Chapter 33
Thirty-three
‘Porter?’
He looked up at Amara, standing in her sparkly ballgown as she hobbled on the far side of the small waterhole. She was an unexpected angelic vision, for sure.
But the rifle he’d just dug free from the mud had his mind churning into overdrive.
Covered in itchy, gritty mud, he tried to consider the answers to the many questions, all raised in the blink of an eye.
‘Porter. The horse?’ Amara pointed to the metal-grey stallion watching him curiously only a few metres away.
‘Oh, yeah.’ He placed the rifle aside, then washed his face, neck, chest, and arms free from the mud. Not only to keep himself clean, but to show the big grey he meant no harm.
They’d made friends before, back in his own yard, when he’d sneak in a carrot or two while Amara was at work. Tempest had been his first paddock puppy, the reason he’d fixed up his stables—and, of course, for Amara’s smile.
‘You’re lucky you didn’t laugh at me too, horse, tripping facedown in the mud.’ He wiped the water dripping off his chin, still gritty, but it was enough to douse the embarrassment.
As casually as he could, he sauntered over to the horse.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had to calm down livestock stranded on the side of the road. It’s why he kept a rope in the back of his police ute, along with a big bucket, and had built the water tank that sat snug under the rear tray for just such occasions.
He’d used the cage’s back door plenty of times as the place to loop the rope through, to then walk a few stray pet buffaloes, horses, even the odd cow or two back into town.
Not to mention the countless dogs he’d found. Those that still managed to wag their tails as he helped them climb into the back cage for a handful of dog treats, some water, and a pat, while he ran his microchip reader over them to find out who they belonged to.
It was just part of the job, being an outback lawman.
And yet, he’d never learned to ride a horse. Never saw the point, when he preferred the fuel-powered kind of horsepower.
‘Want to hitch a ride back with us, mate?’ he spoke calmly to the big grey horse that had made Amara smile. She never smiled at him like that, when he was such a sucker for that smile. One day she might.
‘I’m sure the lady will spoil you.’ He took another step closer to the horse. ‘Just between you and me, mate, she hasn’t been the nicest person to live with since you up and left without a word.’
‘I can hear you,’ her voice travelled over the watery surface.
He grinned, then looked at the horse, who lowered his head. And just like that, Porter slung the necktie around the stallion’s neck, and led them back around the waterhole, only stopping to scoop up the thing he’d found in the mud.
Amara was on her feet again, limping poorly, that’d only make her ankle swell again. The hem of her dress was all muddied, but still pretty and sparkly. Yet it was the dazzling shine in her eyes that matched her smile as she held her arms out to greet the horse.
Now why couldn’t she hug him like that?
‘Hello, you. Haven’t you been on an adventure?’ Amara’s arms wrapped around the horse’s mane and hugged him. Even though he was dusty and dirty, the horse seemed fine, and happy to see her, too. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘His natural instincts would have brought him here.’ Porter brushed away the dirt and mud from the rifle. It had been buried in the dried clay, which had been packed tight around the frame.
He glanced back at the waterhole where the edges of the drying banks were cracked. ‘A waterhole like this? It’s more of a natural spring… Coming from a station, Montrose, what do you think about this spot? Is it something they’d regularly use?’
Amara paused from patting her horse to give the area that studious look.
She was a clever lady, a good cop too, who had the background to see the bigger picture—especially with livestock and stations.
Amara may have fought for her position with the Stock Squad, but Finn had chosen well to have her as part of his team.
He just wished she’d see this for herself.
‘With no signs of infrastructure, I’d say this is one of those unreliable waterholes, a seasonal spot you wouldn’t include in paddock rotations for livestock.’
‘So, something left more for the wildlife then?’
She nodded. ‘It’d only be full in the wet season, like everywhere else around here. It’d just be more of a swimming hole in the summer, I guess.’
‘Which means no stockmen would come here as part of their normal stock route, muster, or whatever it is they do.’
‘Boundary riders or bore runners would be the ones to check waterholes, but even then, they’d follow a map that had a layout of fence lines, paddocks, and their watering points. And I can’t remember the last time I saw a fence.’
Which meant no one had any reason to be out here as part of their day job.
He glanced down at the rifle in his hands, then back at the morning light creeping in slowly, creating a golden hush that softened the sharp edges from the shadows that stretched across this land.
The air smelled of dust, dried grass, and damp earth surrounding the waterhole. The kind of scent that told you the heat wasn’t far behind it.
As predicted, the frogs had gone quiet. Now it was the birds—one or two at first, then more, their calls sharp and clear in the thinning darkness.
That’s when the silhouettes started to take their shape...
A buffalo cow, heavy-bodied, with her young twins tucked close against her side with their big ears flicking like radars. Further out, a couple of stray cattle chewed slow. All in exceptionally good nick.
‘No pigs,’ he murmured. His eyes scoured the edges for the feral pests he had a pet hate for. This place would be a prime spot for pigs to take over.
Even with the buffalo eyeing them off on the far side, the mud only showed signs that they’d wallow here during the day—but no signs of pigs. And on a deserted station, that was rare.
What was even rarer were the other animals, now being exposed to dawn’s early light.
‘Can you see them, Montrose?’ He nodded to the far end of the clearing where a mob of brumbies had gathered, heads down, hooves stirring up dust as they moved cautiously towards the water.
‘Wild stock,’ she said under her breath.
Porter’s gaze flicked to the lady in the ballgown and sparkly tiara. ‘Is that the title of your next hat collection?’
Amara rolled her eyes. ‘What are those other beasts with those crescent-shaped horns on them? They’re not cattle. They’re smaller.’
Deadset! ‘Banteng.’
‘What?’
‘Wild ox. Also known as the Bali cow or the Javanese ox.’ Their horns, white socks and white rumps were easy to recognise as the light grew.
‘I’ve never heard of banteng before.’
‘Few people have. Although, you’d think the Stock Squad would have heard of them, when the Northern Territory has the largest population of banteng in the world.’ He sized up the herd being slowly revealed as the night gave up its grip for the start of a new day.
‘I dunno about you, Montrose, but I’d class that as a good haul of wild stock. Including the buffalo, which looks too well-fed to be feral.’
‘So says the hunter.’ But her keen eyes were busy taking in the details, no doubt memorising them, while she gently stroked her horse’s shoulder.
‘I don’t hunt bantengs, Montrose.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re nearly extinct. There’s a bunch of us who’ve been trying to repopulate their numbers to get them off the endangered list.’
She looked at him like he’d lost his marbles. ‘Why are they endangered?’
‘Banteng have lost their native habitats and were hunted for food, traditional medicine, and game hunting. Poaching for their horns is big business in Southeast Asia.’
‘Are you honestly saying you don’t hunt them? When you’ve just said they’re not native to Australia?’
‘Yeah, sure we do.’ He grinned at her confusion.
‘I go with Luke Bennett and his father, who are big game hunters, to this national park that’s closed to tourists.
We set up a bush camp for a week or two.
Then we’ll trek through these thick monsoon jungles with tranquilliser guns, to carry the banteng out and put them in pens. ’
‘To do what with them?’
‘We’ll truck them out of there. We don’t hurt them, Montrose, we’re trying to save them.’ He tilted his head at the herd. It was a good healthy dozen or so. And they were a long way from their designated locations.
‘Where do they go?’
‘We’ve supplied a few domestic and overseas zoos, a few rodeo breeders, and cattle stations.
I know of a few stations that have been successfully trialling them for grazing overgrown areas, like wild goats, to keep down the grasses that normally become a hazardous fuel for bushfires. They’re working well.’
‘Didn’t you say they’re wild?’
‘Sure. They’re an introduced species, like the water buffalo are, but they don’t do half as much damage as pigs do.’
‘Did Tilly mention she kept some on Dixby Downs?’ Amara tenderly stroked the horse, who seemed grateful to have found a friend.
‘Tilly’s old school. She’s against most feral animals—especially the ones that steal fodder from her cattle. And I know banteng shouldn’t even be in this region…’
‘They’re in excellent condition, considering where they are.’ She tipped her chin at the brumby herd on the other side of the waterhole. ‘Hey, I think there are some pedigrees in there.’
‘I agree.’ After having an overpriced pony in his stables, he figured he had a right to weigh in with his opinion.
‘Would they be worth half what that fancy-ass mule of yours cost? If so, I’m gonna start tripling the rent rates on my stables if you decide you want to keep them,’ he teased her, glad to see the horse drinking beside Amara.
Amara wiped her smile and chin from drinking some of the water, then used his wet shirt to rub her neck and back. ‘So, I’m guessing that banteng is not the normal bush-bashing beast you’d find out here?’