you daft bloody dog,” Rowland said gruffly as he stroked the animal’s long muzzle.
They were in the manager’s cottage reserved for Harry Simpson.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Harry,” Rowland said.
The Aboriginal stockman washed his hands in an enamel basin. “Wil needed an extra man to oversee the stock while Bob Bowman deals with the harvest. Jim’s got the stock in the high country well in hand—good man, that Jim—so I came down.”
Clyde smiled. His brother, Jim, worked under Simpson on the Sinclair holdings in the high country. “It’s a lucky thing you did, Harry. Old Len wasn’t looking too chipper.”
Harry Simpson frowned. “What happened, Rowly? Who shot your ugly dog?”
Rowland left his hand on Lenin. “I don’t know.” He told them about the car.
“So they were shooting at you?”
“Seems that way.”
“Why?” Simpson asked.
“That rather depends on who it was, I suppose. There might be a few reasons.”
Harry Simpson chuckled, his face creasing around blue eyes that were all the brighter for the darkness of the brow under which they were set. He reached over and ruffled Rowland’s hair. “I’ve missed you, Gagamin.”
Rowland smiled. “Thank you for fixing my dog, Harry.”
“Looks like it’s not the first time you broke him, Rowly,” Simpson regarded the battle-scarred Lenin dubiously. “I had a dog with only one ear once. Lost the other in a fight with a cat.” The stockman’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled loudly. “He died eventually… I think it was the embarrassment.” Simpson’s eyes moved to the swastika-shaped scar of cigarette burns on Rowland’s chest. “That’s new, Gagamin. You had an interesting time in Germany then?”
“You could say that. I may have to borrow a shirt before we return to the house.”
Rowland told him of the trouble they’d found in Munich, of what had happened to him. Simpson let him talk, cursing occasionally.
“And these fellas who did you over,” he asked eventually, “what happened to them?”
“Well, one of them is Mr. Hitler’s deputy.” Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know Harry. I’m hoping our escape was at least awkward for them, but who knows?”
Simpson studied him, assessing more than the physical scars. “Are you painting?” he asked.
Rowland nodded.
“Good,” Simpson replied as if nothing more needed to be said.
Clyde watched the exchange, intrigued. Despite the fact that he’d been by Rowland’s side in Germany and England, that he’d seen Rowland struggle with nightmares and sleeplessness, it had takenhim weeks to realise that Rowland needed to paint to deal with the violence and fear of his encounter with Nazis. And yet Harry Simpson knew this instinctively.
“Does Wil know you’re here, Harry?” Rowland stroked Lenin’s muzzle, smiling as the dog’s eyes rolled back with pleasure.
“Yes. I called the house when I got in,” Simpson said. The manager’s offices and cottages on Oaklea were equipped with telephones. He frowned. “Wil said that mongrel Hayden’s turned up.”
“They found Father’s gun.”
“How?” Simpson asked, clearly surprised.
“It was in the dam. And now they…”
“Well, don’t you worry about it, Rowly,” Simpson said after a moment. “Wil will deal with it.” The stockman rubbed his jowl. “Who knew you were out there tonight, that you’d be walking back?”
“Clyde and I went out to work on the plane this afternoon. I expect Miss Bennett mentioned that she’d left me out there… among other things.”
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten about Miss Bennett,” Clyde said. “What happened? How did it go?”
Rowland told them.
Clyde grimaced. “Well at least it’s done, Rowly. You can concentrate on finding someone far less suitable now.”
Rowland sighed. “I’m sure Wil will have plenty to say on the matter.”
“He told me to go get you when I pulled in,” Clyde replied, smiling. “If he’d been too upset he’d
They were in the manager’s cottage reserved for Harry Simpson.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Harry,” Rowland said.
The Aboriginal stockman washed his hands in an enamel basin. “Wil needed an extra man to oversee the stock while Bob Bowman deals with the harvest. Jim’s got the stock in the high country well in hand—good man, that Jim—so I came down.”
Clyde smiled. His brother, Jim, worked under Simpson on the Sinclair holdings in the high country. “It’s a lucky thing you did, Harry. Old Len wasn’t looking too chipper.”
Harry Simpson frowned. “What happened, Rowly? Who shot your ugly dog?”
Rowland left his hand on Lenin. “I don’t know.” He told them about the car.
“So they were shooting at you?”
“Seems that way.”
“Why?” Simpson asked.
“That rather depends on who it was, I suppose. There might be a few reasons.”
Harry Simpson chuckled, his face creasing around blue eyes that were all the brighter for the darkness of the brow under which they were set. He reached over and ruffled Rowland’s hair. “I’ve missed you, Gagamin.”
Rowland smiled. “Thank you for fixing my dog, Harry.”
“Looks like it’s not the first time you broke him, Rowly,” Simpson regarded the battle-scarred Lenin dubiously. “I had a dog with only one ear once. Lost the other in a fight with a cat.” The stockman’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled loudly. “He died eventually… I think it was the embarrassment.” Simpson’s eyes moved to the swastika-shaped scar of cigarette burns on Rowland’s chest. “That’s new, Gagamin. You had an interesting time in Germany then?”
“You could say that. I may have to borrow a shirt before we return to the house.”
Rowland told him of the trouble they’d found in Munich, of what had happened to him. Simpson let him talk, cursing occasionally.
“And these fellas who did you over,” he asked eventually, “what happened to them?”
“Well, one of them is Mr. Hitler’s deputy.” Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know Harry. I’m hoping our escape was at least awkward for them, but who knows?”
Simpson studied him, assessing more than the physical scars. “Are you painting?” he asked.
Rowland nodded.
“Good,” Simpson replied as if nothing more needed to be said.
Clyde watched the exchange, intrigued. Despite the fact that he’d been by Rowland’s side in Germany and England, that he’d seen Rowland struggle with nightmares and sleeplessness, it had takenhim weeks to realise that Rowland needed to paint to deal with the violence and fear of his encounter with Nazis. And yet Harry Simpson knew this instinctively.
“Does Wil know you’re here, Harry?” Rowland stroked Lenin’s muzzle, smiling as the dog’s eyes rolled back with pleasure.
“Yes. I called the house when I got in,” Simpson said. The manager’s offices and cottages on Oaklea were equipped with telephones. He frowned. “Wil said that mongrel Hayden’s turned up.”
“They found Father’s gun.”
“How?” Simpson asked, clearly surprised.
“It was in the dam. And now they…”
“Well, don’t you worry about it, Rowly,” Simpson said after a moment. “Wil will deal with it.” The stockman rubbed his jowl. “Who knew you were out there tonight, that you’d be walking back?”
“Clyde and I went out to work on the plane this afternoon. I expect Miss Bennett mentioned that she’d left me out there… among other things.”
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten about Miss Bennett,” Clyde said. “What happened? How did it go?”
Rowland told them.
Clyde grimaced. “Well at least it’s done, Rowly. You can concentrate on finding someone far less suitable now.”
Rowland sighed. “I’m sure Wil will have plenty to say on the matter.”
“He told me to go get you when I pulled in,” Clyde replied, smiling. “If he’d been too upset he’d
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