In the Land of the Long White Cloud (75 page)

“Certainly it matters!” Paul crowed. “McKenzie isn’t stealing our sheep here near the house; he’s doing it up in the highlands. That’s where the men need to patrol. And yes, they can hunt and fish for their own needs. But not for the whole village.” The boy was adamant that he was in the right.

“That’s not what they’re doing!” Marama was not ready to let it go. She made a desperate effort to make her people’s perspective clear to him; she could not comprehend why that should prove so difficult. After all, Paul had practically grown up with the Maori. So how was it possible that he had learned nothing except how to hunt and fish? “They just discovered the land around there. No one had ever fished there; their weirs were full. They couldn’t eat all that fish right away, nor could they dry it—after all, they were supposed to be patrolling. If someone had not run to the village, the fish would have gone to waste. And that would be a shame, Paul; you know that. You don’t let any food go to waste; the gods don’t like it!”

The primarily Maori patrol had asked Wiramu to take the fish to the village and tell the elders about the enormous wealth of fish in the newly discovered waters. The surrounding area too should be fertile and quite rich in prey to hunt. It was possible that the tribe would soon set out to spend some time fishing and hunting there. That would have been desirable for Kiward Station, as no one would steal livestock in the area around the camp if the Maori kept their eyes on it. However, neither Gerald nor his grandson had been able or willing to think that far ahead. Instead, they had angered the Maori. Wiramu’s people in the mountains would doubtless overlook any sheep thief, and the work of the patrols would slacken.

“Tonga’s father says he’s going to claim the new land for himself and his tribe,” Marama explained further. “Wiramu will lead him there. If Mr. Warden had been nice to him, he would have shown it to you instead, and you could have had it surveyed!”

“We’ll find it anyway,” Paul kept on. “We don’t need to be nice to this or that bastard.”

Marama shook her head but refrained from pointing out that Wiramu was not a bastard but rather the chief’s esteemed nephew. “Tonga says they’re registering possession of the land in Christchurch,” she continued. “He can read and write as well as you, and Reti will be helping him. It was dumb to let Wiramu go, Paul. It was just dumb!”

Paul stood up angrily, knocking over the tray holding the silver that Marama had already cleaned. He had clearly done it intentionally since he was not normally clumsy. “You’re just a girl and a Maori. How do you know what’s dumb?”

Marama laughed and picked the silver up serenely. She did not take offense easily. “You’ll see who gets the land,” she said calmly.

This conversation confirmed Gwyneira’s fears. Paul was making unnecessary enemies. He had confused strength with harshness—which was perhaps normal at his age—but Gerald should be admonishing him for it, not encouraging him. How could he let a boy who had just turned twelve decide whether to let a worker go or not?

Fleurette resumed her old life, even paying frequent visits to Helen on O’Keefe Station—only, of course, when Gerald and Paul were definitely elsewhere and she was certain that Howard wouldn’t make a sudden appearance. Gwyneira thought that was careless and, having sent Nepumuk back to Helen, preferred that the women meet in Haldon.

Fleurette continued to write long letters to Queenstown but received no answer. Nor had Helen, who also worried a great deal about Ruben.

“If only he had gone to Dunedin,” she sighed. A tearoom had recently opened in Haldon where respectable women could sit and exchange their news. “He could have taken on a job as an office assistant. But panning for gold…”

Gwyneira shrugged. “He wants to get rich. And maybe he’ll strike it lucky; the gold deposits there are supposed to be enormous.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Gwyn, I love my son more than anything. But the gold would have to grow on trees and fall on his head for him to find it. He takes after my father, who was only happy when he could sit in his study and lose himself in his ancient Hebrew texts. I think he would make a good attorney or judge, possibly even a businessman. George said he got along well with the clients; he can be charming. But diverting streams to pan gold out of them or digging tunnels or whatever it is they do there, that’s not for him.”

“He’ll do it for me,” Fleur said with a wistful expression on her face. “He’ll do anything for me. At least he’ll try!”

For the time being, the talk in Haldon concerned itself less with Ruben O’Keefe’s quest for gold and more with James McKenzie’s increasingly audacious livestock thefts. At the moment, a major sheep breeder by the name of John Sideblossom was suffering a great deal from McKenzie’s forays.

John Sideblossom lived on the western shore of Lake Pukaki, high in the mountains. He rarely came to Haldon and practically never to Christchurch, but he held giant tracts of land in the foothills. He sold his livestock in Dunedin, so he was not among George Greenwood’s clients.

Gerald seemed to know him, however. In fact, he was giddy as a schoolboy when he received the news one day that Sideblossom wanted to meet with like-minded livestock breeders in Haldon to plan another punitive expedition into the mountains against James McKenzie.

“He is convinced McKenzie is hiding out in his area,” Gerald explained as he drank his obligatory whiskey before dinner. “Somewhere above the lakes there. He must have discovered new land. John writes that he must be disappearing through some pass we don’t know about. And he’s suggesting search actions that cover wide areas. We need to combine our manpower and smoke the fellow out once and for all.”

“Does this Sideblossom know what he’s talking about?” Gwyneira inquired, maintaining her poise. Over the last few years, almost all the livestock barons in the Canterbury Plains had been planning such battles from their firesides. They generally did not amount to anything, though, since not enough people gathered to comb their neighbors’ land. It would take a more charismatic personality than Reginald Beasley to unite the individually minded sheep breeders.

“You bet he does!” Gerald boomed. “Johnny Sideblossom is the wildest dog you can imagine! I’ve known him since my whaling days. He was a little runt back then, as old as Paul is now.”

Paul’s ears pricked up.

“Hired on as a half-deck boy with his dad. But the old man drank like a fish, and when it came time to man the harpoon one day and the whale was flailing around like mad, the whale knocked him out of the boat—better said, it knocked over the whole boat, and everyone jumped out. Only the boy stayed behind till the last second, firing the harpoon before the tub flipped. He took the whale down, Johnny Sideblossom did! At ten years old! The whale took his old man, but he didn’t let that slow him down. He became the most fearsome harpooner on the West Coast. He’d hardly heard about the gold finds near Westport before he was off. Up and down the Buller River, and always successful. Ended up buying land on Lake Pukaki. And the best livestock, some of them he even bought from me. If I remember correctly, that scoundrel McKenzie herded a flock there for me. Must be almost twenty years ago now.”

Seventeen, Gwyneira thought. She remembered that James had primarily agreed to the job to avoid her. Had he explored around there back then and found the land of his dreams?

“I’ll write and tell him we could hold the conference here. Yes, now there’s an idea! I’ll invite a few others too, and then we’ll finally drive this nail home! We’ll get the rat, no worries. When Johnny starts something, he means it!” Gerald would have liked to reach for pen and paper right then, but Kiri was serving dinner. Not to be deterred, he put his plan into action the very next day, and Gwyneira sighed at the thought of the feasting and drinking that would precede
the great punitive expedition. Still, she was excited to meet Johnny Sideblossom. If even half of the stories that Gerald entertained them with at dinner were true, he must be an intriguing character—and perhaps even a dangerous adversary for James McKenzie.

Nearly all of the livestock farmers in the area accepted Gerald’s invitation, and it sounded as though this time it would be more than just a vacation. James McKenzie had clearly taken things too far. And John Sideblossom really did appear to have the necessary strength of character to lead the men. He completely blew Gwyneira away. He rode a powerful black stallion—which was very fitting—but the horse was also well trained and easy to handle. He probably checked on his pastures and oversaw the herding with this horse. He towered over even the most powerful men by nearly a full head. His body was taut and muscular, his face angular and tan, his dark hair thick and curly. He wore it a bit long, which only emphasized his rugged appearance. And he had a dazzling, engaging personality. He immediately took charge of the men’s conversation, slapping old friends on the shoulder, laughing thunderously with Gerald, and seemingly able to consume whiskey like it was water without showing it. To Gwyneira and the few other women who had accompanied their husbands, he was particularly courteous. All that said, Gwyneira did not like him, though she wasn’t able to pinpoint why. From the very first she felt a certain distaste for the man. Did it have to do with the fact that his lips were thin and hard and displayed a smile that was not reflected in his eyes? Or was it the eyes themselves—so dark as to look almost black, cold as night and calculating? Gwyneira noticed that when he looked at her, his glances were unquestionably too appraising—focusing less on her face than on sizing up her still slender and feminine figure. As a young woman she would have blushed, but now she returned his looks with self-assurance. She was the mistress here; he was the visitor, and she was not interested in any association beyond that. She would likewise have liked to keep Fleurette far from Gerald’s old friend and
drinking buddy, but naturally, that was impossible since the girl was expected at the banquet that evening. Yet Gwyneira dismissed the idea of warning her daughter. If she said anything, Fleur would make every effort to look unattractive—and in doing so reawaken Gerald’s anger. So Gwyneira merely eyed her strange visitor suspiciously when Fleur came down the stairs—as radiant and prettily dressed as Gwyneira on her first evening in Kiward Station. The girl wore a simple cream-colored dress that emphasized her light tan. It was appliquéd with gold-and brown-colored eyelet embroidery on the sleeves, neckline, and waist, which suited Fleurette’s unusual light brown, almost golden eye color. She had not put her hair up, instead braiding strands of hair on either side of her head and then binding the thin braids at the back of her head. It looked very pretty, but more importantly, served the practical purpose of keeping her hair out of her face. Fleurette always did her own hair, having rejected the housemaids’ help ever since she was a little girl.

Fleur’s petite figure and loose hair gave her an elfin appearance. Though she looked like her mother and shared a similar temperament, Fleurette’s radiance was all her own. The girl seemed more approachable and more submissive than the young Gwyneira had been, and a glow rather than a provocative spark issued from her golden-brown eyes.