Chapter 23
Frank
Title: Every problem has a price
I was drunk. Not tipsy. I didn’t just have a few. Fuckin drunk.
It was the middle of summer muster, hotter than Satan's asshole, and I'd been up since three in the mornin. We had about two thousand head of cattle to move from the northern paddock out to the western ridge, and I was ridin lead like I always did.
Except I'd also been boozin since before lunch.
Kept a flask of whiskey in my saddlebag. Told myself it was to take the edge off the heat, but truth is, I was drinkin 'cause I was pissed off. Can't even remember why now. Probably some shit Bob put on me, or maybe Cassidy and her never-endin bullshit. Don't matter.
Actually, it was probably Cassidy. That morning, she'd brought in a mob from the eastern ridge in record time. Made it look easy, too. Had the younger blokes talkin about how she read cattle better than anyone on the property.
Better than me, they meant.
Pissed me right off.
We had the cattle movin nice and steady across the flats. Bazza Crawford was workin the right flank with a couple of the younger blokes. Good stockman, Bazza. Been with me for years. Quiet fella. Did his job. Didn't ask questions.
Cassidy was workin the left flank. Ridin like she always did. Calm, steady. Just doin the work.
That pissed me off even more.
The cattle were movin smooth, the sun was startin to drop, and the whiskey had me feelin like I could ride forever.
We got this section on the northern run we call The Narrows. It's a natural bottleneck between two sheer cliffs, about a hundred meters long, maybe ten meters wide at the tightest point. The rock walls go straight up on both sides, thirty meters high, no way out except forward or back.
We use it for musterin sometimes because it funnels the cattle nice and tight, makin ’em easier to control. But it needed to be timed right. Send ’em through in batches so they don't get stuck. And keep ’em calm. Had to know what you were doin.
I was drunk. And impatient. And I wanted to show Cassidy and the rest of ’em that I could move two thousand head through The Narrows faster than anyone.
Prove I was still the best stockman on Koolaroo.
I made the call to take the herd through.
Bazza looked at me when I gave the order. Didn't say nothin, but I saw it in his face. That split second where he wanted to tell me it was a shit idea.
Cassidy rode up beside me, yellin that we had too many heads for The Narrows. Tellin me we should split ’em up. Tellin me what to do.
I told her to shut her damn mouth and do her job.
So, I yelled at Bazza to get his ass movin or find another job.
We started pushin the cattle toward The Narrows. At first, it seemed fine. They were movin slowly, filing through in nice orderly lines.
Cassidy hung back, keepin the rear steady. Doin exactly what she was supposed to do.
Then one of the lead steers spooked.
Don't even know what set him off. Maybe a rock fallin. Maybe a shadow. Maybe the whiskey made me push too hard.
Don't matter.
He bolted. And when one goes, they all fuckin go.
We had a stampede.
Two thousand head of cattle, panicked, chargin straight into The Narrows.
And once they were in that bottleneck, there was nowhere to go but forward.
I remember the sound. It was like thunder trapped between the cliffs—the ground shakin. The walls amplifyin every bellow, thunderin hooves, turnin it into this roarin chaos that drowned out everythin else.
Dust so thick I couldn't see ten feet in front of me.
I tried to pull ’em back. Screamin, wavin my hat, anythin to turn ’em away. But drunk as I was, I couldn't think straight.
Cassidy tried, too. I saw her through the dust, ridin hard, workin those dogs of hers, tryin to turn the mob before they hit The Narrows. But it was too late.
The mob hit the narrowest part at full speed.
Cattle went down, got trampled, and crushed against the rock walls. The ones in the back kept pushin forward, climbing over the ones that fell. It was a fuckin massacre.
Bazza was in The Narrows when it happened.
His horse tried to get clear, but there was nowhere to go. The mob came through like a freight train. His horse went down and pinned him against the cliff face.
Crushed his leg from the knee down.
By the time we got him out, his leg was mangled beyond saving. Bone shattered and was stickin out of his leg like a snapped twig. Bloody mess.
I sobered up mighty fuckin fast.
Cassidy didn't say nothin. Didn't have to. The look on her face said it all.
They amputated his leg at the hospital. Took the whole thing off below the knee.
I saw Bazza a few weeks later, hobblin ’round on crutches, that stump wrapped in bandages. He got fitted for one of them fake legs. But it wasn't the same.
He never worked cattle again.
Honestly, I'd rather be dead than get around on a fake fuckin leg.
But Bazza got to thinkin I owed him. That it was my fault he had a plastic leg.
He demanded compensation. Sayin it like he thought I had money to burn.
Truth is, I didn't, but I knew where I could get my hands on some cash. A fuckin ton of it.
Bob's launderin money, the stuff we hid behind the walls.
Bob asked me to start hidin his cash years ago. Maybe ten or twelve years back. At first, we stuck it in the back of the stables, but then fuckin Kayden decided he was claimin that space for his own, and the angry bastard wouldn't take no for a fuckin answer, so Bob and I had to move it.
That's when he came up with the idea of hidin it behind the walls.
It's amazing what a sheet of plasterboard can hide.
You know what else plasterboard is good for? Patchin up fuckin holes.
So when Bazza Crawford demanded I pay him out, that's exactly what I did. Gave him 500K. Cold. Hard. Cash. Told him he didn't wanna know where it came from. And if he told anyone, he'd lose more than his fuckin leg.
Bazza took the money and got the hell outta town. Never saw him again.
No investigation into how he lost his leg. No questions. No consequences.
Just a bloke with one leg and a fat bank account, and me still runnin Koolaroo like nothin happened.
Turns out when you got a wall full of cash and nobody keepin track, it's pretty easy to help yourself.
That damn fool councilor in Longreach who wanted to put a runway on our land? Cash.
The tax auditor who came knockin? Cash.
The asshole who didn’t wanna renew my driver's license ’cause of my eyesight. Cash.
Bob's money made issues disappear.
And he never knew a fuckin thing.
It was a double-edged sword, though. All that cash, and I couldn't put it into Koolaroo. Not with Declan running the accounts. That dipshit wants everythin by the book.
How fuckin ironic, that Koolaroo is richer than it's ever been, yet we can't spend a cent of it.
Just like the mountain of cash I nicked before I took off.
Can't spend it.
Don't know what I'll do with it.
But when I figure that out, the whole world's gonna know who Bob Ackerman is.
Wish I was gonna be there to see that.
So here’s my lesson for you boys.
Every problem's got a price. The trick is makin sure someone else pays it.
That's it.
Frank Branson.