Heart of the Country (9 page)

“I'm sorry to have to tell you Mr McKenzie is dead.”

“Dead?”

“I found him not far from his hut.”

“He was as tough as nails. What killed him?” Duffy's eyes darkened. “Bloody blackfellas.”

Thomas shook his head. “It was an accident. It looked to me as if he'd hit his head on the bough of a tree and been dragged by his horse. There was nothing I could do but bury him.”

“Well I never.” Duffy's shoulders slumped as if the wind had gone out of him.

“Can I offer you some tea?”

“That'll do for starters.” Duffy patted his coat pocket. “I've got something here to keep us warm later.”

Thomas went to the fire, where the kettle was still hot.

“You sure been busy making this place fancy,” Duffy said from behind him. “I live on my horse most of the time. Don't get much opportunity to tidy up my hut.”

“I don't imagine I'll be here much either,” Thomas said. “But I had to make sure the provisions would be safe; and I've made an apparatus so I can fill the barrels down at the stream.” He was rather proud of what he'd done there.

“Well listen to you with your talk of streams like there's a constant flow of running water.” Duffy laughed. The sound came out in short brittle jabs. “That there's a creek, mate. It might be swollen with raging water one day and then for months hardly a drop. Can't rely on it.”

Thomas thought of the pool of water further downstream where he could barely touch the bottom when he bathed in it and the constant trickle that flowed around the rocks and reeds where he filled the barrels. Maybe Duffy's streams weren't like this one.

Duffy sat himself on the log bench. His eyes darted about, taking in everything. The man could be a thief rather than a shepherd, although he certainly had the smell of sheep about him. He accepted the mug of tea Thomas offered and grinned. There were several teeth missing from his mouth.

“I'd have been to see ya sooner but I had some trouble.” He looked over his shoulder. “You seen any of those thieving blackfellas yet?”

“You're the first person I've met since I left the last eating house, way back.”

Duffy snorted into his tea. “They're not people, mate. Those blackfellas aren't no more'n animals. They've been stealing sheep. While ago I caught them red-handed, the thieving buggers. Then one of them up and threw a spear at me. Frightened my horse and I got tipped off. Knocked me right out for a moment. I could've been killed. I was lucky he didn't stick a spear in me while I was out to it. But the blackfellas and the sheep were gone when I came to. I rode straight for the constable. He's off looking for the culprits now.”

Thomas recalled Bert's warning weeks earlier at the watering place. “I heard there'd been some trouble as I travelled here.”

“Trouble's what those thieving mongrels are. You watch out for them. The way they move about and take what they like, you'd reckon they owned the place.” Duffy's sharp laugh punctuated the air. “We'll see what the magistrate has to say once the constable catches up with them. Reckon nothing short of a hanging.”

Thomas stirred the stew but made no comment.

The visitor fixed his eyes on the pot and spat. “That's smelling good.”

“It's just a stew. I found a sheep with a broken leg.”

Duffy gave another of his sharp laughs. Thomas was coming to realise there was no mirth in the sound.

“That happens. Between that and blackfellas and wild dogs it's a wonder we got any sheep left. How about you show me round? Is there somewhere I can put my bedroll? No point in rushing off now that I come all this way.”

Thomas hadn't taken to Duffy with his prying eyes, mocking laugh and dislike of the natives but beggars couldn't be choosers. Like him or not, Duffy was human company. Thomas showed him the improvements he'd made.

When they reached the stream, Duffy laughed long and loud at the barrel-filling device. When he finally drew breath he pointed to the dark clouds way off in the distance. “We'll see if it's still here in a few days,” he said.

Thomas was perplexed. Firstly by the connection between those distant clouds and his stream and secondly by his visitor's intimation that he would still be with Thomas in a few days. Company was one thing but he had to get back to work. He'd spent more time than he should have improving his living arrangements and it was time to earn his keep, looking after the sheep.

“You might want a bit of help once you start building things,” Duffy said when Thomas mentioned the need for a yard and shearing shed. “We've had some hut builders our way that did a good job. Cost the boss eight shillings a week but it was worth it.”

Thomas thought about that. He would need yards and other sheds to store the wool. “Where are they now?”

“Think they were headed across to the Smiths but I could get word to them.”

Thomas said he'd think on it.

By the time they'd had a good look around and Duffy had opted for the bench in the cramped hut to lay out his bed, rather than by the fire or in the trees like Thomas, the stew was ready to eat. Duffy ate a small portion then pulled a bottle of some pale liquid from his pocket. He raised it in the air. “To McKenzie,” he said. “Rest easy, mate.”

He took a swig, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then offered the bottle to Thomas. “Get some of that in to ya, Tom me boy.”

As he put the bottle to his mouth, Thomas could smell the liquor. He took a small sip, which took his breath away and then burned a path down his gullet. He gasped. It was even rougher than the liquor the teamsters had passed around on his first night on the road.

This time Duffy's laugh had the sound of merriment to it as he took back the bottle. “I can see you're not much of a drinker,” he said when he finally caught his breath. Then he turned his red beady eyes to Thomas and there was no longer any humour in them. “You need to get a taste for it. Unless you got a woman there's nothing else to do out here once you've done with the sheep for the day.”

Thomas watched as Duffy took another deep swig from his bottle and continued to talk. He went on about the natives again. Thomas gave the occasional murmur or nod when it appeared a response was required. As pleased as he had been to have another man to talk to, he was tired and wanted his bed. Duffy's talk became more and more fanciful, blaming the natives for everything from the sore on his leg to the lack of spring rain. Finally the drink took its toll and Duffy's ranting came out in shorter bursts until he suddenly started to snore. Thomas left him there and went to his bed in the trees.

When he awoke next morning there was no sign of Duffy by the fire; he had moved to his bed, judging by the snores echoing from the hut. Thomas hoped the man would move off quickly so he could pack up and be away himself.

That day he planned to look at the lay of the land close to the hut again. He needed to sort the sheep into separate flocks and to do that he'd need to build drafting yards. It would take him some time but he remembered a clear patch of land in a hollow nearby, where the vegetation was thick on one side and a small cutaway made a boundary on another. He might be able to make use of the natural features to lessen the task, but he'd still need help.

Duffy finally stumbled from the hut and disappeared towards the stream. When he came back his head was dripping and his skin glowed under the facial hair.

“Nothing like a dip in the creek to wash away the cobwebs,” he said and slurped down some tea. Thomas noticed the shake of his hands as he clutched the tin mug and knew by the smell of him it was only Duffy's head that had got wet.

“Would you like some damper?” Thomas offered. There was work to be done and he was pondering how long his visitor would stay.

“No thanks. That stuff sits too heavy in your guts when you're in a saddle all day. I've got what I need.” Again he patted his pocket and gave his trademark laugh. “Thanks for your hospitality, Tom. I'd best be off.”

Duffy made his way to his horse and Thomas followed.

“I would appreciate some help from those hut builders if you can get word to them,” he said. “Mr Browne has given me his authority to make improvements.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Duffy leaned down from his saddle and gripped Thomas's hand.

“Thanks for giving McKenzie a proper burial,” he said. “Mr Gwynn's going to Adelaide soon. He can get word to Mr Browne.” He sat up straight in the saddle. “Come my way whenever you need some company. I want to know how your water structure survives in the
stream
.”

Duffy turned his horse and rode away. The echo of his sharp laugh punctuated the air, gradually fading until Thomas was left with only the sounds of the birds and the rustle of the trees in the stiffening breeze.

Harriet lifted her head from her sewing and listened. The sounds of the bush and the crackle of the fire continued but there was no sound of a horse or wagon. Since her beating, her left ear didn't hear so well, making it difficult to tell the direction of sounds. And sometimes, out here all alone in the bush, her mind played tricks on her, inventing noises that weren't there and putting her on edge.

Today she was feeling especially jumpy but she couldn't put her finger on why. Maybe it was the dress she had been plying with her needle. Harriet tossed her sewing aside and rose to stir the pot. She inhaled the delicious smell and replaced the lid. It was only soup made from the last bones of a sheep but she'd added an assortment of vegetables and the small bunch of parsley Septimus had brought back yesterday.

She had been travelling with him for several weeks now and he regularly left her alone wherever they camped while he visited nearby homesteads with his wagon full of goods to sell. Barely a day went by when he didn't return with some extra food for her to cook. His eyes would gleam as he handed the supplies over. Harriet always responded demurely, careful not to mistake his enthusiasm for interest in her.

The dress she'd been mending lay across the log where she'd left it. Only a few final stitches were required and it would be wearable again. She hated the sight of it even though she'd made a good job of cleaning and mending it. It reminded her of the time she'd last worn it. Harriet shivered and looked down at her clothes. She had become used to the men's trousers and shirt and, as no one but Septimus ever saw her, she preferred them.

That morning he had spoken to her directly. He had told her to finish mending the dress and he had made it quite clear she was to be wearing it by the time he returned. She had accepted his order with only a nod of her head even though her eyes had searched his face, looking for a clue as to why he suddenly cared about what she wore.

She glanced around the camp. The two trunks were stacked under a tree, the bedding folded on top, and the food and utensils, except those she was using, were packed away. They had been in this place for several days. Usually they kept on the move, only making camp overnight and sometimes staying an extra day, but this time they were close to the new mine at Burra and Septimus travelled into the town each day. He'd even unfurled his Royal Remedies sign. From the little he told her, he was doing a good trade in lotions and potions.

She worked hard in his absence, adapting quickly to their life in the bush. Harriet had many skills for her young years, not all of them learned in a whorehouse. Her mother had been a seamstress and before her eyesight had deteriorated, she had taught Harriet how to sew and to read and write. Growing up in their cottage on the edge of the bush, Harriet had spent a lot of time with the woman who had been employed as their cook. She had been happy to teach Harriet all about food and tending the little garden, growing whatever she could to augment their food supply.

Harriet sighed. There was no point in dwelling on the past. She had to survive the here and now. There was nothing but the sewing left for her to do and still hours before Septimus was due back. Too restless to stay in the camp, she wound her way through the trees to the creek. He always managed to find a creek to camp by. Sometimes they had water in them and sometimes they didn't but this one was flowing well. The day was warm. If she had to wear the dreaded dress perhaps she would wash herself and her clothes. It had been weeks since the night of her dunking and she'd only given herself quick washes since. It would be wonderful to wash her hair. Maybe if the trousers and shirt were clean she would be allowed to wear them again.

Harriet stopped at the edge of the thick bush and looked around. The ground sloped gradually to the creek from there and the main vegetation comprised huge trees dotted along its sides. That was the reason they were camped so far away. Septimus chose a spot that was concealed and away from the usual roads and tracks. Harriet had thought his purpose was to keep her hidden but the more they travelled the more she realised secrecy was his habit.

A large gum tree spread its thick branches across the creek just where the water pooled in a natural hollow. Harriet crossed the open space quickly. She climbed over fallen logs until she sat on the branch that hung over the water. She pressed her back to the huge trunk behind her and closed her eyes. The warmth of the tree was comforting.

She flung her eyes open again at a rustling sound in the low branches behind her. Relaxing was how she'd got into trouble the last time. She looked carefully around either side of the trunk. A large lizard waddled away from the pile of leaves and logs beside it. Harriet exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

She could have died after being violated by the pig boy. The experience had left her always on alert. After his attack she'd come too in the patch of bush behind the pig shed. Fearful he would return, she'd crawled away to the river. She'd tried to reach the water but her shawl had become snared among the reeds. She'd heard people nearby calling her name but she hadn't wanted to be found. Somehow she managed to make it to the relative safety of the lane beside Mabel's stables.