Miles Off Course (18 page)

The buck jumping was staged in the large yard on the flat land beside the hotel. It was a popular event for both participants and spectators. The rules were quite simple: the
entrant was required to remain on his mount for as long as possible and avoid being killed. So far that day everybody had managed to observe both rules to a greater or lesser extent.

Milton was leaning on the rail watching enthusiastically.

“What do you think, Rowly?” he asked, as a call was made for contestants. “Should we have a go?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Milt. Rowly couldn’t do that,” Edna answered for him.

“Why not? He can ride a horse.”

“Polo ponies, not wild horses. He’ll break his neck.”

Rowland looked out at the brumby which had just been led into the ring. It was a fine looking animal, well-proportioned with a glossy coat. It wasn’t quite as large as the horses he was
used to riding, but already its nostrils flared and its ears were back. He was mildly irritated that Edna assumed he’d come to grief, though she seemed quite content for Milton to enter the
event. He removed his hat and his watch and handed both to the sculptress. “Hold on to these, will you, Ed?”

“Rowly you’re not—” Edna turned to him alarmed.

Rowland smiled, aware that he was reacting a little childishly… but still, it was a matter of pride. He had ridden some bloody flighty polo ponies in his time—he knew how to stay on
a horse.

Milton, too, was startled. He had not really expected Rowland to accept his challenge.

Clyde, who had always considered himself the most sensible of the three, rolled his eyes. Even so, he did not try to dissuade his friends.

Edna on the other hand was not so judicious. Unfortunately she succeeded only in setting their resolve to try their luck in the ring.

Rowland went first. The stockmen who watched him mount seemed more than a little amused that someone would attempt to ride in a three-piece suit. Admittedly, Rowland felt a little overdressed
for the task at hand, but he was not inclined to change clothes for the few seconds he would be on the horse.

Lawrence Keenan was apparently the judge of the buck jumping events. He studied Rowland critically for a moment and called him a few names under his breath. “I don’t do refunds, you
know,” he said. “You get yourself killed, them horses are still hired as far as I’m concerned. It won’t be the first time I’ve collected payment from a dead
man’s pocket.”

Rowland ignored him and listened to Clyde’s last-minute advice. “Just watch your hand, Rowly. You want a good grip, but it’s better to come off than break your hand trying to
hold on.”

Rowland nodded. Clyde’s warning was that of a fellow artist. They needed their hands. He climbed up onto the rough stall. The mare was larger than the one he’d seen before. Her name
was Gunpowder, but then he supposed that one would be unlikely to name a bronco Peaches.

“Good luck, Rowly.”

The gate flung open. For a heartbeat there was nothing and then the mare exploded into the yard. She pig-rooted and bucked at least two dozen times in the ten seconds that Rowland managed to
stay on. He came off in rather spectacular fashion, crashing into the fence at the end of a skid. Still, he landed well and most of the damage was done to his jacket. He dusted himself off as he
straightened his tie. He was oddly exhilarated now that it was over, and in truth a little surprised that he had stayed on so long or ended up intact. He accepted the applause with a polite nod to
the crowd.

The general opinion was that the toff from Sydney had done remarkably well, all things considered. Clyde was impressed, Edna relieved. Rowland climbed out of the yard to join them as Milton
climbed into the stall.

The poet had removed his cream jacket and retied his cravat into a flamboyant silk kerchief.

“He might need his jacket,” Rowland said, as glanced at the torn shoulder of his own. He would have a tremendous bruise anyway. Shirtsleeves were unlikely to give Milton a great deal
of protection.

The gate was opened. Milton’s horse was more volatile than the last beast. It bucked and twisted as if it was trying to bite him. Rowland watched in a half-flinch expecting it to end
brutally very soon. It didn’t. The horse failed to throw Milton at all. Indeed the poet won the buck jumping.

Rowland was astounded and ecstatic, as was Clyde. Edna was happy but less surprised. “Milt was always entering the buck jumping at Hyde Park—he’s quite good, isn’t
he?”

“Hyde Park? There was buck jumping in Hyde Park?”

“Every Sunday.”

Milton’s triumph and Rowland’s respectable performance at the event had an additional unforeseen benefit. In the rounds of congratulatory drinks that followed, the
stockmen seemed more willing to talk of Moran and Simpson.

Michael Schulz worked a lease out near the Currango Homestead. He was a squat man who, despite his name and a distinctly Eastern European accent, insisted that he was an Irishman. Since the war,
it was not uncommon for those of German origin to pretend to be Swiss or Danish, but Rowland thought Irish was a bit optimistic. Regardless, Schulz was forthcoming about Moran.

“Dere was talk—desecration of da graves, fights, shenanigans of dat sort.” He crossed himself. “Mine God! Dat was before Simpson. I hear on da wind dat he was trying to
sort out Moran’s crew.”

“Have you heard what happened to him?” Rowland asked hopefully.

“Simpson? Whisked away by da little peoples as we say in de old country.”

Admirably, Rowland managed not to laugh.

“Dat snake-handler says he was in Corryong,” Schulz added.

Rowland nodded. “He told me.”

“I’ll tell yer dis for free, young’un.” Schulz checked over his shoulder. “From what I hear of Moran and his boys, it would not make me surprised if your man
Simpson is dead.”

T
he Sports Day Ball at the Rules Point Guesthouse was a large and eclectic affair. There were at least a couple of hundred people in attendance.
Many had made the trip up from as far as Adaminaby, Tumut and Batlow. The formality of dress varied. Some wore traditional ballroom attire, others were less extravagant, but even the saddlesore
stockmen made some attempt to be more presentable.

Rowland unbuttoned the jacket of his dinner suit. The main festivities were being conducted in the garage and it was quite warm as the crowd milled and danced to a band of accordians, violins
and a piano, which had been carted up from Caves House.

Milton and Edna were on the floor, foxtrotting in the arms of locals. Rowland hadn’t been able to get near the sculptress since she had joined the dancers. Her dance card had filled
quickly and, at times, the competition for her attention flared dangerously.

Clyde handed him a drink. Rowland spotted Moran making his way towards them. The stockman wore a jacket and tie and seemed to have groomed himself somewhat. He offered Rowland his hand.
“Mr. Sinclair, sir, I hear you done well on Gunpowder this afternoon.”

Rowland smiled. “I managed to hang on for a bit.”

“Well that’s better than many.”

“We’ll be collecting our horses early tomorrow, so we’ll join up with you and the men as you ride past Long Plain Homestead.”

Moran’s face tensed. “So you’re still set on coming out?”

“Yes, we are. In fact we’ll be bringing Miss Higgins and Miss Brent with us.”

“Yer joking, ain’t you? You can’t be bringin’ women into a stockmen’s camp. The boys ain’t gonna put up with that.”

Rowland’s eyes darkened. “I’m not joking, Mr. Moran. Perhaps you’d better warn the men that the ladies will be joining us. You might also like to tell them that I will
not hesitate to sack any man who gives any sort of offence to Miss Higgins or Miss Brent.”

“But you can’t…”

“I believe I can and I intend to.”

Moran’s mouth twisted as if it was all he could do not to swear at Rowland Sinclair. Perhaps it was, for he turned on his heel and stalked away in disgust.

Clyde sipped his beer as he stood beside Rowland. “He could be trouble, Rowly.”

Rowland nodded, his eyes still flashing. “Mr. Moran has a hard time remembering that he works for me.”

Clyde nudged him. “Wilfred would be proud. I might have to talk to Moran about joining a union.”

Rowland looked startled for a moment, and then he laughed. It wasn’t like him to be so high-handed, but Moran rubbed him the wrong way. “They’ll probably get over this no women
thing once they see Ed,” he said wryly.

Clyde took another sip of beer. “True… but then there’s Miss Brent.”

“Mr. Sinclair! Mr. Sinclair, I’m so glad I found you, my word!”

Rowland turned to the red breathless face of Mrs. Harris.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Harris?” he asked, offering her his arm in case she should faint.

“The Arnolds boy just rode up from Caves House.” She clutched his arm, wheezing a little. “Your brother’s been trying to reach you. I’m afraid there’s some
terrible emergency.”

Rowland stiffened and took the note she held out to him. The message said only that there had been an accident and that Wilfred Sinclair needed to speak with his brother as a matter of
urgency.

Rowland’s voice was calm. “Thank you, Mrs. Harris.” He ran his hand absently through his hair. “I’ll drive down to Caves House and telephone Wil now.” He
didn’t wait for her response.

“Would you please inform Miss Higgins and Mr. Isaacs of where we’ve gone?” Clyde called to Mrs. Harris as he followed Rowland out.

They wasted no time in getting to the car, but driving out of Rules Point proved to be a challenge as there were now many cars, and the odd horse-drawn vehicle, parked in rather haphazard and
congested rows. Rowland engaged the supercharger as soon as he pulled onto the road and the Mercedes roared towards Caves House.

The carpark outside the hotel was all but empty. The headlamps of the Mercedes illuminated a black Chevrolet, but otherwise it appeared that all the guests had gone to Rules Point for the
dance.

Rowland jumped out with the car idling, leaving Clyde to cut the engine once it had cooled. Rowland moved quickly towards the reception at the front of the building where he would find the
manager and a telephone. He was worried. Wilfred was not predisposed to sending alarmist messages for no reason. The entrance stairs were badly lit and it was quite late. Rowland nearly ran into
the man before he noticed him.

“Excuse me…”

The figure answered with a punch that sent Rowland to the bottom of the stairs. Two men were there to meet him. One winded him with a kick to the ribs while the other pressed the muzzle of a gun
to his temple.

“Not a sound.” The command was whispered directly into his ear as they dragged him roughly to his feet.

The figure from the top of the steps walked down and shone a torch into his face. Rowland blanched in the bright light. “You’re coming with us, Sinclair. It’d be a lot less
trouble to just shoot you, so don’t tempt me.”

“Who the hell are you?” Rowland doubled over as he took a fist beneath the ribs once again.

“You don’t speak. Last warning.” The man lit a cigarette and in the glow of the match Rowland glimpsed his face. He was fair. A telltale T-shaped scar on his cheek spoke of
razor gangs, but he wasn’t familiar. “Now we’re going to get into my Chev like gentlemen, and we’ll go for a little ride.”