In the Land of the Long White Cloud (80 page)

McKenzie gave her a searching look.

The two of them rode beside each other in silence for a long time as the dogs herded the sheep over the rocky and uninviting land. There was little grass, and the path was climbing. Fleur wondered whether James McKenzie was leading her up into the mountains but could hardly believe that to be the case.

“How is it that you…I mean, how did it come about that…” she suddenly blurted out while Niniane expertly felt her way over the stony ground. The path became increasingly difficult as it wound up through a narrow streambed hemmed in by steep walls. “You were foreman on Kiward Station, weren’t you, and…”

James McKenzie laughed grimly. “You mean, why did a respected and decently paid worker take to stealing livestock? That’s another long story.”

“But it’s a long way too.”

McKenzie gave her another of his almost tender glances.

“All right, Fleur. When I left Kiward Station, I actually intended to buy some land for myself and take up sheep breeding. I had saved up a bit, and a few years before, I would certainly have been successful. But these days…”

“These days?” Fleur asked.

“It’s hardly possible anymore to buy pastureland at a decent price. The big farmers—Warden, Beasley, Sideblossom—are slowly claiming it all. Maori land has been considered a possession of the Crown for a few years. The Maori can’t sell it without the governor’s permission. And only a select group of potential buyers receive that permission. In addition to that, the boundaries are very imprecise. For example, the
pastureland between the lake and the mountains belongs to Sideblossom. So far he’s claimed the land up to the terraces where we met. But if someone discovers more land, he’ll maintain that it belongs to him as well. And no one will protest, unless the Maori get together and claim it for themselves. But they almost never do that. After all, they have a very different understanding of land than we do. Though they come for a few weeks in the summer to fish and hunt, they rarely settle in this part of the mountains for any length of time. The breeders don’t stop them—at least not if they’re smart. However, the less smart ones get angry. Those are the altercations that people write off as ‘the Maori Wars.’

Fleurette nodded. Helen O’Keefe had spoken of uprisings, but those had mostly occurred on the North Island.

“In any event, I didn’t find any land at the time. The money would only have been enough for a tiny farm, and then I wouldn’t even have been able to afford livestock. So I decided to make my way to Otago to look for gold—though what I really wanted was to come up with a new plan for my life. I’m a decent hand at panning gold since I took part in the gold rush in Australia. On the way to Otago I thought it wouldn’t hurt anything to make a detour to this part of the country to have a look around…well, and then I found this.”

McKenzie gestured toward the landscape with a wide, energetic sweep of his arm, and Fleurette’s eyes grew large. The streambed had been widening over the last few minutes; now the vista opened up onto a high plain. She gazed out over an expanse of lush grass stretching out over the gentle hillsides. The sheep immediately spread out.

“With your permission—McKenzie Station!” James said, laughing. “So far only settled by yours truly and a Maori tribe that comes through once a year and is on as good of terms with Mr. Sideblossom as I am. That is to say, he’s been fencing in large areas of pastureland and in doing so cut the Maori off from one of their holy places. But they’re good friends to me. We camp together, exchange presents…they won’t give me away.”

“And where do you sell your sheep?” Fleur asked, curious.

James laughed. “You want to know everything, don’t you? Well, fine, I know a trader in Dunedin. He doesn’t ask too many questions when good animals come his way. And I only sell the ones I raised myself. If the livestock has been branded, I don’t sell it; it stays here, and I sell the lambs. Come on then, this is my camp. It’s rather primitive, but I don’t want to build a hut. Just in case a shepherd wanders in here by accident.” James led Fleurette to a tent and campfire. “You can tie your horse up there; I hang up rope between the trees. There’s plenty of grass, and it should get along fine with the mule. A beautiful horse. Related to Gwyn’s mare?”

Fleurette nodded. “Her daughter. And Gracie here is Cleo’s daughter. Naturally, they look alike.”

James laughed. “A real family reunion. Friday is also Cleo’s daughter. Gwyn gave her to me as a going-away present.”

Again that tender expression in his eyes when he spoke of Gwyneira.

Fleur pondered. Wasn’t her conception supposed to have been strictly business? James’s face suggested otherwise. And Gwyneira had given him a puppy as a good-bye—when she was otherwise always so possessive of Cleo’s progeny? For Fleur, this was all very revealing.

“My mother must have liked you a great deal,” she said carefully.

James shrugged. “Maybe not enough…but now tell me, Fleur, how are you? And old Warden? I heard the younger one was dead. But you have a brother?”

“I wish I didn’t!” Fleurette exclaimed fiercely, becoming aware as she said it of the happy fact that Paul was only her half brother, after all.

McKenzie smiled. “So, the long story then. Would you like tea, Fleur? Or do you prefer whiskey?” He lit the fire, put on water to boil, and took a bottle out of his saddlebags. “Well, I’m going to help myself to some. To being spooked by a ghost!” He poured the whiskey in a cup and raised it to her.

Fleurette considered. “A little gulp,” she said finally. “My mother says it sometimes works like medicine.”

James McKenzie was a good listener. He relaxed by the fire as Fleur told the story of Ruben and Paul, of Reginald Beasley and John Sideblossom and how she wanted neither of them for a husband.

“So then you’re headed to Queenstown,” he concluded. “To look for Ruben. My God, if your mother had had so much pluck back then…” He bit his lip, but then went on calmly. “If you like, we can ride a ways together. All this business with Sideblossom sounds a bit dangerous. I think I’ll take the sheep to Dunedin and disappear for a few months. We’ll see, maybe I’ll try my luck in the goldfields!”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Fleur mumbled. James seemed to know what he was talking about when it came to gold. If she could get him to work with Ruben, perhaps the adventure might meet with success.

James McKenzie held out his hand to her. “So, to a successful partnership. Though you do know, of course, what you’re getting yourself into. If they catch us, the jig is up, since I’m a thief. According to the law, you have to turn me in.”

Fleurette shook her head. “I don’t have to turn you in,” she corrected him. “Not as a family member. I’ll just tell them you’re…you’re my father.”

James McKenzie’s face lit up. “So Gwyneira told you!” he said with a radiant smile. “And did she tell you about us, Fleur? Did she maybe tell you…did she finally say that she loved me?”

Fleur chewed on her lower lip. She couldn’t repeat to him what Gwyneira had said—though she was now convinced that her mother hadn’t told her the truth. An echo of the light she saw in James’s eyes had been in her mother’s too.

“She…she’s worried about you,” she said finally. Which was the truth. “I’m sure she would like to see you again.”

Fleurette spent the night in James’s tent, and he slept by the fire. They wanted to set out early the next morning, but they still took the time to fish in a stream and bake flatbread for the journey.

“I don’t want to take any breaks until we’ve at least put the lakes behind us,” James explained. “We’ll ride on through the night and pass the inhabited areas during the darkest hours. It’s rough, Fleur, but up until now it’s never been dangerous. The big farms lie out of the
way. And on the small ones, people look the other way. Sometimes as repayment, they find a good lamb among their sheep—not one that can be traced back to the big farms, but born here. The quality of the little flocks around the lakes just keeps getting better.”

Fleur laughed. “Is this path through the streambed the only one out of the area?” she inquired.

McKenzie shook his head. “No. You can also ride south along the foot of the mountains. This is the easier path; the land begins descending here right away, and eventually you simply follow the course of a stream to the east. However, this path takes longer since it takes you to the fjord land rather than the Canterbury Plains. It works for an escape route, but it’s not good for everyday use. So, saddle your horse. We’ll want to get going before Sideblossom picks up our trail.”

James McKenzie did not seem all that concerned. He herded the sheep—a good number—back the way they had come the day before. The animals reacted unwillingly to being driven from their accustomed pastures, and James McKenzie’s “own” sheep bleated in protest as the dogs herded them together.

On Kiward Station, John Sideblossom did not waste any time tracking down the horses that had been swapped out. He did not care whether the men rode workhorses or livestock—all that mattered was that they got going. This became even more important to him when the men discovered Fleurette’s escape.

“I’ll have them both!” proclaimed John, glowing with rage. “The bastard and the girl. He can be hanged at our wedding to celebrate. All right, let’s go. Warden, we ride—no, not after breakfast. I want to be after the little beast while the trail is still fresh.”

That proved to be hopeless. Fleur had left no trace. The men could only hope they were on the right track when they rode in the direction of the lakes and Lionel Station. Gerald suspected, however, that Fleur had fled into the highlands. He sent a few men on fast horses to Queenstown, but he wasn’t counting on their success. Niniane was
not a racehorse. If Fleur wanted to outpace her pursuers, she could only do so in the mountains.

“And where exactly do you mean to look for McKenzie?” Reginald Beasley asked despondently when the company finally rode into Lionel Station. The farm lay idyllically by a lake; behind it rose a seemingly endless range of mountains. James McKenzie could be anywhere.

Sideblossom grinned. “We have a little scout!” he revealed to the men. “I think by now he’ll be ready to show us the way. Before I left, he was still…how should I say…a bit uncooperative.”

“A scout?” Barrington asked. “Don’t speak in riddles, man.”

John Sideblossom leaped from his horse. “Just before I left for the plains, I sent a Maori boy to fetch a few horses from the highlands, but he didn’t find them. He said they had run away. So we tried to…well, make him more talkative, and then he said something about a pass or a riverbed, something like that. Regardless, there should be some land that’s still free behind it. He’ll show that to us tomorrow. Or I’ll give him nothing but bread and water until the sky falls.”

“You locked up the boy?” Barrington asked, shocked. “What does the tribe have to say about that? Don’t stir up your Maori.”

“Oh, the boy’s worked for me for ages. Probably doesn’t even belong to the local tribe, and even so, who cares? He’ll take us to this pass tomorrow.”

The boy turned out to be small, starved, and scared witless. He had spent the days that John Sideblossom was gone in a dark barn and was now a jittery bundle of nerves. Barrington tried to make John let the child go first, but the farmer only laughed.

“If I let him go now, he’ll run away. He can sod off tomorrow as soon as he’s shown us the way. And we’re setting out early tomorrow, gentlemen, at first light. So go easy on the whiskey if you can’t hold your liquor.”

Comments such as these did not appeal to the farmers from the plains, and tepid representatives of the farmer barons like Barrington and Beasley had long since ceased to be enthused by their charismatic leader. Unlike previous expeditions to track down James McKenzie,
this one seemed less like a relaxed hunting excursion and more like a military operation.

John Sideblossom had systematically combed the foothills above the Canterbury Plains. He now divided the men up into small companies, overseeing them scrupulously. Until that moment, men had believed this undertaking was about the search for James McKenzie. But now, since John already had a specific idea of where the thief was hiding, it occurred to them that they were actually on the trail of Fleurette Warden, which a portion of the men thought a waste of their time. Half of them were of the opinion that she would show up of her own accord soon. And if she did not want to marry John Sideblossom, well, that was her prerogative.