Ian Yarbro was in no mood for a party.
Dingoes had brought down four of his best sheep just since Monday.
Water holes all over the property were coming up dry.
And worst of all, Jacy Tiernan, damn her, was back from America.
The first two plights were sorry ones, all right, but a man had to expect a fair portion of grief if he undertook to raise sheep in South Australia. That last bit, though, that
was something personal, an individualized curse from God.
With a resounding sigh Ian leaned back against the south wall of the shearing shed, a mug of beer in one sore, lacerated hand, and...