The Condamine Bell

By Peter Perkins

Cattle and horses are Adam’s life; have been since he was eleven. Life is severe for a lonely part aboriginal lad left with his aged grandmother in a small far western Queensland town with no prospects and no money. After a brutal bashing from a drunken relative, Adam saddled up an old partly lame horse his dad left behind and rode 30 miles in the arid heat to join his father’s droving plant. The tough, single minded resolution he displayed became his hallmark. Since that day he has spent seventeen years in a saddle, pushing cattle. He is only twenty-eight and has spent his entire working life in the channel country of western Queensland. Often alone for a week at a time with his horse and guitar his only companions, he yearns for a change of direction. He wants more out of life than working for someone else; he wants to become his own man. Adam turns east looking for more fertile pastures and stops in Miles on the Western Downs at the cattle sale yards. An experienced stockman is always in demand in cattle country; he is confident he can find a job, but he most wants to secure a place to agist his own stock he plans on buying. A quick nod of the head, a furtive glance in the bustle of the cattle sale is all that is required for two people to suspects he has a past. Two others know who he really is. A new job and agistment agreement come too quickly. Is something very wrong, or very right? The recent horse riding death of an aged stockman soon becomes a murder. All seems fine til shots are fired. Adam unwittingly makes enemies of a rich and powerful cattle baron with questionable intentions and known ambitions. Adam is forced to quickly pick sides to defend his patch. The pace lifts another notch or two as three attempts are made on Adam’s life. Again he is called to defend the lives of a family he never knew existed and earn the love of a feisty young woman who saw more in him than he knew. Deceit, jealousy and greed are poor bed fellows; another murder too close to home, heralds a climactic close. Everyone fails to identify the real threat 'til the final few pages. Sprinkled throughout the story appear real life characters that do inhabit all country towns. They add a laconic Australian bush humour and realism to the plot. We all see someone we know. Typically Australian in style and substance, this is an easy and enjoyable read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781742844039

Book preview

1

A New Start

Cupping his early morning mug of tannin-black billy tea in his large rough hands, Adam Mann savoured the sweet eucalyptus smokiness of the steam slowly rising from it as he mulled over the day ahead. He was experiencing a heady mixture of anxiety, expectation and excitement. Somewhat like his first day at school. Hopefully without the fights and prejudice he remembered on that day. Prejudice he had been striving to overcome ever since.

He had camped the night before on the bank of a creek just off the Warrego Highway, about two kilometres from the town of Miles on the Western Darling Downs. His swag rolled and stowed in his ute, he picked up the now cooled fire irons and billy, doused the fire and loaded his two horses back in his horse float. It was cool in the shade of the big river gums with a cold, light mist rising off the water. The sun had no heat at this early hour on the Western Downs and he was keen to get moving.

Adam was heading for the cattle sale yards on the other side of town, where a bigger than usual sale was happening that day. The stock and station agent’s brochure listed the offerings; he was keen to see the quality and check the prices. He had arranged to meet the agent at the sale yards, but past that, he really had no other plans, other than to make a new start.

Main Street, Miles was quiet. That would soon change with graziers and their wives taking the trip to town for the cattle sales and going about their business. Sale days were a perfect opportunity to come to town, stock up their larders, see their bankers, accountants, solicitors, and for the womenfolk, to attend their QCWA meeting. Such small and purposeful happenings are the pulse of small country towns and sale days are always busy.

Last week, Adam had phoned Ben Rosslee, the agent handling the sale, enquiring about work in the area and if he knew of anyone with spare land who could be interested in Adam to agist from 30 to 60 head of cattle.

As any good agent would, Ben asked Adam a volley of questions. As intrigued as he was at where some of the questions seemed to be going, he was excited by the agent’s positive attitude and guarantee of work for a competent, experienced stockman.

As he slowly drove towards town, Adam replayed that phone conversation in his mind.

Where are you from, Adam? I don’t recognise the name.

I’m moving down from Cunnamulla for personal reasons.

Fair enough. Where are your cattle now? If they are not in this area now, they will need to be dipped.

Yeah, Ben, I’m aware of cattle movement requirements. I’ve been droving, mustering and working stock for the past 15 years. Don’t currently have any stock. Sold my last lot, have cash in the bank and want some good breeders. However, I need a place to put them. I want a fresh start. I was recently down Condamine way and I like those river flats. Don’t suppose there’s anything down that way, Ben? said Adam.

Ben asked him a series of questions about the name of the droving outfit he worked for, the area he worked, who his last stock and station agents were, past stock sales, etc. Ben then asked him his age. Adam told him, 28. At this point, Adam remembered the agent had gone quiet for a few moments as if checking something away from the phone. He thought he had been disconnected and had even asked if Ben was still there.

Yeah sure, still here; I was just distracted for a second. Twenty-eight, eh? Thought you sounded young. Good to see young men staying in the industry and not charging off to the coal seam gas industry or the mines. I’d like to have a yarn to you first. Any chance of you making the sale next week?

Sure, I plan to be there. I have your brochure and there looks to be some handy offerings. Can see a few pen lots that might be interesting, replied Adam.

Yeah, some good stock coming through. I’ll have a think about that agistment idea you asked about. I’ve got a bloke in mind who could be interested. I need to make a few calls first though. Look forward to meeting you on sale day. Monday would be better for me.

I can’t leave here in time to do that. I’ll be traveling Monday, but I can be there early Tuesday, sale day. What time do you get to the yards, Ben?

I’ll be there early, round 6:00 to 6:30am. Sure to be a few late lots arrive, always late changes. Look for me in the auctioneer’s office. If I’m not there, ask anyone; they’ll point me out. Look forward to doing business with you, Adam. See you then.

Adam was positive, upbeat and confident. He knew he could find work, good stockmen were hard to find, but what he most wanted was a place to agist stock, get his own place and breed big Black Angus cattle – the new wave.

2

Miles Sale Yards - 6:30 A.M.

The sale yards were easy to find on the southern side of town across the rail tracks. He parked his ute with horse float attached among an assortment of vehicles and headed for a shed that looked a likely starting point to find Ben Rosslee, the agent. The yards looked full and, even at this early hour, there were cattlemen in small groups milling about, yarning and catching up with mates. Some, no doubt, were doing private deals.

Adam poked his head round the door. There was a number of stockman staff receiving instructions, some donning vests, all with cattle prods, preparing for a busy day moving stock.

Adam entered the large room and stepped to one side, scanning the room as he did so, taking in the activity, his gaze settling on a group of three men in earnest discussion.

Not good enough! the older and beefiest of the three said in a raised voice, his face red, his blood pressure rising. Others in the room averted their gaze and suddenly found jobs anywhere but near the group of three. I told you I’d probably have another truckload and you said okay, he continued, getting redder in the face as his anger rose.

It’s the best we can do at the moment, Lance. And I did not say okay; I clearly told you we had a full billing and that if more stock arrived they would be offered from the spelling paddock. However, give me 20 minutes and I’ll see if there is anything we can do to accommodate the extra stock. Then, over the heads of Lance Beefy and his young sidekick (probably his son, thought Adam), the taller man called to a staffer behind the desk.

Barney! Barney, find Jack for me please. Get him on the two-way and ask him to come here. Thanks mate, said the bloke, who was in his mid 50’s and wearing a tie and tweed jacket. That’s probably my man, thought Adam, and he settled in to await his turn.

More words were exchanged; obviously Lance & Co were not going to be put off, but they were clearly not getting their own way. The younger man next to Lance Beefy pointed to some papers and the arguing pair commenced their own private conversation. The taller man saw his opportunity to get away, quickly excused himself, neatly sidestepped round them and moved away with purpose. Both men looked up to see where the taller man was going; Lance Beefy’s eyes locked briefly on Adam’s till Adam looked away.

Adam was sure the escapee was Ben Rosslee, and moved to intercept him with his hand out. Adam Mann. I guess you are Ben Rosslee, said Adam. We spoke on the phone last week.

Adam. Glad to meet you. Ben studied Adam’s face intently for a few seconds before continuing, Bit of a flap here at present, Adam. Could you give me 15 minutes? Have you had breakfast? Best steak burgers in town down at the canteen, grab a burger and I’ll catch up with you here shortly. I might have something for you.

As Ben moved in behind the counter, Adam asked, I’ve got two horses in my float, any chance of putting them in one of those empty small paddocks over near the tree line till after the sale?

Sure, said Ben, see one of the stockmen in yellow hi-viz. Tell them I said it’d be okay. Check with me if it’s an issue for them. I’m sure the horses will be fine in there.

Just then, a big guy in a hi-viz yellow vest strode in and headed in the same direction as Ben and addressed him, Another truckload of the Fletchers’ cattle arrived, that what you want to see me about? Want me to stick them in the spelling paddock for the time being?

Thanks, Jack, it’s probably the only yard left. Yeah, do that. Thanks again, mate. Fletcher must be Lance Beefy’s name and that must be Jack, thought Adam. He looks a real tough dude, perfect for running the yard.

The two Fletchers had not moved, the elder of the two witnessing with some interest the brief exchange between Adam and Ben as Adam moved outside.

Adam’s nostrils were immediately assailed with the smell of barbecuing meat. He was pleased at Ben’s response – might have something for you sounds promising – and he headed towards his ute to unload his horses. They needed a break to stretch their legs after all day in the float yesterday. He had not eaten since the previous afternoon at the service station in Roma and he could certainly go a feed, but the canteen could wait 20 minutes. There was a stockman in a yellow hi-viz vest unlocking a spelling paddock for a cattle transporter to unload a load of cattle. Adam parked the ute and headed towards him. Adam told him who he was and that Ben Rosslee had sanctioned him putting his horses in a yard for a few hours. Adam was directed to a small yard which would hold his two stock horses for the day.

Horses offloaded, Adam threw a small bale of lucerne hay in a feed trough, filled the water tub, and gave them each a pat as they hungrily pulled the feed bale apart. Leaving his rig where it was, still with horse float attached, he wandered back to the activity.

3

First Sight

The canteen was popular. Obviously many others had forsaken breakfast at home for an early start and were making amends before the sale started. Adam was deep in thought as he absently watched the canteen staff moving about while he waited to place his order. He did notice one girl in particular. Hard not to, really; she had a fresh-faced beauty, bright and alert. Beautiful, thought Adam. His order was taken by the cashier, an older woman, who tore off a number and handed it to him.

Won’t be a minute, love – next please!

The pretty girl put his order on the zinc-topped bench and smiled sweetly. He felt embarrassed he’d been sprung watching her. He guiltily nodded a mumbled thanks, collected his burger and a polystyrene cup of black tea and, as nonchalantly as he could, moved away to have a look at some of the penned stock.

He was leaning with his elbows on a yard rail enjoying his breakfast when he sensed he was being observed. Turning slowly, he noticed a ramrod straight, tall, well-dressed, elderly grazier type looking his way from under a Snowy River Akubra hat. Adam nodded, received a short nod in reply and returned to his burger.

Adam could sense that his new nodding acquaintance had not moved and was still looking his way. Adam turned his attention to a pen of Black Poll cow and calf - 20 animals in all. He checked his brochure, Lot 67. He had marked that one and here it was right in front of him. They looked good. He finished off his cup of black tea.

What do you think of them? asked a man behind him, voice of an older man. My nodding acquaintance, thought Adam. Half turning, he replied, I like them and would buy them, if I could get them at the right price; and if I had somewhere to put ’em.

You the young fella from Cunnamulla looking for a place to agist a few stock? Say 30 to 60 head? asked the older man with a twinkle in his eye.

Adam snapped around suddenly alert, taking a moment to gather his wits. Could be. You’ve either been talking to Ben Rosslee or listening to my phone calls.

Yep, Ben phoned me the other day. Said a young bloke was interested in agistment. He didn’t know much about you. Said you were from Cunnamulla, looking to make a new start? What happened to the old start? I’m sorry, I guess you are Adam Mann? More a statement than a question and, extending his hand, he went on, My name is Syd Bousen and for the moment, let’s say I want first dibs. You’re a likely looking young bloke and fellows like you are hard to find with so many getting jobs in the mines; and now that the coal seam gas industry is in full swing, it’s nigh on impossible. So, let’s hear what you have to say.

Adam swapped his partly eaten burger to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his work-worn jeans and shook the older man’s hand. Still in shock at such abruptness, Adam simply nodded and managed a quiet, Yeah, Adam Mann. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bousen. Now an okay time to talk?

Syd’s the name. Let’s go get a cuppa, sit down and have a yarn. Tell me your plans and tell me a bit about yourself. Syd led the way back to the canteen and found a table. Your shout, Adam. Plain black, please, said Syd, slowly sitting down in the dappled sunlight on a rusty red metal chair and dragging another to the table with his boot for Adam who had woodenly moved to the counter to order.

There she was. She’d been watching; must have heard what Syd had said as she had two cups of black tea already poured. She smiled sweetly. He quickly went straight to the cashier to pay and hurried back to collect them, hoping she was still there. She was; she was holding them on the counter and again smiled sweetly, saying simply, Two black teas. There you go. Adam nodded, Thanks, that was quick. He took the teas back to the table feeling several sets of female ‘canteen staff’ eyes burning a hole in his back.

4

Syd Bousen

Adam’s head was spinning; he had not expected anything to happen this quickly and here was a dignified old guy who sounded interested in his plans. He looked financially comfortable. Why would he entertain agistment? He’d have his own cattle and stockmen, surely? Every grazier he knew moaned about the burgeoning CSG industry and the high wages it pays. He thought about the time he applied but was not picked up because he didn’t have an industry trade qualification. Anyway, he loved horses and stock.

He returned with two black teas, set them down on the table and, for want of something to say, There you are, two plain black teas. We must be the easiest guys in the world to take on a picnic.

Syd chortled at that. Thanks, Adam. Tell me the Adam Mann story. I realise you won’t have a CV on you, but tell me about where you come from, what experience you have with cattle, your hopes and aspirations, that sort of thing. I’m interested in your proposition – no more than that till I know more about you.

It took Adam a few moments to compose himself. This was more, and quicker than he had hoped. Where do I start? I’m 28, single, no ties. Born in Cunnamulla. My dad was a drover and I started riding with him when I was about 11 or 12 and been punching cattle as a drover, stock owner and assistant station manager that whole time since. As a kid, I did some normal schooling and some distance education. I was always late with my stuff on account of being on the road so much – and a few other issues. Dad had been educated to senior and he taught me things you never get from books.

He paused, thinking about his father and how he died a sad and lonely death; eventually he continued very softly. My dad taught me to play guitar and how to sing country and western. For a long while, I mostly only sang to the cattle at night – they were the only ones who would stand and listen.

To break the obvious tension, they both laughed. He brightened up a bit and continued.

I love reading, playing one of my several guitars. I played with a local band for a while but there is no money in that. Probably a bit strange for a cowboy, but I love classical music. I got that from my old grandpa; he was a funny old codger who had an amazing knowledge. Said he got most of it from books. He died suddenly – stroke, I believe – when I was about 11 or 12. That’s why I left home and went droving with Dad.

He took a sip of the hot tea and realised he was talking about things he had long ago pushed to the back of his mind. Things he had deliberately tried to suppress as their memory made him emotional. Leading such a solitary life, Adam seldom had the opportunity to just sit and talk with someone who actually listened. To Adam, Syd exuded an almost visible empathy, silently urging him to ramble on and it all just wanted to come out. The longer he sat here with Syd, the calmer and more relaxed he became, feeling the anxiety of making the move east subside.

Sorry about all that stuff. I was not prepared to freewheel like this. Usually, I simply answer questions others put to me, said Adam, feeling a little foolish and inept.

Syd obviously felt some of Adam’s pain and merely said, Not at all, I am enjoying your story. I’d really like to hear more about what it was like for you as a child, why you left home. That interests me.

Okay, but please stop me if I go off the track a bit. I’ve never ever spoken to anyone before about my life – and interesting it’s not.

Oh, but it is, Adam. It’s telling me a great deal about you and that’s exactly what I want to hear. Please go on.

All right, remember I warned you, it’s not much of a story. Adam sipped his tea and tried to remember, tried to put his life on a stick for Syd to analyse. I can only ever remember living with my Gran, Dad’s mother. She’s still alive and has a house in Cunnamulla. I lived there as a kid and made it my base on and off when not working on a drove or elsewhere. Occasionally, there was no room for me and I’d take my swag down the creek. She raised me from a baby ’cause my mum was killed in a road accident near Mungalala. I never knew her; I was only three or four months old at the time. I’m told I was in a bassinet in the back seat and came through the accident unscathed – not sure about that – been told conflicting stories. Her loss must have been tough on Dad, probably why he drank so much.

He fell silent again and sipped his tea, remembering the painful loss of his father and the circumstances surrounding his death, but all the while hating his drinking.

He resumed again without warning, as if someone had been holding a gramophone record stationary with a finger then suddenly lifted it off. My old Gran and my great aunts were my saviours. I went to junior school till I was about 11. After Pa died, I couldn’t stand it in town with different family members always around, always screaming at each other, fighting and squabbling, and me, the smallest, getting a hiding from drunk in-laws, or out-laws, whenever they felt like it. I was always hungry. That’s how I started droving. One day just after my 11th birthday, I threw an old saddle on one of dad’s horses and rode out 30 kilometres till I caught up with the droving plant that’d left a day or so earlier. Joined up with my dad. He was furious at first, gave me a belting as I remember, but he couldn’t send me back to town on my own. He was staring into his cup and just stopped talking.

Hell of a brave lad to just ride out of town alone at 11 years of age. That would have taken guts and 30 kilometres in a day is good riding by any standard. I am impressed. How did you get your schooling out on the long yard? Syd asked quietly.

I never did much middle or high school – couple of weeks at a time. My reading and math are good but reckon I can hold my own with anybody on the practical side. I never had any money as a kid. When I was about 16, I started picking up a few poddies from long droves. Owners give you 1000 head to drove they don’t expect 1003 at the other end. If we maintained the herd, that was better than most drovers did. By 15 or 16, I was old enough and experienced enough to handle the drove on my own for days at a time. I’d always keep the poddies from then on – in effect, they were my pay. It was a bit hard looking after them on some droves. However, financially, I had to look after myself – strictly speaking, I guess it was stealin’ but they would’a died otherwise – and there was no way Dad would give me any pay. He reckoned feeding me was enough. By about 19 or 20, I couldn’t take dad’s drunken rages any longer and I left droving. Anyway, the road trains had well and truly taken out us long haul drovers by then.

Adam took another sip of tea and continued on. Sorry about that... going all maudlin.

No, that’s fine. Keep going. I’m interested. Tell me what you did when the droving ceased, Syd said, not wanting to break the dream-weaver’s spell Adam had woven around him.

In search of cash, I shot dingoes for the bounty. That was good money, but I had to go too far to find them in the end. Had a ’roo shooter’s license for a while, stinking dirty work. Money was okay, till the abattoirs shut down – export licenses cancelled or something. In between times, I worked stations from Birdsville to Roma, did a bit of contract fencing. I can weld okay and can fix most farm machinery. I’m pretty good with motors, although modern auto electronics beat me. Um, what else? I love fishing. Not much I haven’t done really. I played a bit of footy when I was at school, but not afterwards – too busy working. I can give you the names of a few places I’ve been and you can ring the owners for confirmation if you like.

The next question threw Adam for a moment. What was your Dad’s name, Adam? asked Syd.

My dad? Um, Allan.

Mann?

Um, ah, yes, Allan Mann, stammered Adam. Do you know him?

No. Don’t know an Allan Mann. Where did you keep your poddies? asked Syd, wanting to return Adam to safer ground.

On the town common when there was feed there, travelled with them on the long yard when there wasn’t. I’ve a good mate I played guitar with whose dad owned a station and I eventually kept them there for a few years, built my herd up to about 40 head, traded, bought and sold. I was a bit of a bugger I suppose; I used to open the gate of his father’s bull paddock when my cows were in season. Did that many times; bull didn’t mind, boss probably would’ve. He probably had his suspicions by looking at the drops. Only did that when he was away and my mate never cottoned on; he was a bit dozy. That improved my herd numbers and quality naturally – and of course, where it matters, the resultant sale price.

Adam drained his tea cup and, with his elbows on his knees, stared into his empty cup deep in his reverie. Syd just nodded but did not speak, he wanted Adam’s story to run its course and he knew there was more to come; this man was holding back a lot of pain. Adam was in a world of his own for a few moments and resumed his story again as if nothing had happened.

That’s how I paid for my first bull – a big red Santa Gertrudis. He was a good’n. I’ve always kept my money in my own bank account. Otherwise, I’d have nothing. I guess I have more of my Pa’s German blood in me than Gran’s aboriginal blood – probably some Scot in there somewhere too, as I’m not into sharing my pay cheque with the whole tribe. I want to make something of myself in this life and looking after 20 unemployed relations won’t do it. That’s about it, I guess. Adam went quiet.

Syd slowly nodded his head in understanding of how hard Adam’s young life as a drover would have been. He had a clear understanding of loss and there was an extreme softness – or was it sadness? – and maybe a tear in his eyes that did not escape Adam’s scrutiny. Syd took out his handkerchief, blew his nose and surreptitiously wiped his face and eyes, took a few sips of tea to arrange his thoughts then asked, Tell me where you work now or were last, Adam.

I resigned as stock manager at Myall Downs about a week ago; been there about 3 years.

Myall Downs is a big spread and prospects would have been good. Why did you leave?

Long story cut short: Owner’s son was the station manager. His daughter was in a Brisbane boarding school. She was doing senior. Too advanced for her age and showed way too much interest in me. She’s a hell of a nice kid, had dreams of being a doctor or a vet. Wanted to play ‘doctors and nurses’ with me. I’d have ended up in gaol if I went there. Getting tangled up with me would not see her achieve her dreams. She was always lonely for company when at home on the station. Too vulnerable, and, well, it would never have worked. Young Creamy from the wrong side of the tracks and daughter of a millionaire. Her parents liked me as a bloke and as a worker, but not as a son-in-law. I really liked the manager and his wife – and the owner too, for that matter – probably the first time in my life I felt needed, safe and secure. Very nice people, I respected their opinions and could only think it would end in tears. Boss thought it best I leave the station – and preferably the district, mutual agreement in the end. I thought it was time for a change, so here I am.

Adam and Syd both unconsciously went to take another sip of tea from