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Four days later, Albie saddled Minnie in the stable before daybreak. Minnie was a chestnut mare, barely fourteen hands high, a mountain pony through and through. More mountain goat than horse, Albie’s father had once said with a laugh. But if any man was only as good as his horse, as the saying went, then Albie was confident. She was as smart as she was sure-footed, and Albie trusted her with his life. When you were riding flat strap, chasing cattle down the slopes, dodging trees and rocks, that trust was the difference between life and death.
These mountains rarely afforded second chances.
Des appeared, not quite awake yet, and began to ready Ox. The tall black gelding was, or rather, had been, Albie’s father’s horse. Albie was still struggling with thinking of his father in the past tense. Ox had been a bit skittish as a colt and took a firm hand to yield, but he was a good stock horse: as strong as his name suggested.
Albie was riding to town, and for the two-day return trip, he would ride Minnie and tether Ox behind. Ox would serve as the pack horse. Albie had a few matters to attend to in town and a list of supplies to bring back. It was a half-day’s ride into Alpine Falls following the narrow road down the mountains, and Albie had made this journey countless times.
The plan was to see his lawyer, collect all the supplies, stay overnight, and return home by midday the following day. He also planned on putting the word out for any men who were looking for work.
He wasn’t optimistic, but it couldn’t hurt.
No doubt word had gotten out about Fitzgerald and his men leaving, and Albie had to wonder what rumours had followed. He’d never cared for the town life. There were too many people and too much fuss for his liking, but this trip couldn’t be put off any longer. He was, after all, the man in charge now.
Des finished putting the saddlebags on Ox and took the bridle in hand. “You ready?”
Albie double-checked the girth strap and gave a nod. “Yes. I’ll be back around noon tomorrow. There’s enough stew and damper to last the night, and fresh eggs if you collect ’em.”
Des grumped and led Ox out of the stable. “Robert can fetch the eggs,” he drawled, his deep voice as stoic as he was. “I’ll worry about the horses and cattle.”
Albie put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle. Minnie tossed her head to the side and Albie tightened the reins and gave her a nudge. “Come on, girl.”
Once they were outside, the sun was turning night into day along the mountain ridge that lined the eastern sky. Des tethered Ox to Minnie, and with a tip of his hat, Albie said, “You’re in charge, Des.”
“Got it... boss.” The man almost smiled like he found something funny in calling him boss. But then he frowned. “Watch the crossing.”
Watch the crossing was something Albie’s father had said whenever Albie had gone down the mountain, and hearing Des say it now sent a pang of grief through him that made it hard for Albie to breathe. The best he could manage was a nod, and with another nudge to Minnie, he rode down the long entrance and out his property gate.
The trek down the mountain was cold, damp, and peaceful. The winter mist clung to the slopes like a shawl, the smell of wet earth and eucalypt the perfume that would always remind Albie of home.
He’d been a small boy on childish adventures in these parts, pretending to be a bushranger, climbing trees, and building lean-tos from bark. He’d been a teen, taking off on horseback when his father allowed, spending time by himself trying to get away from it all, giving himself time to think...
He loved these mountains.
The birds, the trees, the winds, they knew his stories. They knew his secrets.
And so he rode. The trip was mostly a chore for everyone else, but Albie didn’t mind it one bit. It gave him uninterrupted head-clearing time, and by the time he rode into Alpine Falls, he was determined to do everything on his list, already eager to get back home.
The township of Alpine Falls was a decent size. Stores and saloons with verandas lined the dirt street that became mud with the hint of rain. Posts to tether horses dotted the streets, troughs of water, and people milling about with important business that Albie never much cared for. The tannery reeked, the bullock trains did too, noise and foul language spilled from the saloons, children ran and yelled, and it was all too loud and busy for Albie’s liking.
He rode past the saddler’s store, the bank, and the barbers, and a few of the townsfolk nodded his way. He tipped his hat and offered no more than a smile until he found the place he was looking for.
First stop was to see Mr Bill Flannigan. He had helped Albie’s father over the years, and Bill had told Albie at the funeral he’d need to come to town to sign the paperwork to transfer the title deeds over to his name. It was easy enough.
“Ah, the man from Echo Creek,” Flannigan said, greeting him warmly the way he used to greet his father.
The man from Echo Creek...
The reminder was a little too raw and it seared Albie with fresh grief, right where he stood.
Flannigan seemed to notice and regretted his choice of words. “It’s good to see you, Albie.”
“Likewise,” Albie replied. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to see a friendly face.
A handshake, further apologies and condolences at the loss of a good man, and Flannigan quickly explained how the ownership of Echo Creek now rested on Albie’s shoulders.
At just nineteen, Albie was the owner of two thousand hectares of mountain country. He should have felt pride or something—men twice his age rarely had what he did—but all Albie felt was loss and a huge weight of responsibility. His father’s passing had left him with quite the burden, and he’d have given it all back to have his father alive again.
