A Changing Land(26)
‘Come behind, Whisky,’ he called out to his dog as if he was addressing a naughty child. ‘You know better than to stir the old girls up.’ Matt was pleased he’d only brought Whisky out today. There were another seven dogs tied up down the back of his yard and despite their pleading expressions, he’d known Whisky would be fresh enough to do the work of two dogs.
The short-haired border collie ran from where he’d been stalking the tail-end of the mob and headed back towards his master. The mob padded quietly onwards, their cloven hoofs leaving myriad tracks and raising dust in their wake. Ahead young Jack was wheeling a recalcitrant ewe back towards the mob. Having tried her luck by dashing off across the paddock, she was now experiencing the brunt of a young man on a good horse with a fast kelpie. The ewe twisted and turned in various directions, stopping occasionally to stamp irritably at the dog if it came too close, before attempting another path of escape. Finally she gave up, diving into the safety of the mob.
Matt took a long draw of his smoke, a curl of a white line tracing through the air as he exhaled. As if on cue his horse, a black gelding named Sugar, started off into a slow walk. Matt let himself be lulled by the steady gait, his eyes straying from left to right, automatically checking and rechecking the progress of the sheep in his care. They had left the Wangallon sheep yards at daybreak and walked due east, passing within a couple of kilometers of West Wangallon. Now it was time for smoko and they still had a good six clicks to go.
Tethering their horses in the shade, they unpacked their saddlebags and settled down for a break. Matt hollowed himself a nice little piece of dirt at the base of a leopardwood tree, which formed a good backrest, and watched as young Jack perched himself on a log. Soon they were drinking steaming black tea from a thermos with lumpy spoonfuls of sugar. Jack handed Matt a corned beef and pickle sandwich.
‘Doesn’t get much better than this,’ Matt said aloud. His teeth dug cleanly through the fresh bread, his tongue savouring the bitey onion of the pickle. It’d been near five hours since breakfast and Matt’s stomach lived for regular meals. He was like a baby; five meals a day and a bottle at night.
‘So are they going to advertise for a new jackeroo then?’ Jack asked, between slurps of tea. He knew the drill. He’d been at Wangallon for over twelve months, had always done what was required of him quickly and efficiently and if he didn’t know or understand something, he asked.
Matt let the boy squirm a bit. A few years back and young Jack would have been a jackeroo for at least a couple more years, but the pastoral industry was changing and a kid with ability like this one couldn’t be left doing menial tasks and spending every Friday in the station garden.
‘Thought you liked gardening?’
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly with concern. ‘Very funny,’ he responded when Matt couldn’t keep his top lip from stringing out into a smile. ‘I don’t mind it. I like to see things grow. Used to help my mum a bit. And Sarah’s real nice.’ He slurped at his tea, scowling at the heat. ‘What was her grandfather like?’
‘Tough as bloody nails and damn smart.’
‘And Anthony started as a jackeroo?’
‘Hand-picked, they reckon, by old Angus himself.’ The boy fell on his feet all right; Matt couldn’t deny that. Not that Anthony wasn’t capable.
Jack took a long slurp of his tea. ‘He seems really good at managing.’
‘He’ll need to be.’ Matt picked a string of meat from between his two front teeth. Somehow he didn’t think Anthony’s management capabilities would be restricted to Wangallon. He was living with a Gordon, one who probably wouldn’t stay docile for much longer. She couldn’t. It wasn’t in her blood. Besides, he reckoned the girl had pretty much done with the mourning of old Angus; she was starting to express a few opinions.
He himself had only agreed to work for Angus because he was old school. Properties like Wangallon couldn’t go on into infinity unless owner and staff understood each other and Angus Gordon and Matt Schipp had understood each other. With a satisfied belch, he squared his shoulders against the knobbly bark supporting him and rubbed his shoulderblades contentedly.
‘Is it true Wangallon was built on stock theft?’
Matt peered out from underneath his hat. One thing he didn’t believe in was repeating gossip. He flicked a good finger at a large black bull ant traversing the length of his jeans and considered the boy’s question. ‘I’d say pretty much anything could have happened out here one hundred and forty years ago, Jack. The thing is …’ he paused for emphasis, ‘we will never know how much is talk and how much is actual truth.’