[Mal] Not a Morning Person

[Illu]

The storm had come out of nowhere. The day started as one of those typical stinkers, but within the first hour after night fell it was darker than a bushrangers soul with water coming down in torrents, lightning crashing across the sky, lighting up the snowgums with eerie flashes. The men – caught off guard – had no choice but to abandon the cattle and retreat to the hut in order to wait until morning to clear up the inevitable mess. Only two – John and man barely older than a boy – had volunteered to stay behind.

The sun rose relatively late the next morning, strangely subdued in heat due to the recent rain, but anyone who recognised it knew the temperature was sure to suddenly fire into full swing by tomorrow.

It was one particular beam of light – slipping between the leafy stringybark canopy – that awoke John by rudely blasting him right in the face. An affair that was also accompanied by plenty of rolling over and swearing. Cold nights and thundering rain when covered only by a waterproof sheet wasn't exactly the most conductive to a pleasant nights sleep. Rolling over didn't seem to help. His back was quick to remind him that sleeping on the ground was anything but comfortable, and with an almighty groan John pulled himself into a sitting position.

His tired head took a moment to want to function. Behind him he heard Darl shuffle her feet where he'd tied her overnight, and across from him was the sleeping mound of his mysterious helper. The man's grey mare was hovering nearby, still drowsy.

Fuck it. He was never going to complain about cheap hotel beds ever again.

He slowly pulled himself to his feet, looking around to mentally orientate where they'd left the cattle earlier that night before having to seek sanctuary in the trees. Bloody Hereford's were probably all over the damn mountains by now. John gave a scowly look at the other lump sheltering under the waterproof skin a few meters away, not even his hair visible over the top. John's cover must have come off his head while he was sleeping, thus the rude awakening.

... Fine. Malcom could earn himself a bit more sleep. If that was even his name. They'd barely managed to say three words to eachother over the storm.

With a passing pat to Darl's shoulder, John walked sluggishly towards the edge of the crop of trees. Somehow the clear, earthy mountain air – fresh from the storm – didn't seem to be helping the swirling agitation starting to bundle in his head. There was only one solution for that, and by the time John reached the edge of treeline he already had a pipe stuffed and lit with tobacco.

In the distance over the rise of a hill he could see the tail end of the mob of cattle. Most had probably gone over the rise and drifted north to escape the previous night's rain. John scowled, trying to do a headcount of what little of them were visible. They wouldn't know for sure until they actually got up there, and a good number were bound to have tried to escape through the bush and ended up lost. They could be anywhere. Needle in a haystack didn't even begin to cover it.

Ace. Every lost Hereford meant lost money for the men.

He was much less quiet when he stalked back into the makeshift camp, his boots cracking sticks into the damp earth. Malcom was still sleeping, and John wasted no time picking up and throwing a wrapped bundle at him on his way over, which struck the sleeping man in the back with a dull thud.

"It's mornin'," he said loudly, voice a little hoarse as he shoved the pipe back into his mouth and surveyed the ground to try and work out if a campfire was even possible. Having to go without some sort of breakfast would be the shit on an already collapsing cake made entirely out of mud.

[Tiggs]

It seemed barely a moment since he’d succumbed to sleep. The heavy patter of rain on the waterproof cover suddenly stopped, replaced by birdsong, a male voice and the shuffling of feet. Jerking awake as something hit him, Marks scrambled from under the sheet in a hurry. Bleary blue eyes almost hidden by messy blonde hair fixed on John, and he let out his breath in a sigh.

Visions of shadowy figures faded, chased away by the light of day and the reality that settled over his sleep-addled mind. Grunting, Marks rubbed slender hands over his face, pushed back the curls falling into his face and settled his hat firmly on his head. Blinking until his vision was clear, the boy got to his feet. Still mostly dressed from the night before, he cautiously tipped up his boots, shooing a sleepy lizard out of one of them before putting them on.

Tossing the bundle that had awoken him idly back to the man’s bedding, Marks went to his mare. The dappled horse was dozing happily under the tree that she had been tethered to. Her drooping bottom lip barely stirred as Marks foraged through the saddle pack, picking out matches and a bag of rolled oats. He secreted the mare – Moya – a handful before picking up a billycan and depositing the collection in the middle of their makeshift camp.

Foraging under the waterproof cover he’d used to sleep under, as well as keeping him, his hat and his boots dry, he’d also put a collection of small sticks in a bundle where it would be close to his body heat. Snapping the string around it, he set the kindling in a small pile and took a match to it. Once the dry pieces of wood were burning, he added a few bigger damper pieces and soon had a fire going.

Marks was nothing if not an efficient worker, and since he’d rarely known any of the other men to be the one to volunteer first to cook food, Marks usually ended up being the nominated party. With the fire burning brightly, some rolled oats and water were poured into the billy and then nestled directly into the fire. Milk would have been preferred, but there was no way to keep it fresh out here.

Having been crouched by the campfire, Marks stood and dusted off his jeans. He glanced over to the other man for the first time since he woke that morning. The smell of that tobacco had been niggling at Marks’ nose since he woke, and promised to not get any better. Marks didn’t understand how men could even smoke that. Wood smoke was bad enough to inhale; he couldn’t imagine breathing in that acrid tobacco smoke on purpose. A lot of the men did, but Marks couldn’t stand the smell of it let alone the idea.

Clearing his throat, Marks turned to the task of packing up the bedroll. Once breakfast was done, he wanted to be out looking for those cattle. The big red and white beasts would be scattered all over the Gap and further by now. He wanted to be out there last night, but no one man could still a herd of frightened cattle, and it was a fool’s errand to be out in a storm like that.

The rest of the men would be out soon, but Marks and Sterling were far out from any hut, and they would start the hard task of rounding up enough cattle to stick together. They’d have to search with damned country top to bottom. The creatures were dull-witted and might not make their own way back. Given decent grazing, the damn beasts might not want to come back in time for the big drove down to the auctions or most probably, slaughterhouse.

[Illu]

Wasn't much of a talker, this fellow. Not that John could blame him; he wasn't exactly functioning this morning either.

He managed to catch the bundle when Mark’s threw it back and tucked it under one arm, giving the ground one last disapproving look. It was probably too damp for a fire, and their odds of finding dry kindling were slim. Opting to abandon it for the time being, he turned his attention to packing up camp and making sure the horses were ready to go.

Darl was still a bit out of it, but made a valiant effort to rouse herself when she felt John adjusting her tack. Out of the corner of his eye John could see Marks preparing a billy and he was about to comment on his poor odds of finding kindling when the boy pulled a pile of sticks out from under his blanket. John made a quite huffing noise under his breath. Huh. He'd have to remember that one. Maybe stoves had spoiled him after all.

By the time he was done, Mark's had somehow started getting breakfast going. John sat down on his side of the fire with a muttered "Thanks," unspokenly taking over to make sure it didn't over-boil while Mark's took his turn checking over his horse.

He sat cross legged, squinting at the fire, elbow on one knee while he propped his head up with his hand as though massaging his temple a bit was somehow going to help. The tobacco in the pipe had been thoroughly burned up, so John pulled it out from between his teeth with his other hand and tossed the ash onto the fire.

"I had a look already," he said flatly, sparing a glance up. "Most o' the cattle are still in the plain, but it looks like a whole bunch've tried to go north ter hide in the trees." He couldn't imagine the cattle trying to turn around and barge headfirst into the oncoming wind, but they'd have a better idea when they actually got a look, even though the rain would have washed a lot of the tracks away. "I figure if we keep going in that direction, we should be able to bring back most've em, but who knows where the stupid bastards've ended up."

[Tiggs]

Tugging strings tight around the bedroll, Marks fastened it onto the saddle and returned to the fire. He glanced up once as John spoke, but otherwise kept his eyes downcast at the fire. North? North was good, better than South, at any rate. He nodded, “Crackenback shoulda kept them close,” he said, quite and long informative statement for the young man. He rarely spoke, self-conscious of his soft voice. The cattle could easily ford the river if they had to, but Marks was hoping their wariness of the river had balanced out with the fear of the storm.

The storm could have scattered the herd far and wide, but if they were grouping, that was a good sign. The beasts could have done part of the work for them. Poking at the billycan, Marks deemed the gruel done and hoisted it out of the fire with some long sticks under the metal handle. He produced some spoons out of a back pocket, and hastily tasted the meal. He missed at the heat of it, but otherwise it was edible. Pouring half into a second billycan for Sterling, Marks packed away the last of his things before coming back to the watery porridge.

He sat quietly, eating as fast as the heat would allow. He usually liked it a little cooler, but he got enough ‘Goldilocks’ jibes already without provoking them. Besides, time was of the essence. Once the other men rode out, they would be out of time to show them up. John and Marks were the ‘new guy’ and ‘the kid’. If they could herd up the majority before the bastards were even out of the hut, the underdogs would gain some respect, even if only for a time.

Marks finished up his breakfast and swilled out the can with a splash of water from his canteen. Standing and packing the can, Marks glanced over his shoulder at Sterling, “Ready?”

[Illu]

Marks was a hard one to get a read on. Not that John was intentionally trying to analyze the guy, but, well, old instincts died hard sometimes. He'd seen Marks before once or twice, and he'd never struck him as anything more than a quiet kid of not much fortitude who seemed dramatically out of place among the rough-natured cattlemen. He certainly wouldn't have picked Marks out of a lineup to be the one to volunteer and stay behind to help round up cattle in the middle of a killer storm. Hell, the kid hadn’t looked him in the eye yet. Regardless, here he was instead of any of the others.

John accepted the can of food with a nod of thanks when Marks offered it. This may have been a good time to ask some questions – try and get to know eachother – but Marks seemed more interested in damn near inhaling his food instead of making friends.

Maybe the kid just wasn’t very good with people, John reasoned, poking at the food experimentally and trying not to make it look like he watching the other man too closely. Or hiding something. John’s spoon paused over the gruel as he unsuccessfully tried to quash the thought down. That was just old paranoia. He may not be a cop any more, but it was hard to stop thinking like one at times. As long as Mark’s was a good horseman, he could be as quiet as he liked. Even if the quiet ones always did leave the bloodiest crime scenes.

And so, breakfast – if you could call it that – was consumed in silence; the billy and cans rinsed out with the barest of canteen water and strapped back onto the horses. John did a final tack check with practiced speed, and Darl - to her credit - made a conscious effort to look like she wouldn't rather be fast asleep.

Admittedly, John hadn't hunted down lost stock since he was a kid. So far he'd had the good fortune of working with cattle that knew how to behave themselves, and the night shifts taken by himself and the other drovers had so far kept them from rushing at night. But, to be honest, Marks didn't look old enough to seem like he had half a clue either. Not to mention there was something that just didn't settle right about surrendering the metaphorical reins to someone who barely looked old enough to be out here to start with.

John settled himself into the saddle, lowering lowering the brim of his hat down and signalled Darl to turn around. He had an idea. Or, thought he did anyway, but it would have to wait. The main mob was the priority, and he could worry about the strays once it came to it. “They’re pretty spread out, but it shouldn't be too hard to get them together long before those bludgers at the hut get back. C'mon.”

[Tiggs]

The day was heating up, and as Marks swung up into the saddle, he could already feel the dew-damp air getting humid. Readjusting his hat as he found his seat, he briefly wished the sun would burn off the moisture fast. The temperature he could deal with, but he wasn’t looking forward to the idea of rounding up cattle in a sticky oppressive sauna of a morning.

Her dapple grey mare snorted and jerked her head up as Mark’s tightened the reins, instantly responsive. With a lazy movement of one hand, he turned the mare round to join Sterling next to his bay. He stared off in the direction of the cattle as the older man spoke, nodding agreement. The barest hint of a smile curled the corner of his mouth at the mention of the other men. Yes, John understood his ulterior motives all too well.

Tapping the brim of his hat in a polite salute to the other man, he answered by asking Moya into a steady trot with two clicks of his tongue. The mare took a well-worn path out of the trees, leaving the makeshift campsite behind as they moved out onto the open Gap. Out of the trees, Marks pushed Moya into a loping canter, checking behind for Sterling.

His bay’s pace matched Moya’s well, and both pairs of horse and rider moved steadily toward the group of cattle. The horses were fresh and Marks could feel his mount eager to move faster but they had a lot of work to do, and he needed Moya conserving her energy. The young man gave the mare a pat on the neck, and glanced sideways to Sterling.

The man might be new to the High Country, but he was clearly a man built for horses. He sat well, and his mare was a good solid mount. Not flashy like the wranglers sometimes favoured, but practical. Marks was aware of the prestige involved in wrangling brumbies, but the quieter life of droving suited the quiet man better. Perhaps John was the same.