The Bark Cutters (7 page)

‘Yep.'

Anthony drove carefully through the scrub, avoiding the fallen timber that could stake an unsuspecting tyre, the vehicle bumping roughly over undulating ground. Locating the barely visible track serving as the main road for this part of the property, they settled back for the thirty-minute drive to the sheep yards.

‘So, what's the story?' Cameron enquired nonchalantly, turning up the radio and changing the station.

‘About what?'

‘You know. That lame excuse about Sarah not needing to come with us this morning. She'll be pissed when we get back.'

‘Probably,' Anthony agreed, his hand moving to adjust the volume.

‘So, you gonna share?' Cameron continued, his fingers drumming with anticipation on the dash. ‘I heard your ute last night. Sarah was late for dinner.'

‘Share what?' Anthony attempted to answer with disinterest as three kangaroos bounded across their path. Sure, he and Cameron had spoken occasionally about Sarah, but it was usually his mate giving him a hard time. Surely Sarah hadn't told him about last night. Not that there was anything to tell. Anthony peered intently at the dirt track ahead wondering how he could worm his way out of his mate's fact-finding mission.

‘How long have you been here for?'

‘Okay, okay I give up.' Anthony tapped the radio on/off switch with his forefinger. Suddenly it was deathly quiet. He glanced at Cameron, whose eyes were crinkling in amusement. ‘If you've got something to say, I'd prefer it if you just came straight out with it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘If you want to ask me something, ask me.' Anthony gritted his teeth. It was possible Cameron didn't like the idea of him being
keen on his sister. If so maybe it was better if Cameron told him how he felt, for Anthony had no intention of jeopardising his position at Wangallon.

‘Okay then, I will. No need to get all feminine on me. I was just wondering how long you've been here at Wangallon?'

‘Over a year, you know that.'

Cameron bolted upright in his seat. ‘A whole year. It took a year for you to make a pass at my sister!'

Anthony gripped the steering wheel, hastily accelerating with a quick gear change. ‘She tell you that?'

‘What? That it took you a whole year or that you actually did make a pass at her?'

About to answer, Anthony looked across to find his friend's face red with suppressed laughter.

‘Well, you are enjoying yourself, aren't you?'

Cameron's chuckling continued until they reached the sheep yards. His face, usually so tanned beneath his blonde hair, remained red for a good minute before gradually resuming its normal colouring.

‘It wasn't actually a pass,' Anthony answered quickly, as they pulled a trunk from the rear of the vehicle and carried it, one on either end, into the yards.

Cameron nodded over his shoulder to where Sarah was pulling up on a quad-runner on the other side of the yards. ‘What was it then?'

‘Well, you two took long enough. Thanks for leaving me behind.' Sarah walked briskly towards them.

‘Told you she would be pissed off,' Cameron stated knowingly, as he watched his sister swing her long legs over each railing. ‘Well, if it was a pass, it wasn't a very good one by the looks of her mood. Need some pointers?'

‘Maybe,' Anthony agreed with a shrug and a grin. They dropped the trunk near the broken railing.

Cameron clapped his mate on the back. ‘Anthony was just telling me that, well, it was nothing really,' he finished lamely at the hostile look in Anthony's eyes. ‘Let's get going.'

Axe in hand, Cameron began to prise the bark away from the trunk. With short taps and a twist of the axe-head, the blade slipped neatly into the incision down the length of the trunk, pulling the bark neatly away. When one side was completed, Anthony and Cameron rolled the tree over to reveal the other incision. Within moments the bark had separated neatly from the trunk and lay in two curled pieces.

‘You would think someone would invent a quicker method,' Sarah exclaimed, when the last trunk had been de-barked and the boys set about positioning the new upright post.

‘Imagine building a house using this method, like the old-timers did,' Anthony commented.

‘Yeah, well, Wangallon homestead is still standing. It may have taken them a bloody long time, but what they built sure lasted.' Cameron continued to shovel dirt into the four-foot-deep hole in which the new post sat.

Confident it was sturdy enough, Anthony measured the replacement railing and, with a smaller chainsaw, cut a ten-inch wedge into the face of the new upright. Another length of wood fitted neatly into the wedge and was secured at either end with a double twist of wire.

Sarah patted the new rail. ‘Makes a difference with the chainsaw. I don't think building a house with a couple of axes would have been easy.'

Cameron stood back to admire the new rail and upright post. It was a beaut day, bright and clear. He watched Anthony measuring up another length of timber, his sister watching him carefully from under the brim of her hat. They would be great together. He certainly agreed with his grandfather on that score.

‘Hey, Cameron, you gonna pass me the pliers or what?'

‘Sure, sure.' He threw them across to where Anthony was uncoiling a length of wire. ‘So, Anthony, you gonna ask Sarah out?'

The tinny snap of wire being cut answered Cameron. For a moment he thought Anthony was going to throw the pliers at him, instead he concentrated on twisting a double length of wire securely around a loose railing and another upright post.

‘Well, what do you think?' Anthony finally blurted out. When his question continued to hang in the air unanswered, he took a deep breath, turning towards Sarah.

‘Too slow,' Cameron stated laconically as the quad-runner started up in the distance and disappeared around the corner of the shed.

‘How did you know?' Anthony watched her go, his clenched knuckles the only sign of misgiving.

Cameron thought about the question for a moment. ‘The way you look at each other. Like there could be a party going on but you two might as well be in the bloody desert. Besides, you gave her a pretty nice scarf and she wears it.'

‘Let's finish the yards.'

‘Sure, just remember one thing.' Cameron grasped his friend's shoulder firmly. ‘Don't let the grass grow under your feet, Anthony.'

‘Cam, old mate, I appreciate your interest but have you thought this out. Your mother would chuck a spastic if she thought anything was going on between Sarah and me.' Anthony scratched his temple, the action tilting his hat slightly to one side. ‘Besides, there's my job.' Slipping off the railing, Anthony began to work on the next upright post. Twisting the wire firmly across the timber, he began talking of the next day's mustering job. It was far easier to discuss the trek from the southern boundary than to continue a topic he had not quite got his head around.

The scent of stagnant water assaulted Hamish's nostrils two miles before his sullen party were in sight of the river. Ducking his head to bypass a low hanging limb, he looked ahead to where Dave trotted at the lead, his stocky body weaving in and out of barrel-sized tree trunks, the occasional screech of a bird registering their imminent intrusion as they completed their descent down the slight hill. Their mounts, slow and deliberate in gait, increased their pace a little as the ground evened and, with the thinning out of trees, they struck the softer soil indicative of a waterway. Pulling up a short distance from the river, Hamish indicated with a nod to Lee that this would be their campsite. Daylight was receding and this narrow trickle of mud that was to have provided water for all would be their sleeping companion, at least for this night. It had been a rough trip. The dray had been lost crossing the Broken River. Hamish had watched as his only spare shirt, his small collection of books and his tent and tools had either sunk to the bottom of the river or been swept away in
the fast flowing water. Ahead he watched the Chinaman muttering under his breath as he rubbed his arse, inspected the creek and rubbed his arse again. It had taken some cajoling to get him aboard the old mare he'd bartered half a pound of rendered sheep fat for. Still, with the loss of the dray, the man surely couldn't walk around this great land.

Dave dismounted, leading his horse to the drying creek before stretching out his stiff leg. The horse snuffled miserably at the stagnant pool as Dave removed both saddle and saddlecloth and placed them beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient gum tree. Dropping his swag to the ground, he poured water from a leather-bound bottle into his hat, his mount drinking thirstily as he took a swig himself. Close by, Hamish and Jasperson were doing the same, the muffled snorting of the horses as they snuffled up their paltry share echoing along the river bank. With a deep sigh, Dave patted his horse's muzzle, then removed the bridle before gathering his swag and limping to the base of the gum. A few feet away Hamish and Jasperson settled on respective trees, one swishing at the flies and poking a pointy stick in the dirt, the other thumbing through a well-worn book that Dave suspected Hamish had read near one hundred times.

‘Mister Hamish, we have little water.'

The complaining Chinese for once was right, Dave decided as he stretched out in silence. Lee set about gathering small twigs and dried leaves to start a fire. They had bashed across the swollen Broken River, losing their dray and most of their supplies in the process, picked up another mouth to feed in the likes of Jasperson and then four days after finally crossing the Broken, they had reached heaven. Groves of ancient eucalypts concealed kangaroos, pigs, emus and foxes. Fish and mussels appeared fresh and sparkling from rivers and streams and they breathed crisp fresh air with no bleak outcrops of weathered rock to hinder their line of sight. And the sheep; for the sheep alone Dave was
certain Hamish would pull up. They dusted the soft undulating country like wisps of cloud dotting the expanse of sky. ‘Not here,' had been Hamish's only remark, as if there were better things in store for them. Two weeks was all that lay between the flooded Broken River and this excuse for a river, two weeks of fine grassed country. Country glistening as morning dew draped its arms about it and embraced it as a lover and Hamish had deserted it.

‘Better things indeed,' Dave mumbled, squirming his arse in the dirt in an effort to find a modicum of relief. He was keen to stop moving. He was sure he'd be nearing thirty soon and after all his years of wandering, he was partial to the idea of returning to the land to work for one of the squatters on a big sheep spread. A boundary rider, yes, that would suit him fine. He had mentioned it to Jasperson, but that one was a strange character. Lost his party, he'd said; all drowned, he'd said, crossing the Broken; seeking his fortune, he'd said, or seeking it back, for he claimed he and his family were free passengers out from England.

Lee deftly stoked the fire's coals before wedging in a rounded shape of dough and a billycan of precious water for tea. Then he sat cross-legged with his saddle bag beside him and, from a tanned piece of kangaroo hide, unwrapped a collection of dried meats. In fact all their bags held the remains of smoked emu, roo, fish and lamb meat. Begrudgingly, Dave admitted that Lee took his self-imposed position of cook seriously, which was damn lucky, for Hamish never thought of food until mealtime and then he expected Lee to provide it.

‘Well, Dave, I can hear your brain ticking over, and I'm sure if I can, Jasperson can too,' Hamish said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Lee, who was carefully pouring tea into four tin mugs, waited expectantly. Dave poked the dirt between his legs with his forefinger as Hamish closed his book.

‘Dave, it's not like you to not speak your mind.' He had chosen Dave particularly at the camp and Jasperson's presence was decided upon for the same reason – they were men without ambition or direction. Accepting the tea Lee offered, Hamish slurped at the scalding contents before wedging it securely in the dirt by his side. They were the type of men he needed, men scared of decision-making, men who wouldn't go back or forwards without a leader.

‘A boundary rider, Hamish. I'd been thinking of it, not to leave you, Hamish, no, but to settle down for a while. Maybe go back a week or so, to that Englishman's station, the squatter.' Dave wet his lips, glancing quickly at Jasperson in the hope of support.

Walking across to the fire, Hamish picked up a sharpened stick and hunkered down in a squatting position to spear a sliver of smoked roo meat from the leather hide on which it rested. He held the meat over the fire for a minute or so before chewing it thoughtfully.

Dave gulped his watery tea, scalding his throat. Damn Jasperson, he was sure the man would agree, for who wanted to put up with this ceaseless roaming? He could see no point in it. He was tired, of his leg, of the travel, of the riding, and he was lonely. He had need of a woman, someone to cook, something soft to paw at night. Damn long it was since he had been with a woman.

‘Two days' travel to the next mail run. There'll be water there if we've enough to last,' Hamish replied, spitting gristle from his mouth.

‘Lee?' Hamish asked.

‘There will be enough.'

‘Enough for the horses too, Lee?'

Lee nodded as Dave and Jasperson came forward to pick at the thin strips of meat by the camp fire. Lee took a selection of emu flesh for himself and lay down in the soft hollow he had carved out under a bulbous tree trunk.

Hamish continued squatting by the campfire, poking disinterestedly at the lumpy dough, thinking of the rendered fat swapped to keep Lee's arse off the ground. The thought of the dripping lying warm and tasty on a chunk of bread caused his stomach to growl nastily. ‘The best of the land we've travelled through has been taken.' A lone star flickered through the thick leaves overhead as the sky settled into a smudge of pink and blue. ‘I have a mind to own my own piece of dirt. Somewhere we can all call home.' He glanced around at the stunned faces. Hamish figured as much. These were the type of men who needed to belong, but more importantly they needed a goal. ‘Two days then, Dave?'

‘Aye,' Dave agreed. ‘Two days.'

The Hill was little less than a mail point. A small building served as Post Office and General Store, a hotel provided alcohol, meals and beds, while three small humpies housed an old man, a tracker and two prostitutes. In all, this monument to isolation and ruination was a poor reward for the men he had sent on ahead to the hotel. Scratching his head thoughtfully, Hamish spun around in the middle of the track that separated bunks and whiskey from boiled lollies and soiled women, and then looked further afield to the trees and swaying grasses at the very edges of the settlement. This was a place where few would notice a man's comings and goings.

A few feet away, the store's flaking red and white signboard announced the proprietor, Todd Reynolds. It rattled with the arrival of a dirty southerly wind. Carried along with it in a flurry of grit, came the cackle of a well used woman and the hoarse cry of a familiar voice: Jasperson's needs were clearly far greater than Dave's. Hamish clucked his tongue, the action dislodging a piece of emu gristle from a back molar. One day he would have to
acquire some ability in that department as well although, at the moment, a book, a feed and some information were his ultimate priorities.

Hamish entered the store, noting the whistling of the wind as it speared through gaping holes in the wooden walls. Within the dim interior he could see rough shelving and cupboards – most were partially empty except for great dust-covered cobwebs. The storekeeper looked up once before returning to his polishing cloth, which he rubbed in a circular motion across the long wooden counter, empty except for two large jars of boiled sweets and a ledger.

‘What do you sell here, then?' Hamish enquired of the stocky man.

‘M-m-many things, b-bolts of cloth, l-lamps, l-lard.'

Hamish glanced around the gloomy interior, ‘Aye, I see.'

‘Tea, flour, tobacco. W-we don't get much p-passing trade. There's a town, you see, and an agency, Stock and Station, a-a day's ride s-south.'

‘An agency. So they buy and sell sheep, do they?' Hamish asked.

‘Aye, m-my brother owns it and the s-s-store and the-the hotel.'

‘Owns it all?'

‘Yes.'

The shopkeeper's hand stilled. His lips twitched as if he had more to say. Hamish got the impression the man had not had a conversation with another person for some time.

‘What do they call this town?'

The shopkeeper spoke slowly, as if the giving of so much information at once demanded every ounce of his concentration. ‘Ridge Gully. T-they're building a lumberyard, there are many houses. M-my brother Matthew lives in a mud-brick house. M-money there, there is.'

Indeed there would be, Hamish decided as he ambled up the dirt track, a wedge of boiled sweet glued to the side of his mouth and the same apiece for his team seconded in his pocket. Todd Reynolds, or Tootles as he apparently preferred to be called, was certainly full of information, yet there was the question of how Hamish could best make use of it. He could be like the others, he scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, use his savings to buy a few head, but how would he get land? And if he did, well, what use would a small plot be? The wind continued to blow up, heaving gritty dirt into his eyes and ears. To his left, the older of the two prostitutes, dressed only in a filthy chemise, waved disinterestedly at him, while the younger allowed Jasperson to lead her away, again. Hamish stuffed his hand inside his shirt to touch the pouch of money secreted there; his boots were no longer solid enough to carry it safely.

On the rickety steps of the Hill Hotel and Board, Hamish paused to brush the dust from his clothes. His left boot, the sole half torn off, was held in place by a piece of twine. His trousers were near threadbare, and his shirt, dirty and badly patched, stunk like the rest of him. His eyes stung, a filmy sheen blurring his vision. Diagonally opposite him, the remaining prostitute whistled shrilly, clutching herself between her legs. The task ahead of him suddenly seemed insurmountable. He'd left his home country because of a woman. He'd spent three months on board a ship crowded together like rats, lost his brother … Sitting heavily on the steps, Hamish lifted his head to stare directly across at the whore. The woman sat in the dirt outside her bark lean-to, mouth open, rum dribbling down her chin.

The step creaked beside him. Hamish opened his hands and looked carefully at the dirt-scoured lines crisscrossing his palms, at the torn fingernails embedded with the dirt of his journey. This then was the essence of being alone and it was of his doing. The smell of herbage washed about him, filling his eyes, nose and
mouth with the thick scents and images of his home country; lochs and burns, the thick smell of burning peat, of the mounds of rock shielding the dead, of Mary's willowy form walking away from him. Then there was Charlie, as clear in his mind as if he sat next to him still; laughing on the fields one day, complaining the next. The step creaked.

‘Are you coming in then?'

Hamish ignored Dave, concentrating instead on a formless shape only feet from where he sat. The shadow swirled away from him, merging with the dust of The Hill's main street. Charlie was with him still, as he'd promised. And it was a promise undeserved.

‘Dave, first we'll get cleaned up. Then it's Tootles from the store we'll be needing with cloth for shirts and such. And tell Lee to mix a brew for that old moll across the street. I'm hoping she can hold a needle and thread.'

Hamish could do nothing about the past, but he could do as Charlie asked. He would live his life for the two of them and be successful no matter what. He would create a legacy in memory of his brother and no-one would stop him.