In the Land of the Long White Cloud

your wool—we will not leave the Wardens alone, Mrs. Warden, until the governor has pronounced a judgment and your son is prepared to accept it.”
    “I do not know how long Paul will be away,” Gwyneira said helplessly.
    “Then we also do not know how long we will fight. I regret that, Mrs. Warden,” Tonga concluded, turning away.
    Gwyneira sighed. “Me too.”

    Over the next few weeks, Gwyneira tackled the sheep shearing, powerfully supported by her men and the two workers Gerald and Paul had contracted with back in Haldon. Joe Triffles had to be under constant surveillance, but when he could be kept away from alcohol, he did as much work as three ordinary shepherds. Helen, who still lacked any assistance, envied Gwyneira for having this capable man.
    “I’d let him come over to your place,” said Gwyneira, “but, believe me, you couldn’t control him alone; you can only do that with a whole gang working together. But I’ll send everyone to you as soon as we’re done here anyway. It’s just taking so miserably long. Can you keep the sheep fed that long?”
    The pastures around the farms were mostly eaten away by shearing time, hence the reason for the sheep being driven into the highlands for the summer.
    “Just barely,” Helen murmured. “I’m giving them the fodder that was meant for the cattle. George sold them off in Christchurch; otherwise, I wouldn’t even have been able to pay the burial costs. Eventually I’ll have to sell the farm too. I’m not like you, Gwyn. I can’t manage it alone. And to be honest, I don’t even like sheep.” Awkwardly, she stroked the young sheepdog that Gwyneira had given her first thing after Howard’s death. The dog was fully trained and helped Helen out enormously with the farm work. However, Helen only had limited control of the dog. The only advantage she had over Gwyneira was that she was still on friendly terms with the Maori. Her students helped her with her farm work without being asked, and so at least Helen had vegetables out of the garden, milk, and eggs, and often fresh meat when the little boys helped hunt or their parents gave them fish as a present for their teacher.
    “Have you written to Ruben yet?” Gwyneira asked.
    Helen nodded. “But you know how long it takes. First the mail goes to Christchurch, then to Dunedin.”
    “Though soon the O’Kay Warehouse wagons will be able to take them,” Gwyneira remarked. “Fleur wrote in her last letter that she’s expecting a delivery in Lyttelton. So she has to send someone to pick it up. They’re probably already on their way. But let’s talk about my wool for a minute—the Maori are threatening to block the road we take to Christchurch, and I wouldn’t put it past Tonga to simply steal the wool—as a little advance pay on the reparations the governor will award him. Well, I’m thinking of spoiling a bit of his fun. Would you be amenable to our bringing our wool to your farm to store in your cow barn until your shearing is done as well? Then we can take it all together by way of Haldon. We’ll be a bit later to market than the other breeders, but there’s nothing we can do about that.”

    Tonga was incensed, but Gwyneira’s plan succeeded. While his men guarded the road, their enthusiasm for the task slowly ebbing, George Greenwood was receiving the wool from both Kiward Station and O’Keefe Station in Haldon. Tonga’s people, whom he had promised ample remuneration, became impatient over the incident and objected that they were usually earning money from the
pakeha
around this time.
    “Almost enough for the whole year!” Kiri’s husband complained. “We’ll now have to move around and hunt like before. Kiri is not looking forward to a winter in the highlands.”
    “Maybe she’ll find her daughter there,” Tonga retorted angrily. “And her
pakeha
husband. She can complain to him—after all, he’s responsible.”
    Tonga still had not heard anything about Paul and Marama’s whereabouts, but he was a patient man. He waited. Then a covered wagon fell into the clutches of his road blockade. However, it was coming from Christchurch, not Kiward Station, and contained women’s clothing, not fleece, so really there was no justifiable reason to stop it. But Tonga’s men were slowly getting out of control—and set more things in motion than Tonga could ever have imagined possible.

    Leonard McDunn steered his heavy vehicle over the still rather bumpy road from Christchurch