Miles Off Course (32 page)

“Naw… I loved her. Best dog I’ve ever had. She ran away one day…”

The Rules Point Hotel was crowded with the men who had joined the search for Rowland Sinclair. They had come in from surrounding settlements and stations, for the promise of
work or because they were sent by employers who had, for one reason or another, cause to do Wilfred Sinclair a favour. Some were staying on to work the Sinclair lease, others because Wilfred had
opened the bar to all those who had assisted.

The Sinclair brothers and Maguire had called in first at Long Plain Homestead to rescue the Mercedes which Lawrence Keenan was holding as collateral. Keenan itemised at length the charges that
made up the debt, complaining bitterly that he was forced to retrieve Rowland himself to ensure that he survived to settle the bill.

Rowland produced his chequebook and soothed the situation with his signature.

“I’ll be glad to see the back of it,” Keenan muttered. “Taking up half my shed, bloody Fritz contraption…”

Regardless, the old man had polished the automobile until she gleamed and, though a large ginger cat was evicted from the back seat, the car was pristine.

Despite his injuries, Rowland managed to drive his beloved car with Edna leaning in to operate the gearshift. Fortunately, the lurching, stalling journey, was not a long one and they arrived at
Rules Point with both vehicles.

Milton and Clyde emerged from the bar to greet them with a train of well-lubricated spectators.

“Rowly, thank God.” Clyde clapped Rowland on the back. He looked tired. “We were beginning to fear the worst… We found the cave but lost your trail in the
rain.”

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by.”

Rowland looked down at Milton’s arm, heavily bandaged to the elbow. “Good Lord, Milt, Frost isn’t even dead.” Milton usually only robbed the deceased. Rowland shook the
grinning poet’s good hand with his own as Edna threw her arms about Clyde.

“Cripes, Rowly, what have you done to yourself?”

“Snake… I’m fine.”

“Well, it’s certain you have the luck of the Irish!” Mick Schulz boomed. “Come, young’un! We’ll have a drink to your good health.”

A general roar of approval followed. It seemed that everyone was happy to drink to Rowland while a Sinclair was paying the bill.

Rowland glanced back at Wilfred, expecting his brother would be anxious to leave, but Wilfred was deep in conversation and waved him on. They seemed somehow to have acquired the status of heroes
by virtue of being rescued, and even Edna was made welcome in the bar. Indeed she was plied with glasses of shandy before she even sat down and the seats about her were taken quickly. The feeling
was high and festive, and the stockmen were keen to hear all. Though it seemed that Moran’s duplicity was not quite a scandal by mountain standards, it was the subject of great interest.

Rowland gave his attention to a beer and allowed the story to be told by Milton and Edna. Between them the poet and the sculptress had all the necessary theatrical inclination to turn the tale
into an epic of survival. Rowland spoke quietly with Clyde instead, giving his friend a slightly more accurate account of the events since they last parted ways.

Clyde in turn told him of the Chevy which had been bogged on the track between Long Plain Homestead and the charred remains of Rope’s End.

Rowland shook his head. “Just who are they? There’s got to be more to it than a bit of cattle stealing.”

“Sarah!” Edna exclaimed, pushing her way out of the centre of the crowd and towards the door. Sarah Brent strode into the bar.

Rowland and Clyde stood hastily.

“Edna, my dear,” Sarah said, clasping the sculptress’ hands. “I was positively sick with worry for you. Of course I wanted to ride out with the search party, but the
closed-minded fools would not hear of it… but that’s by the by. I am so glad to find you safe and well.”

“We’re very grateful to you, Sarah, for all you did for Milt.”

The writer shrugged dismissively. “I understand Wilfred is taking you all back with him.”

“You’ve spoken with Wilfred?” Rowland asked. Wilfred hadn’t mentioned Sarah Brent whilst they were at Pocket’s
.

“Of course… he was a little astonished to find me here. He’s become the man I expected he would.”

“I see.” Rowland was unsure if her words were praise or censure.

“You must keep in touch, Sarah… Rowly, give Sarah your card,” Edna said warmly. “You must come and see us in Sydney. Now that we have had such an adventure together we
must be friends.”

“Yes, Edna, I believe we must. I will see you all before long I expect. Now that my book is finished, I too am aching for home.” Sarah Brent took Rowland’s card. “Indeed,
I believe you may be able to help me with my book, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Me?” Rowland asked, startled. He was fairly sure Sarah Brent’s manuscript was beyond help. “I’m afraid I have none of Aubrey’s literary talent, Miss
Brent.”

“No, I didn’t expect you would, Mr. Sinclair,” Sarah replied smartly. “Mr. Jones mentioned that you were something of an artist. The book will require a dust jacket and I
think the internal pages could be enhanced with some illustration.”

“Illustration?”

“Of the monkey, naturally. I have several ideas… You may need to procure a monkey. I’ll outline my expectations properly when we meet in Sydney.”

“I really don’t think…”

“Rowly!” Wilfred beckoned from the door. He looked grim.

Rowland put down his drink, thankful for an excuse to leave the conversation.

“What’s wrong, Wil?”

“Rowly, these gentlemen are from the Commonwealth Police Force—Special Detectives Murphy and Webster. It seems Mr. Moran was found this morning.”

“Splendid.” Rowland was pleased. Perhaps now they would find out what this was all about. “Have you had a chance to question him, gentlemen?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Sinclair,” the first policeman said curtly. “Mr. Moran is dead.”

“D
ead… how?”

“It appears someone shot him,” Wilfred replied.

“Mr. Moran’s corpse was discovered this morning, not far from Pocket’s Hut.” Detective Murphy’s eyes were piercing.

“And the others?”

Webster replied. “No sign of them, sir. It seems Mr. Moran was alone.”

“Perhaps one of his own men turned on him,” Wilfred suggested.

“Maybe…” Rowland frowned. “He was pushing them pretty hard.”

“I believe you own a handgun, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Yes, I do.”

“We’d like to check it if we could.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Detective Murphy. Moran took it from me at O’Shea’s Hut. The next time I saw the gun was when Glover was loading it to shoot
us.”

“I see.” Murphy made a note.

“Everybody up here seems to carry a gun,” Rowland added uneasily.

Murphy smiled, a little too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Why are the federal police interested in this, Detective?”

“That’ll be all for now, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

Rowland fumbled in his jacket to find a calling card. “You can reach me at…”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Murphy interrupted. “We have quite the file on you… we know where to find you.”

“Indeed.” Wilfred glowered. Rowland was unsure whether it was at him or the Commonwealth officers.

In silence they watched the two men walk back out to a black Studebaker.

“Your gun’s in the trunk of the Rolls,” Wilfred said, as the Studebaker pulled away.

“Really? How’d it get there?”

“Harry gave it to me just before we left Pocket’s. He picked it up after that chap Glover dropped it.”

Rowland nodded. “Very tidy of him.” There was no reason to bring Harry Simpson to the attention of the federal police. He studied Wilfred for a moment. “You don’t know
why the feds are interested in Moran, do you, Wil?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Wilfred removed his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “Perhaps he’s committed some crime in Canberra.”

“Senator Hardy may know,” Rowland prompted cautiously. “He could find out at least.”

“Perhaps.” Wilfred gave nothing away, but then he rarely did. “You’ve got enough to worry about without poking your nose into this, Rowly.”

It was late afternoon when they reached the gates of
Oaklea
after stopping overnight in Gundagai where Wilfred had spent the morning attending to some sort of business.
McNair was once again on hand to admit them, but Rowland noticed the presence of three other men in the shadows. Wilfred had certainly taken no chances. Perhaps his brother knew more than he was
revealing. Frowning, Rowland wondered whether the Old Guard was gathering once again, as they had the previous year when revolution had seemed inevitable. Clearly this was about more than cattle
stealing. The involvement of the Commonwealth Police was an intriguing development.

“You’re quiet, Rowly,” Edna said, looking back at him from the front seat. Clyde had driven the Mercedes from Rules Point. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Not at all,” Rowland replied. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just that I should talk to Delaney,” Rowland said thoughtfully. “Unofficially, I mean. He may be able to tell us why the feds are interested in Moran…” His voice
trailed off and he turned, distracted by a manic barking as they pulled up to the house. “That sounds like Lenin,” he said, just before his ramshackle greyhound came into view.

Clyde parked the Mercedes and Rowland stepped out, falling back against the motor car as Lenin jumped up to greet him. “Take it easy, Len. What on earth are you doing here?” The dog
responded with wriggling paroxysms of joy. Rowland laughed. “Settle down, mate.”

Wilfred climbed out of the Rolls, and was very similarly greeted by his son. He swung young Ernest up into his arms. “I brought your bloody dog back from Sydney with me,” he
said.

Rowland was surprised. Wilfred had never shown any particular fondness for the dog. Indeed Wilfred often used the hound as another example of Rowland’s propensity to befriend the
ill-bred.

“Why would you bring him here?” Rowland asked, noting a new scar just above the one where Lenin’s ear should have been.

Wilfred put Ernest down. “Go and tell your mother that we’re back, there’s a good boy.”

Ernest set off obediently, stopping only to shake his uncle’s hand and wave to the others who had by now alighted from the Mercedes. Once he was gone, Wilfred spoke again.

“It seems your dog made a nuisance of himself when
Woodlands
was broken into… Bit one of the intruders. They hit him with the butt of a gun.”