A Changing Land(5)



Hamish dropped his shoulder to skim the sticky boundary of a bush spider’s domain. The large bulbous body scuttled sideways in useless anticipation as the distant bellowing of a bullock team and a series of whip cracks announced the end of the morning’s ride. A speck of movement appeared in the hazy distance, growing on approach to resemble men. Hamish and Boxer drew level to follow the open channel mounded on each side by dirt. It was a tributary of the main drain that ran east to west and would eventually rejoin another arm some six miles on, watering two grazing paddocks in the process.

The bullock team was dragging a wooden one-way plough along the predetermined path of the drain; behind it a wooden tumbling tommy scoop, also bullock drawn, gathered up the loose dirt. Hamish and Boxer rode past the drain-making contraptions. Both plough and scoop would need to make a series of passes before a usable channel appeared. Some distance ahead a team of men straddled the breadth of the drain’s proposed passage, their faces red with fatigue. The rhythmic swing of axes and the dry strike of shovels gave off dull thuds as the men removed the numerous trees and fallen timber that lay in the path of the oncoming machines. Nearby a campfire expelled a stream of smoke into the cold air. Hamish could smell damper cooking.

Boxer rode across to the foreman and there was a gruff order to down tools. The men turned as one to slowly walk forward. Employed specifically to work on the drain, Hamish noted the men were a motley assortment of varying ages. Jasperson, Wangallon’s overseer, had assembled a team of misfits. One wore a stained patterned waistcoat, another sported trousers sheared off roughly below the knees, three wore mismatched trouser braces, while most of their shoes were tied up with twine to stop the soles coming off. The sight of these bedraggled men took Hamish back in time to the steps of The Hill Hotel & Board over forty years ago. Filthy from days spent in the saddle, mourning the loss of his younger brother on the goldfields, he too had experienced the hollow-eyed despair these men carried with them.

Dismounting, Hamish walked across to the campfire, leaving his horse in Boxer’s care. The doughy scent of coal-baked bread competed with skin unaccustomed to water and soap. It was a heady aroma.

‘You the boss then?’ The high-pitched voice came from the waistcoat wearer. The lad fiddled with potatoes in a saddlebag, shifted his eyes like a food-scavenging goanna. Later the potatoes would be wrapped in wet newspaper or bundled into green bark and rested among the fire’s embers for their lunch. The lad was younger than he looked, Hamish surmised. A lathering of dust and sweat covered a line of pustules that ran down the left-hand side of his face like a scar. The lad suffered from the Barcoo rot.

‘I am,’ replied Hamish.

The men jostled uncomfortably. Hands left or entered pockets. There was a low murmur. Hamish knew the look of criminals well enough. He’d seen the chain gangs working at cutting through the heavy rock to build roads down south; winced at the smack of leather against flesh. Some of them stared with open hostility at Boxer. A black with a rifle remained an uncommon sight in these parts and the distrust was plainly evident.

‘If any of you are looking for work after this job is completed, speak to Wangallon’s overseer, Jasperson.’

A murmur spread out from the group like uncomfortably stored flatulence. Hamish would send one of the stockmen out this afternoon with a side of mutton and a couple of extra plugs of tobacco. There were basic ways of ensuring a measure of loyalty. Springing easily into the saddle, the stallion automatically bucked in displeasure. Hamish tugged on the reins, the horse backing up like an unruly child.

‘A man has already offered us work. Doing this,’ the youth pointed at the open drain.

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘McKenzie.’

‘McKenzie. You would be from Scotland then?’

‘Aye. Born in New South Wales. My father’s family is Scottish.’

‘And your mother’s?’

‘Irish. She died with the having of me, Sir.’

Hamish took another good look at the lad. He was not surprised. ‘Well, McKenzie, which man are you talking about?’

‘He came from over there.’ The boy pointed towards the blue hazed scrub. ‘Said if we was of a mind to head west and cross a big river, we’d be on his boss’s land.’

Hamish knew immediately that the youth referred to Oscar Crawford. His neighbour across the river owned Crawford Corner. The family settled in the area in the 1840s, some years prior to Hamish’s arrival, and as such treated him like a brash newcomer; however, it now appeared they were quite happy to try to poach his men and quite likely his stock as well. This was a subject Hamish knew much about and it would only be a matter of time before they were caught, for they mistook their own arrogance for pride.

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