“You should have been smothered at birth.”
“Now, now, no offence meant,” placated the driver. “All widders are natural mothers to me. You’re a widder, aren’t you? Hope so, anyhow.”
“Eat your dinner. And don’t waste your time. I told you last time you were out that you haven’t a chance.”
“So you did. Never mind. Next time I’m out here you won’t. Or it might be the time after.”
Mrs Fowler sat on the end of the form nearest the door to the kitchen and regarded Bony with slow appraisement. He was supposed to be a horse-breaker and to be casual in manner and careless in speech, but he was too wise to adopt in the beginning idiosyncrasies which with the passage of time would be difficult to maintain. As, ultimately, he would be judged by his acts, he decided to be himself.
From glancing at the man of cubic proportions and slovenly habits he studied the woman. That she was the mother of Green Eyes was very hard to credit, for there was no hint of the matron about her figure. She smiled at Bony with her lips and not her eyes.
“D’you think Red would have a chance, Mr ... er ...?”
“Call me Bony,” he replied, beaming upon her, and noted the fleeting shock he gave. “I cannot believe that Mr Draffin has the merest ghost of a chance.”
“Chance of what?” asked Joan Fowler, who appeared at the kitchen door and came to sit opposite her mother. She sat slightly sideways, that she could the better see Bony who was sitting on the same form.
Bony hesitated to explain, and was glad when Red took the lead.
“The chance of marrying your mother, Joan. What do you reckon?”
The smoky blue-green eyes were insolent and the girl smiled. “Not a hope, you would never be able to fix her.”
The mother rose hastily, saying:
That’s enough of that.” Then she looked at Bony, her dark eyes casual, but incapable of masking her mind. “You’ll like being here, Bony,” she said. “How long are you staying?”
Although returning her gaze, he was conscious of the girl’s eyes.
“It depends,” he replied. “A month perhaps.”
“Where have you come from?” asked the girl.
“Down from Uradangie,” Red gave the answer. “Up at Uradangie women never arst questions.”
“You hurry with your dinner, Red, and get out,” Joan told him.
“I’m not leaving without Bony,” Red stated. “I like him too much to leave him alone with you two.”
“Bony can look after himself,” snapped Mrs Fowler.
“Not with you, he can’t. He ain’t old enough yet to hold his own with either of you.”
Mrs Fowler gathered the plates on a tray and departed to bring in the sweet course. Red winked at Bony, and tore a crust of bread with teeth able to smash walnuts. The girl watched him, a sneer on her face, and determined to “sit” him out. Her mother reappeared to ask:
“Do they bake better bread up at Uradangie, Bony?”
“Madam,” Bony gravely began, “neither at Uradangie nor elsewhere in Australia do they bake better bread than yours. And, please, permit me to compliment you on your cooking.”
The woman’s smile of appreciation was almost tender, and then Draffin intruded.
“Talks like Ray Gillen, don’t he?”
The smile was wiped from the woman’s face.
“He does not, Red Draffin,” she said, venomously.
“Something like,” purred the daughter. “We are going to like him, too.”
Bony almost bowed sitting down, and Draffin had to toss in the final spanner.
“Well, well, it won’t be long now ’fore the Lake dries out and we can collect poor old Ray and find out if he did die from no air. Wouldn’t be surprised if ...”
“Stop that kind of talk. Red,” commanded the elder woman.
“All right! All right! Don’t go crook at everything I say,” complained Red and lurched to his feet. “Come on, Bony. Let’s go ’fore there’s blood spattered all over the walls.”
“Do you play cards, Bony?” asked the girl. “Come over one evening. You’ll be welcome.”
“Thank you. Yes, I like a game of poker now and then.”
“I like poker, too,” the girl said, sleepy green eyes challenging alert blue eyes. But Bony smiled at both women and followed Red Draffin out into the sunset.
Red introduced him to the other men, and they were not greatly interested, superficially, in the stranger. The two blacks had withdrawn to their own camp, an old hut farther along the lake shore, and the whites were excusably engrossed in their mail and papers, which were irregularly delivered. He felt their reserve and decided it was too soon to worry about the precise classification of their attitude. The only man with whom he had conversation was called Earle Witlow, middle-aged, rotund, grey and cheerful, and the subject of mutual interest was horses. Another, elderly but alert and addressed as Swede, invited all and sundry to play cards and received no co-operation. He didn’t meet Martyr until the following morning when orders were issued for the day, and by then he had summed up this small community.
The two aborigines, of course, were a section to themselves. Earle Witlow and the Swede appeared to be joined in some kind of alliance, and the remainder were peculiarly individualistic. These individualists were Lester, MacLennon and Carney. They were the “old hands”, who, with George Barby, had been working here when Ray Gillen was drowned.
MacLennon and Carney were sent out for the youngsters and half an hour later their whips could be heard like exploding rifles, and soon a spear of dust speeding down the slope to the homestead became a river of horses, and ultimately the head of the spear was rammed into the open gateway of a yard. They emitted a cloud of red dust for a minute or two before the restless animals quietened.
Men sat on the top rail of the yard and watched the horses—the overseer and Bony, Lester and MacLennon and Carney. No one commented, and Bony quickly felt he was being appraised rather than the youngsters.
Fifteen taut-eyed young horses who had never known bridle and saddle, or the caress of a rope, stared at the men on the rail, and the men rolled cigarettes or filled a pipe and waited. They would have to be satisfied that he, Bony, could break in horses, for they must be made to accept him as such, and so enable him to fit into their own background.
Without being a horseman one could watch the change from the exhilaration of the open gallop, to the uneasy fear of the trap which held them, to the acceptance of the trap and men immobile on the top rail. And then when Bony slid to the ground within the yard, fifteen pairs of eyes pricked and fifteen pairs of nostrils whistled wind.
Martyr and his three stockmen moved not a fraction. Their faces were blank, but their eyes were quick and hooded, as though eager to detect errors. And although he hadn’t handled horses for years, Inspector Bonaparte fancied he could disappoint them.
Standing in the centre of the yard, he clicked his tongue, and the horses could not choose a corner where they might be safe. He sauntered after them as they rushed from corner to corner, deliberately taking time to judge their points and sum up their characters. For a little while he leaned against the yard rails and slowly rolled a cigarette, like a man unable to make up his mind which horse to back for a race. He put on a good act, but at the same time shrewdly chose the animals most amenable to begin with.
Then with slow deliberation of all movement, which is the greatest weapon in the breaker’s armoury, he opened a