uptight Englishman with a penchant for young boys, had given some cockeyed story about having lost everything and everyone. Yet Hamish saw in him the same attributes as Dave; they were men who could follow orders and keep their mouths shut and men like that were damn hard to find and replace. It was a pity Dave finally succumbed to his own mortality. Hamish had thought his willpower was stronger than that.
‘Well, what news?’ Hamish swigged down his tea. If a month traversing Wangallon’s western boundary had not caused the Englishman to hanker a little for conversation, nothing would. There were miles of fences to check, boundary riders to locate and rotate to other parts of the property and general observations on the state of the grazing country to be recorded and passed on. Hamish was usually on horseback by now, the rising sun in his eyes and an image of the country he’d acquired over many years beckoning like a pitcher of water. Instead it was nearing seven o’clock and his impatience was biting at his stomach.
Hamish tapped out his pipe. ‘Well?’ A glance was exchanged between the pustule-faced boy and his overseer. Hamish knew that look. Their relationship had clearly been settled one night out on the western boundary. Money and terms had been exchanged and Hamish suspected McKenzie had dropped his trousers by a glowing campfire. It was not the first time such a favour had been extracted, nor would it be the last. Hamish narrowed his eyes. This Scottish boy with his flickering gaze and willingness to accommodate Jasperson was looking for advancement. No doubt he believed that the top of the great tree that was Wangallon was poorly stocked with fruit not yet grown or apples souring and ready to fall. Well this one would be at the receiving end of a ready lesson if he diverted from a path directed by Jasperson.
‘Luke’s about a day’s ride away,’ Jasperson began. ‘The cook’s already at the Wangallon Town Hotel. Reckon’s the boy got speared a few months back.’
Hamish considered this snippet. ‘He’s not maimed?’
Jasperson shook his head.
‘Good. Take yourself into town and report back to me when he arrives. Is his whore still there?’
‘The Grant girl? Yes.’
McKenzie’s expression grew attentive. While the question was directed at Jasperson, Hamish sensed annoyance. The Scottish boy was peeved. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot.
‘If she be your whore too lad, my advice would be to find another.’ Hamish couldn’t have his own son sharing a woman with the likes of this boy. ‘What else?’ he demanded of Jasperson.
‘The big river dried up down near Crawford Corner a few weeks ago. The boundary rider moved the cattle south in an attempt to get them to the main drain but it was dry.’
‘What do you mean dry? It’s a damn artesian bore. It can’t simply have dried up?’
Jasperson scratched irritably at his crotch. ‘The cattle took off into Crawford’s. There’s water in that big hole on their side so that’s where they headed.’
Hamish considered the relevant facts. He had no water. Crawford did. ‘And the drain?’
‘I reckon they blocked it off.’
Hamish looked at his overseer: Filthy trousers, dust-covered boots and a clean shirt; the man’s one concession to a modicum of respectability. ‘You reckon?’ he repeated. Such a word didn’t exist in his vocabulary.
‘The boundary rider –’
Hamish took a sip of tea and uncrossed his legs as he lent sideways in his chair as if looking behind Jasperson. ‘I don’t see the boundary rider. I didn’t ask the boundary rider.’
McKenzie fiddled with his horse’s reins. Jasperson spat a globule of something wet and chewy on the ground. ‘It’s blocked. Crawford’s dug a trench to divert our bore drain water into the waterhole on the river.’
Hamish’s eyes narrowed. ‘And my stock?’ he enquired slowly, his dirty fingernails drumming his thigh.
‘Fifty or so head are running on Crawford Corner.’ Jasperson subtly directed any anger back towards the rightful owner.
Hamish slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. So this was how it was going to be. But he had him this time. He had Oscar Crawford for no less than stock theft. ‘Get my horse, Jasperson.’
‘Boss?’
If they left now they could reach the river at noon and wait out the hottest part of the day. Hamish paced the length of the verandah. Oscar Crawford needed to be taught a measure of responsibility. The man had grown insufferable.