Mike Dixon

She pushed herself up to her full height. „Piss off! Go back
to where you‟ve come from and stop poking your nose into
other people‟s business … or you‟ll soon find out what‟s
coming to you.‟
rofessor Louise Spencer‟s gravelly-voiced friend had
P a farm near Charters Towers, an old gold-mining
town about an hour‟s drive from Townsville. Louise said he
knew a lot about the Island View Hotel and had no inhibi-
tions when talking about the place.
Humphrey reached Charters Towers just before midday. It
reminded him of old cowboy movies: wooden buildings, gold
exchange and hotels with verandas. He pulled up outside
one and squeezed his rental car between two farm trucks.
A hitching rail stood nearby. Two men in their forties were
tying their mounts to it. Humphrey didn‟t know much about
horses or knots but knew immediately that the pair weren‟t
for real. They were dressed like cattlemen but didn‟t look
the part. They were too well scrubbed. Their pallid skins and
slack expressions didn‟t belong. They were office workers
playing at being cowboys. Humphrey had seen advertise-
ments in the Sunday newspapers for bush holidays with
horse and gear provided. He guessed the men had an-
swered one and cursed himself for even thinking he could
imitate a cattleman. It would take years in the saddle, riding
back and forth over the sun-drenched land, before anyone
could put on a convincing performance.
He turned off the air conditioning, stopped the engine and
stepped out into the searing heat. The bar was only ten
yards away but he was sweating before he got there. The
heat was unbelievable. His only consolation was that the air
was drier than on the coast.
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