The first thing Ada Carmody noticed was the horseshoes. She kept a nail keg of old ones by the forge, rusty and bent, for melting down. On Tuesday morning the keg was empty and a line of horseshoes lay in the red dust of the main street, one after another, heading west toward the dry creek like something had walked there on them.
By Friday it was fence wire. Whole lengths of it had pulled free of the posts on the Barnett place and coiled away into the scrub in the night. People in Coolabah Creek started locking their sheds. It did no good. Iron does not care about a lock. Ada, who had been a farrier for twenty-two years, could have told them that.
This is as far as the free sample goes. The rest of Wattle and Iron is waiting for you.
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