Arthur Upfield - Sands of Windee

Now and then Jeff Stanton scribbled a note on a sheet of foolscap. A flock of four thousand sheep in such or such a paddock will have to be yarded-two thousand drafted off and put into another paddock where the water supply is greater. From yet another paddock the sheep will have to be removed to an emptypaddock, and these for three days shepherded near the well till they have learned to find their way to the water without being driven.

Such decisions were taken at these times only at the last minute that permitted a margin of safety, for, so soon as the sheep were concentrated into a comparatively small number of paddocks having abundance of water, the increased number would the more quickly eat down the available feed, which would not be replenished until the rain came. If as much thought were given, when transferring the unemployed of Great Britain to the Dominions, as a successful squatter is obliged to give to his flocks, the British Empire would be far more prosperous than it is.

Here and there over Jeff Stanton’s map were placed tiny red flags. There were five of these flags, and they indicated the dams and wells at which the rabbits were watering in force. Observations have shown that forty rabbits will drink one gallon of water when there is no green feed for them to subsist on. It will be understood, therefore, that when two thousand rabbits pay a nightly visit to an open dam, or water-trough supplied by a well, the water supply for the sheep will be affected. Whilst such a drain on a well that is fed by an underground stream is a matter for consideration, such a drain on a surface dam with its limited bulk is of vital consequence, for the nightly presence of a vast number of drinking rabbits means that the water of the dam will become far more quickly exhausted than if it were taken by sheep only.

Stanton picked up the telephone on his desk and gave two long rings-for Nullawil, since there were half a dozen boundary-riders’ huts connected by the same line. Then: “Good day, Mrs Foster! Put me through, please, to Carr’s Tank. Very warm this morning.”

“It is, Mr Stanton,”came the feminine voice of the bride, oblivious of Stanton’s objection to “mistering”. “Our thermometer is up to ninety-eight already.”

“You’re lucky. Ours registers just a hundred… Yes, all right!”

Another wait followed while Jeff restudied his map. Thencame the pleasant drawl of Hugh Trench.

“Good day, Dash! How’s things out there?” inquired the squatter.

“We have almost finished for the time being,”came the reply.

“Good! How many have you got?”

“Not quite seven thousand. We have cleaned up all the ’roos.”

“Humph! Well, look here, Dash. I’m told the rabbits are watering in millions at the Frenchman. Will you go along there as soon as you can, say to-morrow?”

Dash demurred.“Can’t very well. You see, we have three wool-packs ready for dispatching, and it won’t do the skins any good to keep them. They will lose weight.”

“I’ll send a truck out this afternoon,” Stanton countered. “You could load it up this evening, and the driver could come back to-morrow and take ’eminto Broken Hill. I’ve got to send a truck to the Hill for iron. How will that do?”

“That will suit us. There is no netting at the Frenchman, is there?”

Stanton pondered. “No,” he said.

“Well, what about sending out about four hundred yards? The driver could drop it when he reaches the branch track to the Frenchman, and it would save us the time rolling up the netting in use here. Besides, in a month’s time there will be a fresh mob of rabbits drinking here, and we can come back.”

“Good-oh! I’ll do that,” Jeff agreed. “And you’ll go to the Frenchman to-morrow?”

“Yes. It’s keeping dry, isn’t it?”

“It is, but we are not feeling the pinch yet. Ned tells me that the feed your way is knee-high and dry as tinder. It’ll be a good year for a fire. Dry thunder-storms now will be a worry.”

“We may be lucky,” Dash pointed out. For four seconds he was silent, then: “I shall be in at the homestead on Christmas Day. You will remember that this Christmas marks the end of the probation period.”

“Does it?” asked Stanton slowly.

“You know it does. I’ve kept my word made to you nearly two years ago. You cannot say I haven’t proved myself. Jacob didn’t do more in his seven years than I’ve done in my two.”

“I’m not arguing the point!” the old man suddenly roared, causing Mr Roberts to mar his ledger with a blot of ink. “My word’s my bond. I said you could speak again in two years’ time, if you were of the same mind, and proved yourself a man by roughing it during that time as I had to rough it when I was your age. Damn it, I’m not growling! Come in on Christmas Eve, and do your damnedest first thing Christmas morning.”

“All right!”Dash cut in, happy laughter in his voice. “I think you and I will get on all right.”

“Get on all right?” Stanton snorted. “Don’t I get on with anyone all right? Why, I haven’t sacked a man these last twelve years. But don’t you be too cocksure. It takes two to start a lifelong argument, remember.”

“It does. But-but-it will be damned hard if I come a cropper.”

“Well, well!” Stanton said more gently. He waited, but evidently Dash had broken the connection, for he did not speak again. For a long while the squatter sat and smoked, and looked vacantly down on the map. He did not see Mr Roberts close his ledger, go over to the typewriter-table and begin to type letters, nor did he hear the clacking of the machine until half an hour later, when, the book-keeper having finished, the silence brought him out of his reverie. Then he looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter to twelve.

“Put me through to Bumpus,” he requested abruptly.

Three minutes later he heard the publican’s voice.

“Has Ron reached town yet?” Jeff asked.

“He came in an hour and a half ago.”

“Is he leaning up against your bar?”

“No, he’s up at Hugo’s.”

“Is Bony drunk yet?”

“Not him. He went over to the Padre’s quarters some time ago, but the sergeant called him into his office.”

“Oh, what’s he done?”

“Nothinkthat I knows of.”

“Been there long?”

“Heain’t left yet, to my knowledge, whichain’t saying heain’t left.”

“Well, well, it’s none of our business, Bumpus. Don’t you let either of ’emgetdrunk. I want ’emback here to-day. Send out a dozen of port, will you?”

“Good-oh, Jeff!”

Once more the old man fell into a reverie. He wondered. He had wondered a lot about Bony ever since Dash had mentioned casually over the telephone that Ned remembered Bony as being a successful police-tracker. Why was Bony in New South Wales? A half-caste so seldom leaves his native State, and rarely the district where he was born. Bony’s long interview with Sergeant Morris seemed significant.

He was still thinking of Bony when the station lunch-gong sounded, and on Mr Roberts saying something about the heat it took a mental effort to banish Bony and make a suitable reply.

Together the two men walked to the bath-room, the young man erect and soldierly in movement, the squatter lithe yet strangely sluggish, as though he felt momentarily the onset of old age. In the dining-room they found Marion, cool and lovely, awaiting them. Mrs Poulton was pouring out tea at a separate table, and when she had set the cups before them she, too, became seated.

“I shall be glad when Christmas is over,” she exclaimed, fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I always think it is so much hotter before Christmas than after.”

“It is hotter after Christmas, but by January our blood has thinned and we feel the heat less.”