FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (19 page)

Awakening to sunshine and birdsong Queenie felt much better. She’d fallen instantly into a dreamless sleep and had slept soundly. Her energy and vigour were restored. She stretched, showered and dressed quickly and made her way to the kitchen, ravenously hungry and desperate for a cup of tea.

Seeing there were no eggs, bacon, cereal or porridge, Queenie toasted the last of the bread she and Ernie had brought and heated a can of baked beans with slices of corned beef. Then, with toast and marmalade and a mug of tea, she carried her tray onto the verandah and ate with relish. Judging by the activity from the birds flying in and out of it, she knew the mulberry tree must be full of ripe berries, so after breakfast she took a large billycan down to fill with one of her favourite fruits. She especially loved Millie’s mulberry jam, but a bowlful of fresh berries with some tinned cream would make a nice lunch.

It was midmorning by the time she got around to heading down to the tree shading the old chicken run. But as she crossed the expanse of land between the house and the nearest shed she stopped and looked across at the top paddock. It was empty. Now why have they moved the bulls from there? she wondered. She walked over to the old stables and horse paddock where Dinky, their oldest bull, resided with some rangy stockhorses. Dinky
still performed his duties but in his old age had become something of a pet, preferring the company of horses and people to other cattle.

Dinky was nowhere to be seen.

Fear began to gnaw at the pit of Queenie’s stomach. She whistled and two stockhorses trotted to the fence. The other two kept here were nowhere in sight. It was an open paddock with several large trees in its far corner but there was no way they could hide the bulk of Dinky or two horses.

Queenie vaulted over the fence and ran across the field into the next paddock and headed down to the far side of the creek where the water tank stood by an old windmill. Rapidly she swung up and started to climb the rusty rungs of the windmill base. Halfway up she steadied herself and looked across to the west where the prize stud bulls were. This paddock too was empty.

‘Oh hell no, not the bulls. Dear God, not the bulls.’ She clambered up a little further, shaking with the realisation of what had happened. In a far paddock she could make out half a dozen smudgy brown shapes of the heavily pregnant Hereford cows. It was too far in the other direction for her to see where the rest of the calves and steers were.

She clambered down, slipping in her haste and banging her knee against the metal. Racing to the storage shed in the distance she leaned against the corrugated tin door, shoving it open. Bales of hay were piled to the ceiling and a few tins of motor oil, spare parts and fencing gear were stacked along one wall.
In the shadows of the opposite corner leaned a battered motorbike. Checking it swiftly, Queenie wheeled it outside and, after a couple of hefty kicks, got it going. She roared away to check the rest of the paddocks close to the homestead.

It was close to lunch time when Ernie and the police sergeant drove into Cricklewood. They clumped along the verandah of the house calling out to Queenie. When no one answered they exchanged a worried look and walked indoors.

‘She must be down the yards somewhere. Take a pew, Sarge, and I’ll go see,’ said Ernie.

Sergeant Andrews lowered himself into a chair, fanning himself with his hat. ‘You want me to come with you?’

‘Nah, just be a jiffy. She can’t have gone too far.’

Bill Andrews scanned the paddocks from the verandah in admiration. He’d been in the bush long enough to know enough about the land and stock to talk easily and competently with the locals. He knew he was looking at one of the best properties in the area.

Ernie heard the spluttering roar of the motorbike and headed towards the shed. As Queenie rode up, Ernie took one look at her face and asked, ‘What’s gone wrong, missus?’

‘Those thieves took the food for a reason. They’ve hit the road with my best stock.’

‘Cattle duffers? Jesus!’ Ernie was wide-eyed.

‘Bloody thieves!’ fumed Queenie, throwing her hands up in despair. ‘They’ve taken a big
mob and they’re probably to hell and gone by now. They’ve had days, maybe a week or more, head start.’

‘The sergeant is up at the house.’

‘Get on.’

Ernie swung onto the back of the motorbike and Queenie sped to the house, screeching to a stop by the front verandah where the veteran sergeant now stood holding his wide-brimmed hat in his hands.

‘Cattle duffers! Bastards have taken the best. The bloody lot of them. And a whole lot of unbranded bull calves.’ Queenie shook the sergeant’s hand and then apologised. ‘Sorry, how are you, Bill? Thanks for coming out. Looks like this is more than a petty break-in.’

‘Phone’s out too, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Give me the details and I’ll get onto my radio.’

‘Oh, there’s no rush, they’re probably in another State by now. They could already be broken up and sold,’ she added fiercely.

‘It’s not easy to flog branded prize cattle.’

‘These fellows were special. And there are always unscrupulous buyers around who don’t ask questions. Someone would just have to keep them quietly under wraps on an isolated property and start selling their potential progeny to the Asian or South American markets.’

‘How far you reckon they’ve gone?’ asked Ernie.

‘Like Queenie says, they could be in Adelaide or even Perth by now,’ said the sergeant with resignation.

‘So what we gonna do, boss?’ Ernie looked at Queenie.

‘Find them. I want my cattle back.’

‘Now settle down, Queenie, it’s not that simple,’ the policeman cautioned.

‘You’re telling me,’ said Queenie angrily. She was furious. ‘A mob of stolen prize cattle doesn’t just disappear into thin air.’

The sergeant reached for his notebook. ‘Give me what information you can and I’ll start checking from my end.’

‘You can’t do anything but let the authorities start checking cattle movements,’ said Tango to Queenie when she called him once the phone was reconnected. She’d already spoken to Saskia.

‘I’m not just sitting by and twiddling my thumbs and waiting.’

‘But you can’t head off on some wild bloody goose chase — that’s a waste of time and energy. You’ve got enough on your plate.’

‘I know,’ she said wearily. ‘Shearing. And hopefully, TR coming home. But, Tango, I’ve been working on a plan and made a lot of enquiries. Ernie and the police tracker have gone over the place and found they went southwest on foot into the ranges, which makes them hard to track. The police had a look from the air but couldn’t find anything. I started checking out the trucking companies and spread the word around the stock and station agents for any gossip. One of Normie Donaldson’s truckies spotted a strange road train and picked it up on the CB radio and said
he thought the guy sounded a bit evasive. The truck had a Northern Territory rego and took off like the clappers.’

‘So what are you going to do? It’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Not necessarily. But, Tango, if I do get a lead on them and decide to take off, I’m going to ask Dingo to come over and supervise the shearing for me. You don’t need him to stay with you much longer, do you?’

‘Nah, you have him, Mum. So you’re serious about this then? What does Sas think of your plan?’

‘She wants to come with me, of course. I’m afraid we had some cross words.’ Queenie paused then added with concern, ‘We’ve patched things up but she seems very unsettled, Tango. Have you had any heart to heart talks with her recently?’

‘Nothing meaningful. Look, don’t worry about Sas, or TR for that matter. He sounds like he is in capable hands. It’s a good thing Dingo’s still here and hasn’t gone back to the west, he’ll keep an eye on things for you.’

‘Thank heavens for good old Dingo.’ Queenie was distracted and impatient to get on with her own plans. ‘I’ll let you know what I’m doing. Take care, Tango.’

‘You take care,’ he said with emphasis. ‘I thought your wild days were over. Don’t do anything rash.’

‘No, of course not.’ But Queenie managed to muster a small smile and added, ‘Unless it’s absolutely necessary’.

Chapter Thirteen

Jenni stood in the supermarket checkout queue, leaning on the trolley. She was tired, had a headache and knew there’d be a traffic jam outside the shopping centre. She picked up a
New Idea
magazine and flipped through its pages, then dropped it into her shopping trolley.

Watching her groceries travel along the conveyor belt and over the price scanner, she noticed the preponderance of packaged and convenience foods and thought how it reflected her lifestyle; no time or inclination to cook — meals for one were no fun anyway. A change of lifestyle might be just what she needed.

Her thoughts turned to the man she would be caring for full-time if she took up Queenie’s offer. Jenni smiled fondly. TR might be an older man but was at the prime of his physical appeal. A few lines were etched into his face
from the sun, as yet there was no grey in his tawny-gold hair and his eyes were such a vivid blue. He must have been something of a man’s man but Jenni could also tell he had a sensitive, caring nature and his occasional flashes of humour helped round out the picture of a very attractive man. But right now he was vulnerable, depressed and dependent and it was to her he had turned for strength in the hope that she would be the one to repair his broken body and help him find his life again. It was hard to turn her back on his need.

At this moment, living in the city was draining and depressing. In contrast, travelling to the open spaces of western Queensland, being part of the family atmosphere of a large property, away from the claustrophobic city pace, were factors encouraging her to throw in the sterile hospital routine, see a bit of the country and face the challenge of rehabilitating one man. By the time the checkout girl had totalled her bill, Jenni knew she’d made the right decision.

The next morning she phoned Tingulla. Millie answered and told her that Mrs Hamilton was away. ‘She’s at the other property, can I take a message?’

‘That would be Cricklewood, I suppose. This is Jenni Brown, TR’s physiotherapist. Would you tell her I rang, please.’

‘Is there some problem with TR, luv?’

Jenni recognised the concern in her voice. ‘No, no. When will Mrs Hamilton be back?’

‘I dunno, luv. She’s had a bit of a problem over there.’

‘What a shame, as if she didn’t have enough to deal with. Just tell her I rang . . . Mrs . . ?’

‘Mrs Nicholson, but everyone calls me Millie, luv. If you like I’ll give you Queenie’s number at Cricklewood. Some thieves cut the phone but it’s back on now.’

‘I won’t bother her while she has problems. Don’t worry her, just tell her TR is doing very well and I hope to get him going even better.’

‘Doin’ well is he?’ Millie paused a moment digesting the news. ‘Then you’d better tell him it’s time to get back home and get cracking.’

Jenni smiled at the response. ‘I’ll tell him just that, Millie — to get cracking back to Tingulla.’

‘Yeah,’ Millie added, her instincts in command. ‘Yeah, you tell him if he ain’t back soon I’ll come over there and drag him back.’

Queenie was furious that the cattle theft had happened at a time when she was so vulnerable. She was annoyed with herself too. Perhaps she had been careless in reducing the manpower on the property and not setting up a better form of security for the valuable stock.

The regional stock inspector had called on other properties in the district who checked their own stock but it appeared there hadn’t been any other major thefts. Then she had received news that there had been two other similar thefts — one in the Northern Territory and one in the Kimberley region of the west.

‘Same sort of cattle, same possibility they were stolen for stud purposes, not just meat.’

‘Where could anyone sell beasts like these? They’d stick out like a sore thumb,’ said Queenie.

‘They’d have to flog them where there were other tropical breeds, they’d certainly stick out down south in a mob of English breeds. Or they could call in a ring artist and change the brand . . . ’

‘A ring artist?’

‘Blokes who use a red-hot surcingle ring to alter a brand. But what is most likely — seeing how they seemed to know what they were after — is that they’d hide them away in back blocks on a property back of Woop Woop and sell calves or semen. Kind of a long-range plan and they’d have to know what they’re doing, so it narrows the field . . . a bit anyway.’