A Changing Land

Lauren didn’t bother to look back, though she felt like one of those blue–green blowflies, sticky with interest. She needed to wash, eat and then position herself at the old box tree on the edge of town as if she were going for a walk. Of course it was possible that Luke wouldn’t return on this very day, but last year he had. Four days before Christmas when the sky was near white with heat and dust and the birds stopped flying for fear of fainting and a person lost their shadow, well, that was the hour Luke Gordon had walked his horses, pack horses and his blackfella mate into town. Lauren itched at the moisture gathering at her waistband and pushed a boiled sweet into her mouth.

For midmorning the main street was decidedly quiet. There were only three horses tethered to the hitching post outside the two-storey hotel and a black sulky. At the sight of the minister’s sulky Lauren decided to take the longer route home by crossing the dusty street diagonally. This direction would take her through Mr Morelli’s vegetable garden and past the Gee’s chook house before sneaking through the backyards of three rather cantankerous women. Lauren was almost in too good a mood for a fight; however, if necessary she could shout just as loudly as the next old hag. Besides, she figured no good would come of crossing the path of a minister, what with her having committed one mortal sin already this fine day. She didn’t think God would mind about the cotton and ribbon, after all it said nothing in the Bible about it being wrong for a woman to look her best. Lifting her skirts, Lauren kicked at a stone with her worn lace-up shoes and walked swiftly across the road. The air was already thickening with heat and swirls of dust spun up from the road like spinning tops.

Hoisting the paper bag beneath her arm, she was about to walk through the shabby remains of Mr Morelli’s sun-withered garden when she heard her name called. She turned slowly, loath to be held up yet intrigued as to the voice that addressed her. Riding up the main street was one of the Wangallon men; the ugly Scottish lad, McKenzie. Lauren lifted her eyes heavenwards. God’s holy trousers, she muttered. Why couldn’t they space themselves out a bit instead of all fronting up like half-pint scallywags bobbing for apples. She waved briefly and then continued on. He was a good paying lad who treated her well enough, however business was over for the day and a girl couldn’t go for bread and dripping when a joint of beef was soon to walk into town.

Matt Schipp walked the ewes along at a leisurely pace. He’d given Jack Dillard the run of things today and so far the young jackeroo was proving capable. Angling his backside into the saddle, Matt fidgeted around in the pocket of his oilskin for his rollies. His free hand found the papers and with a quick lick of his lips a thin oblong sheet was soon dangling from his mouth. He fumbled once again, removing the pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and manoeuvred a wad of the dried plant between his fingers. It had taken months for him to reach this stage of proceedings after the accident. Months of swearing and arguments and useless comments from useless doctors until eventually his woman had walked out, leaving behind a paltry eleven years of fair-to-middling memories. Matt dropped the reins for a moment while he used his four good fingers to roll the tobacco within the paper. Finally the roll-your-own dangled from his lips. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat up off his face and searched his pockets for his lighter.

‘Come behind, Whisky,’ he called out to his dog as if he was addressing a naughty child. ‘You know better than to stir the old girls up.’ Matt was pleased he’d only brought Whisky out today. There were another seven dogs tied up down the back of his yard and despite their pleading expressions, he’d known Whisky would be fresh enough to do the work of two dogs.

The short-haired border collie ran from where he’d been stalking the tail-end of the mob and headed back towards his master. The mob padded quietly onwards, their cloven hoofs leaving myriad tracks and raising dust in their wake. Ahead young Jack was wheeling a recalcitrant ewe back towards the mob. Having tried her luck by dashing off across the paddock, she was now experiencing the brunt of a young man on a good horse with a fast kelpie. The ewe twisted and turned in various directions, stopping occasionally to stamp irritably at the dog if it came too close, before attempting another path of escape. Finally she gave up, diving into the safety of the mob.

Matt took a long draw of his smoke, a curl of a white line tracing through the air as he exhaled. As if on cue his horse, a black gelding named Sugar, started off into a slow walk. Matt let himself be lulled by the steady gait, his eyes straying from left to right, automatically checking and rechecking the progress of the sheep in his care. They had left the Wangallon sheep yards at daybreak and walked due east, passing within a couple of kilometers of West Wangallon. Now it was time for smoko and they still had a good six clicks to go.

Tethering their horses in the shade, they unpacked their saddlebags and settled down for a break. Matt hollowed himself a nice little piece of dirt at the base of a leopardwood tree, which formed a good backrest, and watched as young Jack perched himself on a log. Soon they were drinking steaming black tea from a thermos with lumpy spoonfuls of sugar. Jack handed Matt a corned beef and pickle sandwich.

‘Doesn’t get much better than this,’ Matt said aloud. His teeth dug cleanly through the fresh bread, his tongue savouring the bitey onion of the pickle. It’d been near five hours since breakfast and Matt’s stomach lived for regular meals. He was like a baby; five meals a day and a bottle at night.

‘So are they going to advertise for a new jackeroo then?’ Jack asked, between slurps of tea. He knew the drill. He’d been at Wangallon for over twelve months, had always done what was required of him quickly and efficiently and if he didn’t know or understand something, he asked.

Matt let the boy squirm a bit. A few years back and young Jack would have been a jackeroo for at least a couple more years, but the pastoral industry was changing and a kid with ability like this one couldn’t be left doing menial tasks and spending every Friday in the station garden.

‘Thought you liked gardening?’

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly with concern. ‘Very funny,’ he responded when Matt couldn’t keep his top lip from stringing out into a smile. ‘I don’t mind it. I like to see things grow. Used to help my mum a bit. And Sarah’s real nice.’ He slurped at his tea, scowling at the heat. ‘What was her grandfather like?’

‘Tough as bloody nails and damn smart.’

‘And Anthony started as a jackeroo?’

‘Hand-picked, they reckon, by old Angus himself.’ The boy fell on his feet all right; Matt couldn’t deny that. Not that Anthony wasn’t capable.

Jack took a long slurp of his tea. ‘He seems really good at managing.’

‘He’ll need to be.’ Matt picked a string of meat from between his two front teeth. Somehow he didn’t think Anthony’s management capabilities would be restricted to Wangallon. He was living with a Gordon, one who probably wouldn’t stay docile for much longer. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her blood. Besides, he reckoned the girl had pretty much done with the mourning of old Angus; she was starting to express a few opinions.

He himself had only agreed to work for Angus because he was old school. Properties like Wangallon couldn’t go on into infinity unless owner and staff understood each other and Angus Gordon and Matt Schipp had understood each other. With a satisfied belch, he squared his shoulders against the knobbly bark supporting him and rubbed his shoulderblades contentedly.

‘Is it true Wangallon was built on stock theft?’

Matt peered out from underneath his hat. One thing he didn’t believe in was repeating gossip. He flicked a good finger at a large black bull ant traversing the length of his jeans and considered the boy’s question. ‘I’d say pretty much anything could have happened out here one hundred and forty years ago, Jack. The thing is …’ he paused for emphasis, ‘we will never know how much is talk and how much is actual truth.’

‘It’s just that everyone in Wangallon Town has a story.’

Matt pictured the general store, pub, single tennis court, hall and school. There were ten houses in its four streets. ‘I’ll bet they do.’

By late lunch the ewes were holed up in their new paddock, camped from the day’s heat under the nearest group of trees. Matt shut the twelve-foot gate after them, marvelling at how quickly they could settle. They rode back in tired silence. Jack occasionally whistling snippets from unrecognisable songs, in between talking to his kelpie, Rust, to get him to keep up.

‘You’ll have to spend a bit more time with that horse of yours. Get him to wear young Rust there.’ Matt looked over his shoulder at the tiring dog. In another half a click he’d be foot sore and straggling, ruined for a full day’s work tomorrow.

Matt’s own dog, Whisky, a surly collie with a grudging respect for Sugar borne of two skin splitting kicks to his muzzle, sat gingerly in front of Matt, his front paws extended in a gruesome lock across Matt’s thigh.

Jack looked at Whisky’s mournful expression.

‘Want to give your young mate a ride?’ Matt asked Whisky roughly.

Minutes later, Whisky was walking alongside Sugar at a neat pace, his now alert gaze looking up to check on Rust, who was clamped close to Matt in a vice-like grip.

‘What’s on tomorrow?’ Jack asked, noticing that his dog had a distinctly human expression on his face that could only be described as being scared shitless.

‘We’ll move the steers from the 4,000 acre road paddock onto the oats. I’ve got a couple of contractors coming out to give us a hand. Then we’ll drive over to Boxer’s Plains.’

Matt had been checking the feed situation on Boxer’s Plains every Sunday for the past three weekends. The 20,000 acres had been stocked to the eyeballs for over six weeks and the feed would begin to cut out if the block wasn’t destocked soon. He was a little surprised when his querying received an it’s under control comment from Anthony. It may well be but on his reckoning they had a month before the country was chewed out. Matt’s finger probed irritably at a hardened lump of wax in his ear. Every time he offered some management advice, Anthony was all over him like a fat lady at a buffet. And ever since their disagreement in the Wangallon kitchen and the early opening of the pit, their once cordial relationship had disintegrated into feigned politeness. Nothing worse than a young manager with an attitude and Matt had seen his share of them.

There were a couple of young people at the helm of one of the most well known pastoral properties in New South Wales and Matt had a suspicion that one of them had his own agenda. Cripes this was going to get interesting. At least the third owner of Wangallon hadn’t shown his face yet. That in itself was a blessing. Matt walked his horse through the house gate en route to the stables.

‘I’m sure glad Sarah likes her cattle and sheep. I wouldn’t like to be spending my time driving headers and tractors.’ Jack watched in amusement as Matt picked Rust up off the saddle by the scruff of his neck and dropped him on the ground. The dog landed securely on all four paws.

‘Me neither, Jack,’ Matt replied.

Wangallon was built and would continue to thrive on stock. They still had a few thousand acres sown to oats every year to fatten their cattle and cull sheep and they sowed barley, which they crushed in a mill to feed out as a top-up supplement to the steers, but that was the extent of the farming operation. Some of their neighbours had embarked on carefully mapped-out land clearing exercises and had enjoyed the monetary benefits of big cash crops of wheat, barley and grain sorghum but, like any commodity, grain growing was subject to the vagrancies of both the weather and the marketplace. Farming was an expensive business and Wangallon had always made more out of grazing.

At the stables Matt unsaddled his horse and began brushing Sugar down with a curry comb. Sugar stood quietly like a woman at a beauty parlour getting her hair done.

‘I guess I’m a bit of a tree hugger, Matt,’ Jack said almost shyly as he undid the girth strap on his own mount and dragged the saddle free.

Matt clapped the lad on his shoulder. ‘I know exactly what you mean. We’re stockmen, not tractor jockeys.’

Sarah, Matt and Jack were unloading their horses from the float at the road paddock when a flashy white and yellow trailer pulled alongside them.

‘You’re late,’ Matt admonished as the two men walked towards them.

‘G’day. I’m Toby Williams.’ The taller of the two shook Sarah’s hand. He was slightly built with broad shoulders and budgerigar blue eyes. ‘And this is Pancake.’

‘Pancake,’ Sarah repeated, unsure if he referred to his horse or the squat roly-poly man beside him.

‘Pancake,’ the shorter man clarified, ‘on account of when I take me hat off, me hair’s always squashed flat like a –’

‘Pancake,’ Toby grinned, zipping up his jacket.

‘Okay then.’ Sarah knew it was going to be one of those days.

Toby and Pancake opened a number of mesh dog cages and a bedraggled assortment of working dogs escaped. The horses reared and whinnied, the dogs barked and peed on every tyre they could find, twice, and then completed a number of quick dashes around both horse floats. Finally the entire crew settled into work mode. Sarah looked at Bullet, who stared back with a look of disdain. He never had taken much to working with strangers and was just as likely to bite first and bark later. Sarah waggled her finger at him to behave.

‘Knew your grandfather. Wily old bastard, Angus.’ Toby lounged nonchalantly in his saddle, his right leg hooked up as if he were sitting in a chair.

‘Thanks.’

‘Now he was a grazier. Old school-like.’ He gestured towards Matt. ‘Wasn’t surprised when I heard he got the run of things down here. Reckon Angus had everything all sorted by the time he kicked the bucket and that’s the way it should be if you’ve got any nous.’ He gave Sarah a slow head-to-toe glance. ‘So how are you going being boss of Wangallon?’

Sarah experienced the unusual sensation of being mentally undressed. ‘It’s great.’ Her fingers pulled at the zip on her jacket until it reached her throat.

Toby’s mouth crooked itself up at one corner until an unnerving grin gradually spread from his cheek to a fan of sun-created wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.

‘We’ll split up.’ Matt gave brief directions on how he wanted the paddock mustered. He pointed out a 30 acre clump of belah trees that ran in a belt across the southern tip of the paddock that could easily hide a canny mob of steers, and gave directions for gateways. Before he’d finished his last sentence, Toby was already cantering away from them, Pancake and a menagerie of dogs in pursuit.

‘Where’s Anthony?’

Sarah hunched her shoulders. He’d left the homestead early that morning without a word and was strangely quiet the night before over dinner. If she’d been in the mood for an argument she would have mentioned the accounting problem, but she knew him too well. Anthony’s quiet mood was indicative of a problem and she wasn’t going to add to his angst, at least not until tonight.

Standing up in the stirrups, Sarah whistled at Bullet. Excitement had got the better of him and in an effort to slow the 50 or so steers that had broken from the main mob he had raced to the front and was now hanging off the nose of one of the steers. Touching her spurs lightly against her mare, Tess, Sarah galloped across the paddock towards Bullet, aware the main mob was eyeing the runaways with interest. Bullet’s one-man war was beginning to look very one-sided and a moment later the dog was airborne as the steer he clung to flung his head from side to side, tossing him skywards. Sarah watched as Bullet picked himself up out of the dirt and then raced back into the fray.

Behind her came the crack of a stockwhip and yells of abuse. The thousand-strong herd of 450 kilogram-heavy steers had changed direction. Intent on joining up with Bullet’s escapees, they rushed the ground, closing the 600 metre space within seconds. Sarah galloped alongside the mob, urging her horse closer to the steers in an effort to turn them to the right. Tess obeyed the tightening rein, Sarah’s leg brushing the hairy hide of one of the steers before a large log forced Tess to jump and veer to the left. Jack’s dog, Rust, sped past Sarah as she straightened herself in the saddle and then Moses, Matt’s musclebound blue cattle dog, appeared.

‘About bloody time,’ Sarah yelled as the dogs disappeared into the dust. Ahead she could see a figure on horseback. Her horse edged closer to the lead. Bullet was still out there and a quick flash of Whisky’s black and white coat suggested Matt was the lone rider up front. Sarah squinted through the midmorning winter glare as Toby galloped past her with five dogs following. There was a break in the mob and he galloped his horse directly into the fray, momentarily diverting the oncoming cattle with a crack of his stockwhip. Then he was out skirting the edge of the mob, riding wildly to the front.

The cattle were beginning to turn as Sarah stuck to their left flank with Pancake and Jack. Ahead she spotted Matt. He was sitting right in the path of the steers, horse and rider as unmovable as statues. Sarah gritted her teeth. There was enough beef heading his way to pulp him into a meat patty. He cracked his stockwhip once, twice, three times from the saddle and Sarah held her breath.

Toby Williams appeared like a wraith out of the dust and a blur of red and white hide. Standing tall in the stirrup irons, he cracked his whip above his head until Sarah felt her own arm grow tired from the effort of watching him. His horse spun and reared upwards, then, satisfied that the mob was calming, he cantered back to the wing. A few minutes later he trotted past Sarah, acknowledging her with a flash of white teeth and a tip of his hat.

Within the hour the now sedate steers were trotting through the gateway and onto the oats, snorting air and panting. Sarah joined Matt at the gate as a dozen or so exhausted stragglers brought up the rear with Jack, Toby and Pancake behind them. Dogs littered the dirt track like bowling alley pins.

‘Toby Williams, where’s he from?’ Sarah asked Matt after she’d taken a quick swig from her water bottle.

‘The Territory. Big run. Fell out with his older brother over a girl, so he’s down here for six months or so until the storm subsides.’

‘He’s handy.’

Matt nodded. ‘He’s your drover.’

Sarah watched him approach from under the brim of her hat. ‘And Pancake?’

‘Victorian. Mountain Country bred: Probably the better rider of the two, just not as showy.’

‘Got the buggers,’ Jack said when they all met at the gateway.

‘Good dog that,’ Toby commented to Sarah. Bullet was standing on his hind legs, his paws on Sarah’s boot. Toby slid off his saddle and passed the dog up to her, his hand managing to rest briefly on Sarah’s thigh.

‘You’ll be his friend for life,’ Sarah commented as Bullet settled himself on the horse as if he were on a rug.

Toby looked at her and winked. ‘Hopefully.’

They headed back slowly in the direction they’d mustered, the dogs trotting down the dirt road in front of them. Matt caught her eye. ‘Gardening and office work isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.’

Sarah tore her eyes away from Pancake, Toby and Jack who were all laughing loudly. ‘You can say that again.’

Luke Gordon relaxed one arm behind his head where he lay on the bed. On the first night he had enjoyed the novelty of lying a few feet above the ground, but now in this narrow room, upon a lumpy mattress almost wrecked by his exertions, he longed for freedom. In the gathering light he could see his belongings: swag, boots, strewn clothes and saddlebags on the floor beneath the casement window. The remains of his money, a paltry sum he was sure, would still be beneath the leather inside his left boot. Hopefully the cook would manage some eggs and perhaps some thick bread with a good dollop of mutton dripping – aye, that would set him up for the day.

The water splashed loudly. Droplets from the dampened cloth ran in rivulets over her bare shoulders. The beads of moisture moved downwards, tracing the length of her spine until it gathered in the soft folds of the chemise pooled at her waist. Gradually the wetness began to darken the material, forming patches of variegated colour. It was an uncommon sight to watch the female form bathing in the still of morning. Especially this girl, for she was careless. Her skin shone moistly from her endeavours, her long brown hair dripped onto the wooden floorboards. The curtains, drawn wide to reveal a brightening sky, illuminated the few scattered objects in the room. Bed, washstand, table, chair and the girl. Barefooted, her long underskirt swung almost tiredly as she moved her hips from side to side, the washcloth sweeping perfunctorily beneath an armpit. Somehow, her morning routine had suddenly become too familiar.

Standing, Luke stretched into his nakedness, feeling the pull of his thigh muscles and the dull pain of his back. There was more to these aches than the many hours recently spent freeing his mind and body from months of isolation. Age gave him twinges and pains, headaches and stomach aches. It stung him when he thought of his 46 years. And now he carried another wound to add to his list of scars. Although his shoulder was usable he could no longer lift his arm above his head. Somehow he could not imagine making old bones.

The floorboards squeaked as he walked towards the girl. Lauren twisted away from his grasp, pulling up her chemise in an effort to cover her nakedness, giggling as he touched her breasts. Her fingers scrambled into the armholes of her clothing, plaiting swiftly at the ribbon lacing at her cleavage. Luke relented quickly, shifting sideways until half the room separated them. He could not understand this coyness, not after nights spent in a bed paid for by him. Suddenly she looked downcast as if she had been willing all along. Luke gave a brief grunt. He was not interested in histrionics.

‘Do you have the makings?’ She pinned her brown hair roughly into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Luke found a tin of tobacco and papers in his doeskin trousers and passed them into her calloused hands. She rolled the tobacco quickly, effortlessly and then encased it in a strip of thin paper plucked efficiently by thick, short fingers. Once finished she placed the makings on the washstand and backed away as if trading an object for peace. Luke, pulling on his trousers and slipping the braces over his shoulders, helped himself to the water in the porcelain bowl, adding the remains of the matching pitcher. The homemade boiled soap carried the tracing of fat almost too rancid for use, yet it scrubbed into an excuse for lather and he doused his face, arms and chest vigorously.

‘It’s Christmas tomorrow.’

He wanted to ask her what this statement was meant to mean to him; instead he did what came the most naturally – he ignored her.

‘You don’t talk much.’

What the fig was there to talk about, he wondered. When he had completed his brief ablutions he rolled a cigarette and lit it, throwing the matches in the general direction of the girl. With a slowness borne of repetition he took a long, relaxing drag and then coughed up a mess of yellow sputum. He swallowed the lumpy parcel. Through the window Luke glimpsed a bullock dray ambling down the dirt road. From the hallway he heard footsteps, groans, and a woman’s yelp. On his reckoning he’d been in Wangallon Town for near three days. It had to be three for he was feeling imprisoned this morning, like some brumby chased down and yarded after months of roaming free. He was also pretty positive that he’d seen Jasperson skulking about the place not two days ago. Trust his father to send the weasel out to check on him.

Luke listened absently to Lauren as she talked of the green tree in the church, of hymns she had heard sung last Christmas, of the joint of mutton she hoped to eat with her family on the morrow. He was looking forward to some decent food, to Lee’s ramblings and his young half-brother’s infectious enthusiasm. As for Christmas, well, it was a day like any other day; besides, other matters weighed on his mind. His fingers brushed the small tortoiseshell hair comb purchased in Sydney.

‘Tell the cook I’ve need of some breakfast.’ Luke jingled the coin in his pocket, settled another coin on the edge of the washstand. A thin curl of smoke angled from the corner of the girl’s mouth.

‘You don’t have to do that.’ She bit at her bottom lip, gave a teased-out smile.

Perhaps he’d paid her too much? Certainly it had been enough for a week’s service. Scooping up the coin he pocketed it before opening the door. He gestured with his arm for her to leave and then began gathering his belongings. Lifting his bedroll, he sat it on the lumpy mattress.

‘When will I see you?’ the girl asked. ‘I’ve been good to you, Luke Gordon,’ she argued, clutching her hands against her breast. ‘Haven’t I been good to you? And I waited and I lay with no other all these months you’ve been roaming the bush.’

Luke gathered her skirt and blouse and watched the girl dress. Patting her rounded behind, he gave her a gentle shove out the door. Strangely enough the lass looked as if she might cry.

‘Take me back to that station of yours.’

‘I promised you nothing.’ Luke shoved his hand in his pockets.

Lauren stood on the bare floorboards of the hallway, her cheeks flushed. She wiped at her nose. ‘I’m a respectable girl, I am.’ She straightened her neck and shoulders. ‘You were pleased to see me.’

Luke tried to shut the door, finding a foot and palm quickly wedged between him and silence.

‘I’m a polite and proper young lady. If my father hadn’t fallen prey to the demon drink I’d be strolling down the main street in a swish new skirt with a matching parasol if you please.’

Luke pushed at the door and with a final shove managed to close it in the girl’s face.

‘You’ll be back, Luke Gordon,’ she called from the hallway. ‘You’ll be back.’

Not two miles from Wangallon Homestead, Luke’s attention was drawn to the flicker of movement. He was on the final leg of his journey, having almost completed his progression through the winding track that led through the ridge. It was a route cut by his father forty odd years previously and it connected Wangallon Homestead with Wangallon Town, the settlement which had sprung to life in the early fifties. Now as he ducked to miss an overhanging branch, the stillness of the surrounding trees brought into relief the outline of two figures. They were on the very edge of the ridge where the pine trees thinned gradually before being dwarfed by an open plain of grassland.

Luke reined in his mare, and steadied the other two horses he led. He squinted against the glare made more ferocious by the recent shelter of the ridges’ thick canopy. His eight-year-old half-brother Angus was struggling with a black boy a good foot taller in height. Luke leant back in his saddle and grinned in amusement as Angus managed to free himself from the boy’s grip. A sharp chase followed. Angus ducked and weaved away from the older boy but Luke was soon clicking his tongue in disappointment as the black boy dived, catching Angus around the ankles and bringing him crashing to the ground. Luke touched the flanks of his mount, walking forwards. The boy’s hijinks had developed into a good scuffle. The wiry black boy now had Angus pinned by one shoulder and as Luke neared the twosome he could see Angus’s legs kicking out fiercely as he screamed furiously. The black boy was rubbing sand in his face while Angus spat, kicked, yelled and spluttered.

Seconds later, Angus was whacking his torturer in the ear with a broken belah branch. Luke winced at the sting the raspy, thin plant would deliver. Finally Angus managed to push the boy off him. He took advantage of the altered odds quickly and straddled him long enough to deliver two sharp blows with the branch, but the win was slight, for soon Angus found himself receiving a series of hard shoves that sent him reeling to the ground. Luke was beginning to think better of his decision to wait for the final outcome. The black boy was laughing and mimicking Angus as he dragged himself up from the ground. Luke’s fingers felt for the rawhide stockwhip curled at his side. He broke his horse into a trot. Boxer’s tribe in the past had always been fairly reliable, however now they were no longer comprised of the pure blood relatives of past decades. Intermingling had occurred and, as the inhabitants of Wangallon had discovered, such mixing of blood could and did lead to violence. The black youth was dancing around Angus now, kicking sand in his little half-brother’s face, his straggly limbs dancing wildly as if he were partaking in some type of deranged corroboree.

Feet away, Luke dismounted and unfurled his stockwhip. Angus was throwing something and Luke could only watch as the black boy, struck in the face, tottered on his spindly legs and then fell to the ground.

‘Angus!’

Angus lifted his fist above the fallen youth, a smooth rock clearly visible in his grasp. Luke cracked his stockwhip. The sharp snap echoed loudly through the ridge. Birds, stilled in the noon day heat, flew with a rush from nearby trees. Kangaroos camping beneath the shade of a nearby gum tree hopped away. Angus dropped the rock immediately and turned in the direction of the whip crack.

‘What do you think you’re doing, boy?’

Angus’s face turned from a concentrated red to a wide grin as he left the boy lying on the ground and ran towards him. ‘Luke, Luke, you’re back.’

Luke held the eight-year-old at arm’s length. Beneath the filthy clothes and grimy face the boy had grown during his eight-month absence. His arms and legs were reasonably thick for his age and his young frame had all the makings of the barrel chest that marked the Gordon men. ‘What are you doing out here?’

Immediately the boy grew defensive. ‘Nothing.’ Angus kicked at a tuft of grass. Feet away the boy was beginning to stir. He straggled upright into a sitting position, obviously dazed. A line of blood oozed from a cut above his right eye and one side of his face was slashed red by the belah branch.

‘I’d get a move on if I were you,’ Luke said good-naturedly to the youth. ‘I’m reckoning the boss, Mr Gordon,’ he emphasised, ‘won’t be too pleased when he hears about this.’

Angus drew a mouthful of spittle into his cheeks and spat in the dirt. The boy glowered back.

‘Go.’ Luke backed his words with a gentle flick of the stockwhip. As the black boy walked off, Luke pointed to one of the pack horses. ‘Hop up, Angus.’

‘That’s Willy. We had a fight. He stole my slingshot.’ Angus held the slingshot proudly aloft.

‘Ah.’ Luke ruffled his kid brother’s hair. Angus tucked his head deep into his shoulders to escape. ‘The spoils of war. Well next time I’d be doing the fighting a little closer to home, just in case you need a hand.’ Considering the height and speed advantage of young Willy, Angus’s win was impressive.

‘I would have managed,’ Angus answered petulantly.

‘With a stone? You think killing the boy would have been the answer?’ They were riding side by side, Luke’s three spare horses trotting obediently on a lead behind his mount.

‘They’re only blacks. They’re here because father lets them be here. He feeds them, clothes them, gives them work to do. Jasperson says that if it wasn’t for father they’d still be savages.’

Luke thought of the bullock speared out of hunger while droving some months back. ‘Did Jasperson also tell you that they were here before us, before Wangallon?’

The boy rode on sullenly.

‘That’s what I thought.’ They rode on silently, reaching the trampled earth that marked the beginning of the final approach to Wangallon Homestead. To the right, the track forked out across to the creek where the blacks camped. Closer lay a row of timber huts housing the black stockmen. A few miles to the left lay the woolshed and adjoining yards and the huts that housed the white stockmen on the property. Ahead the iron roof of Wangallon shimmered in a haze of heat. The early mist had been deceptive; by midafternoon it would be hot. Christmas Day promised to be a scorcher.‘Luke.’ Mungo called out loudly as his horse trotted from the direction of the creek. ‘Where have you been?’ His blue shirt flapped about his waist where it had come loose from his trousers, a curled stockwhip hung from his shoulder.

‘I’m hoping you don’t need a description.’ Luke reined in Joseph on his friend’s approach as Angus cantered away, scowling.

‘Ah,’ Mungo raised his eyebrows knowingly and grinned. ‘Same girl?’

‘Same girl for the last time,’ Luke replied, watching as Angus entered the Wangallon Homestead yard. ‘Eventually they all become a problem. How’s your mob?’ He dipped his chin towards the camp on the creek.

‘Boxer is a bit old now.’

It was true. Those that were at the founding of Wangallon nearly fifty years ago had long left their youth behind. ‘Like Hamish.’

‘The Boss? I don’t call him old. I call him the fox.’

Luke laughed. Joseph moved his hoofs restlessly in the dirt. ‘And your woman?’