* * *
In Alice Springs Tyler and Watts consigned their samples to Adelaide then spent a few days relaxing. One day they went to the Desert Nature Park, another day they inspected the historical trucks and road trains at the Road Transport Hall Of Fame. On the weekend they drove out to the Arltunga goldfield and looked over the old buildings and workings. Later they visited the museum.
On Monday Tyler did further research on the Jervois Range geology, both online and at the Mines Department; Tuesday and Wednesday the two prepared for a second trip to Marshall Bar. Thursday saw them ready; all they needed was their assay report.
The letter arrived at Reception mid-morning Friday, and with suppressed excitement Watts delivered it to Tyler’s room. Dismay and anger greeted its reading. Tyler stared in disbelief for a time at the table of vanishingly-low gold values, then announced another visit to their alcoholic pensioner acquaintance. No outward sign was given of his deadly anger, but Watts knew the intensity of the man’s rage by his uncharacteristic use of a mild profanity.
“…and once there we shall ask as to why, in his opinion, our assays were so destitute of gold,” Tyler continued. “With luck the drunken inebriate will volunteer some additional information.
If not, though …” He left the sentence hanging as he jumped to his feet and threw the crumpled-up letter angrily at the waste bin.
On the way to Sayd’s shack Tyler’s fury dissipated slightly, as grim and silent he contemplated the likelihood of getting anything more. At the turnoff to Sayd’s lean-to he said: “We can but try, Mister Watts, though I don’t believe the old wretch will allow us anything further – or anything that will be of use, at any rate.”
“I’m not so sure about that, boss,” the other came back. “Before the old bugger passed out last time he was talkin’ his stupid head off, ay. Then he suddenly clams up. I reckon a bit of encouragement will get him going again.”
“On reflection you may prove right,” Tyler mused thoughtfully. “Consider our Bonya savage. The fellow knew nothing of any gold. He only reacted as he did because the place was one of their Aboriginal stomping grounds. Could there be a second place of significance and we were unlucky enough to breast the wrong hill first?”
Sayd Kaseem was not at home, however. Back in town Tyler and Watts questioned some Aboriginal people near the tavern. They were directed to the Todd River, where Sayd was sleeping-off a bender on a shady patch of sand. Finding him was easy enough; waking him was another matter entirely.
“We can’t do much with the stupid prick here,” Watts grumbled after a couple of tries. “He could be zonked-out for hours. Perhaps we should take him back to his hovel.”
“Indeed we should, Mister Watts, and then we’ll have lunch, following which we might see what else Mister Kaseem has to say.” They each took an arm over their shoulder and hauled Sayd up to the Cruiser; there they dumped him on the back seat.
At the lean-to Watts opened the door, only to hesitate as he was about to drag the pensioner out. “Wait up,” he said.
“If he wakes before we return he’ll most likely head back to town, and then we’ll have to find the dopey bugger again.”
“Well let us restrain him,” Tyler replied. “There are zip ties in the tool box.”
“And what if someone comes along and releases him?”
Tyler pulled Watts out of the way, hauled the comatose pensioner from the Toyota, hoisted his light frame over a shoulder and walked off. “We simply place the fellow at some remove to ensure no one does find him,” he added over his shoulder.
Watts grabbed a shopping bag from the seat and closed the door, then retrieved the zip ties from the rear and followed. In the bag was a bottle of cheap fortified wine.
“I’d laugh if the drunken prick spewed down the back of your trousers.” he remarked on catching up.
“Only briefly would you Mister Watts,” Tyler replied. “Just very briefly.” Without further comment he carried Sayd down into the little teatree-thicketed creek at the back end of the block, then took him upstream about two hundred metres and dumped on the sand. Watts then bound his hands and feet, following which the two drove back into town to find a restaurant.
A couple of hours later they returned to the lean-to. As they made their way up the gully again they could hear the pensioner’s feeble shouting.
Sayd was struggling weakly and abusing the world in general, still half drunk and totally bewildered by his restraints. In his confused state of mind he saw Tyler and Watts as saviours, there to banish the devils that bound him. When Tyler had cut him free Watts produced the wine.
Sayd sat up and snatched the bottle from his hand as he removed the cap. He then sucked at it greedily until Watts managed to grab it back again.
But things didn’t go as the pair had hoped. Twenty minutes later, on giving up, the bottle was half empty and Sayd was lying bloody and unconscious on the sand.
Apart from pleading and denials, the only thing further they’d been able to garner from him was a disjointed comment, mumbled in a moment of clarity before falling back unconscious.
“I seg koo mush,” he’d slurred through his shattered jaw. “Mgullogh ’ll ...” And in that moment Tyler had seen the terror in Sayd’s eyes. It paled to nothing the fear of anything they might do.
“Bloody hopeless,” Watts grumbled as they walked away.
“The stupid prick knows a lot more but all that blackfella bogeyman stuff’s got him scared shitless.”
Tyler stopped. “I don’t believe it’s the Aboriginal bogeyman that has him,” he said. He turned and started back to where Sayd was lying. Watts looked around but kept walking. The comment puzzled him, as did the other’s returning there.
Tyler soon caught up. In his hand was the half empty bottle. As he fell in alongside Watts he added: “If I am to understand Mister Kaseem correctly, this McCullock fellow’s command overrides all else, despite his being long dead and buried.”
“That’s bloody ridiculous,” muttered Watts. He looked at the bottle. “Gawd, Simon. Don’t tell me you’re gunna keep that stinkin’ rotgut?”
“Just a precautionary measure, Mister Watts. Your finger-prints are on the bottle.”
Around noon the next day Tyler and Watts departed Alice Springs and headed north, both of them in the best of spirits. Forty minutes later they turned onto the Plenty Highway, passing the time as they sped eastward by talking over their plans. Late afternoon found them half way across Jervois Station and approaching the Bonya Creek, their destination this time being the Jervois Range mineral field.
Tyler slowed as they went down into the crossing; immediately beyond it he braked again then turned onto the Jervois Mines/Lucy Creek road. The day was now as good as done, however, so going to the actual mining area would be something for tomorrow. Instead he drove by the mines’ access road and continued on toward Lucy Creek Station.
Five kilometres farther along Tyler brought the big Land Cruiser almost to a halt, then he swung it down through the side drain and over the rocky windrow. From there he went cross country, toward the granite hills and their earlier campsite .
The secluded valley there gave Simon Tyler a feeling of security. Among other things, it meant their car and campfire lights were out of sight to anyone using the Lucy Creek road – should anyone happen to travel that way.
And, in the event, no one did go by, though neither one considered the fact that motor vehicles tend to leave tyre marks…
McCullock's Gold Page 19
