Heart of the Dreaming Read online

  ‘But TR is working with him now and I think it would be good for you … to forget everything, to get away and have a few adventures. If you don’t do it now, when will you ever go?’

  Queenie grinned at her friend as she poured the boiling water from the old black kettle into the teapot.

  ‘Just what sort of adventures did you have in mind, Sarah Quinn?’

  Sarah giggled. ‘Who knows … it will certainly be more fun than living out here in the middle of nowhere with friends miles apart. My parents won’t let me go to the city and try and work but they will let me take a trip away. Broadening my horizons, or something like that — I just want to have a good time.’

  Queenie handed Sarah the teapot covered in its knitted tea cosy and picked up the tray filled with the tea things.

  ‘I have no desire to leave Tingulla. I like the bush, Sarah. I’m happy with my horses and I’m learning a heck of a lot about running the place.’

  ‘But what for?’ persisted Sarah, as she followed Queenie down the hall. ‘Colin will end up running Tingulla, isn’t that what he’s supposed to be learning at uni, and you’ll probably marry a man with his own place.’

  Queenie didn’t answer as they returned to the cosy room where Colin sat fiddling with the battery-operated wireless, trying to find a voice or music over the static.

  ‘Mr Hanlon, I’ve been trying to persuade Queenie to come overseas with me. What do you think?’

  Patrick lowered his paper and folded it as Queenie poured the tea. Colin glanced up quickly.

  ‘Why, Sarah, I think that’s a splendid idea. Do you good, Queenie, what do you say?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dad,’ she said, handing him his cup.

  ‘I’d go like a shot,’ remarked Colin.

  ‘Yes, well, you have to graduate first, son,’ said Patrick drily.

  ‘Dad, I don’t want to leave Tingulla, there’s still so much I want to learn and things I want to try. What about our stockhorse breeding programme?’

  ‘TR can help Dad run that,’ said Colin.

  ‘No!’ said Queenie more sharply than she intended. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was jealous of TR’s ability with horses, especially since he had now been hired by her father to work at Tingulla. ‘I’m not dropping something halfway through. I am not leaving Tingulla — ever!’

  Sarah handed Colin a plate with a slab of cake on it and laughed nervously at the vehemence in Queenie’s voice.

  Colinsnapped, ‘Well one day you will …’

  ‘Why?’ demandedQueenie.

  ‘You don’t own Tingulla, Queenie,’ Colin replied.

  ‘Now, now, let’s drop it,’ said Patrick, picking up his cup.

  But as he sipped his tea he eyed Queenie thoughtfully.

  Chapter Three

  The annual McPherson Endurance Ride came as a welcome relief from the sadness of the past month — like rain breaking a drought. It was more than a horse race — it was a test of horses’ and riders’ endurance, covering many miles along often difficult ground. Vets attended checkpoints along the way to monitor the fitness of each horse before allowing it to continue in the ride.

  The race was started in an informal way by Dingo McPherson, one of the greatest bush riders in Australia. A legendary stockman and drover, he had made a fortune from mining gold and tin, then lost it all and returned to the bush he loved. He was a man loved and respected by all who knew him personally or by reputation.

  In his fifties he took up oil painting, boldly illustrating the scenes, people and places he had encountered over the years in the outback. The pictures found their way to the city and he was hailed as a success all over again. His paintings were in great demand and fetched high prices, which amused Dingo no end.

  ‘Money for jam, I reckon!’ he’d laugh, for he enjoyed his art and the special memory each picture recalled.

  It was around a campfire one night when men bet ‘my horse is tougher, smarter and faster than your horse!’ that Dingo and a few mates set out to prove who really had the best. Over the years the ride had grown into an event which attracted riders and their horses from all over the country.

  Tingulla station was one of the seven checkpoints along the ride and the Hanlon family had always participated. Queenie had come close to winning over the years but the ‘Dingo Cup’ had eluded her. She didn’t feel so confident this year because she hadn’t spent much time preparing Nareedah. She’d been too busy helping run the station.

  Colin was riding Patton, his big bay gelding; and Sarah had entered her devoted Soldier. TR had entered at the last moment on a station stockhorse.

  Patrick would act as an official at the Tingulla checkpoint and Millie would take Rose’s place in providing hot soup, tea, coffee and sandwiches to the weary riders as they came through. The ride generally took about twenty hours, including a one-hour stop at each checkpoint, and covered one hundred and fifty miles.

  A little before midnight the riders began milling at the start — an old racetrack — where a string of white triangular flags had been strung across the course. Friends, helpers, the press and spectators lined up on either side, ready to send off the contestants into the freezing night.

  Holding a mug of hot rum, Patrick stood talking to Dingo who looked fit and exhilarated, his trademark hat squashed on his white hair.

  Now in his late sixties, Dingo suffered from a bad back and hip, the result of a fall several years before, and he’d missed competing in the last couple of Endurance Rides. But he was always there to present the cup which carried his name, although Dingo had always made the point that the Ride honoured all the men and horses of the bush who had opened the way for settlement in the vast outback.

  The current member of parliament, a local grazier, was helped onto the back of a truck where the organiser with the aid of a bullhorn ordered the entrants to form a line.

  It was a heaving, impatient line-up — both riders and mounts were anxious to be on the move. The breath of the horses and their riders was like jets of white steam visible in the spotlights.

  The parliamentarian fired a rifle shot and the ride began. Horses sprang into the night to face the challenge of often unknown terrain and gruelling distances. Riders knew they had to travel at speed without straining or jeopardising the fitness of their horse. There was no point in racing to a checkpoint to be ‘vetted out’ with an exhausted horse.

  But for those first moments, as the crowd cheered, each competitor felt the thrill of undertaking a personal test, surrounded by the thudding hooves of more than a hundred horses. They all broke into a wild and exciting gallop before disappearing into the darkness. In seconds the crowd raced for cars, horse floats, trucks and horses to reach the next vantage point.

  Within an hour the field had spread out, headed by a fast-riding bunch. Colin was among the leaders, pushing his thoroughbred, Patton, confident he could stay with the leaders. Colin hoped he would win, but to him it was more important to beat Queenie, to prove he not only had a superior horse but was a better rider.

  Queenie held back; Nareedah trotted surely, picking her way as if it were broad daylight. Some horses had a natural ability to see well in the dark, and a good ‘night horse’ was essential when droving in case of a ‘rush’ of stampeding cattle.

  A large shape on the side of the hill caught Queenie’s attention in the dimness. The moon was high but frequently obscured by clouds. The dark mass didn’t look like rocks so Queenie steered Nareedah up the hill to take a closer look.

  She suddenly recognised the bulk: a rusty old stamper battery used to crush rocks during gold mining days. Her father had brought her here once when she was a little girl and told her some of the history of the area. She vividly remembered the story of the Chinese gold prospectors and how they dug round shafts instead of square ones like the white men, so that no evil spirits could lurk in the corners. Patrick had told her tales of murder and intrigue, when men went crazy in their fight for gold.

  After showing
her the stamper, Patrick had taken her to the top of the hill and shown her the terraced stone walls built by those long-ago adventurers which formed a winding path on the precipitous hillside. It had been a short cut for the prospectors to the gold field. Queenie now realised that it was also a short cut down to Checkpoint Two in the Endurance Ride.

  If she could find that track down the hill in the dark, she’d cut her time to the next checkpoint in half. Or she could get lost.

  Queenie urged Nareedah forward, deciding to take the risk.

  Soon the hill was falling away steeply beneath her in almost a sheer drop, and just as she was thinking she should turn back, Nareedah stumbled to the side and landed on a small track made by wandering stock. Here Queenie found the neat tier of stones, laboriously placed in layers so many years before, supporting a narrow path now used only by wild goats and straying sheep.

  Nareedah walked on lightly, finding the route easy to follow, as it corkscrewed down the hillside. In the distance Queenie could see the lights from the fires at the next checkpoint. The horse pricked up her ears and lifted her head, then Queenie heard it too — footfalls and snapping twigs. A little further ahead of her she glimpsed the shadow of a horse.

  As she drew closer she recognised the rider and with a surge of excitement she called out, ‘Rider behind. Can we ride together?’

  ‘Come join the party. Who is it?’ came the friendly reply.

  ‘Hello, Dingo, it’s Queenie Hanlon — Patrick’s daughter. I see you know the gold track, too.’

  ‘Not much I don’t know about this district. Clever of you to find it in the dark. You must have a good horse there, girl. This will save us a whack of time. Nothing in the rules says you can’t take a short cut.’

  They rode companionably side by side — the famed bush horseman and the slim young woman who was thrilled to be ‘going down the track’ with a living legend.

  ‘Y’know, Dingo, I’ve often wanted to ask you, how did you come by your nickname? What’s your real name?’

  ‘Well, if you promise to keep it quiet, I was christened Oscar Braxton McPherson,’ winkedDingo. ‘So you see why my mates soon gave me an easier moniker. First job I had as a teenager was riding the dingo fence, making repairs so the dingoes stayed on one side and the stock and me stayed on the other, and that’s where I got my name.’

  After a pause he added, ‘Amazing really to think of a fence running for a thousand miles across empty land to keep wild dogs out of the State. I used to lie in my swag at night under the stars and listen to them howling in the distance. Used to sound like a baby crying. Eerie really. But, you know, it’s a wonderful place, the bush at night,’ remarked Dingo quietly. ‘Never be frightened out here. Once you know what’s about and who’s about, there’s nothing to be afraid of — provided you’ve got a sure-footed horse. Some dopey horses can’t see a yard in front of them or shy at the silliest things in the dark. You’re a lot safer out here than crossing the road in the city, eh, Queenie?’

  She was tempted to tell Dingo of that fearful night alone in the bush, a little girl alone in a storm — the night she had put down her beloved Gus — she knew he would understand as few people could. But instead she answered, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never spent time in a city. Just into Longreach, and once to Rocky, and to the Agriculture Show in Brisbane.’

  ‘Ah, you haven’t missed much — it’s too fast, and men waste their time agonising over such fiddling problems. Makes you laugh, really. I’d like to see some of those “executives” cope with real problems — like drought and dying cattle, and bloody bushfires, and diseases that can wipe a man out quick as spit.’

  He turned to the thoughtful girl who rode beside him. ‘That’s not to say you shouldn’t give the city a go some time. I’ve had some bloody great times in the big smoke,’ he chuckled.

  Queenie smiled in the dark, remembering the stories she’d heard of his womanising and gambling. He’d also organised hundreds of farmers to ride into the nation’s capital and camp outside Parliament House to protest against unfair taxes for the men on the land. They’d won the hearts of the country, and Canberra had caved in on the issue.

  ‘Mindyou,’ continued Dingo, ‘that’s notto say I haven’t had some pretty good times in the bush. An old chap once said to me, “If you don’t stop and pick the wild flowers, when you come back they’ll all be withered and gone!”’

  He chuckled again and Queenie laughed with him, thinking, ‘I bet old Dingo stopped to pick a few “wild flowers” in his time!’

  They rode in silence a little distance and as they passed some old gold diggings now overgrown with blackberries at the side of the trail, Dingo remarked, ‘Must have been quite a place in the old gold days.’

  ‘My father told me there were thousands of people swarming over the district, and the town had dozens of pubs. No wonder it was called the roaring days!’

  ‘You know “The Roaring Days”?’

  ‘I know my Henry Lawson!’

  ‘Off you go then …’

  Queenie grinned, and as the lights of the checkpoint shone in the distance and the smell of welcoming fires drifted towards them, she began to recite —

  The night too quickly passes

  And we are growing old,

  So let us fill our glasses

  And toast the days of Gold;

  When finds of wondrous treasure

  Set all the South ablaze,

  And you and I were faithful mates

  All through the Roaring days!

  Queenie never forgot the exhilarating feeling of breaking out of the dark bush to be greeted by a circle of eager and admiring faces as she and Dingo rode into camp, chorusing the final lines of Lawson’s poem —

  Those golden days are vanished,

  And altered is the scene;

  The diggings are deserted,

  The camping-grounds are green;

  The flaunting flag of progress

  Is in the West unfurled,

  The mighty Bush with iron rails

  Is tethered to the world.

  Dawn came, widening arms of soft light that swiftly embraced the crisp bush, turning hard needles of frost to limpid dew. It sneaked under tree tops, touching boughs and branches and the tips of feathered wings. Birds sang and warmth seeped into the cold ground.

  Queenie rode alone and, like her, each rider experienced a private joy as the sun rose. Spirits lifted, smiles broke out and horses stepped forward with renewed energy.

  By midday most followers of the race had gathered at Checkpoint Five, the Warrigal shearing shed, where a big barbecue was being prepared. Sleeping bags and blankets were spread in a row under a makeshift canvas shelter where tired riders could snatch a brief sleep. A row of temporary dunnies had also been built, facing the open country and commanding a magnificent view, the ‘thrones’ screened from the public by hessian sacking nailed to saplings pummelled into the ground.

  Queenie was starting to feel a bit bruised and she knew she was going to have to judge the rest of the ride carefully, pacing and conserving her energy as well as Nareedah’s.

  Sarah hurried up to Queenie and handed her a hot sausage sandwich dripping with tomato sauce and fried onions. ‘Thought you might be hungry, I saw you come in. How are you doing?’

  ‘We’re a bit tired but our time’s good. What about you?’

  ‘Vetted out,’ said Sarah ruefully.

  ‘Oh, Sarah, that’s too bad. How’s Soldier?’ said Queenie, munching the leaky sandwich.

  ‘It was my fault. I got lost. In daylight too. I missed one of the flags and went around the spur which took me ages and put me over the allocated time limit. Disqualified. But I was kind of glad because Soldier was bushed,’ explained Sarah.

  Queenie wiped her sticky fingers on her pants before removing Nareedah’s saddle and rubbing her down with liniment and massaging her legs.

  ‘Where’s Colin? Is Dingo still in?’ asked Queenie.

  Sarah frowned. ‘Colin is s
till up front but he’s pushing too hard. At the rate he’s going I doubt he’ll get Patton through the next vet check. The poor horse is shot, he’s run the Melbourne Cup twenty times over.’

  Queenie looked angry. ‘Colin is stupid. It’s not fair on the horse.’

  ‘Dingo McPherson is still in, but only just. The horse is fine but apparently Dingo took a spill, busted two ribs and hurt his hip, but he just got himself strapped up and off he went again. They almost had to lift him back on his horse — he’s determined to ride it out.’

  Queenie smiled. ‘I think he just wants to finish more than anything. Who knows how many more chances he’ll have to do this.’

  Queenie linked her arm through Sarah’s as they moved towards the rest area, ‘Oh, Sarah, it was such a thrill to ride alongside him …’

  With just one checkpoint to get through before the race to the finish line, Colin was charged with excitement, adrenalin and a few mugs of rum. He kicked Patton into a faster trot but the horse’s rhythm was out of step, showing that the punishment and weariness were telling. He slowed to a walk and shook his head, sending droplets of sweat into the air.

  ‘Damn you, Patton, don’t give in on me now.’ cursed Colin.

  Reluctantly he allowed the horse to rest. He checked his watch — his time was still good.

  Colin tied Patton to a tree and looked around him. Then leading the horse by the reins, he scrambled down a slight incline to a small creek. There had been very little rain this season, but in between the stones of the creek bed were pools of icy water. Colin stuck his hand in one, feeling his fingers go numb with cold.

  Taking off his hat Colin began tipping hatfuls of the freezing water over the sweaty horse. Patton flinched and began to shiver before Colin led him up the bank.

  Swiftly he reached inside his jacket and unwrapped a small package. Colin dropped the pink coloured sugar cubes onto the palm of his hand and held it out to the horse. ‘There you go, Patton. This will make you feel good!’