Tom chuckled at the jumble of shouts and good-natured cursing that greeted his arrival. Most of the men were drovers or stockmen like him, but there were usually one or two wranglers, most of them blokes Tom wouldn’t trust further than he could throw them. They were cunning as shithouse rats, mean blokes, fast with their fists and hard on their horses.

A couple of minutes passed, and then Jason Mannering himself appeared in the doorway. Tom grinned and caught the beer as it was thrown to him. With one quick flick of his wrist, he cracked the lid off against the door frame and took a long swig. The beer was warm but it was better than what some of those other miserly bastards offered.

Jason Mannering was one of the finest stockmen in the district, and could sit some of the roughest brumbies this side of the mountains. Ever since the wrangler had helped him drag a cranky old bullock out of the saltbush scrub, Tom held a sort of grudging respect for the tough old bastard.

“What bunch of old plugs are you trying to flog off now, Mannering?” Tom took another swig of his beer and then shook his head. “I’ve told ya before mate, a stock horse is the way to go, not those mongrel brumbies of yours.”

He took off his hat and scratched his forehead. He knew he smelt of dust and sweat, of a hard day’s work and long hours in the saddle. In his scuffed and broken boots and filthy dirty after hauling that calf out of the mud, Tom wished he could have at least washed the smell of cattle nuts from his shirt and given his boots a good polish. Even so, when Jason headed for the door, Tom ambled casually after.

Banjo, hearing Tom’s voice started to thump his tail. When his master appeared on the veranda, the dog bounded towards him and all but bowled him over in his excitement. “Get off ya cheeky bugger!” Tom shouted, and half-heartedly raised his hand. The dog slyly dodged the blow, and then barrelled past the two men to go flying off towards the stockyards. The roughies scattered nervously, and neat as you like, the dog slipped through the fence on the far side of the yard and disappeared into the bush.

“Bloody dog I’m going to kill him when I catch him,” Tom swore under his breath, and he clenched his fists. He should never have taken that damn dog as payment for a bad debt in the first place. Bloody O’ Grady and his bloody useless dog had made him the laughing stock in Taparoo.

Tom downed the rest of the beer and without saying a word, looked to where the sturdy grey mare grazed quietly in the stockyard. There by her side was a neat chestnut colt, and Tom who could appreciate a fine piece of horseflesh when he saw it, ran a critical eye over the line of shoulder, broadness of chest and strength of hindquarters. He whistled with surprise at the sight and turned to Jason. “That sure is a mighty fine looking colt you’ve got out there. But how’d she cope with the foaling, she’s got to be as old as the hills.”

Uuna watched with pride as Boolee inspected his newest daughter. She knew he would find no fault with her, even if both her parents were more aged than most. Coreen squealed and looked indignant at being pushed by her father, but soon realised she had just passed some sort of test. Uuna huffed and nipped her stallion right back, and then he was off, inviting her to run with him. She took a few trotted steps then halted. Her knees were far too stiff for this gaiety, but she nudged Coreen onward and the little bay filly romped after her father with as much grace as a gangly foal can manage.

The yearling’s antics did not escape Uuna’s notice, and the old mare shook her head. The colt would find himself in a world of trouble very soon if he continued to step on his father’s nerves. His mother should have taught him better that to taunt a grown stallion.

The stocky old bay dun mare lowered her head to graze, watching her mate and filly chase about like fools. She couldn’t help but smile. Despite all his gruffness, Boolee was still a wild spirit in his heart. Not even age could steal that from him.

By chance, she glanced a creamy mare and dun foal grazing not far away, and she recognised the mare as Boolee’s elusive Cardinia. Uuna huffed. That mare needed to learn respect also. She was always drifting off, testing Boolee’s patience. She turned, and her mane and forelock fell down to obscure her view of the mare while she continued grazing. The mare was none of her business. Boolee would see to her soon enough.