Wimmera Gold Read online

  Away to the south-east were the humped, blue shapes of the Mt Perfect Ranges. If I were a sheep stealer or a cattle rustler, Perry thought, that's where I'd drive 'em to. Lincoln was a Texan apparently, and a fine flashy rider who owned a Colt .45—this knowledge courtesy of Michael Findlay—and did tricks with a knife. Cattle rustlers, runaway slaves, bushrangers and army deserters all naturally headed for the hills. As he rode back to Fanlock, Perry gazed thoughtfully several times at the mountains, wondering what they had meant to the Jardwa people.

  8

  Perry found the Fanshawe children well-behaved and eager to learn. Samuel and Elizabeth were the most adept, but William was a dogged trier who endured spills and failures stoically. The little girl followed Perry around, exhibiting unabashed adoration. She thanked him for saving the life of Vicky, her treasured pony, at least a dozen times. She appeared to have no realisation that Perry's first concern had been for her own safety. She was a fearless rider and would-be jumper. Samuel was more wary but constantly pressed for firearms instruction. Perry's response was always the same.

  'I would need your mother's permission.'

  He had still not laid eyes on Margaret Fanshawe.

  Out of a sense of decorum, he would not have questioned the children about Lincoln, but there was no need as they eagerly volunteered information. He learned that the American rode a black stallion by the name of Jesse.

  'That's funny, isn't it?' Samuel said. 'To call a stallion by a girl's name.'

  'It's a man's name in America,' Perry explained. He wrought the letters in the dirt of the mounting yard. 'See, it's spelled differently.'

  'Ugh, spelling,' William said.

  'D'you spell your name funny, John?' Elizabeth said. They were all operating on first-name terms by now.

  'No. Just like in the Bible.'

  'Ugh, the Bible,' Samuel groaned.

  'Wes talked about the Bible a lot,' Will said. 'He called it the good book. I think his father was a minister.'

  'Preacher,' Samuel said. 'In Snakehole, Texas.' He slid into a fair imitation of a Texan drawl. 'One day ah'm goin' back there mighty rich to shoot up that ol' town.'

  'Wait, John,' Elizabeth exclaimed, 'I want to show you something interesting.' She ran into the house.

  'Girls,' Will scoffed. 'What could she have that'd be interesting to men?'

  Perry made a mental note of the snippets of information as the girl came scampering towards them carrying something wrapped in a cloth. She crouched down and kept her hands around the object, looking up mischievously at Perry. 'You'll never guess.'

  'Come on, Lizzie,' Samuel snapped. 'We want to go to the dam for yabbies.'

  Elizabeth opened the piece of linen to reveal a carving of a longhorn bull. The work was roughly executed but powerful. The animal's head was lowered and its widespread horns jutted dangerously.

  'Wes did that,' Will said. 'With his knife.'

  Samuel touched the carving cautiously. 'Where'd you get it, Lizzie?'

  'Mother keeps it in her room. I saw it there the other day and I thought John would like to look at it.'

  'It's beautiful, Lizzie,' Perry said, keeping his voice casual. 'I guess your mother likes beautiful things the way ladies do. But I think you'd better hop to and put it back.'

  Elizabeth caressed the carving. 'Can you carve, John?'

  'Some,' Perry said. 'But not as well as that.'

  Samuel's eyes were lowered and his voice was strained and tight. 'I bet you can shoot better than Wes could, though.'

  'I keep telling you, son. It's for your mother to decide whether we do any shooting.'

  'Well, let's ask her now.'

  Perry glanced towards the house and saw a tall woman striding towards the yard. She was holding up her hand to shield her face although there was very little heat in the sun. She came through the gate and stopped a few feet away from Perry and her children. Perry inclined his head civilly.

  'Mrs Fanshawe. I'm John Perry. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.'

  'You haven't made my acquaintance, Mr Perry. Elizabeth, what are you doing with that?'

  'I just wanted to show it to John.'

  'Put it back at once.'

  Margaret Fanshawe began to turn but Samuel touched her arm. 'Mother, is it all right if John gives Will and I some shooting lessons?'

  'William and me,' Margaret Fanshawe said. 'And it certainly is not all right. When the time comes you will join a gun club, and shoot with gentlemen.'

  'I want to shoot now,' Samuel said. He took the carving from his sister and slowly rewrapped it before handing it back. 'I think you should say yes, mother.'

  Margaret Fanshawe looked into her second son's light eyes, startling under the shock of dark hair, and fine regular features and saw something of her own determination and strength of will there. She glanced at Perry whose expression was neutral. 'Very well,' she said.

  Will whooped and Elizabeth scurried towards the house, followed by her mother who moved slowly with slightly slumped shoulders.

  'John Perry, as I live and breathe. What the devil are you doing here?'

  Humphrey Price strolled across the churned up grass to where Perry was restaking a shrub. Perry kept a grip on his shovel to save the doctor from embarrassment of the possibility of a handshake. 'Odd jobs, doctor,' he said. 'I'm by way of being a tutor to the Fanshawe children.'

  'Oh, teaching them what?'

  Perry took off the bandana he was wearing around his neck and wiped his face. The day was unaccountably warm and he had been working at restoring the trampled garden for over an hour. 'This and that. Nothing amiss in the house, I trust?'

  Price put down his bag and removed a cigar case from his coat pocket. Perry refused the offer and Price lit up. 'No, rather the reverse. A happy event, somewhere around Christmas I should say.'

  'Indeed? I had heard that Mrs Fanshawe was not well.'

  'Stuff and nonsense. What she's done three times successfully she can do a fourth time. She's a strong woman. But I say, Perry, this isn't your line—gardening and tutoring and such. When are we going to see you on the grass again, eh? I'm sure we could get a match up if you're willing. Albie Watkins might fancy a return bout, when a few of his scrapes and bumps have healed.'

  Perry smiled. 'I think not, doctor. I'm rather enjoying the absence of aches and pains myself.'

  'Oh? Why are you favouring that left hip then?'

  'The tutoring game isn't all tea and scones. We had some trouble with a few horses.' Perry gestured at the broken bushes and trampled flowers. 'This is the result.'

  'Huh. I heard about your tea and scones session with Fanshawe. Tongues are wagging.'

  'Tongues will. The good citizens of Wilding need have no fear, I'll be moving on very soon.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it. This is a damn dull town and your exhibition and fight livened it up. Will you be coming to the picnic races?'

  'Would I be welcome?'

  'I'm on the committee. Chairman, in fact. You'll be welcome on one condition.'

  Perry drew himself up and looked down at the portly doctor who was tapping ash from his cigar. 'I'm not sure I like the sound of that.'

  Price smiled. 'That you ride in the gentleman's mile. Modest prize money I'm afraid, but I'm sure you could make a few useful wagers. Acceptances close with me today as a matter of fact. What d'you say?'

  Perry extended his somewhat dirty hand and the two men shook. 'I'd be delighted. Thank you, doctor.'

  Price cleared his throat. 'Have to be on my way. Sure the hip won't bother you?'

  'Is that a professional inquiry, or are you wondering whether to bet on me?'

  'Both, old chap. Both.'

  'The hip will be fine. Tell me, doctor, did you ever have anything to do with Wesley Lincoln, the American who worked here for a time?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'Oh, I heard he's a good rider and shooter and handy with a rope. I thought we might possibly team up for exhibitions and demonstrations—if I
should run into him.'

  Price shook his head. 'I'd advise you against that.'

  'Why?'

  'Lincoln is, how shall I put it, not of good character.'

  Perry raised his eyebrows. 'That so? The Fanshawes speak well of him. I rather feel as if I'm just something of a substitute here.'

  'That's as it may be. I can't tell you anything of a medical nature, of course, but I can say that he left the district owing me money for treatment received and never paid for.'

  'Perhaps an oversight. He seems to have left abruptly.'

  The doctor settled his hat on his head and picked up his bag. 'I see you have a forgiving nature, Perry. I hope such generous sentiments won't hold you back in the mile.'

  The doctor moved towards his dog cart. Perry heaped soil around the newly driven stake and snapped off a length of twine to tie down the shrub. As he did so Henry Fanshawe emerged from the house and looked surprised to see the doctor still on the premises. He responded to Price's wave as he whipped up the horse and then walked over to examine Perry's handiwork.

  'You really don't have to do this sort of thing, you know.'

  Perry laughed. 'My father was called a planter but I never saw him plant a single seed. I enjoy this kind of work and I have to occupy myself while the children are at their lessons.'

  'Ah, as to that … '

  Perry steeled himself for the slight he knew was coming. He had been temporarily employed too many times not to recognise the signs. They were usually the same—an objection expressed by the lady of the house, clumsily executed by the master. Had he been better disposed towards Fanshawe he would have said something to save him the discomfort, but he simply leant on his shovel and let the squatter suffer.

  'This arrangement is, ah … perhaps not entirely satisfactory.'

  Perry shook his head. 'I can't see why. In return for my keep, nothing more, I am imparting valuable instruction to your children. And, as you see, I am making myself useful in other ways.'

  'Damn it, Perry! That's not the problem as you very well know. It's … '

  'Problem ? I can hardly conceive of one. Doctor Price has just invited me to ride in the gentleman's mile at the picnic meeting.'

  'Good God! I mean, that's splendid. I've no doubt you can win it.'

  At this point Perry took pity on Fanshawe, a man deceived in many more ways than one. Cuckolded, perhaps not the father of his wife's next child, the victim of a guilty conscience and shattered hopes. 'Don't worry, Mr Fanshawe,' he said. 'I won't be around much longer.'

  'What about … our business?'

  'You're sure you wish to proceed?'

  'Of course.'

  'I hope I may have something to report to you soon.'

  The picnic races were the major social and sporting celebration on Wilding's social calendar. Held customarily the week after Easter, the weather could be variable and it was not unknown for the race meeting to be washed out and for the eating, drinking and socialising to be the whole of the event. In 1872, however, the April skies over the Wimmera were clear and the sun shone and the people of the district turned out in their finery in numbers.

  The meeting, held on the flats to the south of the town, was efficiently organised and attracted entries from owners as far away as Geelong and Warrnambool. Yearlings and untried horses were often given their first starts at Wilding along with apprentice jockeys, amateur riders wishing to try their luck and old hands whose days on the city tracks were behind them. The tents and marquees set up under the gum trees and sheoaks made a brave showing and when Perry appeared on Jamaica, his black stallion, a photographer persuaded him to pose for a portrait. The spirited horse was kept tightly in control by Perry who held it turned slightly away from the magnesium flash. The taking of the photograph attracted considerable attention and a number of women failed to conceal their admiration for the tall, dark man in his immaculate riding clothes and red-ribboned hat. A blonde woman in a yellow silk dress raised her furled parasol to him. Perry's quick touch of the handle of his whip to the brim of his hat could have been a salute in return.

  Perry penned his horse and watched the race immediately before the mile, a lacklustre affair won in indifferent style by a mare on which very little money had been wagered. He presented himself at the organiser's booth where Humphrey Price had made sure to be in attendance. The doctor handed him his entry card and watched Perry append his neat signature. As Perry deposited the card he noticed that Price was already under the influence. Several of the other riders were accepting drinks from flasks and it was evident that the race was, in some measure, a frivolous affair despite the considerable wagers placed on the outcome. Perry refused a drink and the doctor nodded approvingly.

  'Quite right. Damn silly to ride with drink taken. Liable to break a neck. Happened here a few years back. Turned the meeting into a bloody funeral.'

  Out of the corner of his eye Perry saw the yellow-gowned woman, one of the very few unescorted females, in conversation with a man who was making an entry in a notebook. Judging that Price was too far gone in liquor to be over-sensitive, he pointed his whip and asked, 'Who is that woman?'

  The doctor belched tipsily and chortled at the same time. 'That's Mrs Pauline Drewe. She runs an establishment that Lincoln was fond of visiting. A good, clean house in case you're interested. Look, the flag's up! You'd best get to the starting line, Perry, and don't forget I've got guineas on you. Backed yourself in, I'll warrant.'

  'I never bet when I can't tally the odds, doctor. There could be something sired by Archer in the field for all I know.'

  Price tapped his watch. 'Time to get moving. Bill Williamson gave Pauline good odds on you, I'll be bound. Sure you wouldn't like to get a bit down?'

  'I'll settle for the prize money, doctor, and an introduction to Mrs Drewe.'

  'Right you are,' Price said airily, 'She's got a Chink or two might suit you. Well, good luck, Perry. Good luck.'

  Perry walked briskly to the holding yard, mounted Jamaica and trotted to the assembly point for the gentleman's mile. Humphrey Price's authority may have been sufficient to win him entry to the race, but not civility from the other riders. He was studiously ignored as the field of eight assembled in the hollow. The horseflesh varied from lean, trim-lined mares to strong stallions like Jamaica with pacy, hard-looking animals in between. The gentlemen were a mixed bag—youngish for the most part, all competent riders, though a couple appeared to be over-elated.

  The course was marked out by nothing more than crudely constructed brush hurdles set at erratically spaced intervals, but the previous races had pounded out a distinct track through the clayey soil, sand and grass. The race was over two circuits of the course and, at a glance, Perry saw that the 'mile' was a fiction. The distance was more like a mile and a quarter and he adjusted his tactics accordingly.

  The riders drew their mounts up in a rough line across the track and the starter fired a pistol. The report was clear and sharp in the still air; several of the horses baulked, one threw its rider and another backed away from the starting point despite every effort from the man in the saddle to urge it forward. Jamaica responded to the authority of Perry's hands and moved off smartly along with three others which had been trained to respond to the gun. Perry moved to a middling point on the track and settled down behind a sprinting colt, holding a position out away from where its flying hooves were filling the air with grass and dirt.

  As the field settled down, Perry became aware that it was a four-hourse race—between the colt, Jamaica, a lively dappled mare and one of the undersized bush-bred ponies that seemed to be able to hold a line and form a unit with its calm, competent rider. Perry had ridden in quarter-horse races in Arizona and, in his time with the gypsies, taken part in trials and match-ups with English bloodstock on the heaths. He was too heavy for flat racing and, although a capable rider over the jumps, he had never felt inclined to risk life and limb at hurdle racing other than to take part in an occasional gallop for a modest wager.
This limited experience, nevertheless, put him ahead of all the other riders still in contention save one—the youth astride the pony. Out of the corner of his eye Perry saw a born horseman and knew that the race would be fought out to the last inch.

  The three leaders held their places throughout the first circuit, each rider content to let his mount run with a minimum of check. Perry was conscious that Jamaica was carrying a little excess condition after a soft spell at Fanlock. The stallion was eager for the contest, but, towards the next major turn, he reined him in and allowed the pony to slip through into second place to save Jamaica's wind and to gain a little protection from the breeze that was blowing directly onto the horses as they rounded this section of the track. His judgment was vindicated as they galloped into the next straight stretch. The track ran slightly uphill and Jamaica, benefiting from the brief respite a few seconds before, tackled it gamely.

  The dappled mare was a spent force and the colt began to wilt on the uphill stretch and dropped back, but the pony had slightly increased its lead. The lightly built young rider was leaning forward in the stirrups, urging his mount on with hands and heels. With a furlong and a half to go Perry began to doubt that his horse, carrying a greater weight, could close the gap. He had almost reconciled himself to finishing second when he noticed a slight break in the raw-boned pony's stride. It was slight but significant to an experienced rider. The horse wanted to lift its head, was losing wind and the rider was struggling to keep it to the task. The pace was still hot but Jamaica gained a half length.

  Perry pulled his whip and gave Jamaica a touch with it. The stallion put on a spurt and drew level with the pony in a few long, rhythmic strides. Perry was aware of a cheering crowd gathered at a point up ahead but his mind and muscles were still totally focused on the ride. He could hear the pony's hooves hitting the earth and the rider's harsh, panting breath. His eyes were stinging and his jaw was locked tight with the intensity of the effort. He used the whip again more vigorously and Jamaica surged as if the weight on his back had been lifted. The stallion outstrode the pony and passed the winning post a half length ahead.