Absolution Creek (9 page)

Cora walked her brown gelding slowly through the grass. The ground was parched. Although January brought rain it was some three months since the heavens graced Absolution Creek with even the slightest spit. With winter coming and the chance of new growth dwindling with each passing day, Cora could smell the approaching dry spell. It hung in the cloudless sky and clung in the shadows when the evenings grew long. Kangaroos, wallabies and emus were increasing in numbers. They were coming in from further afield, from the western division of the state where grazing country was diminished. Cora knew all the signs, and she hated what they foretold. She thought of calling James and chatting about the weather, however a fortnight lay between their last encounter and today.

For April the nights were already cool, the pre-dawn breathing dew across the countryside, a tantalising taste of moisture soon to be stolen by the sun. This day was no different. Droplets of dew were already settling on her thighs and the shoulders of her thick coat. She had been out riding since the witching hour and followed her usual pattern: first stalking the impossibly square garden of the homestead, and then slipping through the fence to the house dam to startle the kangaroos lolling by the leopardwood trees near the edge of the water. They were used to her nightly invasion, and the only responses she elicited were raised heads and a pricking of ears. Cora was a part of their surroundings, night or day. She cut a lone figure in beige moleskin trousers and oilskin jacket, a pistol holstered at her waist, a rawhide stockwhip curled about her shoulder, bridle dangling in her gloved hands. Her horse, as usual, had been girth-deep in water. The animal had stared with unblinking eyes at the still surface of the dam until Cora’s whistle enticed him out of his wallowing habit. Three hours on they were still traversing the landscape.

‘Come on, Horse.’ Cora tugged lightly on the reins, directing them away from the open paddock towards the creek. A waning moon clung mid-sky. A scatter of sheep, the wool on their frames glowing in the half-light, moved methodically across the land. They walked in a staggered V formation, feeding into the northerly wind. Cora twitched the wide brim of her hat and glanced about the paddock, the tang of manure rich in the night air. A line of darkness marked the woody scrub bordering the waterway, and far off to the west a distant treeline defined the edge of Absolution Creek. With three miles of boundary fence already checked, Cora was wary of tarrying in case she missed the object of her ride.

The land was quiet. False dawn appeared with a soft halo of light enticing the bush to movement. A kookaburra flew overhead, a small rodent in its beak. Horse plodded past an ant hill, disturbing a handful of camped sheep as he walked along the edge of the creek. He meandered between clumps of gum trees towards the waterway. A gentle pull on the reins and they were descending the bank. Cora’s hand moved automatically to the .38 revolver at her hip.

Horse whinnied quietly. ‘Shush,’ Cora reprimanded as she ducked to miss a low-hanging branch, the crunch of twigs and branches inordinately loud. They weaved along the water’s edge, ensuring a healthy distance remained between them and the creek’s murky depths. Cora hated the water, and Horse, sensing her dislike, rarely strayed off their designated path.

‘Good boy.’

The tracks appeared almost immediately. The cloven hoofs were imprinted distinctly into the sand and led directly along the creek’s edge. Cora counted the impressions under her breath. ‘Small ones mainly,’ she commented dissatisfied. She nudged Horse and they rode on for some minutes until the green of shrubby lignum choked their path. The dense growth grew in a jagged Z shape, crossing the creek to ensnare a fence and effectively clutter the waterway. Cora and her station manager, Harold, had tried to burn the lignum out last year, however the brimming creek made a strong fire impossible and their attempts simply singed the edges. Only a dry creek would give them the conditions needed to burn the lignum – an unwinnable situation. The creek wound through three of their grazing paddocks and fed two strategically placed dams, providing major watering points for their sheep.

Cora brushed aside a low-hanging branch. ‘Where are they?’

Horse pricked his ears. A small flock of green finches flew from the lignum to sweep only inches above the water’s surface. They settled as one across the creek, a flurry of tiny flapping wings strung out in a line on the top fence wire. In an instant a big black sow and a litter of screeching suckers tore out of the lignum.

Cora jammed her heels into Horse’s flanks and wheeled after the squat dark bodies. Water, lignum and trees flashed past in a blur. Within seconds they were level with the wild pigs. Reins tight in one hand, Cora drew her revolver clear, levelling it at the sow. A surge of adrenalin coursed through her slight frame as she breathed out slowly, simultaneously squeezing the trigger. The wild pig was the size of two border collies. Fat and sleek, the animal hurtled left then right. As expected the litter scattered as the old sow did a direct U-turn to head back towards the sanctity of the lignum. Gripping Horse’s flanks with her knees, Cora took aim and fired. The bullet hit the animal behind the ear, killing it instantly. Horse stopped dead in his tracks and Cora’s arms flailed in the air as the sudden jolt threw her forward and then back again.

‘Damn you, Horse,’ Cora complained, pocketing the remaining five bullets from the revolver. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?’

Horse lifted each of his legs in turn, shifting his weight slowly. His large eyes blinked. The rest of the litter dispersed in a crackle of hoofs and drying vegetation. The sow’s back legs struck out in the soft sand then stilled.

Cora holstered the revolver, the smell of cordite thick in the air, the barrel hot. ‘One less,’ she muttered, turning Horse away from the corpse. In a few months the squealing suckers would be another eight grown feral pigs rooting up her precious oat crop or eating newborn lambs in the spring. She wiped at the sweat on her forehead, tucked stray bits of hair behind her ears. Her leg was already aching. The pull of it stretched from her lower spine to her knee. With a grimace she readjusted herself in the saddle, standing tall in the stirrup irons to rub at the knotted muscle in her lower back.

Horse headed along the creek, his hoofs flicking up sand and twigs as they retraced their tracks. Soon Cora was shielding her eyes from the glare of dawn, her weak eye smarting as they cut through the paddock. They crossed the creek at its narrowest point at a cement pipe mounded with dirt, and continued on through the drying grasses. At the box tree, which marked the midpoint between the creek and the homestead, Cora reined in Horse. Balancing the canvas water bag on her thigh she took two Bex powders from her shirt pocket. The powder was gritty in her mouth and it took a good swig of water to wash the medicine down. Swiping her hand across her mouth, she looked out across country she had pictured in every stage of its life cycle for over forty years. The grasses were already drying out with the morning sun. Soon the dewy dark of their stems would grow pale as the cool, dry breath of autumn settled upon the landscape. She tutted Horse into a trot and they padded down the dirt track.

Four miles on, the corrugated-iron roof of the homestead with its guardian tree shimmered with welcome. Curly and Tripod rushed through the open house paddock gate, barking in unison. Despite Tripod’s missing hind leg – the result of an altercation with a rabbit trap – the collie was only a tad behind his half-brother, Curly, in speed. He made up for his injury with a screeching howl when it suited him and a less than patient attitude towards sheep.

The dogs did three quick circles around horse and rider, and rushed off towards the stables. En route they stopped at the chook house to bark mercilessly at the strutting rooster. The old rogue never had been much at regular rooster behaviour and could be relied upon to crow night or day, but most particularly when anyone arrived or departed from the homestead. Cora was about ready to put the male renegade out to pasture. You could lay bets that when you wanted chickens he wouldn’t perform, and when you didn’t he was like a warrior going after his own Helen of Troy. She gave a calming whistle, which quieted the dogs but set the rooster off and set the chooks squabbling.

Horse trotted past the work shed. The bay for the horse float was still empty. Cora just knew it was going to be one of those days and, considering it was only Monday, things didn’t bode well for the working week. At the stables she threw her leg over the saddle with a grimace and waited as her lower spine stretched itself out. Horse bore his unsaddling with customary stillness. Cora carried the saddle, blanket and bridle into the tack room, reappearing with a currycomb.

‘That’ll be it then, mate.’ Cora finished brushing Horse down and rested her brow briefly on the bony plate of his head. Digging her hands into her pockets she began the quarter mile walk to the homestead, the dogs nipping at her heels.

The road leading to the homestead was rutted and narrow. Bordered by a western windbreak of towering native gums planted some seventy years ago by the previous owners, the road eventually split into two. One road led out of Absolution Creek: twenty miles of unbroken straightness until a T-intersection appeared as a sudden reminder of life beyond the property. The second circumnavigated the house and garden like a partial ring road, ending abruptly in a maze of wind-twisted pine trees spilling from a ridge. At the wooden gate the dogs ducked between Cora’s legs and scooted up the cement path to arrive panting at the back door.

In the kitchen the scent of just-baked scones signalled her housekeeper, Ellen’s, efficiency. Freshly gathered eggs sat on the sink, a leg of mutton was cooling under the domed meat keeper, and the scones were huddled within a tea towel. Cora made a pot of black tea, selected three of Ellen’s doughy concoctions and some cheddar from the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table, placing the revolver at her elbow. She devoured the food, the tea scalding her throat as she drank thirstily. Some habits were hard to break and eating quickly remained one from childhood. It was always a pleasure to return home after her morning ride. Ellen had a knack for domesticity that more than compensated for her spiky temperament. She had always been very opinionated, whether it be about housekeeping or the best way to eradicate Cora’s tree, and over time the two women realised it was best to keep out of each other’s way to avoid arguments.

Ellen’s husband, Harold, was in town ordering feed corn. Cora hoped they wouldn’t need to feed for long. However, with the ewes due to lamb in late August and shearing behind them, she felt more confident with a few preventative measures in place, even though she expected Absolution to have enough feed until mid-winter. She would have to time the feeding carefully, introducing it gradually and in small quantities, for any abrupt change in diet could lead to a distinct break in the wool’s staple and a consequent downgrading of price. That, however, was the least of Cora’s problems this morning.

Twenty-two-year-old Jarrod Michaels was MIA again. This time he’d brokered for half of Friday off, sweetening his request by working part of last Sunday. Cora should have known better. Nevertheless she’d found herself agreeing, hoping that a little leniency on her part would be rewarded. At the last minute, in spite of his affability, he’d skipped all of Friday, leaving with Absolution’s horse float in a flurry of dust en route to a campdraft over the border.

The kitchen clock on the cream wall was nearing eleven. Cora placed her plate and cup on the sink and gazed through the window at the paddock beyond. Jarrod’s future prospects on Absolution were looking decidedly limited, which wouldn’t endear Cora to the boy’s mother. Mrs Michaels was a widow and a whiner and not averse to making a myriad telephone calls to check on her precious boy.

The blue utility tore around the corner of the house to park in a squeal of dirt, dust and barking dogs.

‘Now what?’ Cora muttered.

Harold kicked open the back gate and staggered up the path half-dragging Absolution’s absent jackaroo. The boy’s shirt was ripped and bloody.

‘What on earth happened?’ Cora grabbed Jarrod’s other arm.

‘Found him at the second stock grid.’ Harold puffed, pulling him into the kitchen. ‘Reckon he hit it straight on.’

Cora wrung out a clean tea towel with hot water and began wiping at the boy’s face.

‘The ute and float are buggered; his horse will have to be put down; and he’s drunk as a skunk.’

Cora patted gently around a jagged cut. ‘Most of the blood’s from this head wound.’

‘I’m fine, fine,’ Jarrod slurred, pushing Cora’s arm away.

‘Sure you are, son.’ Harold squatted in front of the lad. ‘Anything busted?’

‘My arm.’ The stench of beer and cigarette smoke was atrocious.

Harold and Cora looked at each other. ‘Maybe a cold shower would be in order,’ Cora suggested.

‘Good idea.’

They walked Jarrod back outside to the laundry block where an adjoining shower and toilet were situated. They put a garden chair in the shower cubicle and plonked Jarrod down before turning the cold tap on. The water had the desired effect. Soon Jarrod was abusing both of them as watery blood drained down the plug hole. Curly and Tripod were a delighted audience, snuffling around Cora’s ankles.