Miles Off Course (19 page)

Rowland said nothing. The muzzle of the gun was now pressed into the arch of his back. He was still unsure what was going on, but it was clear he was in trouble. Instinctively he knew that
getting into the car was something to be avoided at all costs.

They pushed him past the Mercedes toward the black Chevrolet. One of the men broke off to walk around the car to the driver’s side. Rowland saw his chance. Feigning a stumble, he dropped
away from the line of the gun. In what seemed like the same moment a sizeable rock was flung at the man holding the weapon. He reeled as it struck him in the head. There was a clatter as the gun
was dropped and Rowland threw himself towards it. The horn of the Mercedes blasted repeatedly. Caves House stirred in response. Rowland struggled on the ground with two men, the third started the
engine of the Chevrolet. A shot—and then the men were scrambling. Apparently neither had fired.

“Rowly, get down!” Clyde’s voice. “I’ll blow these bastards away.” Another shot for good measure.

The wheels of the Chevrolet screeched and the two men abandoned their attempted abduction and jumped onto the running board as the car accelerated out of the driveway.

Clyde knelt beside Rowland, a revolver in his hand. “You all right, Rowly?”

Rowland rolled over gingerly and wiped the blood from his lip. “Is that my gun?”

“Yeah… you probably shouldn’t keep it in the trunk, it’s not all that secure.”

Rowland coughed, still a little winded. “Lucky it was there though. Thanks, Clyde.”

“Don’t mention it, mate.”

Clyde stood and offered Rowland his hand. By now people were spilling tentatively out of Caves House. Wilson, the manager, reached them first. Rowland told him briefly what had transpired and
why they had come.

“There was no call from your brother, sir. I’ve been manning the office all evening.”

Rowland was relieved. That, at least, was something. Kate and the boys were probably fine.

Wilson dropped the beam of his torch to the blood on Rowland’s dress shirt. “Shall I call you a doctor, sir?”

“No thank you, Wilson. I’ll be fine. I could use a drink though.”

“Certainly, sir. Why don’t you come inside, and we’ll see if we can’t find some ice for your jaw.”

They proceeded inside where Wilson offered them brandy and spoke anxiously of calling the police. “I don’t know what the senator’s going to say about all this,” he said.
“One doesn’t expect a respectable establishment to require the attendance of the police.”

“There’s probably no point in calling them now,” Rowland suggested. “Report the incident in the morning—three men in a black Chevrolet. The boy who delivered the
message to Rules Point, Arnolds I think, should be able to give them a description. I’ll stop in at Kiandra and talk to them when I get back.”

“We’re still going to the camp?” Clyde asked, surprised. “Rowly, don’t you think…?”

“We’ll only be gone a few days, Clyde. It seems that they know I’m at Rules Point so it’s probably not a good idea to stay there anyway.”

Clyde snorted. “You’re going to be a stubborn blue-blood about this, aren’t you?”

“I believe I am.”

“Well then, there’s no point trying to make you see sense.”

“Absolutely none.”

Clyde exhaled, resigned. “You may be right. Those bastards look like they’re from the city. They’re unlikely to saddle up and follow us onto the plains… but maybe you
should at least talk to the police before we go.”

“Wilson can tell them everything I know.”

Wilson agreed without hesitation, keen to avoid the attendance of the police at his hotel. The gunshots were bad enough, but luckily most of the guests were still at the Rules Point dance.

Rowland put down his brandy and checked his watch. “I might call
Oaklea
if I may, just to make sure…”

“Of course, Mr. Sinclair.” Wilson hastily moved the telephone on his desk closer to Rowland. “I’ll just leave you to it, sir.”

Rowland spoke to the exchange telephonist, and booked a call to
Oaklea
. It was several minutes before they rang back and connected him. He spoke and then argued with Wilfred. Clyde left
the room to smoke as the words became heated. Eventually the Sinclair brothers stopped arguing, and Rowland joined his friend in the foyer of Caves House.

“Wil didn’t call—there wasn’t any sort of accident, thank heavens. It seems as though it was just a ruse to get me out here on my own… I presume they didn’t
count on you.”

“Did you tell Wilfred?”

Rowland nodded. “He overreacted of course—wants me to come back to
Oaklea
now.” Rowland smiled. “I think he plans to call in the army.”

“If anyone could…” Clyde muttered.

Rowland rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “We might be wise to tell Wilson and Mrs. Harris that we’re heading back to Sydney, just in case these blokes make enquiries again.”

“What about Sarah Brent?”

Rowland groaned. He’d forgotten about the writer. “I’ll speak to her when we get back to Rules Point… explain…”

Clyde laughed and backed away. “You’re on your own, mate.”

Rowland’s interview with Sarah Brent did not really go as well as he had hoped. For one thing, he had neglected to change his blood-splattered shirt before he went to find
her. She was immediately suspicious.

“I must say that Aubrey would never have slunk back to Sydney like a whipped puppy over some minor altercation.”

Rowland bristled at the reproach.

“I don’t believe Wilfred would either. What are you not telling me, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland offered to reimburse her for the money she had already paid Keenan, who he doubted would refund it.

“No,” she said, folding her arms defiantly. “I don’t accept for a moment that you are going back to Sydney, Mr. Sinclair. You are not changing your plans and nor will I
be. I don’t require you to tell me what trouble you’re in—gambling debts I expect, I’ve seen the way you and your friends play cards—but I do intend to ride with you
tomorrow, regardless.”

He tried to change her mind.

Her mind was unchangeable.

In the end he gave up. Sarah Brent was tenacious if nothing else.

He returned to the garage as the musicians announced the last dance. Edna claimed him for the final waltz, demanding to know what had happened. Rowland told her of both the encounter at Caves
House and Sarah Brent’s insistence on riding out with them, as they cut across the dirt floor. The latter, he recounted somewhat ungraciously.

Edna laughed. “Poor Rowly.” She frowned slightly as she ran her hand over the bloodstains on his shirt. “We’re going to have to be more careful though. If Clyde
hadn’t been with you…”

“I’ve always been taught to be cautious,” he murmured.

“But you haven’t learned so well, darling.”

He led her into a turn, smiling. “Keenan’s giving us a shotgun, remember?”

R
owland waited by the Mercedes with Milton and Clyde. It was early and many of the cattlemen camped around the guesthouse were still sleeping off
the previous evening’s festivities. Clyde was busy under the hood, tightening and checking.

Michael Schulz was up early too, striding about the verandah singing some Irish folk ballad in his thick Germanic accent. Rowland watched him, pondering the cattleman’s suggestion that
Simpson could be dead. He tensed at the thought, suppressing it before it could take hold. He was worried though.

Milton nudged him. “What’s wrong?” Rowland’s anxiety had not escaped him. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“About what, Milt?”

“About carrying on as if we didn’t know you were being hunted by some gang of thugs.”

“No. I’m not particularly worried about that.”

“One wonders why not?”

Rowland polished the chrome mascot of the Mercedes with the sleeve of his jacket. “They’ve already been to the Hydro Majestic and
Woodlands
. There’s no reason to believe
I’ll be any safer in Sydney… Anyway, they seem more out of their element here than we are, and, regardless, I still have to find Harry.”

“Simpson… so that’s what you’re fretting about. You think that joker Schulz could be right? That he’s dead?”

Rowland didn’t respond. He railed inwardly against Milton voicing his own unspoken fears.

“Leave it, Milt,” Clyde said from under the hood. He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Rowly’s right. He’s as safe up here as anywhere else—probably
safer. If Simpson’s found some kind of trouble, he’ll need our help regardless of what half-cocked gang is trying to bag a Sinclair.”

Milton studied Rowland thoughtfully. “Fair enough. Just don’t go wandering off anywhere, will you, Rowly? I’d hate to miss a fight.”

Edna and Sarah Brent emerged from the hotel. The writer lugged a large carpetbag. Edna left hers at the top of the stairs confident that one of the men she lived with would insist upon carrying
it anyway. Rowland was the first to oblige. Milton tried to take Sarah’s bag but she would have none of it, refusing in a manner that made the offer seem discourteous.

Rowland glanced admiringly at Edna. The sculptress occasionally wore overalls when she was working, but he’d never seen her in trousers before. The curves of her figure were definitely
returning and the fitted breeches of Kate’s riding habit suited her.

“You look pretty, Ed,” he said quietly, as he lifted her bag into the trunk.

Edna looked at him nervously. “I feel a bit naked.”

He smiled, amused that Edna should feel more naked when she was actually wearing clothes. She had always modelled for him without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. “Either way, you
look pretty.”

Sarah pushed between them and put her own bag into the trunk. The writer wore a long gathered skirt. Apparently she planned to ride side-saddle.

They piled into the Mercedes. Sarah Brent called Edna into the back seat so that they could discuss her manuscript on the ride out from Rules Point to Long Plain Homestead. Clyde and Milton both
squeezed into the front with Rowland so that there would be plenty of room in the back for the writer and her extraordinary volume of hair.

Long Plain Homestead was well constructed. Some of the original shingles had been replaced with iron sheets. The roof was sharply pitched to prevent the accumulation of snow and its red brick
chimneys were substantial. A lean-to beside the house was stacked to the roof with split logs, and the stables were larger than the homestead.

Rowland brought his car to a stop inside the stables. Keenan was already there, saddling horses. He’d allocated them strong animals, obviously bred for the mountains, and launched into
instructions for the care of the steeds as soon as Rowland alighted from the car. A swag was secured behind each saddle as well as an extra blanket. Keenan had also equipped them with lanterns,
ropes, canteens, soap and various other essentials. For each of these acts of consideration he charged Rowland an exorbitant premium. But he did throw in an old Enfield shotgun.

“She pulls to the right a little,” Keenan warned, as he strapped the gun to the pack on the back of Clyde’s horse. Rowland had already slipped Wildred’s revolver into his
own saddlebag.

“If you forget to secure the horses, they’ll find their own way back and you’ll have a long walk,” Keenan continued brusquely. “And whatever you lose, you’ve
bought.”

“Understood,” Rowland replied. “Now my car…”

“If you’re wanting me to keep the cats off her,” Keenan grumbled, “I’ll not be responsible for what the bush rats do to your fancy upholstery.”

Rowland glanced back at his beloved Mercedes in alarm. What the hell were bush rats?

“You look after the car, Laurie,” Clyde growled. “Rowly’s already funded your old age.”