McCullock's Gold

  Chapter 26. Departing In The Usual Manner; and The Runaway Fire Siren

  Early the next morning, following a pre-sunrise breakfast and a quick mug of tea, Jack Cadney fired up the yellow Number One Holden and departed the Community in his usual manner – tyres squealing on the bitumen; engine howling. Except to remark on the early hour no one took the slightest notice, as per usual.

  Going to Great Northern via the mines access road would take him right past Grundy’s new drilling site, so to avoid being seen by the drillers he bypassed the mines turnoff without slowing and continued towards Lucy Creek Station. As soon as was practicable he swung away from the gravelled formation and headed cross-country towards the ranges. Then, on coming to the old Lucy track, he turned back toward the mines.

  Through the rough hilly section he went, then across the line of lode and south towards the workings. On reaching the next crest Great Northern became visible. The site was deserted as Grundy had said it would be.

  Once there Cadney coaxed the yellow Holden across a couple of rehabilitated drill pads and a rocky area near the old workings, then parked the car facing downhill about ten metres from the ironstone’s trench. All he had to do now was recover the boulder and clear out before Tyler and Watts could show up.

  One thing was certain: there was no doubting the pair’s intentions. They’d be back, damn their worthless hides, and sooner rather than later, that was for sure.

  He leapt from the car, slammed the door angrily, wrenched the rearward door open, grabbed the pick and shovel from the seat, slammed that door even harder, hurried around the front of the car and jumped into the pit. There he took to the southern end backfill in a frenzy of self-indulgent rage.

  Soon he came to the soft clay-like floor and from there he dug more carefully, clearing the bottom corner with just the shovel. Hitting the ironstone with the pick might shatter it and then he would have some problems: gold sand bloody everywhere and his father going BAL-LISTIC!

  Breaking an ironstone egg? …It didn’t bear thinking about!

  Before long Cadney came on something foreign, something much larger than the other rocks he’d encountered in the rubble. He knelt down and brushed it with his fingers.

  It was the ironstone gourd, exactly where his father had said it would be, where the old man had buried it all those years before.

  He tossed the shovel and pick aside then climbed out and went to the car. After a quick drink of water he grabbed his wife’s steel yam stick; back in the trench he squatted down and used it to scrape out the stones still wedging the boulder in place.

  And it was then, after prising the boulder free, that Jack Cadney discovered just how heavy a hollow, gold filled medicine ball-sized ironstone rock could be. Certainly he’d anticipated the thing being weighty, but this was way beyond anything he’d imagined. Getting it up to ground level would be the hardest part, he realised, but if he first rolled it onto the mound of rubble he’d created half way along the trench…

  He threw out the yam stick, then stepped across the rock and gave it a tentative shove. It moved a couple of centimetres but that was all. To push more effectively he’d need to hunker down on his hands and knees.

  Yet even that was not very successful, and before long Cadney found himself lying on his side trying to shoulder the stubborn mass up the soft rubbly slope. When he’d finally succeeded he stood up, took a couple of deep breaths and dusted off his clothes.

  Immediately above the ironstone was a patch of ground the original diggers had deliberately left clear of spoil. He stood face-on to it and bent over as far as he could within the confines of the trench, one boot each side of his prize. Then, grasping it as best her could, Cadney braced himself mentally … and lifted.

  Muscles and veins bulged as he hauled the awkward mass up from the rubble, jaw clamped tight. When it was high enough he jammed a knee against the wall to hold it and tried for a better grip. The protest from his kneecap was sudden and intense but the moment was brief.

  From there Cadney worried the boulder upward against the wall, every fibre of his will and body near breaking point. And, millimetre by millimetre, the boulder gave ground.

  There could be no truce here; no surrendering and a second try. It had to be done now and as quickly as possible. Never doubting the outcome, Cadney threw himself into the job.

  At chest-height the ironstone was nearing the pit’s crumbling top edge and, with a final Herculean effort, he rolled the rock out onto level ground – then fell forward after it and lay with his head on his arms, gasping for breath. What a bloody nightmare, he thought. Much heavier and Jackson Cadney would’ve been rat shit.

  After a few moments he stood up straight again and turned to retrieve the tools, heart still pounding, his legs like jelly. Then he paused. There was a vehicle somewhere...

  Cadney held his breath. —On the Lucy Creek road, the sound of its engine echoing back from the ranges.

  No! It was closer! He leapt from the trench – and could hardly believe what he saw. A white Land Cruiser Station Wagon was approaching along the old Lucy track. It sped up as it topped the last of the crests, the yellow Holden in plain view.

  “Tyler and bloody Watts!” he shouted angrily as the Cruiser disappeared behind the Great Northern rise.

  He grabbed the ironstone boulder, wrestled it groin high and shuffled it toward the car, urgency and adrenaline boosting his resolve, heart hammering with the effort.

  The passenger’s side was closest but the windows were up. It made no difference; he’d no spare fingers for the door handle anyway. Hoping the heavy blanket would save the seat Cadney bunted the ironstone straight through the glass.

  Crystalline shards showered down and the car lurched as he wrenched open the door and clambered over the boulder to the driver’s side, the four-on-the-floor lever jammed out of the way as he scrambled across. Behind him the Cruiser breasted the rise.

  A bullet ricocheted off the ground nearby. Cadney struggled to get his legs down. Another hit something under the car.

  “Bloody hell!” he squawked, grabbing frantically at the key. His foot found the clutch, another found the accelerator. “Go go go bloody GO!” he yelled.

  The engine obliged for a change. As the revs shot up Cadney wrenched the lever into second and dropped the clutch pedal.

  Stones and dirt showered from behind as the car leapt forward. The door slammed shut, spraying him in shards.

  He glanced in the mirror. The Toyota was passengers’ side on to him. Watts was trying to shoot from his open window. Tyler was hurrying it over some boulders, jerking it about too much for another shot. Moments later it cleared them.

  Cadney braked hard for a washout; the Holden hammered through it. A third bullet howled by his wheels; another hit near the left-hand tail light. He sped up again, dodging the bigger erosion channels as best he could and flying the smaller ones. Hopefully they were aiming at his tyres.

  At the Unka Creek he stood on the brakes. The Holden plunged over the rocky bank, wheels hanging free. It bottomed-out violently as the slope levelled, crashing down in a tangle of underbrush and ploughing through the saplings lining the channel.

  “Lousy place for a crossing,” Cadney muttered grimly. He jammed the lever back to second and dodged between the creek gums. The car bounced wildly through the rocky channel then hurtled up the other side in a shower of dust and dry leaves.

  On level ground he sped up again, veering left and right through the scrub as he made for the access road. At the windrow he slewed the car around to lessen the approach angle then jagged it straight and locked the brakes.

  He released them a moment before slamming over the embankment. As the car came down he slid it sideways, aligned it with the roadway and hit the accelerator.

  The Lucy Creek road came up almost immediately. Cadney powered into the corner. On the surveyed formation his foot went to the floor.

  Soon the Holden was howling along. He checked the speedo (wick-ED!) – then
the mirrors (nothing but his own dust). The others would be tangled in the erosion channels. Flat chat back to Bonya then and hope the engine lasts the distance.

  Suddenly Cadney remembered his seat belt. ―Great idea, given the circumstances. He tried pulling it out; the reel kept catching. Eventually enough came for him to secure it.

  The surveyed road formation turned. He checked the mirrors again. The air was still; the Cruiser was a kilometre back and coming up fast, powering through his billowing dust like an angry shark.

  Bugger! Their Toyota was too good; he’d have to get off the highway. Once in the bush he could lose them. —Not yet though. Out on the flats. Here was too rocky.

  A minute later the Cruiser was on him.

  It drew alongside. Tyler forced the Holden into the drain.

  Cadney braked violently and jinked around him. The ironstone gourd thumped forward onto the floor.

  Tyler tried to intercept him. Cadney swerved and accelerated past. As he hit top speed again the rocky ground fell behind. Time to go bush.

  But the Cruiser was behind him again. Cadney waited as it came alongside then jerked hard on the wheel and braked. The Holden yawed wildly to the left. Down from the roadway it went, broadside on.

  Cadney spun the wheel to correct. The car straightened; it hurtled through the drain bottom and slammed up over the windrow, air under its wheels. The gourd rolled about alarmingly.

  The move caught Tyler by surprise. He overshot and braked, then swung off the road to rejoin the chase.

  But Cadney was gone. He’d wheeled about sharply behind a thicket of turkeybush then doubled back over the roadway through their joint cloud of dust.

  Tyler stopped. Watts saw reflected sunlight and shouted. Tyler turned and followed. The Toyota’s axles slammed against the rubbers at each windrow, its driver blinded by the dust. Suddenly they were in clear air. But where was their quarry?

  Tyler slid the Cruiser to a halt, killing the engine as they leapt out. All was silent, the bushland lay quiet and empty. Watts scrambled onto the roof and looked around.

  “He’s bloody gone, Simon! There’s nothin’! The prick’s got away!”

  “Not so, Mister Watts. That is what we are supposed to think. But the air is still and his car is noisy; we should hear the engine or see his dust. He has therefore gone to ground.

  “Get back in. We’ll traverse the area and find him.”

  Cadney could see them clearly. He’d slid the yellow car into a dense patch of flowering cassia, not half a kilometre away. Similar bright yellow thickets were scattered across the area.

  “Who’s laughing at the paint job now?” he muttered grimly, watching as the big Toyota moved away.

  But he was too impatient. When they turned he made a break in the opposite direction.

  Watts was looking behind. He caught a glimpse of the Holden through the bush and yelled. Tyler turned and accelerated.

  Cadney saw the Toyota come around in the mirror and cursed his own stupidity. Now he’d have to lose them again. But how? Where to go?

  Eaglehawk rockhole! Where the overflow channel looped out. It was less than a kilometre away and deep enough to hide a car. He’d get behind them while they searched the creek.

  Thirty seconds later the Holden disappeared over the creek bank. At the bottom Cadney wheeled left and accelerated.

  But Tyler was suspicious. Instead of following he stopped. Engine idling, the two men waited for the yellow car to reappear.

  For a while nothing happened. Then off their rear quarter the Holden crept from the flood channel, hidden behind a mass of flowering acacia. It was no more that two hundred metres away. Cadney turned in the direction they’d come and quietly increased his speed.

  Tyler was getting impatient. He pushed through the turkeybush for a better view. A stick fouled the side mirror.

  Watts readjusted it. He saw the Holden behind them and shouted. Tyler spun the wheel and planted his foot.

  Cadney saw them turn. He cursed again. What now?

  To the south lay some dense mulga scrub, the perfect place to lose a big lumbering Land Cruiser. And Cadney knew the area backwards. He turned ninety degrees, took a long swing around the overflow loop and then headed for the creek.

  Tyler tried to cut straight across. Down into the flood channel he drove, ploughing through a stand of metre high ironwood saplings. Suddenly he skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust, bigger trees and a fallen log barring their way. He reversed hastily, then turned to get around them.

  The Holden appeared ahead on the far side creek bank. Tyler smashed through the shrubbery in front and followed, pushing hard.

  Cadney headed southward again. This was his hunting country; he should have the advantage, but still the Cruiser was closing.

  Soon it was on his tail. Through the scrub the two vehicles hurtled, the drivers wrenching their steering wheels about insanely.

  Tyler wanted to spin Cadney’s rear end. Watts hung on for dear life, thankful the Toyota had a panic bar.

  In the Holden the gourd was rolling about dangerously, threatening to come over the hump. Cadney reached behind for his swag, steering one hand and pulling with the other.

  The swag was jammed between the front and back seats. He turned to see why. Small trees were annihilated. As his fingers found the swag strap he looked forward again.

  Too late. Glass sprayed from the left hand headlight and shattered dry mulga wood filled the air.

  Cadney ignored it. He jerked the strap viciously. The swag came free. He hauled it forward, glancing down as he shoved it to the floor.

  A big ghost gum appeared in front. He swerved wildly left and corrected. The huge white trunk flew by. His driver’s side mirror vanished.

  Tyler braked and slewed the other way, wheels crashing over a fallen log. A stand of trees deflected him farther.

  Cadney checked his inside mirror. The Toyota had gone. He dodged some more scrub then wedged the swag between seat and bulkhead with his boot, jamming the ironstone gourd against the door – and checked again. But where was the Cruiser now?

  Tyler had recovered. He was off to the right, driving parallel and a little behind, waiting for a break in the scrub.

  A clearing came up. He turned and accelerated, powering the big station wagon up beside the Holden’s rear then swerving into it violently.

  Cadney was blind that side. Suddenly he was going sideways, tyres free of traction, wheels bouncing crazily on the uneven ground. He tried frantically to correct but the Holden continued rotating. Then the rear corner slammed into a witchetty bush.

  The car spun back. Cadney regained control and sped off in the new direction. Tyler corrected his own slide and followed. Trashed shrubs and bushes lay in their wakes.

  Savannah scrub became mulga forest, all thicket lines and dead end laneways. Cadney knew the place backwards. “Now we’ll see how good you are,” he muttered. “Your Cruiser goes all right in the clear mate, but here it will be humiliated.” He slewed into an opening.

  In and out of the timber he flew and along the clearings. Hard left, turn right, back to second, through the gap.

  Foot down, accelerate up the laneway, change to third. Brake hard, slide right, through the opening, back to second. Turn left; another gap. Brake again, double back, accelerate.

  On it went, the engine revs wailing up and down.

  A larger clear patch came up. Cadney checked the mirror. Tyler was just a little way behind. Shit! The bugger could drive! And knowing the place wasn’t helping at all.

  The clearing ended. He dodged into the timber again, thinking hard. Different cars – his was nimble, theirs faster. They’d have more fuel, could outlast him; Watts had a rifle and would use it. Him too but he was busy. And tyres!

  Not good: steel-belts to his old baldies. Lucky so far. A flat could settle it either way. Better change tactics.

  An exit track came up. Cadney swerved onto it. The car slewed and bounced crazily. He pulled it straight. Clear of t
he timber he left the track and accelerated.

  The country became spinifex and mallee. His only hope now was the Bonya Creek but that was kilometres away; hopefully he could make it.

  Left and right the two cars hurtled, bounding over the hummocks, wheels pummelling up and down.

  Tyler was playing a waiting game. One mistake was all he needed and the way his quarry was driving that wouldn’t be long. He moved closer to the lurching bouncing Holden, concentrating intently, swerving and leaping along behind and pressing hard.

  Cadney realised Tyler’s intent. It suited his purpose. He focused on the country ahead.

  Nearer the creek there were fewer trees and no spinifex. The speed increased.

  Then Watts saw the river gums. “We got the bastard!” he shouted. “That big creek’s coming up! He’s cornered!”

  But Cadney was not cornered; he knew the river, he knew his position and he knew exactly where he was going.

  Ahead the creek bank was vertical; a half kilometre wall of red earth, the drop nearly five metres. Mid-way a section had collapsed, the top half sheer, the bottom part an earthen ramp. —Of sorts. It angled down to the sand between some gum trees.

  Cadney was heading for there. He’d never imagined driving it or even that it might be driven. Now there was no choice; this was his last chance of escape.

  Tyler would never take the risk. He’d baulk. He’d see the creek bank and slow down, then stop when the Holden went over. And getting around the obstruction would take time.

  Cadney held his speed, concentrating intently, hands locked on the wheel. “Nothing like this was mentioned in the frigging job description,” he muttered angrily. “‘Aboriginal Custodian wanted. Must have a sense of adventure.’ Blaardy hell! And this had better go right or more than just the new paint job’ll be buggered.”

  —Tyler too, he added mentally. If he doesn’t back off soon we’ll all be walking home – if any of us can still bloody walk, that is. Let’s just hope the yellow Number One can handle it.

  “Course it will,” he croaked shakily. “H-Zed’s are built like bloody tanks, mate. No worries, ay; just go for it.”

  Tyler was crowding his bumper, waiting for the turn. Watts was paralysed, eyes open wide as the chasm yawned closer, ashen-faced and mewling in terror.

  Tyler ignored him. He eased off slightly … then hesitated. The Holden wasn’t stopping!

  Watts screamed. Tyler panicked; he braked frantically.

  Cadney braked an instant later, judging to the millimetre. The Holden slithered up to the abyss. As its front wheels slumped over the drop it came to a halt.

  Almost.

  The Cruiser ploughed on, wheels locked and sliding, the precipice a metre too close. It shunted the Holden forward, flopping it over the brink on its guts. Rocks, tools, tyres, wood-load debris and car parts rained forward.

  Cadney went into free fall as the Cruiser followed him over. He hit the ramp-slope standing on his pedals – seat-back deflecting the cascading gear, Toyota looming above.

  Into the sandy creek bed the Holden bulldozed, bottoming violently. The motor lurched forward, stretching the restraints to their limits; the fan wiped a circle on the radiator.

  The wagon landed behind, hard and crooked. Watts’ head slammed against the window as Tyler fought for control. They narrowly missed a gum tree, ploughed into the sand and shunted the Holden violently on the rebound.

  Cadney’s head snapped back to the headrest. He’d expected it and hardly noticed. As the car shot forward he simultaneously gunned the motor, reefed the lever into second and dropped the clutch.

  The Holden surged away. Sand showered the Cruiser’s front.

  Cadney was too surprised even to congratulate himself. “Bloody hell! We’re still in one piece!” he cried in astonishment. “I can’t bloody believe it!

  “Good thing you replaced those wires, Jack Cadney, ‘cos we’d be minus an engine again without the buggers, that’s for sure.

  “And what a bloody ride! If I had a couple more dollars I’d go ‘round again ... like shit.”

  He switched to third and turned downstream, foot to the floor. The car gathered speed, bucking and leaping as it rocketed over the waves of dry sand-wash, its engine howl rising like a runaway fire siren.

  Cadney was now master of the situation. His tyres had tubes and were under-inflated; the Toyota’s were hard and set for the highway.

  Tyler didn’t know. Resolve unbroken he tried to follow. The Cruiser began biting into the sand. He switched back a gear as it slowed and jammed his foot down. The big Toyota ploughed on, engine roaring.

  Three hundred metres away Cadney eased off his speed and swung the Holden towards the opposing bank. On approaching it he changed back to first.

  Watts was in shock and his head was sore. “How’s the mongrel bastard doing that?!!” he yelled angrily. “We should be all over the prick!”

  A sudden brief whooshing sound issued from the front. The Cruiser slewed to the right and stopped.

  Watts leaped out. The Holden was bounding up the creek bank’s steep earthen slope, engine screaming, dust spraying behind. He emptied his rifle at it rapid fire, followed by every one of his limited fund of expletives.

  Neither volley found its mark.

  Tyler stepped out to investigate as the yellow Number One and its wailing engine disappeared over the top. He was covered in sweat, his face contorted with rage.

  The right hand front tyre was flat. A large hole gaped where the sidewall had ruptured, torn open by a stump in the sand.