A Changing Land(78)
‘Get the horses, McKenzie,’ Hamish growled.
When Hamish turned to face his overseer the muscles around his jawline were bunched, a large vein throbbed powerfully in his neck. ‘The day I take possession of Crawford Corner,’ he spat through gritted teeth, ‘I will burn this house to the ground.’
The men mounted as one and rode out of the homestead garden. Jasperson let Hamish take the lead as they cantered off. ‘Now you will see how such men are made, McKenzie.’ Jasperson’s lip curled upwards as he nodded at the rider in front of them.
The toe of Anthony’s boot struck the gear upwards and he accelerated. The Yamaha motorbike sped along the dirt road. Each bump and pothole on the road jarred his body and sent unwelcome slivers of pain through his right hand. Two of his fingers were strapped. Anthony’s only regret was that he had not hit Jim Macken harder. He revved the motorbike, swallowing the throb of his hand, wishing the Scot had given him the opportunity of throwing two punches instead of one. At the old army bridge spanning the waters of the Wangallon River, he stopped. Beneath him, a muddy swirl moved downstream. There were waterbirds stalking the furthest bank, a lone wallaby and a number of kangaroos having an early morning drink. Anthony pulled the zipper up further on his oilskin and stretched his leather-and-wool encased fingers. The morning was colder than it had looked from Wangallon’s kitchen window.
Restarting the bike he continued on across the bridge and into Boxer’s Plains. With two sleepless nights behind him, he’d spent much of the time trying to decipher how things had become so skewed. His reasoning regarding the development was sound and the inevitability of Jim’s inheritance made his project one hundred per cent correct. Why then was Sarah so damn determined to stop something Wangallon needed? Stubbornness ran in the Gordon family, of that he’d had firsthand experience, and it was true Wangallon had always been predominantly grazing, but the bush was changing and Wangallon needed to move with the times as well.
He knew his girl didn’t like change and in truth, considering the past, he couldn’t blame her. But this was different. They were both trying to protect Wangallon, yet Sarah was acting as if he was the enemy. Somehow everything seemed mightily screwed up. The motorbike startled a mob of kangaroos nibbling near the edge of the cultivation. Immediately the animals turned briefly towards the oncoming noise, then they were off, their muscled hind legs powering them forward, leaving small puffs of dust as they hopped quickly into the safety of some wilga trees. Anthony rode around the edge of the cultivation to where the contractors had been working. He followed their metal track marks in the soft dirt, careful not to land in one of the gaping holes where a tree once stood. Scattered branches and large limbs, the debris from fallen timber, lay strewn in every direction and Anthony found it difficult to pick a path through the tangle of branches. More than once he found himself backing up his bike in order to find a clearer passage. The area was heavily timbered and with new tree growth over the last few years, it was virtually impossible to muster stock out. Anthony doubted if many people had ventured this far into the ridge for years. Angus had fenced off a square of about sixty acres right in the middle of the ridge in the late twenties. It was a smart solution for it stopped stock from hiding within the timbered environs, although Anthony was at a loss as to why he’d simply not had the timber thinned out a little.
The bulldozers were clearing on a face of about five hundred metres. Eventually Anthony reached their start point and rode around the man-made boundary. It struck him how easily a landscape could change. On his right, trees swallowed the countryside while to his left timber lay on the ground like fallen soldiers. Eventually a glint of metal caught his eye and soon the unmistakeable shape of heavy machinery came into view. The two dozer drivers were sitting in the middle of their handiwork in deckchairs.
Anthony got off his bike and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was damn cold, but these two blokes were wearing short-sleeved shirts and shorts. ‘G’day. Working on your cruise tan, Bruce?’
‘Almost summery today,’ commented Bruce, the older of the two men, unscrewing the lid on his thermos. ‘Cuppa?’
‘Sounds good.’ Anthony squatted in the dirt as the black tea was poured. Soon he was warming his hands around the lid of the thermos.
‘Five weeks till spring,’ agreed Neville, Bruce’s companion, passing Anthony a milk arrowroot biscuit spread with butter and vegemite.
Bruce took a slurp of tea and licked the topping off his biscuit. ‘Saw that head stockman of yours this morning.’