of smoke in the dawn air, signalling bushfires to the south-east. Aborigines, he surmised, adjusting his arse in the saddle. He would need some of Lee’s salve if he was to carry out his plan against Crawford. Age had made his backside sensitive to riding long distances. He turned his horse to the ridge and headed towards the creek, his gaze drawn every so often to the smoke hanging on the horizon. The Aborigines were adept at lighting fires to smoke out kangaroos, lizards and other campfire edibles. Hamish had observed the regeneration of trees and plants once these untended fires had burnt through the county, yet such fires on Wangallon were banned. In the heat of summer a conflagration could quickly ensue, destroying the valuable grasses so vital to his livestock’s survival and Wangallon’s prosperity. Of more concern was the danger to his beloved cattle and sheep. Hamish had been witness to the terrible sight of burnt sheep; the sweet stench of lanolin and the horrific burns. He wished no such pain on any creature – friend or foe. Yet out east, as evidenced by the sting to his eyes this morning, there were no such constraints.
His mount picked his way past the ridge and stepped lightly across the paddock. As if aware of the coming heat, the horse moved quickly, sensing the opportunity for faster travel would be limited in only a matter of hours. In the tree line Hamish spotted smoke streaming into the sky. This, he knew by its position, was the black’s camp. He scanned to the left and right of the smoke. Sure enough there it was, downstream of the camp, a second fire; his son’s. Hamish touched his horse’s flanks with the heels of his boots and they moved into a trot. He leant forward in the saddle, the movement of both horse and rider causing a breath of air to brush at his face. Soon they were racing towards the growing tree line, weaving between the great coolibah gums and brigalow trees dominating the approach to the creek. As the denseness of the woody plants increased, Hamish found himself forced to slow and he picked his way carefully across fallen timber and ground made uneven by previous floods and the burrowing of rabbits.
He found Luke by his campfire, squatting like a black in the dirt. Some feet away was a reasonably solid lean-to plastered with dry mud. Luke stood as he dismounted, pulled his hat low over his forehead even though the sun was yet to breach the creek. Hamish swatted at the morning flies, noting the empty mussel shells piled to one side of the fire. One of the blacks had brought him breakfast.
‘It would be helpful to tell someone of your whereabouts,’ Hamish began, standing on the opposite side of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.
Luke slurped at his freshly brewed tea, saying nothing. Hamish walked down to the edge of the creek.
‘I’ve decided to send Angus away to boarding school: The Kings School in Parramatta.’ Hamish brushed at the flies. There was rain coming for the air was humid. ‘I agreed with your grandmother for your sake,’ Hamish began, recalling parts of the conversation he’d faintly overheard from the sanctity of his study. He wouldn’t stand to have his plans ruined through petulance.
‘And how does being deprived of my inheritance benefit me?’
The brown water of the creek moved sluggishly onwards. Leaves and small twigs sailed past, caught on a deceptive current. ‘A shopkeeper’s life is not something you would take to, lad.’ Having a conversation with Luke had always been akin to having a tooth pulled.
Luke threw the remains of his tea in the fire. ‘Well that’s something you have ensured I’ll not know.’ He picked tea leaves from his tongue, searched for his tobacco in the pockets of his trousers.
Hamish walked back towards him. ‘Look at you. You can’t even spend a night inside Wangallon Homestead. Not for you the constraints of a ceiling and walls. I understand that, Luke, although occasionally it would not hurt you to sleep in your room, dine with me on a more regular basis. Wangallon is your home after all, and as a Gordon you have a name and position to do credit to.’
Luke was rolling tobacco in the palm of his hand. ‘It’s never been my home. First it was yours. In the future it will belong to Angus. Surely I was entitled to something for myself.’
Fairness was not