Dust on the Horizon (16 page)

“I think Mr Goyder's information is more accurate. He has drawn a line on the map of the state beyond which he doesn't believe the land and the climate can sustain crops.” Prosser reined in his horse and looked back at Henry. “The government won't listen to his advice. They're too eager for the money farmers are willing to pay. I only got this place at a good price because the previous owner was frightened away.”

“How so?”

“He believed the government would be pressured by the farmers to carve up some of the flatter country like this for agriculture.”

Henry thought about the country he'd ridden through. The thick grass, as high as his knees, had swayed in the breeze in waves like the ocean, broken by the occasional bush or tree. “Is it possible to clear such land and put it under a plough?”

“Possible yes, but I believe foolhardy. Thankfully the dry seasons we've had have saved Prosser's Run from the plough till now.” Prosser got down from his horse and held Henry's while he did the same then tethered the animals to a small bush.

The two men walked to a rocky outcrop and looked down the slope of the hill where sheep grazed on the tufts of grass. It was only September but the mid-morning sun was beating down from a cloudless blue sky. Henry sweltered in his jacket. He slipped a finger inside his shirt collar. It was buttoned to the top and finished with his neat narrow neck tie. Prosser was quite a few years older than Henry and had always lived in the bush. He was a tall man with a commanding presence in spite of his more casual attire. Henry envied his open-necked shirt, over which Prosser wore some kind of leather vest.

“Sheep do well in this country?” Henry asked. His thoughts were on the land he'd acquired on the plains. If Prosser was right and it wasn't good for cropping then perhaps he should invest in some sheep and a shepherd or two.

“They do but we've had trouble with wild dogs and natives.”

Henry nodded. “I've heard reports the natives take a few sheep.”

“More than a few,” Prosser snarled.

“Would I have the same trouble on the plains?” Henry was concerned his foray into property ownership was already fraught with difficulties.

“I imagine so.”

“I was thinking of quitting the wheat and trying my hand with sheep.”

“I certainly think you're wise not to try to grow wheat on those plains. The sheep farmers fare a little better.” Prosser turned his shrewd dark eyes on Henry and studied him a moment. “You seem like a man who does well in business and is wise enough to hold his own counsel, Mr Wiltshire.”

“That I am.” Henry held Prosser's look. The man was obviously deliberating over something.

Finally Prosser spoke. “I have a neighbour who's being careless with his sheep. They stray onto my property and he doesn't miss them.”

“You didn't think you should return the sheep to their owner?”

Prosser glared at Henry. “I dislike the man. He's arrogant and not a good neighbour. If there was someone in need of stock who didn't ask too many questions, one of my men could make sure they arrived at their new home.” Prosser looked back to the sloping country on his other side. “His management is foolhardy. Treats the natives as if they are part of his family. He lets whole tribes of them camp on his property. Added to that his wife died a month back and he's gone soft with grief.”

Henry stiffened. “You mentioned one of your neighbours was Joseph Baker of Smith's Ridge. Would that be him?”

“The very same.” Prosser's eyes narrowed. “Do you know him?”

“Yes, and your summary of his character is the same as mine.” Henry was quick to take Prosser's side. He sensed there was a deal to be made here. One that would be good for Henry and do a disservice to Baker.

“Well, as we are of the same opinion when it comes to Joseph Baker, we might be able to come to an arrangement.”

“Would that arrangement involve stocking my plains properties with sheep?”

“I think so. This is just the beginning for me.” Once more Prosser's gaze travelled off to the country to the south. “I intend taking over Smith's Ridge and eventually Wildu Creek.”

Henry's eyes widened. “Doesn't Wildu Creek belong to Baker's father?”

“It does. That's some of the best grazing land in the area and has a lot more permanent water than my property or Smith's Ridge. I'm a patient man. One day it will all be mine.”

Prosser was also an ambitious man. Henry understood that.

“What would you want in return for this deal?”

“Along with your silence.” Prosser pinned him with a sharp look.

“That goes without saying.”

“Nothing for the time being but you are a forwarding agent. You must broker a lot of sales for stock, wool, wheat.”

Henry pulled back his shoulders. “My clients are growing in number.”

“There might be times when it would be helpful for me to know what price others are getting, or how much stock they may be selling, anything that might give me the upper hand in neighbourly dealings.” Prosser dragged out the last two words.

“I am most happy to assist, Mr Prosser, but you should know, Joseph Baker is no longer a client of mine and I don't imagine I will get his father's business either.”

“That's as may be but we never know what the future holds and I have other neighbours.”

“Of course.” Henry nodded. He was uncertain where this deal would lead him but he was sure it was in the right direction.

“I imagine we can supply you with stock very soon.” Prosser thrust out his large hand and Henry accepted his strong grip with a smile.

“It is a pleasure to do business with you, Mr Prosser.”

“If we are to do business I think we should be on first name terms, Henry, don't you?”

“Certainly, Mr … Ellis.”

They both turned at the sound of thrumming hoof beats. A horse and rider came into view.

“This is one of my shepherds, Donovan,” Prosser said.

Donovan reached them but didn't dismount. Prosser introduced him to Henry.

“Just riding in to tell you the natives have taken at least fifty this time.”

Henry tried not to flinch at the uncouth diatribe Prosser let forth. Donovan's horse flicked up its head and pranced in a circle.

“Ride over and get Swan,” Prosser said. “I'll get the other men and we'll meet you back here in two hours. They're not going to get away with it this time.”

Donovan gave a nod and moved his horse on.

Prosser strode back to where they'd left the horses. “Damned natives.”

“Can't they be brought before the law?” Henry followed, horrified to think that Prosser's loss could go unpunished.

“I've tried that. The law is too soft on them. Says they have a right to the land.” Prosser pulled his whip from his saddle and slapped it against his boot. “I've developed my own way of dealing with them. It's catching the bastards that's the hard part. But this time it might be easier. Fifty sheep aren't easy to hide.”

“It seems a large number.”

“It is, but this is a big country.” Prosser swung up into the saddle. “Anyway, it won't matter to me much longer. I'm changing to cattle.”

“Will that make a difference?” Henry managed to climb up onto his horse with less difficulty than he'd done the first time.

“I won't suffer as many losses from natives and wild dogs at least. Cattle are wary of sounds and smells they don't recognise. They're a lot bigger and in a group they look formidable.” Prosser's face twisted into a malicious grin. “They've also got large, sharp horns. More than a match for dingo or black men.”

Henry felt a prickle worm down his spine.

“We will go back to the homestead and collect my sons and whoever I can find.” Prosser's horse wheeled around. “You'll ride with us, won't you? You might need to experience this if you are to have stock of your own.”

Henry nodded and urged his horse on after Prosser's. He had an uneasy feeling. Violence had never been a part of his nature. Not to dish out personally anyway. There had been a couple of times in his earlier years back in Adelaide when he had been bullied. He hadn't mentioned it to his mother but access to her money had meant he could pay someone else to dish out the retribution. He'd earned a reputation for being a man not to be messed with, without needing to dirty his own hands.

When Prosser's house came into view, they reined their horses to a trot. Henry's backside was aching and he had not been able to come up with any excuse not to accompany the men on their mission. He had already accepted Mrs Prosser's invitation to stay one more night. There appeared to be no escape.

“Who's this?”

Henry lifted his head in the direction of Prosser's gaze. A horse and rider were galloping towards the homestead. They all arrived under the big tree at the front of the house at the same time. A young lad Henry recognised from Hawker slid from the saddle and dug a paper from his bag. Mrs Prosser and her daughter, Georgina, came out on the verandah. Everyone was interested in the new arrival.

“What do you have there, boy?” Ellis asked.

“I have a telegraph for Mr Wiltshire.”

Henry climbed down from the saddle. The telegraph station had only recently been installed in the room behind his shop.

“Mr Hemming sent me.” The lad held out the paper.

Henry took it, and read the few words of black print. A great sense of relief flooded through him. He scrunched the paper in his hand and clapped the other on Prosser's shoulder. “I am a father,” he cried. “I have a son!”

“Congratulations.” Prosser grasped his hand in a tight grip and gave it a fierce shaking up and down. “Tonight we must celebrate.”

Henry extracted his hand. “That's very kind of you Ellis, but I must get back to Hawker.”

“What about …?” Prosser glanced at the boy who was standing beside them grinning broadly. “The job we were going to do?”

“I am sure you will manage very well without me. You do understand I must get back and make contact with my wife.” Henry looked at Prosser with the brightest of smiles.

“Yes, of course. Disappointing but I understand your desire to return home.”

Henry turned to the lad. “You can help me hitch up the cart and ride back with me.”

“Yes, Mr Wiltshire.”

“He'd better water his horse first and I will get my wife to prepare you something to eat for the journey. My horses can stay here. My daughter will see to them.” Prosser waved in the direction of the verandah.

“Thank you, Ellis, you're most generous.”

“I won't stay to see you off. I want to get on after those …” Once more Prosser glanced at the lad. “Sheep.”

“Of course.”

Ellis shook Henry's hand then strode away towards the house. He spoke to Georgina who hurried down the steps and took the reins of the horses.

Henry gave her a nod. She was only young but she led the horses away with the experience of someone much older. No doubt women had to do a lot more outside work on a property. He wouldn't like to think his Catherine would ever have to do anything such as look after the horses. Thinking of her reminded him he had a son.

“Well done, boy.” Henry patted the lad's back and led him in the direction of the watering trough. “We'll soon be on our way. Lucky it's a full moon. It will be late by the time we arrive in Hawker.”

Henry pointed out his horse to the boy then set off for the house to collect his bag and food. He couldn't wipe the smile from his face. Not only was he a father but in the most timely fashion. The arrival of his son had saved him from the odious task of being a part of Prosser's gang.

Fourteen

Thomas brought his horse and cart to a stop just before he reached Joseph's house. He could see no smoke from the chimney. Chickens roosted on the front verandah rails, a blanket lay crumpled on the ground at the foot of the steps and an upturned bucket lay nearby. From beyond the house he could hear the sound of sporadic chopping.

Thomas tethered the horse. He glanced back at the canvas-covered load in the back of the cart. Lizzie's gifts of food would have to wait. He shifted the bucket and picked up the blanket. It was wet and covered in dirt. He hung the blanket over the rail. Perhaps it had blown from there already. The chickens squawked their protest as he shooed them from the verandah. He stopped at the door. Now he could hear wailing from within. Thomas took a deep breath. He wished Lizzie was with him but she was still recovering from her illness and tired easily. He opened the door.

The sight before him was of utter devastation. Clara's once-tidy house had disappeared. The long table was covered in plates and mugs, the floor littered with items of clothing and no fire burned in the grate Joseph huddled in front of, rocking a sobbing Robert in his arms. More crying came from the other room and he could hear Mary's soothing tones.

“Joseph.”

He didn't react.

“Son?” Thomas called a bit louder.

Joseph lifted his head slowly and turned his sorrow-lined face to his father. Recognition flickered in his eyes. He staggered to his feet. “I didn't hear you.”

“I've come to see how you are.”

Esther flew from the bedroom. She wore a tatty brown nightdress. “Gam pa,” she called and flung her arms around his legs. He patted her hair, which stuck out in an untidy jumble and felt rough. Violet arrived a few steps behind her wearing a clean nightdress. Her hair was neatly brushed and her skin glowed pink. Mary followed, a brush in her hand.

Thomas squatted and enveloped both little girls in his arms, one smelling sweet and the other like she hadn't washed in a while. Mary crossed to Joseph and took Robert with her out to the kitchen.

“Where is William?” Thomas asked.

Joseph looked around the room through bleary eyes as if he was searching for his son.