The Great Plains (38 page)

August, 1935 – The Plains, Southern Queensland

The sun was brimming across the open plains by the time Marcus shut the boundary gate. Ice latticed the grass and crisscrossed the branches of nearby trees as small birds darted overhead. As he briefly rested a forearm on the gate post, the open country in the east beckoned him like a lover. It wasn't that The Plains didn't fill him with a sense of achievement; however, just a glimpse of the fertile richness that lay so close was enough to tease him. In his enthusiasm to take up the offer of a block of land, Marcus had never given much thought as to how a government could give away such huge tracts of country. Flossy told him it was just rewards for his service to King and country, but deep in his heart he knew there was always a catch if something was free. It took some years before Marcus understood the extent of the government's largess. The soldier-settler blocks were located in sparsely populated regions and were often unfertile or patchy at best. Most, including The Plains, required clearing and were a mix of hard ridges and dense scrub. There was a reason he was the only soldier-settler left in the area. Many of the returning soldiers had little or no experience with farming and the blocks were impoverished lots where it was barely possible to eke out a living. To see the fertile plains with their thousands of sheep and numerous stockmen often made him wonder, did those wealthy owners fight during the war or were they too busy making a profit from it?

It was with these thoughts in mind as he'd ridden through the night that Marcus attempted to justify his continued thievery. There was a righteous tone to this mental argument, one untarnished by the night's unfortunate events. In fact he was invigorated by the night's action. He was a man who had trained as a soldier but with that brief experience cushioned by the humdrum of farm life, he'd not comprehended how jaded he was by the endless round of milking and cows and making ends meet.

Marcus felt his body begin to tire as he walked slowly home. Images from the night flickered through his mind; Will's tight expression, the scorn of the paid ringers. The head stockman, Evan, was a shifty-eyed individual and now he had knowledge of his stealing, which could lead to trouble. He'd seen men like that on furlough overseas. Conmen were easy to spot with their affable personalities and plausible lies. Men like that could get a person like Will into trouble, right quick.

Margery snorted and breathed hot air against his neck, Perch waited patiently by his side. Marcus petted one and then the other, telling both animals what a fine job they'd done. The track was hard underfoot as he walked towards the house. Margery and Perch followed quietly. Both animals were tired but the dog was clearly footsore. With no time to spare after his altercation on Condamine Station, Marcus had skinned the sheep en route to town. Head, guts and hide were disposed of in the scrub two mile from the village then Marcus continued on into the meagre settlement. Their moon-shadow silhouettes hugged their progress. Man, horse and dog kept close to the side of the road, ready to bolt into the bush at a moment's notice. It was well past midnight by the time Margery clip-clopped down a side-street, the carcass splayed across her obedient back, lifeless hoofs draping her sides, blood and fatty gore oozing through clothes and horsehair.

Marcus cut up the sheep outside the general store with the horse and dog looking on soundlessly. He worked quickly and efficiently in the shadow of the building, the moon providing enough light to ensure the job was well done. Marcus guessed that Mr Stevens would be none too pleased when he arrived at his place of business to find the meat order plonked unceremoniously on the back step, but at least the contract was fulfilled.

‘Come on, Perch, keep up, mate. We're nearly home.' Ahead lay the chook pen and behind it the stables. Sissy's bellowing carried across from the paddock. This afternoon he would have to go back into town and collect the supplies owed him, but first the cows needed milking and Flossy consoling. His girl would be worried sick.

Perch lifted a hind leg against an orange tree. A spray of urine marked the tree's trunk. The dog sniffed and growled and pricked his ears. Marcus looked at the homestead. ‘What is it, boy?'

The front door was wide open.

‘Floss, Floss?' Marcus expected his wife to appear with a load of firewood in her arms. She always had been one for keeping the oven nice and hot. ‘Floss?' Increasing his pace, Marcus checked the chicken coop and stables. Their hens were roaming free and a quick count showed some were missing. The dog began sniffing and whining. Nose to the ground, Perch ran directly to the house and its sloping verandah, then to the kitchen window and the side window, returning to the gaping front door where he stood and howled.

There was no smoke coming from the chimney.

‘Floss?' Marcus broke into a run.

Perch was inside the house by the time Marcus jumped up onto the narrow verandah. It was freezing inside. There was broken crockery scattered across the floor and the pantry door was open and empty. ‘Floss?'

Perch sat next to the bedroom door, whining softly.

‘Jesus,' Marcus muttered, pushing at the partially open door. The room was empty, the bed crumpled but not slept in. A dark patch of dried blood stained the floorboards. The Luger lay in the middle of the bed. Backing out of the bedroom he searched Will's room before walking around to the rear of the house.

‘Floss? Floss, are you out here?'

The meat-safe was empty, the door hanging from one hinge.

‘Thieves,' Marcus said through gritted teeth. There was the smell of smoke on the wind. The acrid scent weaved through the ring of trees from the direction of the river. He whistled up Margery and swung up into the saddle. The outhouse was empty. Behind it a narrow track threaded its way through timber to the waterway. It was a winding path of some distance, selected by Flossy for ease of passage, not directness. Turning his horse away from the track Marcus entered the timber, Perch close on his heels. Fear gnawed at his innards. Men were capable of terrible things.

The question taunted him as the mare stepped over fallen timber, navigating her way through the woody plants which spiked up from the ground. Leaves crunched, twigs snapped. The air was cold and sharp. His breath appeared as puffs of whiteness. Marcus peered into a dim world yet to be awakened by sunlight. There were deep shadows, which only heightened the stillness that grew in intensity the further he travelled. He swallowed and tried to draw saliva into his dry mouth. He felt as if he were at the front again, ready to jump the bags for the last time. He ducked under low-lying branches, weaved his horse through stringy saplings. A cold sweat clung to his skin. The rifle lay across his upper thighs, a hand steadying the gun. Finally he drew the mare to a standstill. There was nothing, not even a bird. What had he done leaving Flossy alone so often since Will's departure? He knew she'd felt deserted. Theirs had been a happy home, but with Will's leaving Marcus's life was now consumed by work. Perhaps the men who'd taken her had been watching the house for days. Maybe they knew of his thievery and timed their attack to coincide with his absence?

Perch walked on, sniffed left and then right before continuing straight ahead. Marcus eased the mare down the slight incline towards the river. He expected men's voices, a tearful Flossy, perhaps mean-spirited laughter. His chest tightened. He would kill them.

The stench of the fire grew. Marcus dismounted and, rifle loaded and cocked, walked through the thinning trees until the brown width of river water greeted him. The fire was only a couple of hundred yards further on. There was a figure huddling near it. Whoever it was appeared to be quite alone.

‘Floss?' Marcus broke into a run, his boots dug into the sandy banks, his breath caught in his throat. He was kneeling by her side within seconds, his lungs bursting. ‘Flossy, what happened? Did they hurt you? Why are you out here?' He gripped her shoulders, taking in the black-rimmed eyes and dishevelled hair. A blanket wrapped her slight body. ‘You're shaking something terrible. You must be freezing.' Bare flesh was visible. ‘Where the hell are your clothes?' Flossy looked at him blankly. Marcus cupped her face between filthy hands. ‘Floss, look at me, look at me.' It was as if his wife had slipped into some unfathomable place. He shook her shoulders fiercely. ‘Are you hurt? There was blood in our bedroom. I saw the pistol on the bed. Did you hit one of them?' There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes as the blanket fell away to reveal her naked body. Her skin was white, her nipples pale brown. ‘What happened?'

Flossy looked at the fire as Marcus wrapped the blanket around her. What remained of her clothes were burning on it. Bits of grey skirt and cream cotton were visible through the flames. ‘Water froze,' she explained through chattering teeth. ‘Had to get clean.'

‘What did they do to you, Floss? I'll kill the bastards, every last one.'

Her forehead creased. ‘The moon came and stole her.' Flossy lifted the blanket from where she sat cross-legged on the ground. Between her legs was a pickle jar. She lifted it lovingly. ‘The moon came and took my baby.'

Marcus took the jar from his wife's hand. He stared in horror at the little creature floating within. It was six inches long with clearly formed fingers and toes.

‘I was singing to her last night when the man came. He stole our food and I hid in the bedroom but then the moon came and took my little one away.' She reached for the jar and cradled it against her chest.

Marcus sat heavily on the sand. ‘Floss, you can't keep it,' he said quietly. ‘You'll have to bury it.'

‘Girl, it's a baby girl,' Floss snapped, ‘my baby peanut.'

‘Sure, sure,' he placated, ‘come on, love, let's get you home and warm you up a bit.'

Flossy mumbled something incomprehensible but she walked haltingly to where Margery waited and allowed her husband to help her into the saddle.

‘You hold on now, Floss.' Taking the reins, he began to lead the mare back through the trees towards home. His beloved wife sat slumped, her body moving in time with the horse's gait, the pickle jar clasped firmly against her chest.

August, 1935 – Condamine Station, Southern Queensland

It was Friday, the end of the month again. Will led his horse into the stables and, selecting a curry comb, began to give the mare a good rub down. The horse nickered softly, turning to nibble at his shirt-tail. Will patted her absently and continued brushing, his long, firm strokes turning her saddle-sweaty back glossy and smooth. He was still waiting to learn if the trial period stipulated by Mr Kirkland had been passed. With the three months up, Will was positive that if not for his father's actions, he would be assured of a fulltime job. It was difficult not to think of that night, of the accusatory stares directed at him on the long ride home. And so he waited to be told if he was staying or going. The day had dragged. He'd been against selling the sheep to Mr Stevens from the very beginning. It was one thing to kill an odd stray every couple of years but to enter into a bargain for regular deliveries was madness.

The stables were empty except for Mr Kirkland's two mounts. The rest of the horses were already out in the horse paddock, most of the men long gone. Next week they would be bringing ewes into the main yards to be checked for fly-strike. It would mean another long week in the saddle, if he still had a job, but Will was hardened to his new life now and the sense of responsibility that came with it. He was also interested to see what fly-strike actually did to an animal. Sprout talked of rotting wool and ravaged flesh and burrowing maggots. Will didn't know if he should believe the man or not, but it was sure more interesting stuff than squirting milk into a bucket.

Pat stamped her front leg impatiently. ‘Okay, girl, I know you're hungry. I am too.' Having never been given anything remotely new except for a secondhand pocket knife on one on his birthdays, a horse of his own was like a thousand Christmases all at once. Brushing out the mare's tail and mane, he ruffled the hair between Pat's ears. He liked this time of day, when tiredness began to ebb through his veins. He looked forward to the play of colour across the grassland, when the land was streaked with pale pink and yellow and the vast landscape threatened to engulf him. Out here on the plains a person was no longer confined by the smallness of his home life. He could look in a particular direction and find his field of vision unobstructed by buildings or cows or trees. There was no set milking time to abide by and no-one telling him when to go to bed or whether he could have a swig of rum. For the first time in his life Will was his own man, his restrictions shared with the men he bunked with, worked with and ate with.

The weak light shone through the timber walls of the building, highlighting a haze of dust. One by one Will lifted each of Pat's legs and checked her hoofs.

‘She'll be needing re-shoeing by the looks of that.'

Mr Crawley leant against the railings of the stall where Will worked. It didn't matter where they were or what they were doing, Will rarely heard the head stockman approach.

The older man lit a cigarette. ‘You smoking yet?'

‘Sort of.' They hadn't really spoken since they'd come across his father with the slain sheep nearly a month ago. It was as if he was the new boy all over again, being tested and found wanting. While the men still talked to him, their conversations were purely work-related. Will knew that they were waiting for the end of the month and Mr Crawley's final decision.

The head stockman tossed him a tin of tobacco. ‘You've been here three months now, boy. The trial period's over.'

Will rested a hand on Pat's back. He guessed it had to happen. No man would keep a young fella on with their own pa stealing livestock. Mr Crawley probably thought he and his father were in cahoots.

‘Don't look like your dog's just been bit by a snake. You've done all right for a cow-herder. You're in.'

‘Really? Thanks, Mr Crawley.' They shook hands. Will tried not to grin with relief.

‘There'll be tobacco in your monthly stores from now on. If you want grog, I'll get it for you on the quiet. Kirkland likes a dry camp, as you know.'

‘Okay, thanks.'

‘You going home, boy?'

Will fussed with the horse.

‘You've been here three months, your ma will be walking the boundary fence like a cow weaned off its calf.'

He'd thought about going home four weeks ago but Will didn't know what he was going to say to his father. He was embarrassed that Marcus had been caught stealing and mortified that he could lose his job over it. Will could only be grateful that his boss had obviously put the incident behind them. He now had a fulltime job, a man's job, and he intended on keeping it. ‘Does it matter if I stay?'

‘Nope. Cook always has a bit of tucker in the mess for waifs and strays.'

Pat walked through the gate Will opened and stood placidly while he removed the bridle. There were twin feed tubs in the corner of the stall, one already filled with chaff. Evan handed Will the water bucket and he poured the liquid into the container. Once finished, he slapped Pat on the rump as she walked towards the feed. Will latched the gate behind her.

‘I remember my first job,' Evan began, ‘'bout your age I was. I went home after a few weeks and they worked me to the bone, took my earnings as well, didn't leave me a penny of it.' He took a long drag of the smoke. ‘After that I got to thinking, it's the parent's job to look after the child, not the other way round, especially when a man's fit enough to be doing the work himself.' The older man coughed and spluttered. ‘If people treat you like a slave then you got every right to burr up about it, that's what I did. Now I'm a self-made man.' He handed Will a small brown envelope. ‘Your pay's in there, you've earned it.'

‘Thank you, Mr Crawley.'

‘Now, if you've finished playing nursemaid to that horse of yours, the boys are waiting to have a drink with you. There's a bit of an event happening.'

Will slipped the money into his pocket. ‘I thought everyone had gone for the weekend.'

‘They soon will be but Tobias Wade is meant to be arriving before dark.' Evan patted his hip pocket and winked. ‘There ain't never been no Wade here since they purchased the place and I'd sure like to clap eyes on the man with all that money. Wouldn't you?'

‘Hell, yes,' Will agreed.

Evan threw his head back in laughter. The action reminded Will of an ageing horse. The man was all bedraggled beard and lank hair. ‘Then let's go take us a look at a real, live money-bag.'

They passed the bottle of grog around slyly. It was instant dismissal if anyone was caught but Will figured the boss would have some sorry tale to share if the manager caught them. The men lounged on the bunkhouse verandah. In the distance, hills were just visible. Pale and insignificant in the dwindling light, Will still wondered what might be on the other side of them. The bunkhouse was opposite the windmill, a short distance away the station storehouse. Will hadn't met any of the families that lived in the small houses that lined the other side of the road. He recalled the day he'd ridden in with his father and the people and activity they'd witnessed. Since then the majority of Will's time was spent in the saddle far away from the lives of the people who lived across the road. There was a home apiece for the housekeeper, the one-handed gardener, farrier and butcher and another one for the maids, who were locked in their rooms every night.

‘For safety,' Sprout informed him in his first week.

‘From what?' Will asked.

‘Us of course, although a man would have to pull the sheet over their faces to get the job done.'

Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, belching, passed the bottle to Nicholson. Chalk and Jim were sitting under the windmill near a horse trough. To Will's knowledge, neither of them drank. They had separate quarters up the road a bit, although all the stockmen and boundary riders ate in the mess next door.

‘Some show this is turning out to be,' Sprout sniffed. ‘I would have thought Kirkland would have got him here before dark so we could have had a bit of a gander.'

‘I'm surprised Kirkland didn't want us to line the road in deference,' Nicholson added.

‘He did,' Evan revealed, ‘but I don't stand for no man.'

Will took a glug of the rum, his third since he'd joined the men on the verandah. ‘Well, he's got it all set up for a parade, what with the buildings and all.'

‘Most stations,' Evan began, ‘have all their outbuildings and sheds and suchlike behind the main homestead. So when the nobs have guests the first and only thing they see is a sturdy entrance and then a fine looking homestead.'

‘I haven't ever been to a big spread where it's laid out like this,' Nicholson interrupted. ‘But the Wades being American are different.'

‘How?' Will figured people were people; some rich, some poor, others good and bad, some pleasing to the eye and others wart-ugly, like Sprout.

Evan flicked a smoke out onto the dirt. ‘Hocking, the station manager before Kirkland, said when the family first bought the place they ordered the bunkhouse and some of the other buildings from behind the homestead to be moved to where we are now. Made a right street, they did.'

‘Why?' Will asked.

Evan shrugged. ‘Hocking said something about the Wades having made their money on them big cotton plantations. Where they come from they have slaves to do the work and they're kept in bunkhouses.'

‘Sounds familiar,' Nicholson replied.

‘The bunkhouses are out the front,' Evan continued. ‘That way everyone sees how much you own. It's a sign of wealth.'

‘Whatever that is,' Nicholson replied curtly.

‘Now don't get crotchety, Nicholson. You're paid well enough and there's board and keep thrown in for good measure.'

‘So do we wave or hide when the old man finally arrives?' As Sprout shifted in the cane chair there was the hum of a vehicle. Delivery trucks and the odd T-Model Ford or Holden were a common sight on the roads but the vehicle that currently crawled up the track was shiny black with gleaming chrome fenders. Although covered in a fine layer of dust, the car looked brand new.

‘It's a Buick,' Nicholson announced. ‘The latest model I'd guess. It won't last on these roads.'

The inhabitants of the buildings opposite spilled out to line the road. A woman jiggled a child on a hip, another wiped her hands on an apron and gave a shy wave. More children appeared, held back by their fathers lest they run after the car and make a nuisance of themselves. Will began to stand. Evan placed a hand on his shoulder, ensuring he stay seated.

‘We're not slaves,' Nicholson reminded Will. ‘That man might have the money but it's us and those before us that's been running the station for him all these years.'

Kirkland was driving the vehicle. His burly shape filled the window. Behind him, seated in the rear of the car, were two passengers. Will caught sight of a dark-haired girl and a man sitting beside her.

‘Look at Kirkland,' Sprout chuckled, ‘the Boss has got him playing chauffeur.' His comment quietened the men. With the arrival of the owner they had suddenly all slipped down a peg or two in the station hierarchy.

As the Buick continued on towards the house, the men observed Jim walking to the middle of the dirt track. He stared after the slow-moving vehicle and then looked skyward.

A blackish-brown bird was circling overhead. Will craned his neck along with the men to see the bird a little better. Finally they walked from the verandah and stared as the massive bird rode the wind current, spiralling downwards.

Evan pointed to the distinctive wedge-shaped tail. ‘That eagle's wing span must be bordering on nine feet.'

‘Never seen one so close to the homestead before,' Nicholson admitted.

Directly opposite the bunkhouse Chalk had joined his son in the middle of the road. The two Aboriginals were talking animatedly. Finally both turned briefly towards the homestead before walking quickly away.

‘What does that mean?' Sprout scratched at his hairy nose. ‘It takes a bit to get those two roused.'

Evan watched as the eagle flew across the homestead roof to disappear among the leaves of the fruit trees. ‘Could be nothing,' he murmured, ‘but it always makes my skin crawl when the blacks get edgy.'

‘It's just a bird,' Will pointed out.

‘There's the truck,' Nicholson announced when an engine could be heard. The Ford truck rattled around the corner of the building and stopped outside the bunkhouse. The rear of the vehicle already held four men.

‘Sure you don't want to come, boy?' Evan asked as the three men clambered up into the rear of the vehicle to sit with their legs hanging over the edge.

The truck moved off before Will could answer.

Evan's brow, although permanently creased, wrinkled a little more. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, boy, and rest up. We've a big week ahead,' he shouted.