A Changing Land(27)
‘It’s just that everyone in Wangallon Town has a story.’
Matt pictured the general store, pub, single tennis court, hall and school. There were ten houses in its four streets. ‘I’ll bet they do.’
By late lunch the ewes were holed up in their new paddock, camped from the day’s heat under the nearest group of trees. Matt shut the twelve-foot gate after them, marvelling at how quickly they could settle. They rode back in tired silence. Jack occasionally whistling snippets from unrecognisable songs, in between talking to his kelpie, Rust, to get him to keep up.
‘You’ll have to spend a bit more time with that horse of yours. Get him to wear young Rust there.’ Matt looked over his shoulder at the tiring dog. In another half a click he’d be foot sore and straggling, ruined for a full day’s work tomorrow.
Matt’s own dog, Whisky, a surly collie with a grudging respect for Sugar borne of two skin splitting kicks to his muzzle, sat gingerly in front of Matt, his front paws extended in a gruesome lock across Matt’s thigh.
Jack looked at Whisky’s mournful expression.
‘Want to give your young mate a ride?’ Matt asked Whisky roughly.
Minutes later, Whisky was walking alongside Sugar at a neat pace, his now alert gaze looking up to check on Rust, who was clamped close to Matt in a vice-like grip.
‘What’s on tomorrow?’ Jack asked, noticing that his dog had a distinctly human expression on his face that could only be described as being scared shitless.
‘We’ll move the steers from the 4,000 acre road paddock onto the oats. I’ve got a couple of contractors coming out to give us a hand. Then we’ll drive over to Boxer’s Plains.’
Matt had been checking the feed situation on Boxer’s Plains every Sunday for the past three weekends. The 20,000 acres had been stocked to the eyeballs for over six weeks and the feed would begin to cut out if the block wasn’t destocked soon. He was a little surprised when his querying received an it’s under control comment from Anthony. It may well be but on his reckoning they had a month before the country was chewed out. Matt’s finger probed irritably at a hardened lump of wax in his ear. Every time he offered some management advice, Anthony was all over him like a fat lady at a buffet. And ever since their disagreement in the Wangallon kitchen and the early opening of the pit, their once cordial relationship had disintegrated into feigned politeness. Nothing worse than a young manager with an attitude and Matt had seen his share of them.
There were a couple of young people at the helm of one of the most well known pastoral properties in New South Wales and Matt had a suspicion that one of them had his own agenda. Cripes this was going to get interesting. At least the third owner of Wangallon hadn’t shown his face yet. That in itself was a blessing. Matt walked his horse through the house gate en route to the stables.
‘I’m sure glad Sarah likes her cattle and sheep. I wouldn’t like to be spending my time driving headers and tractors.’ Jack watched in amusement as Matt picked Rust up off the saddle by the scruff of his neck and dropped him on the ground. The dog landed securely on all four paws.
‘Me neither, Jack,’ Matt replied.
Wangallon was built and would continue to thrive on stock. They still had a few thousand acres sown to oats every year to fatten their cattle and cull sheep and they sowed barley, which they crushed in a mill to feed out as a top-up supplement to the steers, but that was the extent of the farming operation. Some of their neighbours had embarked on carefully mapped-out land clearing exercises and had enjoyed the monetary benefits of big cash crops of wheat, barley and grain sorghum but, like any commodity, grain growing was subject to the vagrancies of both the weather and the marketplace. Farming was an expensive business and Wangallon had always made more out of grazing.
At the stables Matt unsaddled his horse and began brushing Sugar down with a curry comb. Sugar stood quietly like a woman at a beauty parlour getting her hair done.
‘I guess I’m a bit of a tree hugger, Matt,’ Jack said almost shyly as he undid the girth strap on his own mount and dragged the saddle free.
Matt clapped the lad on his shoulder. ‘I know exactly what you mean. We’re stockmen, not tractor jockeys.’
Sarah, Matt and Jack were unloading their horses from the float at the road paddock when a flashy white and yellow trailer pulled alongside them.
‘You’re late,’ Matt admonished as the two men walked towards them.
‘G’day. I’m Toby Williams.’ The taller of the two shook Sarah’s hand. He was slightly built with broad shoulders and budgerigar blue eyes. ‘And this is Pancake.’