A Cross of Stars

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Eager for adventure.... Destined for misery... International bestseller Patricia Shaw tells a story of the success and sufferings of sheep station owner Austin Broderick in A Cross of Stars. The perfect read for fans of Tricia McGill and Fleur McDonald. 'As dramatic and colourful as the land itself' - Gold Coast Bulletin Decades of hard work have made Austin Broderick a rich man. His sheep station, Springfield, is one of the largest in Australia and the good relations between the native Aborigines and the Brodericks have made it one of the most peaceful. Now Austin must face the prospect of losing a large proportion of his land at the hands of Parliament. His only hope is his son Harry and the young man's influence as a Brisbane politician. But the family's troubles have only just begun... The pious Reverend Billings arrives at the station and, under the guise of friendship, enters the Aborigines' camp. He leaves with three six-year-old boys - eager for adventure, but destined for misery... What readers are saying about A Cross of Stars : 'Another wonderful book of early Australia ' ' Hard to put down ' '[Patricia Shaw] is a fantastic storyteller '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 548

Sample

‘They came from beyond that ridge up there,’ he said, pointing with his cane. ‘A big mob of blacks, about fifty of them, all painted up to glory and brandishing long, nasty-looking spears. Gave us a jolt, I can tell you.

‘We were down here, Kelly and me, fencing off a paddock for our horses. Of course there was nothing here in those days, this was our first sheep run, and we were living in a log hut down by the river where the jetty is now. We only had five hundred sheep and an old shepherd called Claude …’

‘But how did you come to be in such a dangerous situation in the first place?’ the woman asked him.

‘Land, my dear. Land. It was here for the taking. We drove the sheep from Brisbane and kept going west for a couple of hundred miles until we were well past the boundaries already mapped. From then on, once we found this river and decided where to settle, we marked off a few square miles to start with and drew our own maps. But it didn’t seem dangerous at first. The blacks were more curious than difficult, they came by our camp just to stand and stare, as if we’d fallen off the moon, and we’d give them some tucker and they’d wander off. Then they became a bit of a nuisance, too friendly, thinking they had the run of the place. On the one hand they’d bring us wild honey and nuts and fish, but at the same time they’d walk off with our belongings, things we certainly could not spare.’

‘Thieves,’ the Reverend Billings sneered. ‘Famous for it.’

Austin Broderick reacted sharply: ‘I wouldn’t say that! It’s in their culture to share the necessities of life.’ Then he smiled. ‘Except when it comes to their tribal land. No sense of humour about that at all. Obviously we broke every rule in their book, but there was nothing much we could do about it. We took one look at this endless pastureland going to waste, and set about founding a sheep station. In our ignorance we thought they’d just move over, but it wasn’t to be. When they decided we’d outstayed our welcome they started by killing our sheep, not for food, just wanton slaughter, and our threats of punishments were met with blank stares. Even showing them what guns could do had no effect; we still kept finding dead sheep.’

He peered into the distance. ‘They had a big camp a couple of miles from our hut, at the bend of the river, and suddenly, one day, the men were all gone.’

‘They’d gone walkabout?’ the Reverend asked.

‘Well … that’s what Claude said. He was an old bushie, he knew a fair bit about their ways, but in retrospect it was more ominous. A few days later they were back, lined up on that ridge in full war-paint with high, feathered head-dresses which made them all look, from our angle, about ten foot tall, and not a sound out of them.

‘Though that day was forty years ago, I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a day like this, hot, blazing hot, not a breath of wind, and we were hard at work. Nothing unusual, the tingling bush all about, the smell of sweat and dust, the constant piping of birds, the zing of cicadas, and then silence. Dead silence, a hush, a sort of waiting in the air.

‘At first I thought a bird of prey was hovering, an eagle or a hawk perhaps, but Kelly touched my arm and jerked his head towards the ridge.’ Austin rubbed his neck. ‘I can still feel how the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. We knew we couldn’t run for it, we’d never make it to the hut or the horses, so we quietly downed tools and began to walk slowly towards the hut, expecting a rain of spears, but nothing happened, and when we looked back they were gone. Then we ran!’

‘All bluff, was it?’ The Reverend gave a thin smile. ‘Just blowing off steam?’

Austin Broderick wondered why he was bothering with these people, these blasted missionaries. He’d only agreed to take them for a walk at the insistence of his wife. They’d arrived at Springfield uninvited, but at these big stations hospitality was never stinted. No one, whatever his social standing, was turned away, so Billings and his wife were entitled to the courtesy of his household.

‘Sort of,’ he replied, losing interest in the telling, though the dramatic tableau he’d witnessed was far from bluff. It had been a warning for them to leave. They’d been given the grace of time.

‘Ah, yes,’ Billings explained to his wife, ‘a cowardly race, if they can be called a race at all. No match for white men.’

‘No match for guns,’ his host snapped. ‘They gave us time to leave but we didn’t take it. Instead we holed up in the hut with Claude and loaded our guns. They attacked that night. Spears against guns. Before they retreated we had shot six of their men, some of whom we’d befriended, which was unfortunate. The fight began a hit-and-run war that lasted for years, until they were forced to buckle under. But not before they exacted a terrible payback. We brought in more men, more sheep, and kept going while they hung on, harassing us where they could. That was the situation for a couple of years.

‘Then, one awful day, I found my mate Kelly – his real name was Kelvin Halligan – out in the bush, pinned to a tree by five spears with honey smeared all over him to attract bull ants. God rest his soul. After that, troopers came and it was all over.’

‘How frightful!’ said Mrs Billings. ‘Savages! Just like the Maoris back home.’

‘And yet you still have blacks on your property?’ Billings said.

Austin looked at him, surprised. ‘The war’s over.’

‘But they’re still savages, and they live like animals. I’ve seen their camp.’

‘They’re the remnants of the tribe. The least we can do is let them live in peace now, in their old ways.’

‘Your friend Kelly mightn’t see it that way.’

‘Kelly was of another time,’ Austin said impatiently. ‘But he was a true Christian, I doubt he would begrudge them now. Come along and I’ll show you the tennis court.’ He stamped away, leading them over the footbridge that spanned a shallow creek, to an expanse of lawn bordering the fine Springfield homestead.

Reminded of Kelly now, he wondered what his late partner would think of the property in its present state. Originally they’d claimed ten square miles of prime land along the river, then they began exploring further afield, doubling their claim by blazing trees and bringing in a private surveyor to map the area, making sure there could be no argument with the neighbours who were sure to follow. At the time of Kelly’s death they were preparing to take up more land on the other side of the river, keeping their surveyor busy.

‘Bloody shame,’ he muttered to himself. Springfield sheep station had been Kelly’s dream, not his. Even the name had been Kelly’s suggestion. Now Springfield was famous, head station of a property covering more than 300,000 acres, which was divided into three sections for ease of management.

The enterprise had been a success beyond the wildest dreams of either man, taken up with minimal expense, by leasehold, from a government eager to see the land opened up, and carrying an average of 60,000 sheep in each section. But it was the homestead that would have Kelly gazing in awe now. The two men had graduated from the log hut to a long timber shack that they shared with their stockmen, and outbuildings began to spring up around that central point to cater for what was fast becoming a self-contained enclave of sheds, stables, a blacksmith forge …

It was, Austin recalled, at about that stage that Kelly had been killed. Springfield was still primitive, they were just feeling their way, more concerned with their precious sheep than with homesteading. But when their first wool cheque came in, it was such a shock, both Austin and Kelly, celebrating, were drunk for two days. The price of wool had skyrocketed since they’d last heard, and they were in the money! They knew full well that they’d double or maybe treble their income the following year, with natural increase, as they continued to stock the fine pastures. They were right, of course, but Kelly didn’t live to see the next wool cheque.

Later Austin built himself a cottage more fitting to his status as boss, but fifteen years on, when he’d finally come to realize, not without a sense of awe, that he was a millionaire, he announced his intention to construct a suitable homestead.

He was married by this time, with three young sons, and Charlotte, his wife, was nervous when she saw the plans he had drawn up. Plans for a beautiful sandstone house, high on a hill, with reception rooms, family rooms, guest quarters and his very own day wing, facing not the river, but back across the valley that he loved so much.

‘Can we afford this?’ she asked him unhappily.

‘This and more,’ he’d laughed.

‘But it’s so big, Austin …’

‘What does that matter? People in Brisbane live in houses this size.’

‘Mansions, you mean. We don’t need a mansion right out here. It’s forty miles to our nearest neighbours. What will they think?’

He grinned. ‘Jock Walker will probably follow suit, if I know him.’

Eventually Charlotte had come to like the house, turning into a martinet in her quest to keep everything in impeccable order. Austin was now glad he’d built his own wing – his refuge, his own office and recreation room, where he could throw off his boots and chuck things down wherever he pleased. Kelly would have loved this house though – proof that he’d known what he was about right from the start.

The tennis court was enclosed by a high brush fence.

‘Sounds as if there’s a game on,’ Austin said to his guests as he made for the gate. ‘It’s Victor and Louisa playing singles. Do you want to stay and watch?’

Their horrified frowns reminded him that the missionaries disapproved of the game, so he turned back with a smile. ‘My daughter-in-law’s quite good. She can really race round the court, except when she skids too fast on the grass and upends herself. You’re sure you don’t want to watch?’

‘No, no. No!’ They reacted in unison, veering away.

‘Oh well,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s time for tea anyway. We’ll go back to the house.’

Having delivered the Billingses to the garden room where the table was already set for afternoon tea, he edged away, making for his den, but his wife intercepted him.

‘What are you up to? You’re skulking.’

‘No, I’m not. I’ve got things to do. Would you ask Minnie to bring tea and cake to my office?’

‘Where are the Billings?’

‘I’ve done my duty for today. They’re lining up for tea. They won’t miss me as long as there’s food on the table. They eat like horses.’

‘Ah, don’t be unkind.’

‘Who’s unkind? You’re the one who said they were boring.’ He glanced out of a tall window at the end of the long passage. ‘Here come the tennis champions, they’ll help out. Where’s young Teddy?’

Charlotte smiled. Their grandson was the apple of Austin’s eye. He doted on Teddy more than he ever had done on his own sons, spoiling the child and monopolizing his company to the irritation of his mother, who complained that he undermined parental discipline. But then Louisa could always find something to complain about.

‘Teddy’s with Nioka, so leave him be. He’s playing with her little boy, Jagga, and Bobbo.’

‘Who’s Bobbo?’

‘Oh, Austin, you know perfectly well. He’s Minnie’s boy.’

He grunted. ‘Teddy’ll grow up knowing more Abo than English.’

‘Don’t start that again. Nioka’s a good nursemaid and there aren’t any other kids his age to play with. If his mother doesn’t mind, why should you?’

‘His mother? She only wants him around to dress him up like a girl. She won’t even let him have a pony!’

‘She thinks six is too young, so leave it be. Now, go on down to your office. The mailman came, a week early instead of a week late, for a change. Victor had words with him – he thinks we should have a weekly delivery, not fortnightly. He put your mail on your desk.’

He was gone, hurrying away, still that powerfully built man Charlotte had fallen in love with so long ago. In its kindness, the light from the window silhouetted his form, darkening the shaggy white hair, disallowing the slight stoop and failing to measure the determined step that now replaced his cool, manly stride. She still loved him, but it had been hard to bear, all those aching years, because, as his wife, she’d had to take second place to all the importances of his life. And there was no end to them. An ambitious man, he was never short of plans and projects, all of which revolved around the betterment of Springfield. His house had to be the best; his sheep, quality merinos; his wool first grade, and so it went on until his sons were old enough to contribute to the Broderick fortunes, at their father’s bidding.

Charlotte walked through to the kitchen, gave Minnie, the Aborigine maid, Austin’s request, and wandered out to the porch, depressed. Austin was good to her, kind, and she supposed he loved her, but there’d never been any real romance in their life together, more of a convenience. She sighed, telling herself she was silly to be fretting over such schoolgirl stuff, but he did take her for granted, always had.

Your own fault, she said to herself. You knew in your heart that he married you out of loyalty to Kelly, but you didn’t care then. You were so smitten by him, so overwhelmed, you rushed in …

Her own father had been so much in love with her mother that he had made their lives a joy, romancing his wife to the very end. Charlotte supposed she had expected the same sort of attention from Austin, but it was not to be. When her mother, Mrs Halligan, died, her husband wasn’t long following her, so people said that he’d died of a broken heart. Charlotte wouldn’t have that; deliberately she fought against such an explanation, insisting that he had died, as stated on the death certificate, of heart failure, because the alternative was too sad, and too close to home. She doubted that Austin would pine away to a shadow if his wife shuffled off this mortal coil. Despite her mood, a small smile crept over her face.

‘He’d be too busy,’ she murmured, ‘arranging the world’s finest funeral; as befitting the lady of Springfield.’

If I’m still here, she added silently, because there were times when she contemplated leaving the property and moving to Brisbane, to find a life of her own while there was still time. Another pipe dream, to relinquish her role of housekeeper and hostess in this complicated establishment in favour of a small house and the pleasantries of a city.

She had lived in Brisbane before, and she had liked the town, but she and her brother, Kelly, had been much poorer then. When their father died, Kelly had insisted she leave Sydney and come to Queensland with him.

‘A land of opportunity,’ he’d said.

It hadn’t seemed so at first. They rented a house in South Brisbane and were struggling to survive, with Kelly taking odd jobs, refusing to touch the few hundred pounds left to them by Paddy Halligan.

‘It’s our nest egg,’ he argued. ‘Our ticket to the good life when I find the right investment.’

Night after night he studied maps of the settled areas beyond Brisbane, coming up with a scheme that sounded like sheer madness to his sister, until he brought home another dreamer called Austin Broderick. He was so handsome, tall and blond, with blue eyes that lit up with excitement as he listened to Kelly’s proposal to take up land out west, that Charlotte surprised her brother by suddenly agreeing with him.

Then they were gone. She went to the stables to see them off with their packhorses, too embarrassed to mention, in front of Austin, that Kelly had left her very little money. Certainly not enough to live on. Right to the last minute she had hoped he would slip her a few more pounds, but he kissed her on the cheek, patted her head, leapt on to his horse and rode off with his new partner.

On the way home, Charlotte called in at a boot factory and managed to secure a poorly paid, miserable job as a machinist, but even that was only part-time work. Kelly had promised to write but Charlotte hadn’t set much store by that because he’d never been much of a letter-writer, even to his parents, and if they really did travel beyond civilization then what hope of mail from there?

When he did come home, six months later, Kelly raced in like the conquering hero! They’d done it! They’d taken up their own land as far as the eye could see, wonderful pastoral land, and they were on their way to making their fortunes.

‘We’ll be rich, Lottie! Rich! I’m sorry you had to get a job but it won’t be for much longer, and you’ll never have to work again. You can come to live at Springfield.’

‘Why can’t I come now?’ she’d asked, even then with her heart lost to Austin, afraid he’d meet someone else.

‘Not possible. We’re living rough, in a hut. We’ve only come to town to buy more sheep.’

‘Where will you get the money?’

‘We’ve still got some cash between us, and we’re taking out a loan from the bank. Austin arranged that.’

Selfishly, all he could spare for his sister was ten shillings, so she was cross with him when he left the second time, not realizing that that was the last time she’d ever see her brother.

Two letters reached her, full of promise. Soon he’d be in a position to send for her. Soon. Charlotte found another job, less arduous, as a machinist in a shirt factory, but when that closed down at the end of the year, she was forced to write to Kelly for money, reminding him firmly that she’d seen precious little of their nest egg. But eventually it was Austin who came, looking grave, clutching his hat, stammering the dreadful news, tears clouding his eyes as he tried to console her.

Charlotte was devastated, more so recalling that her last letter to Kelly had been critical. She blamed herself for not having more faith in him, because, as Austin now reported, the sheep station was a reality, a steadily growing concern.

He took over, organizing a memorial service for Kelly, rounding up her few friends and a surprising number of mourners not known to Charlotte, to fill the small suburban church. She had expected a pitiful little service but it was all so beautiful, she wept even more. There were lovely flowers, and wreaths on the altar steps, and a tenor with the most glorious voice sang the hymns that reminded her not so much of Kelly but of their dad. The priest spoke sincerely of the young man, cut down in the prime of his life, whom he had not had the pleasure of meeting, and so forth, but it was Austin who made the most impact.

Stole the show, she recollected now, in more cynical mode. Not that she’d realized it at the time; she was too overwhelmed by his fine oration. Standing beside the pulpit, he told of the bravery and fortitude of his friend and partner, of Kelly’s magnificent pioneering spirit, a credit to his family and a shining example to the young men of this country. There were sobs to be heard from the pews behind her, because Austin truly meant every word he said. Until then, Charlotte, in her own misery, hadn’t understood that Austin was suffering too. Kelly had been his best friend, the only person he knew who was willing to take up the challenge of venturing into the unknown outback with him, facing not only the backbreaking work but the obvious dangers.

Humiliation was to follow days later, when Austin told her, in his matter-of-fact way, that he had read her letter to Kelly, asking for money.

‘I can’t just leave you here,’ he said, brushing aside her feeble claims that she’d manage. ‘Kelly would never forgive me. You do have a stake in Springfield, after all. You’ll have to come back with me.’

‘Wouldn’t it be dangerous?’ she fluttered, half hoping she hadn’t provided him with an excuse to withdraw the offer. But given the manner of Kelly’s death – speared by a black was all that she’d been told at that stage – it seemed an obvious response.

‘No. I’ll look after you. It’s safe enough within the precincts of the head station. But there are no other white women out there. Will that bother you?’

‘I suppose not, but where shall I live?’

‘I’ll build a cottage. I can’t go on living in the staff quarters anyway. You can live there with me.’

Charlotte blushed. ‘I don’t know about that, Austin.’

He stood and walked to the door of her tiny sitting room, staring out with undisguised contempt at the dismal street and its row of workmen’s cottages. ‘Well, you can’t stay in this place. It won’t do at all. Kelly never meant for you to be stuck here, he was looking forward to showing you Springfield.’

They seemed to be at an impasse, but Austin, as usual, had the solution. ‘Look, Charlotte. We get along well, you and I. And as I said, you do have a stake in Springfield. If you feel it would not be in order for you to live with me, I quite understand – one should respect the conventions. So why don’t we get married?’

What had he said? Married? Perhaps she had misheard him, or worse, allowed her daydreamings of this man to conjure up that explosive word. Embarrassment sent her rushing out to the kitchen where she opened and shut cupboards in a panic, for how could she respond when the question might not have been asked? When it was quite possibly only a pathetic slip of her imaginings.

But he followed her. ‘What do you say then?’

‘To what?’ she whispered, unable to face him.

‘To our marrying? That is, if you find me suitable. I know I’m only a bushie, but the Brodericks are good stock …’ He laughed. ‘Barring a few rascals earlier on. But I won’t let you down, Charlotte, you have my promise on that.’

Goosebumps added to her discomfort, tingling with excitement while an inner voice warned her this was not real. He was just feeling sorry for her. By tomorrow he’d forget all about it. This was only another of his impulsive gestures.

To save face, Charlotte decided to turn him down, but at the last second, the words would not come.

Instead she said, ‘Isn’t this rather sudden?’

‘Not at all.’ His confidence overwhelmed her. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for days. You’re a fine woman, Charlotte. I’d be honoured if you could see your way clear to becoming Mrs Broderick.’

Even though her heart was pounding with joy, Charlotte managed a little resistance. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ By which she meant he should have time to reconsider. Days later, when she did accept his proposal, Austin hugged her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and said, ‘Good girl. You’ll like Springfield, I know you will.’

Well, she thought now, as she prepared to join the others for afternoon tea, he was right on that. Springfield was a wildly exciting place in those days, and she had adored her husband. What more could a girl want?

‘You and your romantic notions,’ she murmured. ‘You should have grown out of them by this time.’ But there was that other matter. Her stake in Springfield. Another thing taken for granted. Kelly’s name was no longer on the original leases. They had been renewed, with the rest of the huge runs, by Austin, and Charlotte never had the temerity to comment. It had seemed so ungrateful … But these days, with three ambitious sons, she wondered.

Victor stood when his mother came in, and drew out her chair for her, while the Reverend looked up from plastering butter on hot scones to acknowledge her. Victor disliked the missionaries, especially the prune-faced wife, with her overly genteel mannerisms and whining voice. Her husband was a lean, mean character who managed to introduce God into even the most trivial conversation, as if it were necessary to establish his credentials, and as a result he was regarded by all in this household as a sanctimonious bore.

‘I hope the heat isn’t bothering you,’ Charlotte said to Mrs Billings, making conversation.

The Reverend answered for her. ‘God’s will, Mrs Broderick. We regard these minor irritations as heaven-sent, to remind us that we are but servants of the Lord. It’s too easy in surrounds such as these, the lap of luxury, to forget that all blessings are gifts from the Lord, and temporary.’

‘You could hardly call Springfield temporary,’ Victor said, ignoring his mother’s frown.

‘All life is temporary, sir. I was disappointed to discover that there is no chapel here, and wondered if Mr Broderick could be persuaded to build one. I should be happy to return to bless the premises.’

‘My husband did consider building a church,’ Charlotte told him, ‘but there have been differing opinions among visiting ministers as to what denomination it should be. I am Catholic and the rest of the family are Church of England …’

‘And there are a whole range of religious attitudes among the men on our staff,’ Victor added with a grin. ‘Try to get agreement from thirty or more men. Too hard.’

‘That could be easily solved. Our faith, the Church of the Holy Word, upholds the truth as stated in the Bible. No other religion relies strictly on the Word. I was thinking that a Chapel of the Holy Word would be an excellent beginning for your people here. Later my bishop could come out and consecrate it as a regular church.’

‘Oh Lord, there’s another one,’ Louisa said. ‘The last minister, Wesleyan, I think he was, suggested a chapel here for his flock.’

‘So you see our predicament,’ Victor said.

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ sniffed the Reverend.

‘Did you have an interesting walk this afternoon?’ Charlotte asked them.

‘Most interesting,’ Mrs Billings said. ‘We went through the gardens and out to the orchard and on over the creek. Mr Broderick showed us the ridge from where they were attacked by savages.’

‘Not that again,’ Victor said. ‘“They came from beyond that ridge …” That’s his favourite story.’

‘But surely it’s true?’

‘Oh yes, it’s true. He could write a book.’

‘Then I think Mr Broderick was incredibly brave to live in such dangerous country. Thank God the savages were overcome. At least I hope they have been.’

‘That’s something I wanted to speak to you about, Mrs Broderick,’ the Reverend said. ‘We have seen natives strutting about undressed, a shocking state of affairs, and we would hope …’

Charlotte put down her teacup, startled. ‘Not within the homestead area?’

‘No, at a disgusting camp by the river.’

‘That’s miles away!’ Louisa said. ‘Did you walk all the way down there?’

‘We considered it our duty to investigate these people, so we followed two of the housegirls.’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Charlotte was relieved. ‘We see to it that any of the blacks who come into the living or work areas are clothed. There are trousers and shirts available for the blacks who work as stockmen, and shifts for the housegirls, so the tribal people can collect something from them if need be, but mostly they don’t bother. We don’t worry about the children of course, they run about in the buff …’

‘But this is wrong!’ Mrs Billings said. ‘It cannot be. The Bible says …’

‘The Bible doesn’t deal with our Aborigines,’ Victor laughed. ‘They’re not even mentioned.’

‘It does not behove you to be facetious,’ the Reverend retorted. ‘My wife was shocked. Most of those natives had barely a stitch on. You can’t condone this. They’re living like animals.’

‘They’re living as they have lived for thousands of years, Mr Billings,’ Charlotte said quietly. ‘Before the Bible was ever heard of. God must have approved because He gave them a wonderful country all to themselves. Although I must admit He’s let them down of late, relatively speaking.’

Victor smiled. He knew the Reverend and his missus still didn’t agree, but Charlotte had shut them up, for the time being at least. To escape them, he decided against another slice of fruit cake and departed, leaving the guests to the women.

‘Interfering fools,’ he muttered as he strode across the courtyard, making for the shearing sheds. He himself had taken the pair on a tour of the sheds which were now being opened up again, ready for the arrival of the shearers. Together with the merino stud, the sheds were Victor’s pride and joy. Designed by his father, in much the same style as a friend’s huge wool shed on the Darling Downs, they were each 300 feet long and had cover for about 2,000 sheep. The interiors were an eye-opener to visitors. Each shed had a tramway for fleece and bales down the centre, and there were fifty-two stands where the shearers worked.

‘Last year,’ he’d told Billings proudly, ‘we had fifty-four shearers to shear two hundred thousand sheep. Took them fifteen weeks, a job well done.’

Billings was unimpressed. ‘And you don’t have a conscience about all this?’

‘A conscience? Why should I?’

‘You must own a lot of land to run so many sheep. Do you think that is fair? The Lord might deem it greedy for you squatters to covet so much when other men are now searching for arable land.’

‘The Lord has nothing to do with it. My father got these runs by hard work, he’s entitled to every acre.’

The Reverend scratched his chin and gave Victor a patronizing smile. ‘Obviously you’ve not taken into account the lessons of America. The ranchers of those great plains were soon overrun by