had
been constructed. It was not quite a homestead but it was a great deal less rustic than Rope’s End. There were two chimneys on the hut—a large flue of stone which identified the
fireplace and a second smaller chimney. The lean-tos were well stocked with firewood, bags of flour, alcohol, and other supplies. Stockyards and cattle runs had also been erected near the hut, but
they were currently empty. A freshly slaughtered beast was hanging by a chain from the branch of an old stringy bark.

“These blokes are well set up,” Clyde murmured, as they rode up.

Rowland agreed. “It does seem rather more civilised than Rope’s End.”

There were only two men in the hut, the others having ridden out to check on the cattle. Rowland introduced himself and Clyde, and O’Shea’s men cautiously invited them in and offered
them a drink. The inside of the hut was also well appointed. A sturdy table for dining; a cast iron, potbellied stove, as well as the fire; and an Astor radiola, apparently powered by the
waterwheel.

“Lou Merrick, Mr. Sinclair.” The solid, bearded stockman shook Rowland’s hand vigorously. “Me mate’s Hans Iverson.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Merrick. Mr. Iverson.” Rowland greeted each man in turn.

“Sinclair? Say, you’re not the fella who buck jumped in his wedding suit?”

Iverson looked Rowland up and down and concluded that he was indeed. His face creased with amusement. “Would have made it easy to lay you out, I guess.”

“Lay me out?”

Merrick grinned. “Most folks figured they’d be burying you after the buck jumping.”

Clyde chuckled.

“You were at Rules Point I take it?” Rowland smiled.

“Naw, but word travels fast up here. What can we do you for?”

“I seem to have lost one of my men, Mr. Merrick. I was hoping that you might have seen him.”

“Simpson.”

“Yes.”

“We heard he’d done a runner. That snake fella, Eichorn, reckons he saw Simpson in Corryong.”

“Did you run into Simpson while he was out here?” Clyde asked.

“We don’t really do much socialising.”

Rowland smiled again. For some reason an image of the Cassidy brothers in evening gowns came too easily to mind.

“That’s probably a good thing, Rowly,” Clyde said, settling into an easychair with his coffee. “If your crew saw this place they’d start to think the Sinclairs
weren’t doing the right thing by them.”

Rowland nodded. “It’s certainly what I’d be thinking.”

Merrick seemed gratified. “Mr. O’Shea used to muster his own cattle once, and he ain’t forgotten. We don’t see him no more, of course, but he insists that the men are
looked after proper… makes ’em loyal. You wouldn’t find any of my boys wandering off the job.”

“Indeed.” Rowland gave no sign of his annoyance with the widespread insistence that Simpson had walked away.

“So how many head are you carrying up here?” Clyde asked with a sideways glance at Rowland.

Merrick smiled smugly. “Two thousand.”

“Blimey—how big’s the lease?”

“A thousand acres, give or take.”

They talked for a while longer of cattle and feed, and other aspects of animal husbandry which Clyde seemed to understand much better than Rowland. In time Merrick checked his watch pointedly,
and spoke of the dog fence that he intended to work on that day. Hint taken, they thanked Merrick and Iverson for their hospitality and remounted for the ride back to Rope’s End.

“Rowly, how big’s your lease?” Clyde asked as they rode.

“About four thousand acres I believe.”

Clyde was surprised. “How’d you manage that? I thought there were limits.”

“I didn’t manage, Wilfred did. The Sinclair holding is, so I’m told, made up of a number of leases. Wilfred applied for the extra land in my name to get around the
restrictions.”

“You know, Rowly,” Clyde continued thoughtfully, “Moran said last night that they expected to count out less than a thousand Sinclair cattle in the muster.”

Rowland nodded, remembering the conversation vaguely. “Maybe that’s what Wil meant about the numbers being off…”

They rode in silence for a few minutes.

“So what now, Rowly?” Clyde asked finally.

Rowland shook his head. “I don’t know. Other than this supposed sighting in Corryong, Harry seems to have bloody well disappeared.” He stared towards the horizon clearly
frustrated. “Perhaps we should be asking after him in Corryong.”

Clyde frowned. He didn’t for a minute think Rowland was serious about looking for Simpson in Corryong, but they weren’t having much luck here.

Perhaps because they were both unsure of what to do next, their conversation turned instead to other matters. As always when he was in need of distraction, Rowland’s mind went to art.
Clyde’s thoughts were quick to follow and soon they were deep into a discussion of Nora Heysen, whose first solo exhibition had caused a sensation in Sydney that year.

“Nora could win the Archibald one day.” Rowland had met the young South Australian briefly. They had a common love of portraiture, although Rowland had a preference for nudes.

“She is good,” Clyde agreed, thinking appreciatively of her work. Nora Heysen was barely more than twenty and yet it was already clear that she was within that tiny circle of artists
who could achieve greatness. To Clyde’s mind, Rowland Sinclair was similarly talented, though possibly not driven enough to ever join the artistic elite.