Coming Rain (9 page)

If she became content the unfamiliar clearings held no danger or were unavoidable,
she made her crossing quickly without breaking stride.

The sun was high overhead when she reached the rocks where there was a path to the
water of the old mothers' springs. Paused
at the break in the scrub where a two-wheel
dirt track snaked towards the gates. Smelled horse dung; saw the droppings and the
lifted dish shape of hoof marks in the gravel. A riffled line of domestic dog prints
in the middle of the track where they had followed the horse. Their spoor markings
of urine and sun-white faeces scattered along their line of travel.

She backed away, retreating further into the smoke bush. Panting from the journey.
She lay under the low branches and brush, waited, her eyes closing. When she woke,
she approached the track again, lifted her nose, smelled something rotting. She stayed
in the cover of the scrub and trotted to the fence. Waited and turned to follow the
fence line to where the emu gap should have been. Followed the sandy hollow alongside
the fence while remaining on the hip of it and came across the decomposing carcass
of a wombat. The foul smell above the exposed rotting body like a green mist, something
to be avoided. The gap in the fence had been repaired with fence wire and mesh. She
backed away, the deadly silence terrifying.

Her need for water was becoming desperate.

CHAPTER 15

Lew made his way to the motor room and found the Bentall generator in the fading
light. He primed it and inserted a crank handle into the motor. Rotated it slowly
then rocked the handle.

Read: Timing at ten degrees of crankshaft rotation. Rubbed his eyes.

It was darkening in the motor room so he returned to where Painter was sharpening
his cutters. A circle of red and orange sparks flew around the old man's hand. When
he finished each cutter he threaded it onto its wire. It was becoming quite dark
in the shed. He glanced at Lew. ‘You right?'

Lew shook his head in the gloom. ‘I want to start the generator. Make sure the lights
and the machines are working.'

Painter shrugged. ‘Good idea. You want the lamp?'

Lew reached out. ‘I need to check the motor. Attach all the belts.'

Painter walked to his stand. The ringers crib. Traditionally, the first machine in
the shed nearest the door and press, where
the best shearer in the gang shore. A
stand of pride and respect, hard won. Fought for with numbers shorn. He handed the
lamp to Lew. ‘There you are.' He began shaking a small oil can on the box shelf near
the catching-pen door. Checking its level.

Lew returned to the motor room and stood the kerosene lamp on a table. Used a gauge
to measure and tighten the timing belt, opened, closed and opened again the fuel
lines. Primed the motor. Painter had followed him and stood at the door watching.
The light of the lamp in the corrugated motor room; the solid Bentall engine as certain
as tomorrow or the Bank of England. A wide drip tray beneath it. Wooden cross braces
and a green forty-four-gallon drum of benzene. Sheffield spanners and a line of screwdrivers
on a pegboard wall. Spare drive belts hanging from hooks. Chains, Birmingham made.

Lew found the crank handle, positioned it and took the weight of the drive shaft,
rocking the handle back and forth. His arms were marked with sweat and his hair was
wet, falling into his face. A streak of black oil on his shoulder. ‘The bloody thing
better start,' he said and rotated the crank handle with a whipping motion.

It caught, paused and hesitated. Hissed, almost at a stop. He straightened and lifted
the rocker cover. Pushed his fingers into the top and side of the motor, found the
SU, adjusted a grub screw and the engine caught again and began to run. He waited
for a moment, his head turned to one side. Then he grabbed a spanner and used it
to push a number of long and short belts completely onto their conveyors. The mechanical
connections in the woolshed bumped and began to turn, squeal and then the whistling,
sweet sound of the belts running through the rafters. The greased gears
of the shearing
shed. He walked along a line of overhead rollers holding an oilcan above his head.
‘There they are now,' he said as he walked and squirted the oil can. ‘Listen to that?'

‘Young Mr McCleod.' Painter watched him. ‘No doubt about you.'

The movement of air through the shed and once again the sheep in the pens stirred.
Painter switched on a bank of lights and the shed began to glow orange, sparkling
as if unsure, and as the generator pulsed the light changing and increasing to a
steady yellow white.

‘Good.'

They returned to the main part of the shed and it was Lew's turn to sharpen his cutters.
The woolshed now bright and well lit. Painter walked to his stand and connected the
handpiece to the down-rod. He drizzled oil over the comb and cutter, adjusted the
tension and pulled the rope to engage the running gear. The handpiece buzzed and
he studied it for a moment, pulled the rope again to disengage the running gear.
Repeated the process with his spare handpiece. Filled the oil can and stepped to
the catching-pen door, leaned on it and looked at the sheep in the pen. Lit a cigarette,
waiting for Lew.

Lewis finished his sharpening, turned off the Villiers motor and walked to his stand.
He also went through his preparations for the following day's work. Testing the gear,
turning the hand-pieces on and off, tightening both of them to suit the pace of the
generator. He placed the Gladstone bag below the wooden shelf on which the oil can,
chalk raddle and tar pot and brush were kept.

They heard the sheep in the outside holding yards begin to make panicked sounds.
Lew crossed to a window, looked out.

CHAPTER 16

Two hundred yards away she lay in the coming dusk amid the gleam of insects and settling
dust, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the night. She had not had water for two
days.

She had been to Winjilla earlier and attempted to dig beneath the wire. Came across
the traps, the stink of death and poison all over them. And now she waited. Put her
chin on her paws. The itch and quickening of her teats and coming here to their water,
the only water, compelling her to rise, low to the ground and to approach the yards
where the men held the sheep.

The packed number of sheep was as nothing. It was the water in the trough that she
could smell. Broke into a sliding trot, a white shadow in the dusk. A sharp angle
against the light there. Craving, she moved along the set of yards, slipped sideways
between wooden poles, through the sheep to their undeserved water and the mob went
berserk, sprinting away from her as if she was already killing them, climbing on
each other in their fear to get away from her.

She reached the water, lay down and watched, waited for just a moment. Then rose
and began to lap at the stone trough. Her thirst had been eating her as she was now
eating the water. Backbone showing, rising with each gulp, tail between her legs,
hollow bellied but for her womb, gulping the liquid into her.

The lights in the woolshed came on and she heard one of the men open a window and
look out.

She heard them speaking. The noises they made. The same, old man young man of the
monstrous light. Clouds crossing the meeka. She knew their smell. When her gut was
almost full, she stopped drinking and lay flat. Waited.

The men were becoming unsettled. As if they wanted to move. To begin to come closer.
She darted glances to where she could flee. Ears flat, belly low in the stony rut
near the drinking trough. Death surged into her blood, giving her strength, savagery,
and detestation of these men who made noises only of indecision.

Lay still and listened to her own heart, its slow steady beat, her shallowest breathing.
Nose taking in the scent of everything. Her being began now to quicken as she heard
the shed door slide open. The young man walking down the wooden steps and across
the ground. He was carrying a kerosene lantern and the light swung in flaring circles
across the ground as he walked. His bare feet on the sandy gravel. The great wash
of his stink coming towards the yards.

Her hind legs bunched, back feet seeking purchase in the ground, ears flattened and
her top lip lifted in a soundless snarl. Her tongue flickered over her nose, licked
at her silent snarling teeth and gums.

He leaned on the top rail a few feet from her. Held up the light and looked to where
the panicked mob was still scrambling as to be as far away as possible from where
he was. He leaned further over the rail, looked beneath it and along towards the
drinking trough.

The dingo exploded into sight and sprinted away from him at a dog angle, racing into
the mob of scattering sheep, disappeared among them for a moment and reappeared,
leaping up and running over their backs like a working dog. She flew over the top
rail and stretched out running, away into the night. Slowing for a moment to trot
and look back at him. Turning east and becoming lost in the scrub and darkness.

CHAPTER 17

Lew reared back as the dingo bitch burst across the yard. Before he could recover
she was gone. He'd dropped the lamp and it was starting to catch fire in the dead
grass from spilled kerosene. He picked up the lamp and quickly turned it off. Stamped
on the burning ground with his callused feet.

Painter called out from the door of the shed. ‘You right son?'

Lew pointed. ‘A dingo. It took off.'

Painter walked to the yards, also looking out into the darkness.

They turned as they heard the noise of a Land Rover pulling up at the shed. The motor
died and the hollow sound of the door opening and closing. John Drysdale got out
and walked up the ramp. He hadn't seen them. Slid back the door and a great yellow
square fell out across the ground. The blue heeler Jock running behind him.

‘Boss,' Painter called to him.

They saw him pause and look towards them. Then, recognising Painter's voice. ‘Hayes?'

‘We are down at the yards. A dingo been here, in with the muster.'

The dog ran down to the yards and leapt over the rail. Lew watched him. The hair
on Jock's scruff was standing and he was growling and running in circles, nose to
the ground, seeking out traces of the intruder's scent.

Drysdale walked to the yards. ‘Smith that old dingo shooter come down from Thompson's
Find, far as I know, he laid poison baits and a trap or two at Daybreak Springs.
Might have flushed a few out.'

Jock was growling and whining as he circled.

‘Clara was right about those dog crows then. Can't have a dingo about. No. Get here
to me Jock. That'll do you.'

Jock jumped back over the yard rail and sat at the man's feet. ‘I heard Smith also
cleaned up a big mob at Yate Valley station. I'll get him onto it in the morning.'

They all looked out into the darkness to where she had gone.

Drysdale nodded. ‘Nothing we can do tonight. What time you getting a start in the
morning boys? We got the pens filled. Should see you right for the first run.'

‘About four we reckon,' Painter said.

‘Good. Six for first smoko.'

He straightened and walked back towards the Land Rover. ‘Night boys. Here to me Jock.'
Jock ran to him and leapt onto the back tray of the Land Rover.

‘Night boss.'

*

When they returned to the quarters, Painter served the kangaroo-tail soup which they
ate in silence with thick slices of bread and butter. Once they finished, Lew heated
water on the stove and shaved some soap into the sink to wash the dishes. ‘What do
you reckon about that wild dog?'

Painter shrugged. ‘Old man Smith'll get rid of it.' He took a jar of preserved peaches
and held them up. ‘These look all right Lew. Be good with a bit of milk.' Nodded
at the door.

Lew walked outside to the veranda and returned with the bottle of milk Jimmy had
left in the Coolgardie safe. They sprinkled white sugar on the peaches, poured in
the cream from the top of the milk and ate, sucking the sweet peach segments from
their fingers.

‘Sounds like he's been busy,' Lew said as he ate. ‘Old Abraham Smith.'

Painter looked up at him. ‘Oh yeah. You wanted to try that prospecting didn't you?'

Lew nodded. ‘Yeah well I did. After we cut the shed out, what do you reckon? Head
out to Thompson's Find.'

‘See how we go son.'

Later that night they were still sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Painter was
rolling smokes for the following day and Lew was reading a 1952
National Geographic
magazine by the light of a kerosene lamp. Looked over at Painter. ‘There's an article
in here about playing three thousand golf courses in fourteen lands. Good photos,
look.' Showed the magazine.

Painter squinted. Nodded. ‘I think I need glasses.'

Lew went back to reading. After a while he stopped reading and watched Painter. ‘You
ever play golf?'

‘No.' Painter had about ten rolled cigarettes lined up in front of him. Tamped stray
tobacco in at the ends of the cigarette he was holding with a Redhead match. Made
a grumbling noise and started rolling the next cigarette.

Lew folded the magazine. Slapped his knee with it. ‘Why did you used to drink like
you did then? When you bad on it. Singin' out to who knows what. Fightin' all the
time?'

Painter leaned forward, interlacing his fingers, and stared at Lew. He waited. ‘I
just liked it.'

‘You did?'

‘Yep.' He looked down and counted the cigarettes. Picked one up and put it in his
mouth. ‘Yeah I did. Loved it. Every fuckin' minute.'

‘Cut it out Painter. There's got to be more to it than that?'

‘No. No, there's not.'