“All right,” Adrienne said. “There are going to be six tractors pulling flatbeds—four loading, one on its way back to the rickyard or unloading there, and one on its way back here—three people on both sides of each flatbed; you load for forty-five minutes and rest for fifteen while your flatbed is away. You’ll be tossing the sheaves to the spreaders.”
She pointed to the flatbed. Two workers were standing on each of the flat trailers, wearing canvas bib aprons over their working clothes, and gloves with elbow-length sleeves attached. Adrienne went on: “Don’t toss too hard. You’ll wear yourselves out if you do, and waste grain, not to mention stabbing people with the pointy end. Just put the fork into the sheaf a little behind the binding…”
She walked up to the trail of grain and suited action to words. The tines slid into the bundled grain with a slight shink sound; her gloved right hand moved backward.
“…slide your hand back on the handle…”
She lifted, turned, pivoted, movements as smooth and graceful as a seal sliding off a rock, and the effort was just enough to present the sheaf at the right height.
“…and swing it up.”
The worker on the flatbed was one of the teenagers they’d picked up on the way to the house yesterday, the bashful dark-haired one. The youngster took the sheaf off the tines with the same deceptively easy-looking skill, bending to place it horizontally against the frame at the front of the trailer, and tamping it down with a kick of her boot heel.
“Don’t try to rush,” Adrienne said, moving on to the next. “Everyone’s got to be synchronized. You’re all partnered up with an experienced hand; listen to them. OK, people, let’s go!”
She walked over to Tom; evidently she was the one “partnered up” with him; a big dog ambled at her heels, occasionally wagging its tail and then flopping down to watch the people work, with the air of someone humoring lunatics. The flatbeds moved off at the pace of a leisurely stroll, arrayed in a staggered line like the harvesting machines. That was the only leisurely thing about the proceedings; when you had to keep up and keep the wheat flowing smoothly, your movements tended to the brisk. Yet the sheaves weren’t heavy at all, and Tom was hugely strong, and in first-class condition. The first half hour was just enough to bring out a sweat.
“You’re going to regret that,” Adrienne said, swinging up another sheaf with an easy, smooth motion, timing each word to her breath.
“Regret what?” Tom said, following suit.
His pitch wasn’t as practiced, but it got the sheaf where it was supposed to be, and the stacker didn’t have to dance back from the points of the tines the way she’d had to do a couple of times with the other greenhorns.
“You’re muscling the sheaf up,” Adrienne said. Her breathing was slow, even, controlled to a perfect match with her movements. “You’re lifting it.”
“That’s bad?”
“It will be in four hours, or six,” she said. “Use your left hand as a fulcrum and the shaft of the fork as a lever. Pivot the sheaf up. Like this.”
He tried it for a while, but the effort of moving his hands on the ash wood seemed more than it was worth, particularly since he was wearing rather stiff work gloves. He was also going to get blisters eventually; they were task-specific. It got a little harder as they went on; the stackers were standing on layer after layer of sheaves, and he had to lift a lot more to get each sheaf to them. After three quarters of an hour, the flatbed carried a huge mass of yellow grain on paler white-blond straw, piled up like a giant blunt wedge between the frames at each end.
“That’s it!” the brunette girl—Anne-Marie, that’s her name, Tom reminded himself—cried out from the top of the stack. “Full up!”
The tractor backed and turned carefully, then drove off across the reaped stubble with the great stack bouncing and swaying behind it. Tom and Adrienne and the rest of their group walked over to the section next to the un-reaped grain, leaning on their forks and waiting for the flatbed to return; Adrienne’s dog followed, shifting into a patch of shade cast by the standing crop. The wheat whispered with a dry rustling voice; it was a lot taller than the short stiff-stalk hybrids his family had raised, waist-high on him instead of knee-high-and-a-bit, but it had a familiar smell—dusty and mealy at the same time. The itchiness of culms stuck in his sweat was familiar too, and not nearly as bad as after the days he’d spent in the bed of a truck shoveling the loose grain pouring out of a combine’s spout.
A kid came up to him holding out a big mug of water; it had a slight mineral tang, product of the volcanic mountains to the west, and tasted wonderful. He nodded thanks, and the boy—he was about eleven, wearing a baseball cap and shorts—dashed off; Tom looked around and saw two horses loaded with barrels of water, and a bucket brigade of kids a bit too young for the work he was doing trotting around handing people cupfuls.
And Roy, talking to… Say, that’s the old Indian woman’s granddaughter. Sandra Margolin, he thought. She threw back her head and laughed, a caroling sound that carried across the hundred feet between them.
He nodded toward them. “Looks like Roy’s made a friend,” he said.
Adrienne looked and nodded. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “With his line of patter, that is. He makes you laugh.” She frowned in thought, then spoke quietly after checking that nobody else was likely to overhear. “I think we need to bring Sandra in on this.”
Tom blinked in surprise. “I thought we were supposed to keep things confidential.”
“Sandy knows how to keep her mouth shut; I’ve known her all my life, and we can trust her. She’s my stable boss here; her father was before her. What she doesn’t know about horses isn’t worth knowing, and she’s done a lot of rough-country work; I suspect that we’re going to be needing that skill set before this is over…. I’ve had a few thoughts on what the Collettas are up to. Specifically, on where.”
Jim Simmons extended his hand. “Botha,” he said.
The Afrikaner took it, a firm shake without any squeezing nonsense. “Simmons,” he replied.
His gaze probed the stiff way the younger man sank into a lounger on the terraced pavement behind the manor. “How are you doing, man?”
“I’m mobile,” Simmons said. “The doctors say I’ll be fit for duty in two weeks or so; it’s healing fast—neither of the arrows went very deep. Kolo’s ahead of me.”
The Indian was sitting on his heels with his back against a planter and his face unreadable. Simmons lay for a moment, soaking up the morning sunlight and the smell of flowers and water and the wild forests on the mountains rearing to the westward.
God, but I’m glad to be out of that hospital, he thought. And glad to be out of the city. All those people and buildings in one place always give me hives. The trip up from Rolfeston had been a bit rough, but…
“Sorry to hear about your partner, old boy,” he went on. “He saved my arse from those hostiles.”
Botha nodded. “Miss Rolfe said I should fill you in,” he said.
Simmons felt his lips curl back and show teeth; it wasn’t a friendly expression, but Botha echoed it—they were on the scent of the same game this time. They’d also both been hunters their entire adult lives. Hunters, and hunters of men not least.
“Bit of a bliddy coincidence, those bushmen having rifles and knowing how to use them, wasn’t it?” the Afrikaner said. “Here’s what I heard among my own folk, when I went back to my farm after we got back from FirstSide. I should have suspected it; hell, Schalk was always trying to get me interested….”