In the Land of the Long White Cloud (93 page)

“We?” Paul asked reluctantly.

Marama nodded. “Of course. I’m coming with you. I’m here for you.”

O
fficer Hanson was more than a little surprised when he discovered Helen O’Keefe instead of Paul Warden at Kiward Station the next day. Naturally, he did not look especially pleased with the situation.

“Mrs. Warden, there are people in Haldon accusing your son of murder. And now he’s run away from the investigation. I don’t know what I’m supposed to make of all this.”

“I’m convinced he’ll come back,” Gwyneira explained. “Everything…his grandfather’s death, and then Helen’s sudden appearance here…he was terribly ashamed. It was all too much for him.”

“Well, then we’ll hope for the best. Don’t take this business lightly, Mrs. Warden. The way it looks, he shot the man straight in the chest. And O’Keefe, the witnesses generally all agree, was practically unarmed.”

“But he did provoke him,” said Helen. “My husband, God rest his soul, knew how to provoke a person, Sheriff. And the boy was undoubtedly no longer sober.”

“Perhaps the boy could not fully appreciate the situation,” George Greenwood added. “The death of his grandfather had completely unmoored him. And when he saw Howard O’Keefe reaching for a gun…”

“You don’t really mean to lay the blame on the victim!” the police chief reprimanded them sternly. “That old hunting rifle was hardly a threat.”

“That’s true,” George conceded. “What I wanted to say was rather…well, they were highly unfortunate circumstances. This stupid
bar fight, the horrible accident. We all should have interceded. But I think the investigation can wait until Paul comes back.”

“
If
he comes back,” Hanson barked. “I’ve got half a mind to send out a search party.”

“I’m happy to put my men at your disposal,” Gwyneira said. “Believe me—I too would prefer to see my son in your safekeeping than out there alone in the highlands. In addition, he can’t expect to receive any help from the Maori.”

She was certainly right about that. Although the sheriff delayed the investigation and did not make the mistake of pulling the sheep baron’s workers away during sheep shearing season to form a search party, Tonga did not accept the situation so easily. Paul had Marama. Regardless of whether she had gone with him of her own free will or not, Paul had the girl Tonga wanted. And now, finally, the walls of the
pakeha
houses were no longer protecting him. They were no longer the rich livestock farmer and the Maori boy that no one took seriously. Now they were just two men in the highlands. Paul was fair game for Tonga. For now, he waited. He was not as dumb as the whites, setting off blindly after a fugitive. He would eventually learn where Paul and Marama were hiding. And then he would go after them.

Gwyneira and Helen buried Gerald Warden and Howard O’Keefe. Afterward, both resumed their lives, though little changed for Gwyneira. She organized the sheep shearing and made the Maori a peace offer.

With Reti as her interpreter, she strolled into the village and began negotiations.

“You will have the land your village stands on,” she explained, smiling uneasily. Tonga stood across from her with a fixed expression, leaning on the Sacred Ax that was a symbol of his chieftain’s status. “Beyond that, we will have to work something out. I do not have
much in the way of paper money right now—after the sheep shearing, though, that will change for the better, and perhaps we can also sell some of our investments. I still have not finished going through Mr. Warden’s assets. Otherwise…what would you think of the land between our fenced-in pastures and O’Keefe Station?”

Tonga raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Warden, I appreciate your efforts, but I’m not stupid. I know very well that you are in no position to make any offers. You are not the inheritor of Kiward Station—in reality the farm belongs to your son, Paul. And you do not seriously mean to claim that he’s authorized you to negotiate on his behalf?”

Gwyneira lowered her eyes. “No, he didn’t. But, Tonga, we live here together. And we’ve always lived in peace.”

“Your son broke that peace,” Tonga said harshly. “He’s insulted my people…moreover, Mr. Warden cheated my people. That was long ago, I know, but it took us a long time to find out. So far no apology has been made.”

“I apologize!” said Gwyneira.

“You do not bear the Sacred Ax! I accept you completely, Mrs. Warden, as
tohunga
. You understand more about raising sheep than most of your men. But in the eyes of the law you are nothing and have nothing.” He gestured to a little girl playing nearby. “Can this child speak for the Kai Tahu? No. So little do you speak, Mrs. Warden, for the Warden tribe.”

“But what will we do, then?” Gwyn asked desperately.

“The same as before. We are in a state of war. We will not help you. On the contrary, we will harm you as much as we can. Don’t you wonder why no one will shear your sheep? We did that. We will also close off your streets, block the transportation of your wool—we will not leave the Wardens alone, Mrs. Warden, until the governor has pronounced a judgment and your son is prepared to accept it.”

“I do not know how long Paul will be away,” Gwyneira said helplessly.

“Then we also do not know how long we will fight. I regret that, Mrs. Warden,” Tonga concluded, turning away.

Gwyneira sighed. “Me too.”

Over the next few weeks, Gwyneira tackled the sheep shearing, powerfully supported by her men and the two workers Gerald and Paul had contracted with back in Haldon. Joe Triffles had to be under constant surveillance, but when he could be kept away from alcohol, he did as much work as three ordinary shepherds. Helen, who still lacked any assistance, envied Gwyneira for having this capable man.

“I’d let him come over to your place,” said Gwyneira, “but, believe me, you couldn’t control him alone; you can only do that with a whole gang working together. But I’ll send everyone to you as soon as we’re done here anyway. It’s just taking so miserably long. Can you keep the sheep fed that long?”

The pastures around the farms were mostly eaten away by shearing time, hence the reason for the sheep being driven into the highlands for the summer.

“Just barely,” Helen murmured. “I’m giving them the fodder that was meant for the cattle. George sold them off in Christchurch; otherwise, I wouldn’t even have been able to pay the burial costs. Eventually I’ll have to sell the farm too. I’m not like you, Gwyn. I can’t manage it alone. And to be honest, I don’t even like sheep.” Awkwardly, she stroked the young sheepdog that Gwyneira had given her first thing after Howard’s death. The dog was fully trained and helped Helen out enormously with the farm work. However, Helen only had limited control of the dog. The only advantage she had over Gwyneira was that she was still on friendly terms with the Maori. Her students helped her with her farm work without being asked, and so at least Helen had vegetables out of the garden, milk, and eggs, and often fresh meat when the little boys helped hunt or their parents gave them fish as a present for their teacher.

“Have you written to Ruben yet?” Gwyneira asked.

Helen nodded. “But you know how long it takes. First the mail goes to Christchurch, then to Dunedin.”

“Though soon the O’Kay Warehouse wagons will be able to take them,” Gwyneira remarked. “Fleur wrote in her last letter that she’s expecting a delivery in Lyttelton. So she has to send someone to pick it up. They’re probably already on their way. But let’s talk about my wool for a minute—the Maori are threatening to block the road we take to Christchurch, and I wouldn’t put it past Tonga to simply steal the wool—as a little advance pay on the reparations the governor will award him. Well, I’m thinking of spoiling a bit of his fun. Would you be amenable to our bringing our wool to your farm to store in your cow barn until your shearing is done as well? Then we can take it all together by way of Haldon. We’ll be a bit later to market than the other breeders, but there’s nothing we can do about that.”

Tonga was incensed, but Gwyneira’s plan succeeded. While his men guarded the road, their enthusiasm for the task slowly ebbing, George Greenwood was receiving the wool from both Kiward Station and O’Keefe Station in Haldon. Tonga’s people, whom he had promised ample remuneration, became impatient over the incident and objected that they were usually earning money from the
pakeha
around this time.

“Almost enough for the whole year!” Kiri’s husband complained. “We’ll now have to move around and hunt like before. Kiri is not looking forward to a winter in the highlands.”

“Maybe she’ll find her daughter there,” Tonga retorted angrily. “And her
pakeha
husband. She can complain to him—after all, he’s responsible.”

Tonga still had not heard anything about Paul and Marama’s whereabouts, but he was a patient man. He waited. Then a covered wagon fell into the clutches of his road blockade. However, it was coming from Christchurch, not Kiward Station, and contained women’s clothing, not fleece, so really there was no justifiable reason to stop it. But Tonga’s men were slowly getting out of control—and set more things in motion than Tonga could ever have imagined possible.

Leonard McDunn steered his heavy vehicle over the still rather bumpy road from Christchurch to Haldon. This was a detour, but his employer, Ruben O’Keefe, had charged him with dropping off a few letters in Haldon and having a look at a farm in the area.