Heart of the Outback

T
he rider sat astride the dun-coloured horse on the western ridge in the pre-dawn light, waiting. The Drizabone collar had been raised as protection against the early morning coolness and the weather-beaten, broad-brimmed hat was angled low.

In the valley below, the cattle were stirring. The sounds of their gentle lowing echoed and mingled with the wake-up calls of a flock of cockatoos. Two grey kangaroos grazed near the edge of the muddy waterhole and on the other side of the stretch of water a dark-skinned jackeroo stirred the embers of last night’s fire into life. A wisp of smoke began to trail upwards until it dispersed against the lightening sky. A second man wearing fawn moleskins, a checked shirt and a red bandanna tied around his neck removed the nobbles from his horse and saddled it, getting ready to drive the mob forward before the heat of the day became too intense.

The mustering was on schedule, Richard Ambrose thought as he looped the bridle over his mount’s ears. They’d make it in time to the holding pens before the herd was to be picked up by a road train. That would give him and Billy a full day and night to recuperate from the rigours of the trail.

The rider on the ridge watched the sun peep over the eastern hill. Rays of golden light stole like stretching fingers across the grey shadows of night, across the rocky outcrops, across the termite hills — some standing more than a metre high — across scrubby spinifex and across the earth, anointing it a dull, lifeless red. The land would remain that colour until the annual rains came, if they came at all. Then the land would change miraculously but briefly to a carpet of green complete with a profusion of multicoloured wildflowers.

Richard, tall and rangy, his fair hair flopping down over his forehead, hunkered down on his heels near the fire’s edge. Billy Wontow, the Aboriginal stockman, handed him a steaming mug of tea and a thick slice of bread toasted over the open fire and smeared liberally with raspberry jam.

As Richard bit into the toast and then washed it down with the near boiling black tea he silently reflected on their muster. They’d tracked and mustered over one hundred and fifty head of cattle — his father would be pleased. Their swag of food had diminished to this — he bit into the toast again — the bare essentials. Still, it was enough to get them to the Isa without their bellies griping emptily.

His head shook almost imperceptibly as he thought of his Aunt Shellie. She sure knew how to
pack a swag but, as she always said, a finger waggling at him for extra emphasis, they had to make it last. If they gobbled everything up too fast it was their own fault. Richard had done that just once in the four years he’d been moving cattle on Murrundi Downs station. Two days on a ration of black, unsweetened tea had taught him not to let his stomach rule his head.

Through a gaze narrowed by the morning light and camp smoke he glanced across at Billy. The Aboriginal stockman could always find himself a feed in the bush but, sometimes, Richard couldn’t quite stomach what Billy turned up.

“What I wouldn’t give for a decent breakfast. Sausages, eggs, bacon. Brewed coffee,” Richard complained good-naturedly.

“Sure, boss. Wait’ll we get to town. How about the biggest, juiciest rump steak, chips and eggs? That’d be a real treat.”

“Shut up, you bloody torment.”

Billy continued to grin at the younger man as he gulped down his tea. He knew the young boss liked his tucker as much as his old man CJ did.

The rider on the ridge stood up in the saddle’s stirrups to get a better look at the cattle and camp over a clump of mulga shrubs which partially obscured the view. The cattle were all standing now and had begun to move towards the waterhole. A gloved hand reached for the rifle and slid it out of its leather scabbard. The barrel rose skywards, the butt rested on the rider’s left thigh. The index finger slipped into place in front of the trigger and squeezed. Slowly.

A shot rang out like a bolt of thunder in the morning’s silence.

The recoil from the discharge pushed the rifle butt down hard into the rider’s thigh. The horse reacted, skittishly prancing until the reins were jerked hard and knees were pressed into the animal’s flanks to bring it under complete control again. A gloved hand jerked the pump action, dislodging the spent case.

The cattle’s gentle lowing suddenly changed to screeches of panic as a second shot rang out and then, within seconds, their placid milling galvanised into an all-out stampede.

“Shit!” Richard Ambrose threw his mug of tea into the fire and raced for his horse. “Must be tourists out shooting roos or wild pigs. Bloody idiots!” He grabbed the reins and vaulted into the saddle. “Billy,” he shouted, “I’ll try to turn them at the waterhole. You go down the left flank and slow the stampede as best you can.”

With a savage pull on the reins, Richard dug his heels into his horse and took off. His heart was racing inside his chest as he saw the turmoil of the mixed breed of Brahman and Texas shorthorns his father had bred for the harsh conditions of the far north. The whites of their eyes clearly revealed their fear as they pressed against each other in an animal hysteria caused by the rifle shots.

Richard knew from experience that the likelihood of stopping them from going through the water was slim. If they weren’t brought quickly under control, they’d run for kilometres and scatter in so many different directions that it would be impossible to reherd
them in time to meet the road train. He reached for his stock whip and uncoiled it as he galloped along the edge of the stampeding animals, cracking it in a fluid motion as he yelled at the top of his lungs in an effort to turn the mob, to bend them to his will.

Another shot rang out.

The rider whispered a curse as the bullet went slightly askew and lodged in a spindly eucalypt, splintering half the trunk.

Richard didn’t have time to utter a curse. A third of the cattle changed directions again. Clouds of dry, red dust rose until it began to choke him, forcing him to pull his bandanna up over his nose. Blue eyes scouted the other side of the mob, trying to locate Billy, but the noise, compounded with the dust made it impossible. Still, he had faith in the stockman. Billy knew his job, knew what to do.

A crazed Brahman-cross lurched out of the melee, bringing half-a-dozen steers with him. Richard used the pressure of his knees and a flick on the reins to urge his horse sideways. The animal obeyed instantly but as they moved, Richard felt the saddle underneath him slip sideways.

As the saddle’s girth strap snapped and he lost his balance, Richard grabbed for the horse’s neck, his fingers tangling in its mane as he tried to regain his seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the lead Brahman charge the flanks of his horse, knocking his mount sideways. The jolt caused him to lose his balance again and he fell off, his feet scraping along the ground. The last thing he saw as his eyes widened in comprehension of what was happening was the slobbering mouths and crazed eyes of the
animals and their dust encrusted flying hooves as they ran over him.

The rider on the ridge returned the rifle to its scabbard and stayed to watch the progress of the stampede through a pair of powerful binoculars, focusing in on the red bandanna. When the eyecatching colour could no longer be seen, the gloved hands reached for the horse’s reins. A satisfied smile stretched across a pair of dried lips and with pressure from the knees the horse was urged into a canter, away from the scene of destruction.

Richard Michael Ambrose, twenty-five years old and heir to CJ Ambrose’s fortune, was laid to rest beside his mother, Brenda deWitt-Ambrose in the family plot on Murrundi Downs, the family’s cattle station on March 3, 1996.

CJ stood dry-eyed beside the grave, separate and aloof. More than two hundred mourners had come to pay their last respects to the son of the man known unofficially and not always with affection throughout Queensland as “the man with the golden touch”. The nickname had stuck over the years because almost everything CJ touched turned to money — lots of it.

People left him alone after the funeral and during the Aussie wake where drinks and plates of food were served on the lawn and garden which bordered the swimming pool of the modern homestead. CJ, who considered the pretence of being cordial and controlled after the internment of a loved one as something barbaric, retired to his study and locked the door behind him. He knew that his sister Shellie, his adopted daughter from Brenda’s first marriage Natalie, and Les
Westcott, his right-hand man, would play host to those who’d come. Less than half of them were genuine mourners anyway. Many had come to be seen to be doing the right thing and, hopefully, to impress him.

He slumped heavily in the leather armchair and tried, as he had tried every waking moment since learning of Richard’s death, to make sense of it all. A stupid bloody accident had taken the life of the one person he loved more than life itself. A bitter grin creased the corners of his mouth as these thoughts ran through his head. Some of his so-called friends and business colleagues believed him incapable of loving anyone. They saw him as he wanted them to. A man who ruthlessly cut down or worked around those who opposed his plans and business schemes. But he had loved Richard unequivocally, even if he hadn’t always shown it. To him, his son had been a ray of light, all that was good in what he considered a crazy, sometimes unacceptable world.

A wave of emptiness engulfed him as he contemplated the adjustment to a world that no longer contained his son. Richard had been well on the way to understanding the complexities and vastness of the business empire CJ had carved for himself out of the far north in a mere twenty-six years. It was an empire his son had shown the capacity to embrace and understand. Oh, granted, the boy hadn’t been perfect, didn’t have
his
killer instinct to close a deal, but he had been a good son. Intelligent, eager to learn. They’d got on. Really, got on. Which was more than he could say for his adopted daughter, Natalie. Something about her didn’t sit comfortably with him, even after all these years.

He looked about his study, his eyes blue and faded but still similar to Richard’s own colour, and his nostrils dilated as he breathed in deeply. A pleasant smell permeated the room, his own personal preserve. A mixture of furniture polish, cigar smoke and a mustiness which came from storing row upon row of books, most of them heavy, intellectual tomes. Not that he’d read any of them. He’d always been a man of action, too busy making money, doing deals, but they impressed the people he chose to do business with.

His sister had seen that all the photos of Richard were removed. Damn her interfering ways! Probably thought she was doing the right thing, making it easier for him. He’d tell her to put them back even though he knew that every time he looked at a photo it would stir up the pain; but the pain made him feel alive. Pain helped numb the other emotions, the sense of loss, the desolation. Christ Almighty, he couldn’t let people see that. They’d think him finished. Try to take advantage of him.

A loud sigh cut the silence of the room and he eased back into the chair. Stillness. Keeping still helped to absorb the pain. It allowed it to move through his tissues and muscles, along the veins, pumping it through his heart, his mind. Richard. He silently screamed the name. Emptiness. Gone. Forever. The words kept repeating until they became chant-like.

He shut his eyes and let the memories dance before his closed lids. Richard in various stages of childhood and growing to manhood, and then his late wife Brenda who’d died three years ago. A single tear
forced its way out and slid unimpeded down a time-lined cheek. He had to do his mourning now. Alone.