Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) by Sandra Dengler Page B
Authors: Sandra Dengler
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cane. Come back to dem caboose. Haf a little drink, relax, don’ stink, eh?”
Luke grinned and spread his hands. “But I’m having a wonderful time up here. Blue sky, wide open spaces, wind in my face—”
“Also all dis smoke and soot. You don’ ride train much maybe, tinks is great, eh?”
“I rode the train constantly in Canada. That’s the way to get around there, especially in winter.”
“Snow. Snow, eh? Lahssa snow in winter there, right?”
“More snow than any man deserves.”
“Been long time I don’ see snow. Since old country. Miss it, sometimes.”
“No, not I. Look at me. It’s late April, we’re coming on winter here, and I don’t have a coat on. I don’t even own a winter coat anymore, Josip, and it’s glorious! No shoveling snow, no bundling up. No calculating the coefficient of friction of glare ice when all you want to do is get across the street. This is my kind of winter.”
“So you shovel cane. I seen you. And sit on stinking bundle. You hopeless.” Josip rearranged his seat in vain pursuit of comfort. “Where your friend? West a piece?”
“About a hundred miles out from Charter’s Towers, give or take some. Quite a cattle station he has, he and his brother. Both of them dinkum Aussie.”
Native Aussies, good colonial boys . The distinction was still being made, but not as much anymore. A generation ago most of Australia’s population, barring aborigines, had been born under distant fealties. Today most Australians knew no other flag. History. And lack of it. It intrigued Luke. When the Hudson’s Bay Company was turning Luke’s native land from a wilderness into a civilization, this country had not yet begun.
Gentle slopes and open woodland gave way to prairie and broken patches of gray-green acacia. Six at night, dinnertime, they pulled into Frobel’s siding. Possibly someday it would be a town—Frobelsville, or Frobel’s Corner. Martin’s Landing, perhaps. Right now it was a siding.
Beside the stock tank, Martin Frobel himself sat astride his horse and watched the modest engine huff to a stop. He urged his old mare forward to meet Luke halfway.
Luke hopped off the car and crossed to him. He offered a hand and received a warm, friendly shake. “Which got here first, the letter or the telegram?”
Martin looked a bit blank. “Didn’t know you were coming. Just rode out here in case there was any mail. You’re welcome, though. More’n welcome. Hope you can stay awhile.” He nodded toward the train. “What’s all that?”
“Cattle feed. The letter will make things clear—if it ever arrives.”
Martin studied him a moment and rode over to a car. He stood in the stirrups, sniffed and touched. “Some larrikin’s got himself a lucky streak longer’n my line of credit.”
Josip yelled, “I get to do dis alone, eh?”
“Coming.” Luke would let Martin figure things out unaided. He could barely stand not staring at the old stockman’s face.
The weight of this wet green cane bulged the gates out and made pulling the pins more than a little difficult. Talk about your basic coefficient of friction! Luke thought. He was sweating profusely by the time they sprang the gate open on the first car. He and Josip let tumble out what would and pushed the rest out with coal shovels. One car unloaded, four to go, and it had taken fifteen minutes. They’d be here all night, and Luke was starved.
Josip must have been reading his mind. They took a breather before tackling car number two, and the railroader leaned on his shovel, grinning. “Look the goot side. You do dis on a railroad in New South Wales, eh? Different gauge. Irish gauge. Dese tracks tree feet six, but New South Wales, the tracks five feet tree. Trains twice as wide, hold twice as much. Take twice as long. We’re lucky, eh?”
“Aren’t we. On to the next.”
The engineer stepped down from his cab, in no hurry at all. The engineer does not, as part of his job, load or unload. “Marty. You
Luke grinned and spread his hands. “But I’m having a wonderful time up here. Blue sky, wide open spaces, wind in my face—”
“Also all dis smoke and soot. You don’ ride train much maybe, tinks is great, eh?”
“I rode the train constantly in Canada. That’s the way to get around there, especially in winter.”
“Snow. Snow, eh? Lahssa snow in winter there, right?”
“More snow than any man deserves.”
“Been long time I don’ see snow. Since old country. Miss it, sometimes.”
“No, not I. Look at me. It’s late April, we’re coming on winter here, and I don’t have a coat on. I don’t even own a winter coat anymore, Josip, and it’s glorious! No shoveling snow, no bundling up. No calculating the coefficient of friction of glare ice when all you want to do is get across the street. This is my kind of winter.”
“So you shovel cane. I seen you. And sit on stinking bundle. You hopeless.” Josip rearranged his seat in vain pursuit of comfort. “Where your friend? West a piece?”
“About a hundred miles out from Charter’s Towers, give or take some. Quite a cattle station he has, he and his brother. Both of them dinkum Aussie.”
Native Aussies, good colonial boys . The distinction was still being made, but not as much anymore. A generation ago most of Australia’s population, barring aborigines, had been born under distant fealties. Today most Australians knew no other flag. History. And lack of it. It intrigued Luke. When the Hudson’s Bay Company was turning Luke’s native land from a wilderness into a civilization, this country had not yet begun.
Gentle slopes and open woodland gave way to prairie and broken patches of gray-green acacia. Six at night, dinnertime, they pulled into Frobel’s siding. Possibly someday it would be a town—Frobelsville, or Frobel’s Corner. Martin’s Landing, perhaps. Right now it was a siding.
Beside the stock tank, Martin Frobel himself sat astride his horse and watched the modest engine huff to a stop. He urged his old mare forward to meet Luke halfway.
Luke hopped off the car and crossed to him. He offered a hand and received a warm, friendly shake. “Which got here first, the letter or the telegram?”
Martin looked a bit blank. “Didn’t know you were coming. Just rode out here in case there was any mail. You’re welcome, though. More’n welcome. Hope you can stay awhile.” He nodded toward the train. “What’s all that?”
“Cattle feed. The letter will make things clear—if it ever arrives.”
Martin studied him a moment and rode over to a car. He stood in the stirrups, sniffed and touched. “Some larrikin’s got himself a lucky streak longer’n my line of credit.”
Josip yelled, “I get to do dis alone, eh?”
“Coming.” Luke would let Martin figure things out unaided. He could barely stand not staring at the old stockman’s face.
The weight of this wet green cane bulged the gates out and made pulling the pins more than a little difficult. Talk about your basic coefficient of friction! Luke thought. He was sweating profusely by the time they sprang the gate open on the first car. He and Josip let tumble out what would and pushed the rest out with coal shovels. One car unloaded, four to go, and it had taken fifteen minutes. They’d be here all night, and Luke was starved.
Josip must have been reading his mind. They took a breather before tackling car number two, and the railroader leaned on his shovel, grinning. “Look the goot side. You do dis on a railroad in New South Wales, eh? Different gauge. Irish gauge. Dese tracks tree feet six, but New South Wales, the tracks five feet tree. Trains twice as wide, hold twice as much. Take twice as long. We’re lucky, eh?”
“Aren’t we. On to the next.”
The engineer stepped down from his cab, in no hurry at all. The engineer does not, as part of his job, load or unload. “Marty. You
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