Leon Uris Read Online Free PDF Page A

horse set himself on automatic; four hours and one fifth of whiskey would see them down to Christchurch.
    New Zealand kids were filled with wanderlust these days. They now had justification and rationalization to scream out against the entrapment that closes in on most island youngsters. Had there been no war on, they’d have probably invented one.
    From the time of Conor’s visit, much of Rory’s curiosity had been filled by a parade of books, which found their way to him through Uncle Wally. He became a prolific reader,but strange, his drive to get out of New Zealand seemed pacified.
    Rory had not been caught up in the war fever, partly because it made no sense for him to go halfway around the world to fight for the freedom of Belgium.
    You inherit this, that, and the other from your parents, sometimes reluctantly. He had found their sense of peace that told him he would do his roving at some future day, when he was entirely ready and sound of mind about it.
    By sixteen he was among the best sheep- and cattlemen on the South Island and had talked his father into raising domesticated deer, which was turning into a profitable venture. He also imported a few mules from Cyprus, which turned out not so profitable.
    Although the yen to leave was there, the yen to stay was also there. It was Liam’s fears and suspicions that triggered Rory to look to the horizon. He loved the station, the country, his calling.
    It had been years and years since he had heard from Conor. Only cryptic mentions of his uncle came in the letters from his other uncle, Father Dary.
    But on this night of Conor’s death, the past became the present again and the present took on a sudden urgency. He must follow in Conor’s footsteps.
    Even now he adored riding the station with his da, who was quiet and leathery and had wondrous ways with the soil and weather. They said that only pigs could see the wind, but Liam Larkin sure as hell could, he was that keen.
    If containing one’s emotions were a kingly value, his father was a great king. His early longings to buddy up with his da had been turned back by Liam’s constant taciturn attitude toward him. Mom and Tommy, and occasionally the girls, got whatever there was of his father’s outward shows of affection.
    If being taciturn were truly his da’s basic nature Rory felt he could find a rhythm to it, a good clean way that two quiet men can have respecting and caring for one another.
    Rory had caught a drift as a child that the silence and later the snappishness toward him had a wrong rub to it. It was a special annoyance his da had for him from something that must have happened long ago and far away.
    It was a dark night, but RumRunner knew the way. Rory dozed in the saddle knowing his horse would advise him if he were about to fall off. He jolted to wakefulness and snapped upright time and time again. Each time he did, he remembered his horror…UNCLE CONOR IS DEAD!
    Rory, stop playing the game, he told himself. You’ve a rover’s bone stuck in your throat and you know it and your da knows it. The sourness between them had set in almost ten years ago to the day, when Uncle Conor came to visit.
    Liam Larkin understood his son’s itch and he was unable to do the right thing about it. It boiled down to a single word, Ireland , and Rory had built his uncle into a deity. Liam’s fear was that the same curse-laden bedevilment would take his son away.
    A word of comfort to his da that his love of New Zealand would keep him here, and things would have changed between them in a flick.
    Liam saw his son become more like his brother, and it was beyond his scope to do anything about it. As for Rory, he could never bring himself to comfort his da about Ireland.
    So, the malice and cancer grew.
    UNCLE CONOR IS DEAD!
    Tears stung Rory’s cheeks. His throat told him the bottle was empty. He tossed it and looked for the lights of Christchurch. They always seem to come up like the sound of a Protestant hymn. If