The Cattle Baron's Bride. Margaret Way
of venturing further into the jungle,” Sunderland told him. “We would have found you a whole lot quicker.”
“I’m sorry. Sorry,” the jackeroo moaned, appalled now at his own foolhardiness. “What a savage place this is. Paradise until you step off the track.”
“Remember it next time you fell like pulling another dare-devil stunt.” Sunderland told him bluntly. “Joe and I won’t have the time to come after you. You’ll have to find your own way home.” Sunderland raked a hand through his hair, looked up at the sky. “Let’s move on,” he sighed, listening carefully to something crashing through the undergrowth. A wild boar? “You can rest up this morning, Rankin. Back to work this afternoon. That’s if you want to hold onto your job.”
The jackeroo tried desperately to get a grip on himself. To date he had never found anyone better. Action. Adventure. A fantastic guy for a boss. A real life Indiana Jones. Sunderland never showed fear not even in the middle of a stampede that could well have been Ben’s fault though no one blamed him. Well maybe Pete Lowell, the overseer. Not too many chances left he thought, his heart quaking. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he muttered. The last thing he wanted was for Sunderland to get rid of him. All the same it had been terrifying his endless hours all alone in the jungle. The ominous weight of the silence that was somehow filled with sound. He had actually felt the presence of the mimi spirits greatly feared by the aboriginals in this part of the world. Not that he was ever going to tell anyone about his brush with psychic terror. It had seemed so real. All that whispering and gibbering, ghostly fingers on his cheek. He would never be such a fool again. He just hoped Sunderland would never find out about the bet he’d had with his fellow jackeroo Chris Pearce.
“Want me to drive, boss?” Joe asked quietly, as always looking out for the splendid young man he had watched grow to manhood.
Sunderland shook his head. “Grab forty winks if you can, Joe,” he advised, slinging his lean powerful frame behind the wheel. “It’s going to be one helluva day and I have an appointment in Darwin tonight.”
“The photographer guy? Big shot.”
“That’s the one. A showing of his work. I’ve actually seen some at a gallery in Cairns. Wonderful stuff. Very impressive and very expensive. The asking price for many of the prints was thousands. He was getting it too. Photography is supposedly so easy especially these days but I’ve never seen images quite so extraordinary or insightful. It must have been difficult trying to get the photographs he did. Difficult and dangerous in untouched parts of the world, waiting around for the precise time and conditions, hoping the weather will stay fine.”
“So what’s he want to do now? The Top End?”
“Why not? The Top End is undoubtedly the most exotic part of Australia. It is even to other Australians a remote and wild world, frontier country, a stepping stone away from Asia. The Territory is the place to wonder at the marvels of nature. Kakadu alone would keep him busy. It’s a world heritage area, of international significance as are the cultural artworks of your people, Joe. I don’t know if he wants to get down to the Red Centre, Uluru, Kata Tjuta and the Alice but if it’s the whole Territory he intends to cover then the Wild Heart is on his itinerary.’
“Nobody could be that good they’d capture my country,” Joe Goolatta said, fiercely proud and protective of his heritage.
“I guess you’re right, Joe,” Sunderland said.
They swept across the rugged terrain the jeep bouncing over the rough tracks heading towards North Star homestead. The first streaks of light lay along the horizon, lemon, pink and indigo prefacing dawn. Soon the little Spinifex doves would start to call to one another, music from thousands of tiny throats and the great flights of birds would take to the skies.
“Think you’ll help him out?” Joe asked, after a pause of some ten minutes. He was leaning his head, covered in the snow white curls that contrasted so starkly with his skin, against the headrest. He was bone tired, but well into his sixties he was still hard at it.
“Don’t know yet,” Sunderland muttered, still toying with the idea. “His first choice for a guide was Cy.” Sunderland referred to his good friend Cyrus Bannerman of Mokhani Station. “But Cy is still in the honeymoon phase. He can’t bear to be away from his Jessica. Can’t say I blame him.” He saluted his friend’s choice. “It was Cy who suggested me.”
“Couldn’t be anyone better,” Joe grunted. “However good Cy is and he is I reckon you’re even better.”
“Prejudiced, Joe.” A beam from the head lights picked up a pair of kangaroos who shot up abruptly from behind a grassy mound, turning curious faces. Sunderland swerved to avoid them muttering a mild curse. Kangaroos knew nothing about road rules.
“Thing is whether you’ve got the time,” Joe said, totally unable to fall asleep like the kid in the back who was snoring so loudly he wished he had ear plugs.
“If I did go I’d take you with me,” Sunderland said glancing at his old friend and childhood mentor.
“Yah kiddin’?” Joe sat up straight, an expression of surprise on his dignified face.
“Who else will take care of me?” Sunderland asked.
Joe’s big white grin showed his delight. “I was afraid you might be thinkin’ I’m getting too old.”
“Never!” Sunderland dropped down a gear for a few hundred metres. “You’re better on your feet than a seventeen-year-old. Besides, no one knows this ancient land like you do, Joe. Your people are the custodians of all this.”
“Didn’t I teach you all I know?” Joe asked gently, thrilled their friendship was so deep.
“It would take a dozen lifetimes,” Sunderland said, his eyes on a flight of magpie geese winging from one lagoon to another. “But we’re learning. This land was hostile to my people when we first came here. Sunderlands came to the wild bush but managed to survive. As cattle men we recognize the debt we owe your people. North Star has always relied on its aboriginal stockmen, bush men and trackers. Elders like you, Joe, have skills we’re still learning. I only half know what you do and I’m quite happy to admit it. In the beginning my people feared this land as much as it drew us. Now we love it increasingly in the way you do. We draw closer and closer with every generation. There’s no question we all occupy a sacred landscape.”
“That we do,” Joe answered, deeply moved. “So you think you could go then?” Now that he knew he might accompany the young man he worshipped he was excited by the idea.
Sunderland’s smile slipped. “I’m a bit worried about leaving Belle at home. She’s had a rotten time of it. I can’t just abandon her, even if it’s only for a couple of weeks.”
“Take her along,” Joe urged. “Miss Isabelle is as good in the bush as anyone I’ve seen. She could be an asset.”
Sunderland shook his dark head. “I don’t see Belle laughing and happy any more, Joe. Neither do you. I know your heart aches for her as well. My sister is a woman who feels very deeply. It’ll take her a long time to get over Blair’s death. She’s punishing herself because his family, his mother in particular, appeared to blame her for his fatal accident.”
“Cruel, cruel woman,” Joe said. “I disliked that woman from day one.” He stopped short of saying he hadn’t taken to Miss Isabelle’s husband either. Good-looking guy—nothing beside Miss Isabelle’s splendid big brother—but as big a snob as his mother—aboriginal man too primitive to look at much less to speak to. No, Joe hadn’t taken to Miss Isabelle’s dead husband who had died in a car crash after some big society party. Miss Isabelle should have been with him but the awful truth was they had had a well publicised argument at the party before Blair Hartmann had stormed out to his death.
“Dad and I never took to her either,” Sunderland sighed. “Incredibly pretentious woman. But Blair was Belle’s choice. You know what she was like. As headstrong as they come. Blair was such a change from most guys