Thirty-eight
With the drone high in the air, Ash, Bree, and Charlie rode through the many twisting corridors that made up the Stoneys. Bree took the left, Charlie on the right, with Ash down the middle, as they gently mustered the stray cattle towards the mouth.
‘What’s that?’ Ash rode up to Charlie, who was guzzling on his water bottle, and showed him the drone’s screen. ‘Is that some sort of machinery?’
‘No machinery out here. You’ve seen how narrow and rocky this place gets, you can only go by horseback.’
Bree came up behind them with a calf draped over her saddle. ‘This guy is exhausted. I’m thinking of adopting him.’
‘I doubt management would agree to that.’ Charlie nudged Ash’s shoulder. ‘I’m talking about you, kid.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ He was supposed to be the boss, and that calf was part of his herd. But this was Bree … ‘Do you really want that devouring your veggie patch?’
‘Good point.’ Bree’s grin was mischievous. ‘So, I was thinking, you should buy that cream stockhorse for Harper. It’s an excellent gift for the lady.’
‘Leave ‘em be, kid. I wouldn’t want anyone telling me what stockhorses to get.’
‘You told me you liked that cream one, Pop.’
‘Hush now, kid. I know what I said, coz I was thinking of getting that one to add to our horse plant.’ Charlie scowled at Bree, who only grinned wider.
‘I told you it was a good stockhorse way back in Wombat Flats.’
‘And I saw how calm it was during that sandstorm, and that horse has skills.’
‘I know, right?’
Ash just sat on his borrowed horse, between Bree and her grandfather, listening to them talk about another horse. It’d have to be good, considering the condition of Bree and Charlie’s stockhorses, they knew what to look for. And so did Ash.
How did he miss that? It was another brutal example of how he’d been too busy focusing on Harper and not on the job—no wonder he copped the lecture.
‘Excuse me, before you buy out all the decent stockhorses, can you tell me what this is?’ He held out the drone’s screen where he zoomed in on the object wedged in a corridor of rock. ‘It’s a metal roof. It’s not a ute or a truck, but it’s big.’
‘Let’s go take a stickybeak.’ Bree nudged her horse, taking the lead with the calf draped over her saddle like it was a blanket, but it looked comfy there. ‘Did you know they used to fossick for gold through here?’
‘Oi. You’re not meant to tell them that.’ Again, Charlie scowled at Bree as he rode alongside her.
‘You and Lenny haven’t found anything for years.’
‘Who’s Lenny?’ Why did Ash know that name?
‘The Hungarian chef from the pub. Fossicks for gold with Charlie once a month—if Lenny isn’t too hungover.’
‘Did you find any gold?’
‘Nah. A few crumbs. Just enough for a good drink and a brag at the pub,’ said Charlie. ‘Darcie’s dad used to fossick a bit. But Darcie’s son had some smancy geologist come out and take a stickybeak with all this technological what-not. They reckoned there wasn’t any gold here.’ The old stockman craned his neck to gaze at the maze of stone that framed a clear cobalt blue sky.
‘Was that the same guy that sold off all the cattle?’ Ash frowned at the thought, grateful to Bree and Charlie for hiding the herd they had.
‘The same …’
Side by side, they rode beneath the cool shadows of the towering stone walls. The horseshoes became muffled under the dust and sand, until the walls opened to a tall, wide cavern.
‘It’s a car.’ Ash poked up his hat’s brim. ‘How did that get here?’
‘It looks old, like some vintage gangster car,’ said Bree.
‘No way.’ Charlie swung off the saddle, tearing off his hat, his eyes wide, as the colour drained from his cheeks.
‘Pop?’ Bree jumped off her horse, putting the calf on the ground. She followed Charlie, concern heard in her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s …’ Charlie brushed off the pile of sand to reveal the number plate and a long, domed hood. He gasped with a hand to his chest.
‘What is it, Pop?’
‘Help me open it.’ Charlie frantically dug away at the thick layer of sand that covered the car to expose the driver’s door, covered with thick grime. He struggled with the door handle. ‘ Help me .’ Panic was clear in his voice. ‘This is my brother’s car.’
‘What’s it doing out here?’ Ash asked, moving to help.
‘I don’t know—but he’s been gone sixty years.’ Charlie tugged on the car’s door handle. ‘It’s locked.’
‘And you think he’s inside?’ Bree asked.
‘What are you doing?’ Ash asked the redhead, who was removing her hat. ‘Now is not the time to adjust your hat.’ It had this girly stuff wound around its hatband, even a playing card, the queen of spades.
‘I’m getting some fencing wire to pick that car lock.’ Beneath the twine, leather, and cloth strips that held match heads she’d used to start their campfire, she unwound a thick piece of fencing wire, which she bent into a hook. At the driver’s door, she pushed the wire down in the gap between the window glass and the doorframe, wiggled it around, then in a matter of moments she’d popped the lock.
Ash arched one eyebrow at the redhead. ‘Done that before, have we?’
‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’ The door screeched loudly of metal on metal. It spooked the horses, with the calf skittering to hide behind them.
‘What’s inside?’ Ash asked, with Charlie fretting beside him.
Bree poked her head in, waving her hand in front of her face. ‘Besides being hot as an oven, nothing. It’s empty.’
‘Let me see.’ Charlie climbed behind the steering wheel to sit on its long bench seat.
‘Are you sure it’s your brother’s?’ The car’s interior was in immaculate condition, as if preserved in a time capsule. However, the outside had been sandblasted back to bare metal, and the tyres were flat.
‘I’m positive this is Harry’s car.’ Charlie dragged out an old black-and-white jumper. ‘This is my brother’s footy guernsey.’ The back of the old football shirt displayed the name Splint across the top.
‘So where is your brother now, Pop?’ Bree pointed to the car. ‘Why did he leave his car out here?’