The Indifference of Tumbleweed by Rebecca Tope Page B

can call him.’
    â€˜No!’ screamed Nam again. ‘If you do, I will kill you. I’ll take a gun and kill you – both of you.’
    Such was her ferocity, I could well imagine her doing it. My smallest sister was eight years old, with many boyish skills. The dog bite had turned her back to an infant for a day or so, but in truth she was no baby. We had two rifles in our wagon, brand new and unused. My father had taught himself the basic requirements for their operation, at the same time as instructing us on the loading and firing procedure. We all of us understood the principles while having no grasp of the reality. I suspected the same was true for the Bricewoods.
    â€˜Ah! In that case, we should show due caution. Henry, the dog must be pardoned and reprieved. Unless he commits a second crime, he should be spared. I cannot pass six months on the trail with the fear of a gun trained on my back.’ He laughed again, and slapped his leg.
    Somehow, the whole gathering of two dozen people all exhaled together. There had been some complicated joke going on, understood only by the men – and possibly Fanny. Or rather, less of a joke and more of a trial of strength, or test of character. The dog was a pretext of some sort; a less threatening way of establishing certain facts between the families, of learning something deeper about each other. I couldn’t explain it to myself then, but afterwards it felt as if something had been strengthened. The central fact appeared to be that Henry had proved triumphant. Small, inexperienced with a rifle, as kindly as any other man – which was not especially benignant – he had acquitted himself well. He and his father walked back to their own fire, Henry’s shoulder nudging against Mr Bricewood’s elbow, and when the older man whistled, his dog came out of the shadows, to receive an astonishing pat on the head.

Chapter Six
    We moved on as usual next morning. I kicked the ashes of the fire apart to ensure no stray sparks would survive to set the scrub alight. It often seemed unnatural to me that we should walk away from the spot, never to see it again. Every camp saw some small event: a conversation or a decision, perhaps, or a matter of health. But every night found us at a different place, and very few of their distinguishing features stuck in my memory. The scouts would choose the spot, with pasture and water and fuel for our fires, and we would gather in a rough circle, erecting the tents and releasing the oxen. The livestock might be driven to grass some distance off, with a dozen young men from various parties obliged to herd them and guard them through the night. But never even to know the camp’s name or exact position seemed wrong to me. And then I found myself to be mistaken. When my father looked over my journal, a few days later, he surprised me by saying, ‘Mr Padgett, in one of the front parties, is keeping note of the longitude and latitude of every place we camp, with the date. If we wished, we could indeed find the spot again, if I understand it aright. I suggest we find him and make a similar note in your journal, if it would satisfy you.’
    I had written,
Naomi’s hand bitten accidentally by Mr Bricewood’s dog and greatly damaged. No marker at the place, which was in a broad valley, with four birch trees on a ridge. We can never find it again.
    â€˜Longitude and latty…what was it you said, Dadda?’ I had never heard either word before, and had not the slightest understanding of what he meant.
    He made a grimace of defeat. ‘I never quite grasped it myself, to be frank with you. But later on we will go and speak with Mr Padgett and ask him to explain it to us. ’Tis science, my lamb, and far beyond the scope of our sort.’
    I cocked my head at him, acting the simple daughter, putting a finger to my mouth. I had observed that all four of we sisters had behaved in a similar fashion since