FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (29 page)

They were playing poker and talking about a football match. Queenie decided to check the rest of the house and see if anyone else was there. She circled the verandah, peering into darkened windows, and walked to the back of the house. A water tank stood by the back steps; several bare iron bedsteads lined a fly-screened sleep-out. At the other end, near the back door, was a laundry room lined with shelves of tinned food. Cautiously she tried the back door. It opened.

She closed the door and returned to the
open window. The men’s conversation had turned to money.

‘So is he bringing the cash here?’

‘Better bloody be, I ain’t hanging round waiting for me dough. I got another job to do.’

‘What’s takin’ ’im so long? I hope we don’t have to wait for them bulls to be sold.’

‘Nah. He’s got a buyer lined up already, I reckon. You don’t lift good stuff like that without knowing what to do with it. That ain’t our problem. C’mon, Ritchie, you in or out?’

Queenie had heard enough. In the shadows of the shed she pulled her pocketknife from its leather sheath on her belt and began to slash and jab at the tyres on the utility truck and the four-wheel drive until she had punctured them all. She closed the knife and shoved it in the back pocket of her moleskins.

She went back to Honey and leaned on the railing, contemplating her next move. She could take off and get the police, but by the time they got back, the stock would probably be on the move again and the men paid and gone. A slow anger began to build in the pit of Queenie’s stomach. These two men had been hired to walk onto her property and clear out her valuable stock. It had been part of a plan that was probably repeated all around Australia. There were unscrupulous sellers and buyers inside and outside the country. With a place as remote as this, her stock could be kept hidden and be used to improve other stock as part of an ongoing business. She and TR had worked hard to build up their reputation at Cricklewood and she wasn’t about to see that
jeopardised. Her instinct was to confront these men, and impulsively she pulled her rifle from its holster on her saddle.

But then she paused. What was she going to do? Go in there like Clint Eastwood and demand they tell her where her bulls were, then round them up and load them onto the truck? That’s what the rash and youthful Queenie Hanlon would have done. But it was dark, there were two of them and the odds were not in her favour, despite her deadly aim. No, she would just ride quietly back out to Noondale and get help. Obviously these men were waiting for Mitchell to come and pay them.

Queenie untied Honey’s bridle and, still holding the rifle, put her left foot into the stirrup. But suddenly, in the motion of swinging up onto the horse, she found herself being yanked through the air onto the ground. A heavy boot pressed down on her throat. Gagging, Queenie dropped the rifle, trying to push the foot away so she could breathe.

A large man leaned over her, grabbed the rifle and pulled her to her feet by the front of her shirt. Her Akubra hung down her back and her hair fell loose.

‘Shit, you’re a sheila! What the hell’re you doin’ sneakin’ round here?’ demanded the man.

‘I could say the same to you,’ said Queenie, clutching at her throat, her voice hoarse.

‘Don’t git smart. Wotcha want with a rifle and peerin’ in windows? I bin watchin’ ya. Get inside.’ He took off the safety catch, cocked the
rifle and prodded her forward, following her to the homestead with the gun held dangerously close to her ribs. He kicked open the front door and shoved her in. The two unshaven men looked up from their cards in surprise.

‘Look what I found spying on us,’ said the man. He was older and larger than the other two.

‘What she doin’ here?’

Queenie glared at him, trying to cover her fear. ‘I’ve come for my bulls you stole.’

‘Oh yeah? You want ’em giftwrapped?’ The two younger men laughed.

‘How d’ya know t’ come here?’ asked the older man, still holding the rifle.

Queenie didn’t answer, trying desperately to work out how to play this.

The man inclined his head at one of the cardplayers. ‘Check outside, Ritchie.’

‘Why me? There could be anybody out there. Or another crazy sheila with a gun,’ he said, getting up from the table.

Queenie made a sudden lunge for the rifle but Ritchie was quick and he grabbed her, bending her arm up behind her back. ‘Naughty, naughty, lady. Kev, get some rope outta the laundry, we’ll tie her up and leave her in the back bedroom. Then if she’s got any mates out there they gotta come and git her, else we leave her to the boss to sort out. We don’t need this hassle.’

‘Right on.’ The man called Kev moved down the hallway.

‘That wasn’t a smart move, lady,’ said Ritchie,
pushing Queenie’s arm up, sending an agonising pain along her limb. Too terrified to move, she didn’t struggle, fearing he could break her arm.

’Act in haste, repent at leisure,’ said the big man with a slow smile.

Kev hurried in with a length of clothesline and handed it to Ritchie, who wrenched Queenie’s other hand behind her back and began winding the rope around her wrists. She lashed out and kicked him with her leg and he scuffled with her for a second.

‘Jesus, give me a hand,’ he panted.

The older man leaned the rifle against the wall and grabbed Queenie’s hair, pulling her head back. She slid to the floor and Ritchie put a booted foot in the small of her back as he continued binding the rope around her wrists. ‘Grab her feet.’ The rope was then flung around her ankles and knotted in place. ‘There, trussed up like a chook.’

‘You won’t get away with this!’ yelled Queenie.

‘Shaddup. Gimme that tea towel.’ Swiftly they tied the smelly damp cloth over her mouth.

‘Okay, pick up her feet.’ With one carrying her by the shoulders, the other by the feet, they half carried, half dragged Queenie to the first bedroom, tossed her onto the bed and left, slamming the door.

Queenie began to shake with shock and fright. Tears poured down her cheeks and she wondered how on earth she was going to get out of this. How she wished she’d brought
along Maud and the kids. It was her own stupid fault for being so stubborn, thinking she could handle any situation herself.

She lay there for some time curled into a foetal position, trying to get control of herself. Gradually her tears subsided and she rolled onto her back to ease her discomfort. It was then that Queenie felt the bulge of the penknife in her back pocket. She wiggled her fingers and eventually managed to slip them into the pocket and grasp the knife. Slowly she eased the pocketknife out. With her fingers she was able to open out the blade but she had no leverage to slice through the rope. She looked about the room and sat up. She looked at the bed. There was a gap between the frame and the bed base. Working with her hands behind her, she jammed the handle of the knife into this slot where it lodged, the blade protruding. Kneeling down on the floor she lifted her wrists above the blade and began a sawing motion across the knife.

The blade was sharp and she quickly sliced through the first loop of rope. She placed the next loop on the blade and cut through that too. She was then able to wiggle her hands free and in seconds she’d loosened the rope from round her feet and pulled off her gag. She rubbed her chafed ankles and wrists with relief and glanced about the room. There was a window, which was nailed shut, the glass panes painted cream. However, she knew the hallway led to the back door. She quietly opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hall. The three men were arguing. They sounded drunk and aggressive.

She got to the back door and slowly turned the knob. It was locked. Damn it, she thought. In the darkness she couldn’t see the key so she crept back down the hall, just as she heard the bigger, older man declare, ‘Shit, we might as well enjoy ourselves. I haven’t had a woman since bloody Holdsworth. You blokes draw straws, I’ll go warm ’er up.’ There was a burst of laughter, a chair scraping and the clink of glasses.

Queenie went cold with fear. Oh God, she hadn’t bargained on this. She rushed back into the bedroom, closing the door as the man came into the hallway, stumbling against the wall. He pushed open the door and went to where Queenie was lying on the bed, her feet and hands behind her, the tea towel draped over her mouth.

‘Surprise, little lady.’ He unbuckled his belt, slipped his braces off his shoulders and dropped his pants, falling on top of her. His breath was beery, his face rough with stubble. He groped at her breasts, trying to pull open her shirt.

In a split second Queenie pulled her hands out from beneath her. She was clutching a solid glass ashtray, which she raised in the air then slammed down on the back of the man’s head. With a grunt he rolled to one side. She gave him a shove and slid from under him. Stunned, the man was bleeding and struggling to get up, but his pants were still around his ankles. Queenie grabbed the heavy china lamp base from beside the bed and smashed it over his head, surprised at how little noise it made.
The man slumped onto the mattress. She stood staring down at his unconscious shape, drawing deep shuddering breaths.

Slowly and silently, trying to control her trembling, she crept down the hall and listened. The two men were arguing over the cards. She glanced swiftly into the room, remembering that the man had leaned her rifle against the wall right beside the hallway entrance. If it was still there it was a mere arm’s length away.

Queenie lay down on her stomach, wiggled slowly to the doorway and reached around into the lighted room. The men were still arguing about the cards and although one was almost facing the hallway, so long as she didn’t stand up, she didn’t think he’d notice. Slowly she slid her hand along the skirting board and with a flood of relief she felt the wooden butt. She slid her hand up to the magazine and tilted the rifle, grabbing the barrel and pulling it to her. She moved back into the darkness of the hallway, stood and checked that the rifle was still cocked.

‘You’re cheatin’ you bastard,’ shouted Ritchie.

‘Balls I am! You . . .’ The words stopped in shock as Kev looked up and caught sight of Queenie standing in the doorway, the rifle aimed at him. Stupidly the two men sat speechless as she edged around the room towards the front door.

‘Where do ya think you’re going?’ Ritchie rose drunkenly to his feet.

‘Make one move and I’ll shoot you in the
balls,’ said Queenie steadily, lowering the sights of the rifle to aim at Ritchie, who instinctively crossed his hands over his genitals and sat down with a thud.

Queenie got to the door and opened it, still facing the two men. ‘Now tell me, where are my bulls?’

‘Fuck off, lady.’ Kev rose to his feet, still holding a pair of cards, but as he made a move, a shot rang out and he looked down to see there was a round hole through the ace of diamonds.

Ritchie made a lunge towards her and Queenie shot the toe off his boot. He recoiled, staring in shock at the ripped leather, wondering how it missed his foot. Queenie was out of the door, slamming it behind her and running into the night before either man had realised what had happened. As she ran she whistled and was relieved to see Honey loom out of nowhere. The men rushed down to the bedroom and it was another minute or so before they wrenched open the front door and raced outside. By then Queenie had flung herself onto the horse and was charging down the yard, clearing the moonlit fence in a wide high jump to gallop out of sight.

‘Get in the bloody ute, there’s a gun in there, quick.’ The doors slammed, the engine started then the truck slewed on its four flat tyres as it tried to take off.

‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Ritchie, hitting the steering wheel. ‘We’ll never catch ’er now.’

Queenie’s heart was pounding, but she didn’t slacken Honey’s pace until she was sure
the men hadn’t found a means of chasing her. Then she slowed Honey, took some deep breaths to calm herself down. After a minute or two she felt better but was still shaking. ‘No one’s going to believe this!’ she shouted to the bush a little hysterically. Well, she’d have a good story to tell the constable in Noondale. She wondered if the cattle duffers would hang around for their money. She just prayed they would be too interested in looking out for themselves to harm her bulls. It would be tragic if they shot them after all this. Queenie glanced up at the moonlit sky. She’d probably be in Noondale by breakfast time.

Chapter Twenty

The Noondale constable shook his head and handed Queenie another cup of instant coffee. ‘If it was anybody else but you I wouldn’t have believed it. I’ll get on the blower and we’ll be off. Times like this I wish we had access to a chopper at the drop of a hat. Leave your horse in the yard, she’ll be right.’ He eyed the weary Queenie. ‘You up to another trip back there?’