Absolution Creek (32 page)

‘Very funny.’ Sam, hands on hips, admired Montgomery as the ram turned sideways to display his full glory. He was a large-framed animal with a soft white muzzle, an apron of wool that clung to his front like ermine on a king, and large horns that scrolled impressively. ‘Nice sheep.’

‘You should see him when he’s in full wool,’ Harold replied, keeping close to the fence as he skirted Montgomery to open a gate.

‘We shear the rams twice a year on account of the flies,’ Cora explained as Kendal followed his uncle. ‘Old Montgomery here will never quite look the way he did when he first arrived on-farm.’

Harold and Kendal walked around the main mob of rams, pushing them into the next yards. They avoided Montgomery, who stalked their every move.

‘He’s not very friendly.’ Sam nodded to where Montgomery was following Kendal. The animal rushed forwards and bit the jackeroo on the back of his leg. Kendal turned and raised a leg to kick out at his attacker. Montgomery quickly backed up, dropped his head and was striking the ground again with his hoof, readying for another go.

‘Don’t even think about it, Kendal,’ Cora warned. ‘He’s always been a pretty good judge of character. Well, Sam, you better go learn something.’

‘What about him?’ Sam pointed to Montgomery. ‘Shouldn’t he be with the other sheep?’

‘Sure thing.’ Cora nodded. ‘So, do you want to be the one to get him up the drafting race?’

Sam looked at Montgomery’s horns and hurdled the fence.

Kneeling in the dirt, Cora scrimmaged in her pocket and held out a piece of apple on the flat of her palm. Montgomery trotted over and nibbled delicately at the offering.

‘Good boy. How are things going then?’ Montgomery blinked large brown eyes and, finishing his apple, stood stock still. Cora ran her hands lightly over his frame, double-checking for any injuries or the slightest sign of fly strike. ‘You’re good to go. Not sure how your offspring will do, though. Not all of them will be up to the task of following in your footsteps.’ Montgomery snuffled for more apple, nudging Cora in the thigh before tailing her to the gate. Curly and Tripod padded quietly aside as the ram lumbered out into the paddock.

‘Look after yourself, Montgomery.’ The old bugger cost Cora a fortune in ’62, but there was no doubting the benefit he’d given the flock. This year’s wethers carried Montgomery’s larger frame genetics and as proof had cut nearly five per cent more wool compared to last year.

‘Are you ready, Cora?’ Harold called from the drafting race.

Kendal and Sam were on either side of the timber railings as Cora took up position under the bark-covered shelter, which ran the length of the narrow race. With instructions to her two youngest crew members to watch for any rams who attempted to leap over the railings, Cora went through the young rams carefully. Montgomery’s drop were boxed with the rest of Absolution’s flock rams and she made certain they were all packed two abreast within the narrow race for ease of inspection and to prevent injury. In the past plenty an aggravated ram had jumped over or upwards to knock down an unsuspecting stockman.

Cora had selected twenty young rams originally, giving them time to grow out to assess their potential as future sires. Running her hand down each of their backs, she parted their wool carefully on the shoulder, back and side, mindful not to pull at the wool and therefore the sensitive skin beneath. After an inspection of staple length and colour she then ran her palm over the opening, ensuring the wool closed up properly. A check of their body confirmation and teeth came next. Harold stuck beside her like glue, a blue raddle stick in hand that he used to dab on the muzzle of any ram that didn’t make the cut.

‘He’s a bit small,’ Harold commented.

‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’ In spite of the cold breeze Cora wiped perspiration from her brow. ‘We’ll leave him in with the pick.’

Harold let out a barely disguised sigh.

They were just nearing the end of the race when a four-year-old reared upwards. Cora backed off quickly.

Harold had the raddle out. ‘He got me last year.’

‘Laid him out flat in the dirt he did.’ Kendal gave a low whistle. ‘Like a dropped bag of flour.’

‘Thanks for that, Kendal. I don’t think we need details,’ Cora reprimanded.

‘Bet you ain’t seen nothing like this before, Sam.’ Kendal lit a cigarette. ‘That one looks blown.’ He pointed to a ram stained along the flanks. ‘Have a look.’

Sam walked forward, deftly jumping over Kendal’s outstretched boot. ‘Nice try.’

‘Nothing’s blown here.’ Cora straightened her back. ‘And you forget, Kendal, you’re from the city too.’

By the time they finished going through the mob there were only six young rams that Cora was happy with. ‘Well, let’s draft the pick into this yard and then we’ll double-check their confirmation.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Harold opened the drafting gate at the opposite end, switching the two-way gate from left to right as he speared the culls into one yard and the remainder into another. Out of nowhere, Kendal’s dog Bouncer flew over and into the race. The kelpie went berserk, biting and barking as if his very life were under threat.

‘Get out of it!’ Cora yelled, trying to grab the barking dog.

Kendal rushed forward yelling obscenities, as Harold secured the gate. Curly and Tripod arrived to stand by their mistress’s side, barking in solidarity. The rams buckled backwards and three jumped the railings and immediately boxed themselves with the culled mob. Another struck Cora in the shoulder as he leapt skywards, collecting Harold as well. Both of them ended up on their backs in the dirt.

‘Cora, can you hear me . . .?’

Sunlight filtered down through the bark roof caressing the papery wood worn soft by the elements. Jack was balanced on the railings, hammering a lifted piece of bark back into place. He turned towards her, his hand reaching for hers. Cora lifted her fingertips towards him, strained with all her might to close the distance between them.

A gust of wind blew up, turning the yards hazy with twirling dust. The draft blew Jack’s hat up into the heavens, then it was tumbling over and over, across the earth’s crust . . . ‘What would I do without you?’ he called after her as Cora chased the spinning hat. ‘What would I do?’

‘Cora?’

She woke to Harold kneeling by her side.

‘I’m fine.’ Accepting his hand, she got to her feet, her head reeling.

‘You okay?’

Cora felt her shoulder. ‘Jarred, that’s all. But you’re bleeding.’

Harold touched his forehead. ‘Flesh wound, I’ll survive.’

They brushed their clothes free of dirt and then turned towards Kendal, who was chasing his dog across the paddock in the opposite direction to Montgomery. Sam meanwhile was walking the boxed rams back around to the penning-up yard so they could be re-drafted.

‘That’s what I’m meant to be doing, yes?’ Sam checked, a worried expression on his face.

‘Yeah, you’re right, mate,’ Harold answered.

‘One of them’s bleeding,’ Sam yelled from three yards away. ‘Back leg.’

‘We’ll cart the culls home and they can run in the house paddock,’ Cora told Harold, walking back towards Sam, her mind fighting an image so real she could have reached out and touched Jack again. Joining Sam in the yard she scanned the mob as Harold rushed in and, grabbing the injured ram, flipped the animal over onto his back.

‘Well go on, Sam,’ Cora ordered, ‘give him a hand.’ She inspected the wound as the two men held the animal steady. The ram was ripped near its backside. ‘He’ll have to be taken home and dressed.’ She didn’t like the sheep’s chances. Rams were proud animals with a bad tendency to end up dead under a tree even with blanket and bottle care. Curly and Tripod slunk under the railings to sit at Cora’s feet. ‘You might want to have a word with Kendal,’ she suggested to Harold as they set the ram free. ‘There’s no place for a dog like that on a sheep run.’

‘He’s never done it before.’

‘Makes no difference. The dog has to go.’ Cora rubbed at her shoulder, her thoughts going back to another dog, a yellow one, on Waverly Station. ‘Will you be right?’

‘Yeah, no worries. We’ll finish up.’

Cora felt both the men watching as she walked back to the ute. While her shoulder was sore, her back and hip were also suffering the repercussions of being slammed into hard ground.

‘Is she okay?’ Sam asked.

‘Tough as nails, Cora Hamilton,’ Harold replied gruffly.

Cora gave a grimace and opened the utility door. Curly and Tripod were inside in a flash, fighting over the prime position next to the passenger window. Ignoring their antics she delved through the mess on the dashboard. Notebooks, a busted wool bale stencil and spent cartridge rounds cluttered the surface. Eventually she located the emergency box of Bex powders. ‘Thank heavens.’ She downed the powders with a swig of rainwater from a bottle and leant back against the cracked upholstery. In the swirl of yard dust mushrooming skywards, Cora envisioned Jack Manning, saw him standing in the yards, perspiration mixing with dirt on his tanned face, his grin lighting up the longest day. Sometimes it was pretty hardgoing being tough as nails.

Chapter 25

E
very day at dawn Jack rode out to check on his sheep. By late morning he would be back, cutting scrub in a circle leading out from the rear of the hut, piling and burning it as he went. He hoped to have a substantial area cleared and ready for the spring rains. Sweet green grass was a high priority for his fledgling flock. Squib followed Jack about slowly, helping to stack branches and swish any sneaky tongues of flame escaping into the grass. The heat and smoke from the fire stung her eyes, especially her injured right eye. It was now open but was fuzzy to look through, and weeped as if it belonged to a sick person. Jack had told her that she’d had a cut near her eye the day he’d found her and Squib could feel a slight indent beneath the skin. Her injured leg complained continually. She had two sturdy sticks to lean on now, however she was always tired. Her body compensated for the injured side and she walked leaning one way to take the weight off her still-splinted leg. Jack and she rarely spoke, although he showed her how best to light piles.

‘Walk around until you feel the wind on your face, then make a hollow at the base of it. Add some dry leaves and twigs. See?’ He hollowed an area and made a nest of grass and twigs and then, with a burning branch from one pile, lit the new one. ‘Can you do that?’

‘Of course.’ She gritted her teeth as she circled the next pile and then, finding the wind’s direction, carefully made a nest. The lighting of it proved more difficult. The splint on her leg prevented her from bending over so she slid to the ground.

‘Blow on it. A fire needs a bit of fanning. Didn’t your father teach you anything?’

The question hung between them. Squib wondered how many days a woman had to put up with a man’s mood. ‘He told me there’s no need to be grumpy.’ The fire caught quickly, crackling loudly as it wove through branches and leaves. When her father was in a bad mood he was like Jack: not wanting to talk to anyone, and only remembering half of what you told him. Her real mother once said that when a man grew sullen and cranky a woman had to let him alone; let the problem work out of his skin. Squib reckoned she’d have to do the same with Jack Manning.

Flecks of charcoal dirtied the creases around Jack’s eyes. ‘What’s the place you’re from like?’

Squib crawled backwards from the fire and drew a rough map in the dirt. ‘There are hills to the east of us, a big river and lots of paddocks fanning out like this.’ She drew a myriad of box shapes. ‘Mr Purcell grew sheep. Ain’t lots of trees like here. Father says they were rung years ago, although he still sends men out scrub-cutting near the slopes.’

‘You can’t possibly remember all those paddocks.’

‘Why not?’ Squib looked at the map; it was pretty good. ‘Maybe the ridge paddock is more square.’ Squib straightened the line with her finger and sat back to study her handiwork.

Jack glanced from the map to the girl and back again. ‘You know anything about sheep?’

Squib knew from experience it was best not to be too capable else you’d soon be working like a dog. She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Nope.’