White Dog by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online Page A

old corduroys, scuffed boots, a quilted jerkin. His usual out-of-town wear was a dark suit worn with a waistcoat.
    We slowed, rounded another tight bend, didn’t pick up speed. Cam was looking right, found what he was seeking. We turned right, no mailboxes to mark this intersection, took a downhill track, grass on the hump, grass growing in the ruts, weeds invading from both sides.
    A few hundred metres from the road, the track reached a gate, an agricultural affair made of gum saplings in a bolted frame. I got out, the cold a shock, raw in the nose and mouth. The gate had a homemade latch, a sensible one, not the usual rural skinbreaker.
    ‘Good with a farm gate, Jack,’ said Harry when I was back in the warmth. ‘Never touch the bloody things myself.’
    ‘Damn right,’ said Cam, expressionless. ‘Got somebody does gates.’
    It was a long way to the farmhouse, a steep, winding descent through dense bush and then, suddenly, you were on level cleared land, a broad terrace, two or three small paddocks hacked from the forest. The homestead you saw from afar: a slab hut with a lean-to, a big corrugated-iron shed, half open. Closer, you saw the split firewood stacked to the shed roof, five or six years of firewood, a horse yard with a rabbit-fenced enclosure beside it, possibly a vegetable garden. They also grew more exotic things in these misty hills.
    In the near paddock, two rugged-up horses had heard the vehicle from a long way away and were waiting to greet us. With them – a friend but standing apart – was a patrician Anglo-Nubian goat. Cam parked outside the shed, beside an old Dodge horse truck, red once, now the colour of rust, dents inside bigger dents. Apart from the firewood and half-a-dozen galvanised feed bins, the open shed had a rack with four saddles riding single file. They were as old as the truck but gleaming. Horse tackle and coiled ropes hung from wire strung across the space above head height, and against the side wall stood a rugged workbench with a blacksmith’s leg vice. Tools were laid out on the bench like a museum display.
    ‘The animal’s here?’ I said.
    No reply. They got out, I got out. A keen wind was coming from far away, crossing Ninety Mile Beach from Bass Strait, coming from Antarctica. Harry made himself comfortable in his garments, adjusted them, a herringbone tweed jacket, thick grey flannels. ‘Tidy,’ he said. ‘Man keeps a grip on things.’
    A door in the shed opened and a cattledog came out, behind him a man in moleskins and a checked shirt. The dog stood still, eyes fixed on us.
    The man walked over to Cam, some stiffness in a leg, and punched him under the collarbone, a medium-hard hit. ‘Mongrel,’ he said. He was tall and stooped, any age from fifty, boxer’s shoulders, long nose, self-administered haircut.
    They shook hands. The dog relaxed, embarked on a sniffing spree.
    ‘Hurts,’ said Cam, rubbing his chest. ‘Harry, this’s Chink.’
    They shook hands.
    ‘Know ya,’ said Chink. ‘That Derby, read that.’
    He was talking about Harry winning the English Derby in the late 1950s, a famous ride, Harry seeming to lift Ceasefire’s head with both hands to edge out Pride of Shannon by nostrils. The photograph was on the wall in Harry’s study, not big, not in pride of place. The first time I saw it, I was struck by Harry’s hands – his long, powerful fingers.
    Cam waved at me. ‘Jack, Chink.’
    We shook hands. Chink didn’t have the air of someone who wanted to hurt but he could have clamped two leaf springs flat.
    ‘Want some tea?’ said Chink. He was looking at Harry.
    Harry shook his head. ‘Need to keep this short,’ he said. ‘How far?’
    ‘Just down the track. Forty.’
    ‘Before we go,’ said Harry, looking around, scratching the cleft in his chin, ‘seen the papers?’
    ‘Nah.’
    ‘Could be bullshit?’
    ‘Bloke at the pub’s seen the papers.’
    Harry didn’t seem impressed by this authentication. ‘The bloke at the pub