McCullock's Gold

  Chapter 11. Sweet Expectations; and Sticking To Plan ‘A’

  Early the next morning Tyler and Watts returned to Bonya Community as arranged, and following Twofoot’s instructions went directly to Cadney’s house. Cadney was ready to go. He was looking forward to the day’s outing and the prospect of making some extra dollars.

  The men in the big Land Cruiser were keen to get started as well. As they pulled up out the front Tyler bipped the horn, then the two waited in their seats with the engine running. Greetings and introductions were made through the window, after which Cadney took the seat behind the driver. He was still connecting his seat belt when Tyler pulled away.

  Out through the front grid they went, across the Bonya Creek and back along the Community access road toward the Highway. At the T-junction they turned toward Queensland.

  About fifteen minutes later Cadney alerted Tyler of their approaching a rudimentary track branching off to the south. Tyler reduced speed and turned where instructed, then continued along the winding bush track at the slower rate.

  Until then the two in front had travelled in silence and Cadney wondered about their lack of conversation. He’d expected a few questions at least, such as when did it last rain here or do you get out this way much and what’s the name of that hill? – but none were forthcoming.

  Perhaps they’d had an argument, he thought, yet the atmosphere in the car seemed normal. His instructions to slow down and turn right where the blown-out grader tyre was standing by the side of the highway were the first words spoken since their departure from Bonya.

  A few more kilometres of watching trees and rocks go by in silence had Cadney becoming irritated, and in frustration he began making comments on their well-appointed Land Cruiser, the weather and the state of the track. Tyler just grunted in reply a couple of times, then Watts muttered something under his breath.

  Cadney didn’t catch the comment. About then he gave up the chummy conversation idea and went back to staring out the window.

  On approaching the Marshall River he directed Tyler to where they could access the wide sandy channel, though once down the steep bank was surprised at how poorly their Land Cruiser actually fared. In fact the big four wheel drive just churned its way across. Never once did it look like getting bogged, but it certainly made heavy work of it.

  Cadney knew the problem; the tyre pressures were too high. They’d been inflated hard for bitumen driving. Once off in the bush it was better to let them down a little, especially in soft sandy going. Besides saving time and fuel it reduced wear and tear on the vehicle and meant less anxiety for the driver.

  He said nothing about this, of course. He’d learned from past experience that most non-bush people had a deadly aversion to letting air out of their tyres. And leaving them pumped up didn’t actually stop you from getting around. It was just a good deal rougher and made negotiating any sandy sections much harder work. From time to time it could get you thoroughly bogged, as well.

  Once clear of the river Watts took over the navigation. Deep into the spinifex country they went as he guided Tyler directly from one small isolated hillock to another. At each Tyler would stop and crack the corner of a rock or two with his geopick in a slightly disinterested manner, after which he’d return to the Toyota and drive on again. Watts showed less interest; he stayed in his seat.

  As the day progressed Cadney became increasingly puzzled. He was not there to guide them at all, apparently, and began to wonder just what his role was supposed to be. Logically, he reasoned – from Tyler and Watts’ point of view – they’d have been better off operating on their own and in secret.

  Eventually they turned toward Appoota Mbulkara. Even before it became visible Cadney was explaining to them how the outcrop they were approaching this time was Secret Aboriginal Business and that it was important they bypass it.

  Tyler glanced across at Watts with a self-satisfied smile and drove on without making any comment. It was exactly what the pair had been waiting for.

  Cadney explained again more carefully, thinking Tyler hadn’t understood, but the Toyota kept closing on the hill. As the quartz reefs came into sight he started to object, at the same time wondering why the two in front were silent and unresponsive. Surely they appreciated the seriousness of what they were doing?

  Then came a warning: shut up or they’d throw him out.

  Cadney couldn’t believe it. He began protesting angrily, despite the warning, and by the time Tyler drove out of the spinifex and up onto the hill’s broad western slope he was almost incoherent with rage. As the Cruiser stopped he tumbled out and slammed the door, lashing the two white men with all the invective he could muster in three Aboriginal languages and fluent English.

  Watts went straight to the rear doors of the wagon. A moment later he returned with a semi-automatic twenty-two magnum rifle.

  “I’ve had enough of you, y’ stinkin’ blackfella,” he snarled, working the bolt action to emphasise his words then levelling the gun at Cadney’s chest. “You’ve got ten seconds to piss off and if I see y’se again I’ll put a bullet through your mangy skull!”

  Cadney took off. Not from fear; he was far too angry for that, but in the interests of self-preservation. Watts sent a couple of shots after him, ricocheting them off the ground near Cadney’s feet. The sand-spray peppered his trouser legs.

  Zigzag through the spinifex he pelted, listening for the Toyota’s engine, getting as much scrub between them as he could. He was soon out of sight to them but knew to keep running; there’d be precious little time should they come after him. His only chance then would be a disappearing act, a hasty self-burial in the leaf litter and sand of a mallee thicket. Another bullet howled past him, fired blind through the mallee.

  Tracks! he suddenly thought. He jinked sideways ninety degrees and began stepping in the spinifex instead of the bare patches between. It wasn’t much but it might help lose a couple whitefellas in a Toyota.

  A minute or so later he collapsed in a dense thicket of mallee trees. As he lay there gasping for breath he tried to take stock of the situation – all burning with anger, still with an ear out for the Cruiser.

  So what the hell was going on? Tyler and Watts had certainly found the place they wanted, that was for sure. But this was bloody Appoota Mbulkara! Not a whitefella knew it existed!

  Yet these two pricks had brought him along to identify the place! And they certainly hadn’t come all this way just to park their flash bloody Toyota on an Aboriginal Secret Place. They’d be dead-set after the gold.

  So how did the mongrels get onto it? …when according to his father no one alive even knew about the gold – except for old Sayd Kaseem, that is. And Twofoot was sure he’d never talk.

  They’d assume he’d keep going, especially after Watts’ demonstration of how unpredictable and trigger-happy he could be. They’d expect him to put as much distance between them as he could.

  And they’d be right of course. He’d have to. He had no food or water and Marshall Bar was at least twenty kilometres away. And with bush tucker non existent and the seepage pit dry he’d be hungry soon and thirsty sooner.

  That left only two options: he could either set off to the waterhole now or he could watch Tyler and Watts for a while and then start walking.

  Suddenly the anger in Cadney’s guts flared again. So they wanted to play rough did they? Well he could play rough as well. He would stay, and if the pair went far enough from their Toyota he’d disable it – if not by day then by dark, should they camp the night.

  “It’s a long walk home you mangy mongrel dogs,” he muttered grimly as he sat up. “Let’s see who likes it the most.”

  Voicing his thoughts aloud helped mitigate Cadney’s anger, easing the knot in his guts. He lay back again and reviewed the situation more rationally.

  Contemplating payback was nice but it wouldn’t help Appoota Mbulkara. More likely the opposite. What he really needed was some means of getting Tyler and Watts away from the pl
ace then have them forget about it completely – not that they ever would, of course, but that was a problem for later. All he could do right now was watch until dark in the hope of finding an advantage – however unlikely that may seem.

  But monitoring their activities in any meaningful way meant getting fairly close, and with Watts having the rapid fire magnum he would have to do it very, very carefully.

  He sat up again. “Well at least it’s a plan of action,” he assured himself. …Riiiiight, his thoughts ran on. Totally bloody brilliant. Watch for as long as possible; set off home in the dark.

  The moment passed. “Arr bugger it!” he grumbled. “Come on Jack Cadney; git off your arse and go see what the pricks are up to.” He removed his boots the better to walk in silence, then on an impulse pulled the laces and put them in his shirt pocket. “—To strangle the bastards with,” he muttered as he stood up. Before moving off he listened again for the Toyota.

  … Nothing; just desert silence. At least they weren’t trying to hunt him down. He checked his trouser pockets for the cigarette lighter and pocket knife he always carried. They didn’t amount to much but other than intent they were all he had.

  Satisfied, he set off, mallee and turkey bush providing cover.

  It wasn’t long before the others came into view. They were up on the hill collecting samples, both figures easily seen in their light coloured clothes and broad-brimmed white cotton hats. Tyler was silhouetted against the skyline high on one of the quartz reefs, cracking flakes and shards from it and putting them into cotton sample bags. Despite a leisurely working pace he was sweating profusely, and every so often would remove his hat and use one of the bags to wipe his forehead.

  Watts had bags and a small shovel, and was sampling soil from the hill’s perimeter. Every ten paces he would dig a hole, put dirt from it into a fresh bag, then set the bag aside and go to the next site.

  Cadney moved closer, crouching down to remain behind cover. Then he noticed a burnt mallee tree nearby, probably the result of a lightning strike. A dense mass of new growth had sprouted from its base, forming a thicket of large juvenile leaves. It appeared big enough for him to push into and sit down, so he cautiously headed across to it.

  Made to order, he decided on arriving there. Exposure would require the leaves be pulled aside. He settled in for the duration. On the hill Tyler and Watts continued their labours.

  Cadney was familiar with what they were doing. Earlier he’d worked for a mineral exploration company as they’d prospected for gold through the Bonya Hills and Jervois Ranges. They’d also employed him at White Range, the goldfield east of Arltunga. Both times he’d helped collect soil and chip samples to be sent away for assay.

  “Geochemical analysis” the geologists called it, or “geo-chem” for short. Its sensitivity was such (according to them), that if gold was sugar it would sniff out a single grain in a drum full of tea.

  At the time he’d thought this was bullshit, but at White Range they’d showed him some results and explained the numbers – a table of assay values transferred onto a map of some old workings. What they’d said was true. Here were the diggings; there on the map were the elevated geo-chem values. They tied in perfectly.

  Just then Cadney realised something. Tyler and Watts’ information could not have included the gold’s exact source. Why otherwise would they be collecting samples?

  In his absence the two would have made a quick search of the hill. Then, when nothing obvious was found, they must have decided on taking samples and having them tested. That meant his father’s job of disguising the old diggings had worked – thus far at least.

  There was no way it would hold up in a laboratory, though. Once there the gold traces would be detected, confirming whatever story had brought the pair out here. Then Cadney noticed something else and nearly burst out laughing.

  He could hardly believe it. The conniving mongrels might have blown their best chance already. Judging from what his father had told him there seemed every likelihood they’d parked their Land Cruiser right over McCullock and Johns’ old trench. Tyler would be savvy enough to recognise the white backfill for what it was, but Tyler was up on the hill cracking rocks. It was Watts who was sampling the soil.

  Cadney watched closely, fervently hoping the little man wouldn’t dig into one end of the old workings – or wouldn’t think too much about what came out if he did. The trench would extend beyond the Toyota, of course, so it could still be discovered, but he seemed to be sampling farther down the hill on a circumference line that would pass well below it.

  It also appeared he was nearly finished, as a number of his little white bags could be seen around the hill’s perimeter awaiting collection. Then Tyler started down from the summit with his samples in a backpack, and half a minute later Watts set off on a circuit of the hill to gather his own.

  On reaching the Cruiser Tyler opened the rear doors and packed his dozen or so bags into a cardboard carton, after which he retrieved a picnic table from amongst their things. This was taken down the slope a few steps and unfolded. But the top was far from level, so he kicked out a couple of holes for the high side legs and tried again. Satisfied, he went back for their tucker box.

  Just then Watts arrived carrying the samples he’d collected. After adding them to the others he took the carton a few paces uphill and put it at the foot of a straight young whitewood tree. It was three metres tall and the only tree on the hill.

  Down the slope from the table he set about lighting a fire. Once it caught he half filled a billycan and put it alongside the flames. By this time Tyler had their folding chairs arranged.

  Following a late but leisurely lunch and some conversation the two pulled their hats over their eyes and settled back for an afternoon nap.

  Cadney shifted position and made himself a little more comfortable. This would be the perfect moment to do a hit and run on the Toyota, he mused, except for a clear recollection of Tyler pulling the keys and pocketing them when he stopped on the hill.

  Before long the protracted inactivity had Cadney feeling dozy as well. The others were obviously not going anywhere for a while and an hour’s sleep would do him good, he decided. Not right there though. That would be too risky.

  After carefully backing out from his hiding place on hands and knees he crawled away and, on reaching some taller cover, stood up again. He then headed back to the mallee trees where he’d left his boots, certain of hearing the Toyota should they drive away. It really didn’t matter though. It was not as if they were going to offer him a ride anywhere.

  But Tyler and Watts did not depart, and an hour later when Cadney arrived back at the observation post he found Watts still in his chair and Tyler up at the Toyota. Its rear doors were open and he was delving in the back. He returned with two cans of beer, passed one to Watts then sat down and opened the other.

  Soon the two were enjoying a lazy and relaxed conversation – most likely about the day’s events and their prospects generally, Cadney presumed, as they were just out of earshot. Neither appeared in a hurry to go anywhere.

  Empties were tossed under a bush, with return trips being made and more cans opened as the afternoon drifted on.

  If only the buggers would go off somewhere and he could grab a couple cans for himself, Cadney kept wishing. It wasn’t that he was thirsty – not yet, anyway. It was having to watch the shonky mongrels sitting back and enjoying themselves.

  With rising frustration and anger he deliberately set himself to assessing the positions of their car and camping equipment.

  Soon he was taking note of everything he could see, shrubs and dead bushes included. And to test his memory and help while away the time he made little twig-and-sand maps on the ground, then tested them against the real thing. This went on for the rest of the afternoon.

  When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the light began to fade Cadney crept closer and hid in a patch of turkeybush. Perhaps something could be done when they went to sleep,
he thought hopefully. The question was what? What could he do?

  Suddenly he realised: finding an answer would be even more difficult than he’d thought. Besides being clever, any plan he did manage to dream up would have to meet a crucial imperative.

  The requirement was absolute, a dead-set necessity, for in no way whatever – either by chance or by evidence or by dint of logical reasoning – must anything he did point back to the illustrious personage of a certain Mister Jackson Cadney. If that were to happen then Tyler and Watts’ notions about the gold would be confirmed, increasing their determination to find it – and him as well, most likely.

  Just then Tyler went to the Toyota for their battery light and hung it one of the doors. The fluoro-tube blinked as it was connected, after which its glow came steady and cold.

  Watts rekindled the fire. It had burned down long ago but there were still hot coals in the ash. Later he moved the burning wood to one side and raked level the new coal bed.

  Tyler retrieved some steaks from the car fridge and returned with their barbeque mesh. The mesh went on the embers and the meat was set on it to cook. Watts put the billy by the new flames.

  Before long the two were eating their evening meal and from his closer position Cadney could hear their conversation. Mostly it was about the disappointing absence of gold, though other subjects included the possibility of Sayd Kaseem’s having hood-winked them or their misinterpreting something he’d said. Eventually the subject of Jack Cadney came up – where he might be, what he might be doing and what sort of future threat he might pose.

  Watts gave a sudden sharp laugh. “Did you see the look on the stupid prick’s dial when he saw the rifle? He was shit-scared, ay. I’ll bet the bastard’s still running.”

  Tyler waved his hand in dismissal. “He’ll be making his way back to the waterhole, Mister Watts – the one he spoke of as we drove through the dry river channel. The fellow will require water and this “Marshall Bar” place of his will be the only source immediately available to him.

  “He’ll then go on to the main road, where in all likelihood he will flag down a passing vehicle. If so he will not have to walk the last section home at all.”

  “It doesn’t matter either way,” replied the other. “We’ll be on the road and out of here before the dopey mongrel can stir shit.”

  “All of which we would deny anyway,” murmured Tyler. “His word against ours it would be. —I mean to say, Watts,” he added more forcefully, “The fellow is unpredictable. Why else would he have abandoned us like this?” He threw back his head and laughed heartily. Watts joined in.

  A short distance away in the gathering gloom Cadney kept a lid on his temper. “Gawd bugger me,” he muttered in frustration. “Where are all the friggin’ brown snakes when you need about forty of the buggers?”

  After their meal the two set up stretchers and unrolled their swags. Shortly after that the light went out and before long the two were asleep. Theirs had been a long and eventful day.

  For more than an hour Jack Cadney remained in his turkeybush hide staring at their failing camp fire, totally lost for inspiration and not understanding why. He’d never had trouble before in conjuring up schemes to get himself out of trouble, so how come he couldn’t think of something now?

  As the minutes ticked by he sat there, trying to find a means of resolving the predicament, his mind settling deeper into stand-down mode. Eventually he gave up.

  This was it then, he thought. The samples go south, the geo-chem tells its tale, Tyler and Watts come back and Appoota Mbulkara gets bloody obliterated.

  And what could be done about it? The place was impossible to defend, even should someone be living here. And when might the buggers turn up? Not after giving two weeks notice, that was for sure. Anyhow, kick ‘em out one week and they’d come back the next, most likely by helicopter. Nor was being here in numbers any answer. The place was a Secret Ceremonial Site, not a Community bloody footy ground.

  And what would they do in the meantime, this army defending Appoota Mbulkara from the white-eyes, and who’d be feeding the buggers? What a hopeless situation.

  Wretched in heart and spirit and sick with the prosect of failure, Jack Cadney turned away and started crawling back through the turkeybush on hands and knees. That was no help; it made him feel like a gutless camp dog, grovelling in retreat – and the moonlight kept him moving in that manner until reaching the cover of a mallee thicket.

  Once there he stood up again and began trudging back to his boots, anguish gnawing at every fibre of his being. Away from the hill he gave up worrying about cover and walked in the open, picking his way left and right through the spinifex.

  “What a bloody nightmare,” he muttered to himself, wishing the whole business would just go away. He stretched to step over a thin fallen log. “All I can do now is …”

  And in that instant a solution exploded into Jack Cadney’s mind, mid-stride. The shock of it left him stumbling.

  He stopped and looked about, neck hair all prickly, breath caught in his throat. Goose bumps raked him head to foot, the silence suddenly full of old men’s spirits. Their eyes were everywhere, watching from every shadow.

  “Bloody scare the shit out of a bloke, why don’t you,” he croaked shakily. “I’m only a newchum at this stuff so just take it easy.” He set off walking again, his stomach beginning to relax as he thought the plan through.

  Complete in every detail it was, the whole scheme requiring nothing more than caution, bushcraft and a little good fortune. Just as importantly, should it be executed faithfully, not a trace of evidence would point back to him. It was bloody masterful. The wily old buggers!

  All afternoon he’d sat there wringing his brains dry and had come up with nothing, yet this could leave Tyler and Watts thinking they’d been thoroughly conned. Anger would have them seeing the affair as a total waste of time and with luck they’d abandon any notion of returning – all going to plan, of course.

  And if not? …Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. Nothing could be guaranteed though and something could always go wrong.

  He checked the alternatives. There were none.

  Do nothing and the assays would reveal the gold. Carry the scheme through and Appoota Mbulkara might be saved.

  Cadney looked into the nearest deep shadow. “Only ‘might’,” he said pointedly. “Remember that.” He turned and started back to the hill, the sooner to get things started.

  Then he recalled something important. A moment before Tyler switched off the light Watts had propped the rifle in a shrub by his stretcher. An image of Watts waking, seeing him, grabbing the gun and letting fly flashed briefly through Cadney’s mind.

  Far better to work by starlight when the moon had gone, he decided, and waiting for moonset would allow him some sleep. This would help later, because as soon as the job was done he’d have to start out for Marshall Bar. Sleep taken now would make walking through the night that much easier.

  Then Cadney realised how much better he felt. This was a real plan, he told himself – a scheme with a bit of substance.

  He turned around again and continued walking back to his boots, scouting left and right for a couple of small spinifex bushes as he walked along in the moonlight. Two were all he needed, ones young enough to still only have a central tap root.

  Most of it was old growth and struggling for moisture, but he eventually found a couple of hardy beginners that suited his purpose. Cadney slid a hand beneath each spiny little hemisphere, gripped the tap root and pulled it from the ground whole.

  Back at his boots he put the bushes to one side, fashioned himself a hip-hole in the sand and made himself comfortable, his footwear doubling as a pillow.

  As mind and muscles began to relax Cadney gave a chuckle. He’d thought of a far better way to resolve the problem, something much quicker and a good deal more effective: sneak into their camp; grab the rifle; shoot the pricks.

  “Naaah, better not,” he muttered cynicall
y. “Their mothers would probably miss ‘em. ―And Frazier’d bloody whinge about it, too, him being a copper.

  “Better stick to Plan ‘A’.”

  A few moments later Jack Cadney was asleep.

  * * *

  Rick Frazier was the Harts Range policeman. His district covered the eastern Alice Springs region to as far as the Queensland border – an area half the size of France, as he liked to boast. The two had worked together in the past and were good friends, yet Cadney respected Frazier for who he was.

  Having a beer and some laughs with him one day didn’t mean he wouldn’t lock you up the next.