The Bark Cutters (10 page)

Rose inclined her head. ‘Many will lose, although I don't expect you to be one of them. Goodnight, Mr Gordon.'

Hamish nodded, latching the front door as the sound of the girl's footsteps echoed down the narrow wooden hallway.

Removing his jacket and waistcoat in the solitude of his bedroom, Hamish stripped off the rest of his clothes, pulled back pale pink curtains and lifted the sash to the window near his narrow bed. Lying down, he struggled to find comfort on the thin mattress sagging beneath his weight, as a freshening breeze skimmed the hairs on his chest. The last woman Hamish walked with had been his beloved Mary. Running alongside a small brook, he had caught her hand as she tried to overtake him and they'd fallen into the springy heather. Pushing the picture of his lost love aside, he reminded himself of Charlie's words. His Mary was not blameless. It was time to let go of her. If they were still alive and were yet to succumb to the harshness of life in the Highlands, his father and Mary would be married by now and there would be children. Was it not time to forget Mary and move on? Especially now, when having not expected to appreciate a woman's company again, he'd met young Rose Sutton.

Tootles Reynolds arrived quietly at Ridge Gully one dusty afternoon, his well worn coat pockets stuffed with boiled sweets and his head swimming with anticipation. In truth, the thought of bolting the door of his little shop and following the man Jasperson into the expanse of the bush was tantamount to madness, yet within the curl of fear shivering in his gut also lay a feeling of excitement. A man rarely found himself called upon, especially at The Hill, to perform an urgent service for which money would be provided. Nor could one expect a guarantee of safe passage and accommodation at the final destination. Yet the Scot, Hamish Gordon, promised all this and by the time Tootles' inner thighs escaped his horse's flanks and found themselves in a warm bathtub with a tray of supper waiting on the high table next to his bed, he had become a firm believer in Jasperson's original
entreaty. Hamish Gordon had provided Tootles Reynolds his word as a gentleman if he would only come. And indeed he had not been left wanting.

‘Your brother is a thief, Tootles. He intends to sell his agency after stealing stock from further south. At such a time I intend to purchase the agency and I require you to run it for me.' Hamish poured a neat shot of brandy into a cracked glass and swallowed the liquid amber in one bitter gulp. One day, fine crystal and even finer brandy, such as that slurped by Matthew Reynolds, would be his.

Carefully removing his glasses, Tootles cleaned them and then wiped his brow with the same filthy handkerchief. Ordered to stay inside his hotel room lest his brother see him, Tootles had enjoyed eggs for breakfast, a visit from a tailor with the promise of a new suit by morning, a passable stew for lunch and even managed to rut with a whore delivered to his door by the Chinaman. Simple he might be, but he knew enough to consider his own well-being. He could gain much from this adventure.

‘How will you p-pay for i-it?' Tootles asked cautiously, admiring the new suit his benefactor wore, the freshly laundered white shirt and the waxed tips of a meticulously clipped moustache. Could he dare to believe that this fine gentleman was the same filthy, battered man who had chanced upon his small store not two months earlier?

Hamish recognised the flame of interest in the brown eyes opposite as that very ambition he himself harboured in his gut. This man, slighted by his own brother, would do very well indeed. He would covet his brother's life to the advantage of all. Hamish nodded briefly to Lee, and the Chinaman stepped forward to place a large gold brooch with a green stone on the table between
them. Surrounded as it was by the virgin timber lining the room and mismatched furniture of bed, dresser and washstand, the stone shone like a beacon.

‘Tomorrow morning I want you to present yourself to the manager at The First Gully Bank. That brooch is to be exchanged for a quantity of pound notes, say, forty pounds, with the money delivered to Lee, the remainder for a note of credit, which you can call upon when you inform the manager of what type of business you are interested in acquiring.'

Tootles reached out a pale hand and stroked the fine green centre. ‘He's my half-brother, he is. Threatened me with death just this year past when I came to town. Threatened all and sundry not to frequent The Hill store.'

Hamish nodded. No answer was expected of him, only a kindly ear as the man justified his actions.

‘Done.' Slowly Tootles' mouth broadened into a gappy grin. ‘We'll spit on it.' Loosening a sloppy globule from his mouth, he held his hand out firmly to shake Hamish's.

‘Anything else you need?' Hamish asked when he had succeeded in freeing his hand from Tootles' slimy grip.

‘A barber and I've a hankering for some chicken.' Tootles drooled in anticipation.

Hamish wiped his palm on the food-streaked remains of Tootles' luncheon napkin, which rested next to his licked-clean plate on the end of the table. ‘Well, Lee, you heard the man.'

‘Yes, Mister Gordon, one hair chop and chicken.'

‘Good. Well I'll let you know when the transaction is to go through.'

‘I'll be fine.' Tootles crossed his fingers across his stomach and gave a satisfied belch. ‘A home away from h-home it is here, Mr Gordon, a h-home away from h-home.' He glanced appreciatively around the sparsely furnished but spotless room.

Placing his palms flat on the table between them, Hamish
spread his fingers as he stood, his tall frame shadowing the newest addition to his growing staff. ‘Good, I look after those that look after me. You do get my meaning, Tootles?'

Tootles sank bodily back into his chair. ‘Yes, of c-course. I mean, I'm h-here aren't I?'

Hamish walked to the door. ‘Excellent. Lee, keep an eye on our friend here.'

‘Yes, Mister Hamish,' Lee answered, following his boss to close the door after him.

Opening his mouth in a gappy, half-hearted grin, Tootles nervously tapped his fingers on the table.

‘Hair chop?' Lee walked towards him grinning, his bony right hand landing in the middle of his left in a firm chopping movement.

Hamish received word that Matthew Reynolds needed to see him as he was walking through the front gate of Lorna Sutton's guest house the next morning. The message was delivered by a scraggly youth lolling on the picket fence in anticipation of his return. Immediately Hamish began the half-mile walk to the other side of Ridge Gully.

‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,' Matthew Reynolds announced as Hamish settled again in an oversized leather chair in the drawing room. A dram of rum already resting in his stomach, Hamish waited for his host to reveal what he already knew – that there were five thousand head of sheep for sale. Reynolds smiled, the effort revealing a blackened mass at the back of his mouth where teeth should have been.

‘Seven thousand sheep ready for delivery in three weeks, one hundred miles north of Ridge Gully. If you would be so kind to deposit the monies in full by week's end.'

‘Of course.' Hamish shook Reynolds' sweaty hand. Tootles had already introduced himself to the bank manager and deposited the magnificent brooch Lorna had so thoroughly chastised her daughter for losing the night before. He allowed himself a slight smile. Hamish presented his glass for a refill. So Reynolds would steal from Sir Malcolm, trust Hamish to pay for seven thousand head, when in truth there were but five thousand, and then no doubt escape Ridge Gully with Hamish's money and the sheep as well. Fine crooks they were, all.

‘Friday it will be then, Mr Reynolds.' They shook hands, Reynolds spitting on his palm first to seal the bargain. ‘I like the style of your house, Reynolds,' Hamish said admiringly as they farewelled in the entrance hallway.

‘A gentleman's compliment is made more worthy by its sincerity, Mr Gordon. Good day.'

Hamish walked down the swept dirt path of Reynolds' residence and out onto the rutted street of Ridge Gully. The only thing he did like about Reynolds was his house. He had a mind to own it. In fact he would, he determined, as he walked towards the newly opened Lands Department, his hand patting the bulge of pound notes in his pocket.

The gaunt youth creeping behind the desk approached, round-shouldered and coughing.

‘I wish to purchase some land,' Hamish began, placing the stack of pound notes on the counter. The youth eyed the money, his crooked top teeth biting down on his lower lip. ‘There are three small parcels on the southern end of town,' Hamish said, his hand resting securely on the cash.

The youth pulled a brown ledger and three title deeds from beneath the counter.

‘It's not usual practice I'm sure, sir.'

Hamish pulled some coins from his pocket and pushed the money in the youth's direction. ‘Spare your poor mother more grief and buy her some tasty morsel for her supper.'

The youth coughed tenderly into a soiled handkerchief.

‘A little mutton perhaps, or some eggs for her breakfast.' Hamish added to the pile of coins. ‘I would be concealing that if I were you, lad. I can't be helping every waif I come across.'

A bony hand scraped the coinage off the counter top and deposited it into a grimy pocket.

‘Good. Now if we could –' Hamish gestured at the paperwork.

‘Three small parcels you say, sir. Well, if you look here …'

Hamish followed the ragged ink-stained thumbnail to where the three lots were allocated and due to go up for sale after lunch, along with a number of other small buildings.

‘The southern end of the town, sir. There's been quite some interest what with the growth we're experiencing.'

Hamish studied the pile of pound notes on the counter and began to count out his preferred buying price. ‘Obviously as I'm buying all three blocks simultaneously there would be a discount for that. Plus I'm paying cash.'

‘It's not enough, sir,' the youth said as he counted the money.

‘Then note me down as owing the Department.'

‘But, sir …'