Landtakers: The Story of an Epoch

A pair of secretive eyes set in bony hollows, a dry yellow skin shrunk on to the skull, a scar from temple to chin that dragged up the corner of his mouth, colourless lips and a tangle of black beard. Cabell stared at this face. Was it a look of enmity or fear the stranger gave back? Prudence, not indifference, made him turn abruptly away from the mirror and replace the razor on the shelf. Better to let him remain a stranger, with hidden thoughts, bearded and unapproachable, so utterly different from the fresh- cheeked boy that was himself.

He stood for a moment steadying his convalescent legs against the table, then pulled on his hat and went out to lend a hand with the shearing. Hurry infected them. Three years of loneliness and hardship were coming to fruition. The insane routine of tailing sheep began to fit into some comprehensible system of human endeavour. And on the skyline of the men's simple ambitions loomed more clearly the day of temporary release. Cabell would load the dray and disappear over the hills on his four hundred-mile trek to the coast, across plains, ranges and downs. He would be away four months, six months, perhaps, but one day he would return, bringing hands to relieve them. They would take their cheques, sixty pounds or so apiece, saddle their horses, and ride over his wheel-tracks. After two hundred miles or so they would find a grog shanty. The publican would pocket their money, and two months would pass and sheep be forgotten. They would get drunk, see new faces, see a woman, perhaps, sleep--for two months. A brooding silence lifted from the homestead. Even Bill laughed sometimes, talking far into the night with Sambo, blowing about grog and women.