The Great Plains (34 page)

July, 1935 – the western boundary of Condamine Station,
Southern Queensland

‘So how are you holding up, kid?'

Will added the length of wood to the pile in his arms and said nothing. Evan Crawley was a spindly man with a big head and small feet, as if someone had tried without success to thread him through the eye of a needle and caught him at the neck. He was currently peeing into the dirt not three feet from where he was collecting firewood.

‘That's what I thought, red-raw from the saddle, eh?'

Will shifted the wood in his arms as laughter drifted across from the campfire. Five men were visible through the timber. They were smoking and telling yarns and taking swigs of rum from a shared bottle. The smell of roasted mutton was thick in the air. His stomach growled.

Evan buttoned his fly. ‘Beaut night.'

‘I guess.' It was cold and still. The chill hurt his lungs when he breathed and made Will think of home and food and their makeshift shower with its cool water and bits of soap. Stars swirled overhead while through the trees ten thousand ewes were strewn across a swathe of lightly timbered grassland. Shearing was finished. They'd already dropped off two lots of four thousand head since leaving the station, with the remainder to be walked a further ten miles to the western boundary.

‘You haven't complained,' Evan continued. ‘I'll give you that, and you can hold your own on a horse. Are the men giving you a hard time?'

‘Some,' Will admitted. Every night they made him collect loads of wood for the campfire. Again and again they sent him out into the cold, until the lighter branches were gathered up in each new camping spot and he was forced to drag heavy logs onto the growing pile.

Use it next time we pass through, one of the men, Sprout, told him. Save you the trouble of looking for it then.

Will wanted to tell Sprout to go fetch the timber, but the man was twice as big and twice as old and he bore a busted nose that hooked out to the right of his face. Will knew he'd be able to fight.

‘Hungry?'

Surely the man was trying to rile him. Of course he was hungry. By the time Will set the campfire, fetched the water for the billy, set it to boiling and threaded the joints of meat on the pointy stick that formed a part of the makeshift spit, he was yet to start the endless search for wood. The rest of the men had finished their food by the time he sat down to eat and by then he was so dog-tired he didn't even mind the meagre burnt leftovers.

‘Sure you're hungry.'

Will waited for Evan to give him an order. So far that seemed to be the only time anyone spoke to him. He was beginning to wonder if he was cut out to be a stockman. He'd never felt so lonely and four days tailing thousands of freshly shorn sheep's bums wasn't exactly the high point of his life.

Evan rolled tobacco between his palms, filled a paper with the moist plant and offered it to him. ‘Smoke?'

‘Yes, yes, thanks.'

‘You can dump the timber.'

Will did as he was told. The wood landed with a thud. Evan flicked him a box of matches and he lit the cigarette carefully and gave a choked cough. It wasn't his first time smoking, he'd snuck the odd bit of tobacco from his dad in the past. Will figured Evan to be fifty or sixty. His hair was a dirty blue-grey with a scraggly beard to match and there were dark patches of skin on his face and hands. Crawley had been with them since the beginning of the drive but he'd kept well clear of the mob and the men, staying out on the northern wing for most of the journey to date. He came in for a feed twice a day, like an old bull following the herd, and camped alone at night. Will overheard one of the men saying he slept sitting up. Anything was possible out here. There was too much land and sky and space.

‘So what are you doing with us when you've got your own place?' Evan rolled another smoke.

Will took a drag on the cigarette. ‘Things are tough. We could do with the extra money.'

‘Couldn't everyone. So, are you going to give it all to your folks?'

‘I'd like to buy some more land,' Will revealed, ‘but my dad says it will take thirty years to save enough coin.'

‘Be damned thirty years. Your father was at the war, wasn't he?'

‘Sure he was, at Gallipoli. He was wounded and everything.'

‘Figures.' Evan sniffed and spat in the dirt. ‘I ain't met a war boy yet who doesn't want the quiet life. Now don't get me wrong, kid, those fellas, well, they did a good job but most of them are so beat up by what they've seen and what they've done that they just want to live out their lives the best that they can. Young fellas with high-faluting ideas don't carry much weight in the scheme of things.' The end of Evan's cigarette glowed red as he took another puff. ‘I guess you could say that I'm a bit more open to a boy your age having a bit of a go. That's what my own father expected.'

‘What did he do, Mr Crawley?'

The older man cleared his throat. ‘He was a good-for-nothing … That's another story. Anyway, as for the men, well, they're not a bad lot of bastards.' He picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue and exhaled a thick stream of smoke from his nostrils. ‘The thing is, they've all got to learn to work together as a team and that can be a bit difficult when you've got whiteys and darkies, but this lot, they got respect for the other. The whiteys know sheep and the blacks know the land.'

There were three blokes from New South Wales, Bob and Nicholson and the one nicknamed Sprout, and two blackfellas from out west, father and son.

‘You're a bit different to the usual, boy, you coming off a place and all, even if you are a busted-arse cowlicker. These men,' he thumbed towards the campfire, ‘well, they ain't got nothing or no-one except each other. That's the worst of you being a landed cow-herder, sheep men just can't relate. Take a load off.' Evan slid down a tree and stretched his legs out.

Will hadn't been party to so much conversation since leaving home, but he sure didn't like being called a ‘busted-arse cowlicker'. His dad worked damn hard to keep the dairy going and, while Will didn't agree with stealing sheep on a regular basis, he was his own man and a good father. ‘But there's money in cattle too,' he said carefully. He sure didn't want to peeve his boss.

The older man cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not for you,' he replied matter-of-factly, ‘otherwise you wouldn't be here. Take a seat. I never talk to a man who's looking down at me.'

Will did as he was told. ‘If my dad had a bigger herd, we'd do better, even beef cattle bring a good price.'

Evan scratched a stubbly chin. ‘Sure, them animals have their moments, except when the clouds don't come, and the grass shrivels up and the land shuts down around you. Then all you've got for your troubles are starving cattle that go belly up. Never been a fan myself. The blighters just need too much feed. But sheep, well they're canny little buggers. They'll ferret around clomping the tucker down to the dirt. Hell, in a tough time the blighters will even dig down a bit, scratch at withered roots with those pointy little hoofs of theirs.' Evan slapped his thigh. ‘Survivors, that's what they are and, of course, there are other benefits.'

‘Like what?'

Evan rolled his eyes. ‘Well, what do we usually eat for tucker?' He took a drag of the cigarette. ‘Course we don't breathe a word about the odd killer when it comes to the meat ration. Wes Kirkland's a big one for long days in the saddle, which suits the men and me just fine, but poor rations? Salted meat and potatoes? I don't think so. Out here the men do what I say. Kirkland's a bit thick in that regard, he hasn't cottoned on to the fact that this motley mob of bastards work for me.'

‘How's that?'

‘We have ourselves a bit of an enterprise going. You being a smart lad, well you'd know a man can't live on bread alone.' Evan leant forward. ‘I ain't spelling it out for you, kid, but if you happen to see or hear anything that's a bit different, don't you take no heed of it. Old Evan will have things under control. In return I'll look after you. Who knows, there may well be a bit of extra coin in it for that piece of dirt you're dreaming about. Agreed?'

‘I ain't doing nothing illegal.'

‘A bit of honest dishonesty never hurt no-one.'

Will frowned. ‘Look, I'm no crook.'

Evan gave a cackle. ‘You'll be fine, boy, I won't lead you astray. There's women that'll do that to a man quick smart.'

They walked back into the light rimming the campfire. The men stopped talking as Evan took up his place in the circle. He gestured to Will and as he sat the men each gave a welcoming nod. They were a motley assortment of big and little, old and not-so-old, cranky and quiet.

‘Have a swig, kid.' The hairy-nosed stockman, Sprout, threw him the bottle. ‘Don't look so surprised.'

Will pulled the cork and wiped the mouth of it with a shirtsleeve, aware that six pairs of eyes were focused on his movements. The yellow flames of the fire highlighted creased skin and matted beards as he took a good gulp. The liquid burnt all the way down. The fire spat and crackled. Will passed the bottle to Evan and the old man took a swig before the rum travelled the circle. The two black men, Chalk and his son, Jim, refused the bottle, electing to drink their tea and smoke instead. They stuck to themselves, those two, and Will knew little about them, except what he'd seen. They were masterful horsemen. Tasked with choosing their campsite each night, there was always water and good feed for the horses and a windbreak of trees to protect them from the southerly that could blow up across the plains.

‘No frost tonight, lads,' Evan told them. Overhead the stars were blurred by fuzzy dark clouds. ‘It'll be a good day for travelling tomorrow. The ewes will be flighty and ready to move, which means we'll be right on time.'

Nicholson lifted a tin plate from the edge of the fire with a piece of rag. The food was passed around to Will.

‘On time for what?' Will placed the hot dish on the ground. There were three good-sized chops as well as roasted potatoes speckled with the remains of the wet newspaper they'd been cooked in and a chunk of damper. A mug of hot, sweet tea was placed in the dirt by his feet.

Sprout looked meaningfully at Evan.

‘To get the sheep to their paddock, of course,' the older man replied.

There was something in Evan's tone that didn't ring true, but Will didn't question it. He needed the job and his parents were relying on him to bring home his earnings. Picking up one of the chops by the bone, he bit into the flesh. The fat glazed his lips as he tore at the meat. It was good and hot and hardly burnt, even the tea was fresh, not half-stewed and weak.

‘How're the legs, son?' Nicholson was pouring tea from the billy into a pannikin.

‘Pretty good now.' He picked at the strips of baked-on paper with dirt-ringed fingernails and bit into a potato.

‘Nothing like a feed and a bit of grog to cure what ails us,' Bob replied.

‘Amen,' Evan belched.

It was colder than cold when Will woke. He rubbed at numb skin, the air biting at the insides of his nostrils. About to turn sideways in his swag, he sat up as the sound of horses and men carried through the trees. Timber and leaf-litter crunched and snapped. The fire was low. A figure appeared opposite. He dumped branches on the dwindling embers and added some dry brush before squatting to blow on the gathering flames. It was Jim.

‘What's happening?' Will's throat was parched and croaky.

‘We'll be waiting here for a couple of hours while they finish the job.' The young Aboriginal poked at the fire with a skinny branch uncovering hot coals. Their provisions sat in small canvas sacks on the ground. From them he took a couple of handfuls of flour, added a pinch of salt and mixed the dry ingredients on a tin plate with water. Once the small loaf was formed he sat the damper in the coals.

It was still pitch dark, usually the men drank hot tea before starting and devoured a wedge of damper to ward off an aching belly until they stopped for a couple of hours when the sun was high. But the men were gone. Will yawned and reached for his waterbag. Jim wiped his hands on his trousers and then proceeded to clean his fingernails with his teeth.

‘How come they don't need us?'

The young Aboriginal sat the billy in the depths of the embers and leaned back on his haunches, looking at Will looking at him. ‘Cause they don't.'

Will felt the boy sizing him up. Eventually Jim turned his attention to the water. When it began to boil, he added a handful of tea-leaves from a pouch by his side. The water boiled for a minute or two and the boy put the billy to one side.

‘Didn't you ask?'

Jim poured tea and then sat the billy midway between the two of them. ‘Why would I ask? I do what I'm told and get paid for it.'

‘Don't you want to know what's happening?' His hair felt stiff with the cold. Will patted the arms of the heavy coat he wore, coaxing warmth through his body, and scrambled in the dirt for his pannikin. It smelt of greasy mutton but he scraped the dirt out of it with his finger and, pouring it full of tea, took a grateful sip.