FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR

by Di Morrissey

  ‘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.’

  Queenie looked thoughtful. ‘Umm . . . Well I’m still going to see if I can pick up their trail. I know you’ve done what you can for the moment . . . ’

  The inspector sensed the disappointment and despair at the other end of the phone. ‘Listen, I’d love to get out there on the trail with you, but I’m one bloke to an area of three hundred and fifty thousand square kilometres with a few other problems on the go.’ He was sympathetic but knew tracking a gang of sophisticated duffers on horseback was a long shot. But he didn’t try to discourage Queenie, he understood her feelings of helplessness and he hoped that taking some positive action herself might make her better able to come to terms with the loss. He also knew Queenie’s formidable reputation and he didn’t discount the fact that if she did find some trace of her stock, all hell would break lose.

  Later, when Queenie phoned home, Millie told her of Jenni’s call.

  ‘I hope she is going to take up my offer to move into Tingulla and work with TR. I’ll call her right back.’

  ‘If TR comes back home we can nurse one half-mended fella all right. Why do we need this doctor lady?’

  ‘She’s not exactly a doctor, Millie. She works with rehabilitating the muscles, limbs and motor skills. TR has special exercises to do under supervision and she gives him muscular massaging and therapy in the pool — things like that.’

  ‘I dunno anything ‘bout that kinda stuff. But I can help him and feed him and take care of that sorta thing.’

  ‘And that’s great, Millie, but I think having Jenni is the best solution. She has the specialised skills and you and I have too much to do to be able to devote all our time to him. And besides I don’t think TR wants us fussing over him . . . we’re still strangers to him.’

  Millie clicked her tongue. ‘Once that boy is back home I jist know he’s gonna get better. Strangers indeed, what nonsense!’

  ‘Millie, I hope Jenni and TR will be back at Tingulla very soon, but in the meantime, I’m going to have a go at finding my stolen cattle. I just hope I’m back there when he does come home.’

  Millie could not disguise her astonishment at Queenie’s plan. ‘You’re goin’ huntin’ them cattle? That’s crazy. They’re a million miles away by now.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says.’ Queenie spoke calmly and with self-assurance. ‘You see, Millie, I reckon those duffers might be thinking that’s exactly how we’re all reacting. They could be sitting pat in the scrub waiting for the situation to cool down. They could sit there for weeks before deciding to put them on the road in trucks.’

  Millie wasn’t convinced. ‘Even Jim reckons they c
ould’ve been overlanded a hundred miles or more by now.’

  ‘That’s true, but do we have some clue as to the direction they set out on or . . . ’ Queenie paused, conscious once again of the enormous odds. ‘Damn it, Millie,’ she went on more sharply than she intended, ‘I’ve got to try.’

  For a little while Millie was quiet. ‘You’re right, luv,’ she said slowly, ‘you’ve gotta give it a go. Don’t you worry ‘bout tings here. Our mob will look after Tingulla, like always. You jist be a bit careful now.’

  ‘Thanks, Millie,’ said Queenie softly. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  Queenie prepared to leave Cricklewood before dawn the next day. Ernie guided Honey into the float behind the LandCruiser and ran his eye over the gear stacked in the back. ‘Water, rifle, ammo, food, two-way radio working okay, spare parts, horse gear, your stuff. No tent?’

  ‘I’ve got my swag, it’s not too cold yet and I can sleep in the car if it rains. Not much chance of that, more’s the pity.’

  Ernie twirled his hat. ‘Wish I was coming with you, missus. What if you find these blokes? Them crooks could be dangerous. You be careful, right?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Righto, Ernie.’

  ‘Don’t you worry ‘bout nuthin’. That lady doctor goin’ to look after TR at Tingulla?’

  ‘She said yes. So TR will be well looked after when he gets home. He’ll be back on his feet and better before we know it.’

  ‘Well you find them bulls, git home ready to meet TR, eh?’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Ernie.’ They shook hands and Queenie glanced into the sky. ‘Look, there’s the morning star, my lucky omen. I’ll be right.’

  Ernie nodded and slammed the car door as Queenie settled herself behind the wheel. They smiled briefly at each other and as the throaty gurgle of the vehicle echoed round the sleepy bush, Ernie jammed his hat on his head of dark curls and walked unhappily back towards the homestead. There was something about this expedition he didn’t like.

  That evening Queenie made camp away from the two wheel tracks that passed as an unofficial road through the scrub country on the far southwest part of the property near a range of low boulder-strewn hills. She rolled out her swag near the rock-ringed campfire and boiled a billy of black tea and cooked a pan of beans and bacon. She listened to the snuffling night sounds of the bush and, leaning back in the saddle she had taken from the car, looked up at the vast spread of stars. For a little while she forgot her troubles and let the intense peacefulness of the outback envelop and comfort her. It was almost hypnotic and, still holding an enamel mug half full of tea, she fell asleep.

  Hours later Queenie awoke cold and shivering. The campfire was almost out so she threw on some logs and had it blazing by the time she had rolled into her swag. As she turned over and stared into the flames, Queenie once again faced the reality of her mission and wondered what she would do when the sun came up. There were no more tracks, no clues.

  In the cold dawn, Queenie took Honey for a ride to give them both some exercise. Once the sun was high enough to light the bush, she scanned the ground for anything that might give her a clue as to what direction to head in, but she found nothing and turned back, feeling for the first time that this was a futile exercise. She was still trying to exorcise the sense of futility as she rode into her camp and, startled by what she saw, pulled the horse up suddenly.

  There, sitting on a log by her fire, was an old swagman. A battered bicycle leaned against a nearby tree. The old man stared at her in obvious surprise then got to his feet somewhat awkwardly and swept his stained and floppy bush hat from his head of long white hair.

  ‘G’day missus. Sorry to sorta intrude like this. Saw yer tracks and found yer camp. Figured you’d be back soon. Didn’t think yer’d be a lady,’ he added and, aware of the ambiguity, went on quickly, ‘Yer know what I mean.’

  Queenie smiled. ‘Yep, I know what you mean. I’m Queenie Hamilton.’ She dismounted and tied the horse to the tree alongside the obviously well-travelled bicycle, which was fitted with many straps, pieces of rope and old leather saddlebags.

  ‘Chipper’s me name.’

  They shook hands and Queenie felt the leathery weals and calluses that told of a lifetime of hard bush work. ‘Chipper by nature?’ she grinned.

  ‘On and off. It’s really chip off the old block. Me dad was a timber cutter,’ he chuckled, and Queenie laughed.

  ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet,’ said Queenie, conscious of the code of bush hospitality. ‘Join me for some tea and damper?’

  ‘I’ll be in that all right, missus,’ he replied brightly as he picked up some sticks and began kindling the hot ashes.

  As she got out the damper and golden syrup from the tuckerbox, Queenie glanced at the thin old man with the pipe-stained beard that framed a face as lined as a map of the channel country. He was a relic of the past, complete with collarless shirt, tattered waistcoat and even more tattered overcoat, and boots that had been repaired many times. A pair of Fireman braces were attached to his trousers by sticks, and for added security he wore a rawhide leather belt.

  ‘We don’t see blokes like you around much these days,’ observed Queenie. It was more a question than a statement, but she knew it wasn’t polite to be too inquisitive.

  ‘Been on the road for years,’ Chipper answered. ‘Was on the road before the war, did me time overseas and couldn’t settle down after comin’ back. So I mooch around the bush pickin’ up a job ‘ere and there. I was headed down to Cricklewood.’ He returned to heating up the damper.

  Over breakfast Queenie admitted Cricklewood was her property and explained what had happened and a bit about her mission. ‘Sort of a long shot,’ she said, ‘and, quite frankly, at this moment I really don’t have a clue about what way to go. I was hoping to find clues along this stock route, but there’s nothing.’

  Chipper was silent as he poked at the fire with a stick. After a while he looked up and said, ‘Well mebbe they took the old goat track. That’s what I’d’ve done if I was in their shoes.’

  ‘Goat track? What goat track?’

  ‘Well it ain’t really a goat track. Jist called that. Used to be a short cut through the hills to Walshie’s place. Gawd, must be fifteen years ago or more. Nuthin’ there anymore. Dunno what happened to ’im. Probably dead.’

  ‘So where is this goat track . . . Where does it go?’

  ‘Like I said, to Walshie’s place . . . an’ then there’s a track out to the Midgee Road an’ that joins onto what used to be the old highway. Funny yer never ‘eard of the goat track.’ He helped himself to damper and washed it down with tea. Queenie could barely control her excitement.

  Without prompting, Chipper went on. ‘The track ain’t much used anymore. In terrible shape, but then, weren’t never much good anyway. Good enough for us inspectors of roads, but,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘And good enough to walk a small mob along,’ Queenie added, completing the picture Chipper was painting.

  ‘Gotcha thinkin’ now, eh?’ He reached for his pipe and began the long ritual of cleaning it with a pocket knife before lighting up.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me how to find this goat track,’ said Queenie warmly. The uncertainty of the morning had vanished and Queenie could hardly wait to get moving. But bush hospitality meant that breakfast had to be followed by a leisurely yarn.

  Queenie studied the swaggie for a moment then made up her mind about him. ‘Why don’t you keep going down to Cricklewood and look up Ernie. He’s looking after things while I’m out here chasing shadows. He could do with a hand. Tell him you met me.’ Queenie knew the old man would be grateful for a bit of work. ‘How come you took to the road in the first place, Chipper?’

  ‘Me dad was killed. Tree fell on him, believe it or not. Mum and half a dozen kids moved to ‘er sister’s place in the city but I couldn’t stand the smell an’ noise so I took off. Took Dad’s axe and earned me tucker swingin’ it ‘ere and there. Then the war came . . . Can’t settle do
wn now . . . that rat race they talk about might catch up with me now if I stop still for too long.’ Chipper grinned, displaying two rows of tobacco-stained teeth.

  ‘No rat race out here,’ said Queenie with enthusiasm, waving a hand around the camp.

  ‘Thank gawd,’ acknowledged Chipper in a soft voice. ‘Yer know, I feel sorry for them in that rat race. Most of ’em don’t know what a beautiful country we got ’n’ they keep buggering it up. If they got out and walked in the bush a bit, listened to the birds, smelled the gum trees, slept under the stars, they might appreciate it a lot more,’ He stopped, a little embarrassed at his flood of words. ‘Enough of this philosophy stuff. ‘Ere, this is ‘ow yer find the goat track.’ He began to draw a map in the dirt and Queenie moved over beside him, carefully memorising every detail.

  After they had packed up the camp the two shook hands and parted company.

  ‘See ya, missus. Good ‘untin’.’

  ‘See you, Chipper. Good luck.’ She watched the old man with his overburdened bicycle head down the dusty track, then turned to pack her swag and select gear for the trek ahead. When she had finished, she drove the vehicle further into the brigalow scrub to conceal it, then swung into the saddle and rode towards the hills.

  For a while she rode due west, then turned north at the small hill where the creek turned sharply, just as Chipper had described. After a short ride she suddenly broke out of the scrub onto the old track.

  The old goat track, just as Chipper promised. Now what will I find at this Walshie’s place? she wondered and nudged Honey into a comfortable canter.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The tranquillity of Harmony Hill — as the holiday retreat was now officially called — was ruffled but there was a renewed energy about the place as Colin began to put Bruce Gaden’s plans into effect.