A Changing Land Read Online Free PDF

the hard part, the real snap of winter, although the mountains tend to curry favour with wind and ice and he will be pleased to be free of their cold shadow. With luck he and his team will reach the markets safely. So far in the near five months they have been on the stock route, their losses have been minimal: six dead, including the one that dislocated its shoulder crossing the gorge yesterday. Luke chews on the hunk of beef, relishing the juices. It’s a fine change from salted mutton. He has told Cookto render up some of the fat for dripping, promised him another day in this same spot.
    Behind him the men are silent, concentrating on waking and eating simultaneously. Luke clears small rocks from the dirt, draws a bit of a map with a greasy forefinger. By his reckoning they are about one hundred and fifty miles south-east of Ridge Gully. He’s never been to this town where his mother, Rose, was born, never met his grandmother. Maybe after Christmas he’ll postpone the yearly drive south, venture down that way. If he doesn’t go soon his grandmother will be dead. He thinks about her emporium. It has been like a cool drink on a hot day for most of his adult life; someday the emporium will be his, then he will have an option other than this. Wiping his fingers on his doeskin trousers he remembers his dead brothers, his beloved mother. He loves droving, yet hates it. It gives a man too much time to think.
    Percy returns with their horses. He has fifty-two under his watch. With eight men on horseback and two horse changes alone in daylight hours, his job of caring for their team is the most important. The men saddle up, bursts of steam rising like small clouds from their horse’s nostrils. Eventually the men straggle off in the direction of the mob.
    â€˜Feed ’em into the wind,’ Luke advises, knowing the stock would walk into the southerly naturally. ‘We’ll water them at Ned’s Hollow.’ Luke does a quick check of the wagon, counts the pack horses. ‘Supplies right, Cook?’
    The grey-haired poisoner, as the men call him, salutes. Luke takes a drag of his roll-your-own, blows the smoke clear of his eyes. Cook was in the army years ago, so he says. The men hint at a convict past. Luke doesn’t care, he just needs someone who can cook without killing anyone, although there had already been sore stomachs aplenty this trip. He looks at the mountains to the east of them; great monolithic tombs of stone that block the view of the flat country on the other side. He is restless for the openplains of Wangallon, knowing full well that once he gets there he will feel the need to leave. It has been like that for a very long time; the wanting of the property, the need to be on Wangallon soil, then the reality of what it means to stay. With a final sip of his tea, he tosses the remains in the dirt, turns the collar of his coat up against the nippy southerly, the tread of 1500 cattle filling the air.
    Luke turns his horse Joseph north towards the rear of the mob as the cattle walk slowly southwards. Mungo is hunched in the saddle, his hat pulled low over his dark skin. He smiles the smile of a long lost brother.
    â€˜Time for some food, Mungo.’
    â€˜Fresh cooked by a woman,’ Mungo answers as if there was a choice. ‘Black duck, mebbe some potatoes.’
    Luke laughs. There is beef at their camp, however Mungo is more concerned about the cook who would feed him, in particular a black-haired girl Luke has never seen. ‘She’d be lucky to have you.’
    The Aborigine grins. Luke slaps him lightly on the arm. He has told Mungo that he’s in love although his childhood friend refuses to agree with him.
    â€˜She was promised to an elder. He died. Probably by now she is promised to another.’
    Luke understands his friend’s feeling of frustration. ‘What will you do?’
    Mungo shrugs. ‘She would leave the tribe.’ His voice is