He was surprised and pleased to see Andrew Paterson arrive as the team packed up. This time Clancy did exchange the shearers’ quarters for the main house, for Ethelred had furnished him with new clothes, the casual clothes of a gentleman as well as a more formal suit. He and Andrew sat on the veranda, watching the crows circle. ‘Should have just dagged and crutched them,’ said Clancy. ‘Most weren’t strong enough to grow another year’s wool.’

‘The Bartons need the money.’

‘Probably need less than they think. And they’ll lose more than they realise if they try to keep churning out more than the land can give.’

‘You might be right,’ conceded Andrew, who had seen many places fail, including his own family’s. ‘Things going well for you? You look . . . not just happier. Stronger somehow, like new growth on a tree. As if your life fits you like a snakeskin, and you’ve cast an old one off.’ The young man spoke enviously as well as poetically.

‘I am happier. I’ve finally found who I am too.’

‘A shearer?’ asked the young man incredulously.

‘Not for much longer, probably.’ Let Andrew think he might be going to return to Overflow. He would not tell Andrew about Rose, nor his quest to find her. A gentleman did not tell of an intention to marry until he’d been accepted.

He was so much older than Rose. He should be worried she’d refuse, that she might have met someone else since he had seen her last. But somehow he knew she hadn’t.

He travelled north-east with Andrew, camping at night, watching the Southern Cross turn over in the vast velvet circle of the sky as they sat by the campfire. When they finally parted, Clancy riding north and Andrew east for Sydney, the young man had colour in his cheeks, as well as tanned skin and a sheaf of poems that were far better, in Clancy’s opinion, than any he had written before. He was writing about what he loved now, not the love poems and English babbling brook and nook type work he’d been inclined to before. But then, what was Clancy’s judgement of poetry worth?

It took him only a couple of days to find McKenzie’s trail — he knew the route they’d be taking, could smell cattle twenty miles away, if the wind was in the right direction. And finally, one dusk, there they were.

He pulled Big Red up in the shadows so he could watch them. McKenzie and Tiger pulled at portions of the rag-draped rope, as the new cattle — growing decent flesh on them by now — cropped the tussocks. The creek beyond, just a twisting snake between the rocks but still flowing — must have been a bit of rain since they’d been here last — showed where the beasts had drunk and would drink again, for their temporary enclosure crossed the water.