Novels 02 Red Dust (13 page)

'I'll be bringing the wool buyer around next week to look at the wool and then the shipper buyer later,' Ben promised.

As soon as Gemma entered the house Jess said, 'Gem, I'm so sorry, I have no idea what got into him. He's never been like that before. He's usually a very caring, sensitive sort of guy. It was like he was another person tonight. I'm really sorry.'

Gemma waved her apology away. 'Don't worry about it, Jess. The meal made up for it. Wasn't it beautiful? I'm stuffed, so I think I'll hit the hay. Night.'

Gemma lay awake for a long time that night, wondering why Brad had targeted her and what she'd done to deserve his dislike.

Chapter 18

Jack had finally received the text telling him the truck was on its way. He started his ute and left the shearers' quarters. At the top part of Billbinya, off the worn track in a sheltered place by a creek, Jack kept his two dogs, some sheep yard panels and some wire. It was his sheep-stealing kit. He went there most days while he was supposed to be working, fed and watered the dogs and made sure they were okay.

'Get up the back, ya mongrels,' said Jack as he let them off the chain and loaded on the panels. 'We've got work to do.'

The night was cold and the large yellow moon lit the sky. Jack parked the ute near a patch of bush, far away from where the truck would arrive. He would walk to the gateway. It was easier to hide in a bush than to explain why his ute was on the road at a strange time of night, and if someone drove past he didn't want their lights picking up a reflection of his ute.

The shadows of the trees and bushes made eerie movements on the ground and could have caused him to trip, but Jack moved silently through the darkness without stumbling. This was his world.

The dogs' breath puffed white as they moved beside him, occasionally sniffing at a bush or stopping to cock a leg. At the call of a night bird they would stop and listen, then move along as quietly as Jack. They settled down under a bush to wait for the arrival of the truck. The truck would reverse through the gate and the stock would be unloaded. The dogs would mob them together and the job would be done. The only noise that would be heard was the truck, and the sound of running hoofs on the damp ground as the cattle were unloaded.

'Yep,' mused Jack to himself. 'Gemma's about to get those steers she's worried about, for the feedlot contract. It's nice to be able to help out.'

Jack heard the truck before he saw the lights. At the low rumble of the engine, his dogs tensed, cocked their ears and whined softly. He quietened them with a hand on each head and, as the truck drew closer, he went to open the gate. The driver and Jack didn't even acknowledge each other as they unloaded the truck. The steers, wide-eyed with fear, raced off the truck ramp and out into the paddock. Soon the air was filled with the sound of cattle hoofs pounding the ground, as the cattle ran around the paddock trying to work out where they were. Jack sent his dogs around the runners to slow them down and push them into a mob. His dogs worked quietly, herding the mob together. They had done this many times. Soon all was quiet in the paddock.

After the truck left, Jack used a sturdy branch with dead leaves on it to swish away the truck tracks. There wasn't any sign that a truck had delivered these cattle. He knew that it would be obvious that someone had covered them up, but it didn't matter. There wouldn't be any way that the stock squad, if they arrived, would be able to cast tyre prints and match them back to the truck.

Jack squatted under the bush for a while longer, listening to the cattle. He lit a cigarette and the end glowed in the dark. The steers were slightly restless, milling around each other, snorting and sniffing the new smells. There was the odd loud bellow, but they would settle down in the next few hours. They'd be tired from their long trip and, once they'd had a feed, they would sleep. Jack got up to make his way home.

Sunday morning dawned sunny and bright. The cold winter winds had subsided and Gemma was heading home. Jess had apologised again and then tried to convince Gemma to stay and go over the books with her. Gemma had flatly refused, saying it was her last free day before two weeks of shearing.

Gemma's ute was loaded up to the hilt with wool packs, bale fasteners, lice control and dog food. She also had to call in at the pub at Dawns Rest to pick up the food supplies for the shearers' cook. She hoped this year the shearers' cook would be a good one.

Three years ago, Gemma and Adam had been threatened by a drunken cook wielding a broken bottle and demanding a pay rise. Adam had managed to calm the man down just as Bulla and Garry had come into the shed. They had relieved him of his bottle and his duties. Once the man had been asked to leave the property and put on the mail truck back to town, Gemma went to the shearers' quarters to discover all the meat that had been given to the cook was spread out on the kitchen table, covered in maggots. For the two days the team had been there, none of the meat or food had been put in the fridge and the dishes hadn't been done. The shearers had threatened to walk out but were placated when told that Gemma would cook. They threatened again once they had tasted her first meal! Gemma smiled. Her heart ached but the good memories still made her happy.

As she drove, she planned the movement of all the sheep. You couldn't just get sheep out of a paddock for shearing. They had to be off feed for twenty-four hours so they emptied their bladders and bowels. There was nothing worse than shearing a sheep and having it wee all over you. All the mobs had to be kept in their age groups so mobs had to come and go without being boxed into other mobs. Sometimes it was a tricky operation – sheep in the yards, draining out, sheep in the holding paddocks ready for the next day, and shifting sheep from outlying paddocks to ones closer. Then after the shearing was completed the sheep had to be back-lined to prevent lice – which decreased the wool's quality – and then taken back out to the paddocks. It was going to be a busy time.

Once home, Gemma unpacked her supplies and then went over to the shearers' quarters kitchen to put the supplies away there. While she was unpacking, Jack stuck his head into the room and said hi.

'How're you feeling?' asked Gemma.

'Much, much better. Jeez, I felt crook. Haven't had a gut ache like that for a long time.'

'So, are you ready for shearing?'

'As ready as ya ever are for that amount of work. Can I give ya a hand 'ere at all?'

'No thanks, Jack. I'm just about finished. I'll catch you tomorrow, okay?'

Gemma leaned back on her knees after scrubbing out the fridge and wiping off the dust and grime that had seeped through the cracks in the walls. The benches shone, the floor gleamed and Gemma felt exhausted. Jack had kept the place basically clean, but kitchens always needed a woman's touch.

Thinking of the lonely night ahead, she sighed. Having Patrick and Jess around, even though it hadn't been for long, had eased the loneliness she hadn't known she was feeling. There had been movement in the house, people to talk to, have a coffee with. Gemma had found herself listening at night for the sounds of her house guests. Someone heading to the loo or getting a drink of water. Comforting sounds that made her feel less alone. On the drive home, Gemma had been shocked to realise that she didn't really want to go back to Billbinya. It was isolated and, since the stock-stealing investigation had begun, it was frightening.

Gemma knew that the busyness of shearing and all the different people around would lift her spirits, but she was wondering how she could get through tonight. She had an idea.

'Hey, Jack?' she yelled. 'You still there?'

'Yeah,' came the faint reply.

'I'm going to give Bulla and Gaz a ring and see if they want to come to tea. Have a barbecue or something to celebrate the start of a great shearing. Interested?'

'Yeah, that'd be good.'

'Okay, I'll see you tonight then.' Packing up her cleaning supplies, Gemma headed home to ring Bulla and Garry.

Gemma held up a glass of rum and Coke and proposed a toast. 'Here's to a great shearing, an exceptional wool clip and great wool prices. Cheers.'

'Hear, hear,' mumbled the three men. The barbecue was sizzling and the salads were sitting on the outdoor table. Bulla, thankfully, was in charge of the cooking.

Jack stood back and watched everyone. He could see that Garry and Bulla were very fond and protective of Gemma. He already knew he wouldn't be able to break into this close-knit group or glean any information on Adam from them. Adam was barely mentioned in front of him.

Jack was used to feeling like an outsider; he had felt like one for as long as he could remember. He'd never fitted into any group at school and never had any close friends. He'd been so excited when he'd met his brother for the first time. A brother! Someone to go shooting with, someone to drink with. Someone to steal with. By the time his brother had come on to the scene, Jack had already been in trouble with the police numerous times. His mother despaired of him and their father had long since disappeared.

When his brother had first found him, Jack had been overwhelmed to know he had family. Someone who cared. It hadn't taken long for the brothers to forge a strong bond but it was Jack who appreciated it most.

Chapter 19

Craig loved the smell of the sale yards, the hustle and bustle. There was always so much going on. Dogs barking, the stock being herded into their pens, the clanging of the metal gates as they slammed shut behind the cattle, auctioneers talking to stockies before the sale started and, without fail, there would always be two old men sitting up on the rails somewhere, discussing the season and stock prices. He had lost count of how many times he'd heard 'When I was a lad . . .' stories.

Craig watched the cattle being unloaded and herded into their pens. The cattle snorted and bellowed as they ran down the cement raceway, looking for a way out or an open gate. He heard a yell of 'Watch that one, mate,' and turned in time to see a young man leaping for the rails with a Brahman bull close on his heels.

'Looks like that one's come from up north,' said a man standing next to him.

'The bull's just being friendly.' Craig grinned and moved on. He climbed the ladder that led to the walkways which lay across the tops of the yards. Sale yards always had steel walkways across the top so the buyers and stockies wouldn't be stirring the stock up every time they walked past. He walked across, eyeing the stock and making notes in his notebook. As a detective, he was attuned to conversation around him. Inter esting snippets could incriminate crooks and blow others' covers. Maybe he would hear something about the wethers here. Keeping an eye on numbers of cattle in each pen, he quietly made his way to the auctioneer to have a quiet word about who was in charge, paperwork, records and the way sales ran in South Australia.

The smell of cooking caught Craig's attention and his stomach growled. Heading over to the food van, he ordered an egg and bacon sandwich and an iced coffee: standard food for cold sale mornings. He was leaning against a tree when he heard someone greet him. Turning, he saw Ben Daylee, also holding an egg and bacon sandwich.

'G'day,' said Craig. 'What are you doing here?'

'Brought a buyer down to look for some feedlot cattle. What about you?'

'Ah, just on my way back to Adelaide and I thought I'd stop in for a while and have a look. Being back in the country made me yearn for a few country experiences, so here I am,' Craig invented quickly.

Ben regarded him quietly then said, 'So how long have you been with the stock squad?'

He raised his eyebrows, searching for an answer.

Ben grinned and pointed at him: 'You've been made, fella!'

'Shit, how the hell . . . ?'

Ben grinned. 'Saw you leaving the motel with Dave heading to the cop shop. Bit of a giveaway that there are two new fellas in town staying at the same motel and hanging around the cops! Not to worry. I've not been in town long and I don't know who to trust about this business either, so I'll be keeping my mouth shut.'

'Decent of you,' Craig managed.

'Catch you round.' Ben was about to walk away then stopped. 'Don't suppose you want to have a beer one night? Might see you down the pub tonight, hey?'

'Yeah, maybe.'

Ben disappeared into the crowd and Craig finished his breakfast, unnerved by the encounter.

'Sale-o, sale-o,' called the auctioneer. 'We're starting the sale now. Thanks to all the vendors who have put in these magnificent animals. Now what am I bid for this line of Angus steers? Start at six hundred, I got six hundred, six hundred now. Six fifty, the bid is with you, sir.' He pointed to a man in a green shirt. 'Six fifty now. Can you find seven hundred? Yes sir, seven hundred. For seven hundred dollars I
sell
.' The auctioneer clapped his hands together and yelled, 'Sold to Hyland Butchers.' Forgetting about Ben, Craig followed the sale, making notes of all the abattoirs, feedlotters and private buyers that bought at today's market. He'd have quite a list to check out when he returned to Pirie.

Gemma felt a surge of excitement when she saw the first shearer's car arrive. It pulled up at the quarters and she saw a woman get out – the cook. Gemma left the sheep yards where she'd been classing the wethers into fleece types and went to get her settled in. Soon there were several cars parked by the sheds. There were four shearers, a classer, three rousies, a presser to press the wool into bales and a pennerupperer. By five o'clock the sheep were in the shed, the bedrooms at the quarters full and the shearers were up in the shed hanging over catching pens, looking at the sheep to be shorn.

Gemma made her way up into the shed to say hello to everyone. Some of the guys that were shearing had shorn many times at Billbinya so it was like greeting old friends. They were a motley-looking lot – three older men who were losing their hair or going grey and one young learner. The roustabouts were two young girls who looked like they could give back as good as they got and an older woman whose partner was Buster, the second-fastest shearer in the shed. The presser and the penner-upperer seemed as if they belonged in a heavy rock band, with their long hair and goatees.

'Sheep look good, Gemma,' said Kenny, the owner of the contract business and a shearer himself. 'Boys should get their one fifty a day. Should make for a two-week shed. Ya reckon?'

'Sounds right to me, Kenny,' Gemma replied. 'That works out at about three thousand a week, give or take. There's six thousand wethers all up.'

After the inspection of the sheep and shed was finished, the shearers set up their handpieces, comb and cutter containers, and radio ready for the morning, then headed off to the quarters. Gemma, Bulla, Garry and Jack made plans for the next day. Jack was bringing the sheep in from the outlying paddocks to the holding paddocks, which could take all day depending on how far he had to come. Once the sheep were in the holding paddocks, it would be easy for them to be moved into the holding pens the next morning to drain out for the next day's shearing. Garry was doing plant maintenance, so he'd be around the shed to help if needed. Bulla and Gemma would be working in the yards, back-lining the sheep as they came out of the shed then taking them away.

As the stockmen headed off to their house, Gemma went over to the sheep yards. She started up the fire-fighting pump, whose tank had been filled with water, and started to wet them down. Even though it was winter, the earth was dry and dusty. The constant stream of sheep through the yards during the lamb marking had powdered up the manure and dirt and made the dust extremely fine. The hose throbbed under her hands and the mud splashed up into her face. Tomorrow the yards would be muddy, but working in mud was preferable to the red dust. When the working area was wet she turned off the engine and walked over to the shed to lug out four kegs of the lice treatment. Setting them up on the work table inside the covered yards, near the race, she made sure the applicators were in working condition and set at the right dosage. She then walked through all the yards and checked the chains on the gates to make sure they couldn't come open and the sheep escape or get boxed up with another mob.

Up in the shed, Gemma once again went through everything that was needed. Checking the wool press, she made sure an empty butt was in the press, ready for the first fleece off tomorrow. The bale fasteners and wool packs were close by and the presser would be able to reach them easily. The bale hooks for shifting the large cumbersome bales around were hanging on the press and the stencils that stated what was in each bale were hanging on the wall. Her footsteps were muffled on the wooden floor and the shed was silent except for the occasional cough of a sheep and the clicking of their hoofs on the grating.

Gemma looked at the bench, making sure the emery papers were alongside the grinder. That was how shearers ground their combs and cutters every night to make them sharp for the next day. She tested the chains on all the swinging doors to make sure the sheep couldn't get out of the catching pens. There had been times during previous shearings when a shearer or rousie hadn't chained the gate and during the night the sheep had pushed through the doors and ended up on the board. When the doors of the shed had been opened in the morning, they had been greeted with droppings all over the floor, the wool in chaos and bewildered-looking sheep.

Gemma was leaving nothing to chance. This was her first shearing by herself and she was determined there wouldn't be any stuff-ups while she was in charge.

As she walked towards her house Gemma could hear the raucous noise of talking and laughter coming from the shearers' quarters. Looking at her empty house, she made a snap decision. Heading towards the dog kennels, she let off two dogs who danced happily around her feet, licking at her hands. Stopping to fondle their heads and ears she talked to them quietly and then headed to the house for her sneakers. In the twilight, she ran with the dogs at her heels. She ran until she could see no more, then turned and headed towards home.

The next morning, Gemma was at the yards and shed by 6 am, checking that nothing was amiss. The wind was starting to pick up and she was grateful she'd wet the yards down the night before. Her dogs were whining on the end of their chains, waiting to be let off, but they would stay chained until the yard work was about to start. The shearing shed had come to life with noise and action. The team was always chirpy and keen at the start of a shed but by the time the end drew near, the chat and cheek had disappeared as everyone just wanted to finish. Gemma could hear all the shearers giving a rousie a hard time. Apparently she'd been caught with a farmhand in a compromising position at the last shed and the men were paying her out.

Bulla and Garry arrived and Gemma realised that Jack must have already left. His bike was gone from the shed and the gates in the holding paddocks were open, waiting for the sheep to be brought in. Gemma hadn't heard him leave and was surprised he'd got going earlier than her. Still, at least she knew the sheep were on their way – they could be hard to shift in the wind.

They walked into the shed in time to see the first sheep dragged from its pen and handpiece picked up, and hear the whirr of the machine kick into gear. Watching Kenny open up the belly and throw it onto the board for the rousies to pick up, Gemma felt overwhelmed with a strange mix of exhilaration, sadness and anticipation. Here was her main income. This was her harvest. How would it go? Would she make the money she needed to pay Adam's parents and still have some left over for the running of Billbinya? She prayed silently that this shearing would be a successful one.

* * *

Jess had called in to work on Monday but there wasn't any pressing business. She'd returned a couple of phone calls and answered some emails that were important, and left it at that, determined to spend the rest of the day concentrating on Gemma's books.

As she sipped a cup of coffee at her kitchen table on Tuesday morning with Gemma's files spread out in front of her, she felt very concerned. Noted on a pad beside her were a list of questions to ask Gemma. Once again she flicked through the bank statements of the last year. From the reports she'd printed out from Gemma's computer before she left Billbinya, she could see where the money had been spent and the source of income received but there was something very obvious missing. Jess went to the September bank statement once more and checked the amounts debited from the Billbinya bank account. Gemma had told her that the payment to Adam's parents came out in September as one large payment. Once Adam had authorised the amount he had rung the bank to organise a transfer of funds.

It seemed to Jess that last year's payment hadn't been made, yet she was sure that if that was the case, Gemma would have heard about it from either Adam or his parents. So if it
had
been paid, it hadn't come from the Billbinya bank account.

Jess picked up the phone to call Gemma, knowing she'd get the answering machine.

'Hi, gorgeous, how's the shearing going? Can you give me a call at lunchtime? Speak soon. Seeya!'

There wasn't much more Jess could do until Gemma called her back. Picking up her phone again she dialled Brad's number but she hung up before it began to ring. She really wanted to know why he'd been so rude to Gemma. Whenever she had talked to him about her friend during the time they had been together Brad had always seemed genuinely interested, encouraging her to share her concerns. But, she had to admit, he wasn't always so attentive. He'd been late for a few parties that Jess had held and more than once had had too much to drink and made a fool of himself. Not wanting to lose him, she hadn't said anything, but Saturday night was the final straw. Jess couldn't put up with someone who was so rude and self-obsessed. He hadn't rung to say sorry, and if he hadn't rung by now he wasn't likely to.

Stuff him,
she thought, throwing her pen on the table. It was time to finish it with Brad. Picking up the phone before she could change her mind she rang Brad's mobile.

'Hi, babe, how's it going?' said Brad.

Jess was incredulous. How could he act normal after Saturday night and then not calling for three days?

'Hello,' Jess replied. 'How's things?'

'Pretty good. I'm heading out to Polkmans to check out their wheat crops for any disease. What are you up to?'

'I'm, uh . . .' Jess faltered. Had she imagined what had happened on Saturday night? Her resolve kicked in. In what she hoped was a steady voice she replied, 'I'm just ringing to say I don't think we should see each other anymore. I was appalled by your behaviour on Saturday night. You not only offended my friend – my
oldest
friend,' Jess emphasised, 'but you offended me as well. You made a fool out of yourself in front of Ben who, considering you work in the same industry, could be classed as your colleague. So that's it, Brad. Finished.' Taking a deep breath she waited to hear what he'd say. Silence. 'Brad?'

'Your loss, babe. Catch ya round,' and Jess was listening to dead air.

You've got to be kidding me!
she thought.
How
can a relationship of eight months be over just
like that? J
ess stared at the table for a while, feeling a bit lost. But after a few moments she tossed her head. 'Well, stuff you, buddy. It's y
our
loss not mine,' she said aloud. She started reading through Billbinya's financials for the past year, compiled by the accountant, and brushed away a tear.