The Cattle Baron

“Does everything have to make perfect sense?” Marley quivered in outrage. “There are many things out there one can’t explain.”

“True,” Rosie acknowledged. “Particularly if the bait you’re dangling is such a marvelous scoop.”

Marley nodded. “It is marvelous, and it’s real. And you’re the only person I could think of who might get through to Banfield. A combination of skill and charm. Porter swears that what he says is true. The cache he left in my keeping was unearthed on Three Moons. As to how it got there? Banfield believes with every particle of faith in him that there was an ancient Egyptian village on the station. For one thing, rock paintings on the property depict papyrus, two-stem and three-stem. Papyrus was the swamp plant of ancient Egypt, as I’m sure you know. It’s not indigenous to Australia. As well, there are Egyptian-like figures and glyphs depicted. I haven’t seen these caves. I can’t get onto the property to see them, which is enormously frustrating to someone in my position. They’re almost inaccessible, so I’m told, but until I study the paintings, I can’t give a definite answer as to their date or their origin. Banfield says they’re very old Aboriginal drawings.”

“And who’s going to brave the crocodiles?” Rosie asked, stirring abruptly as though one was hiding under the table.

Marley rubbed his shapely hands together. “I don’t think they’re going to attack us if we don’t attack them.”

“Maybe not the average crocodile,” Rosie said with a shudder, “but there are plenty of rogues.”

Marley gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. “Forget the crocodiles.”

“Hell, no!”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen to you,” Marley assured her. “I’ve been Outback hundreds of times. Admittedly most of my experience has been with the fresh-water variety.”

Rosie groaned. “Don’t West Australians keep them as pets? We’re talking the saltwater variety, Dr. Marley. The ones that take you down into a death roll and shove you under a log until they’re ready to party. Whichever way you look at it, saltwater crocodiles are part of your package.”

“But you look like the adventurous type,” Marley joked. “Anyway, maybe you can get Chase Banfield himself to play great white hunter. He must know his own property like the back of his hand.”

At those words, Rosie pounced. “Isn’t that proof there’s nothing there?”

For the first time doubt sprang into Marley’s eyes, yet he plowed on. “A huge slice of it is jungle. He doesn’t know where to look for the site. Three Moons is vast. Some ten thousand square kilometers. Fifty thousand or more Brahmin-based cattle roam the open savannahs and the hill country. There’s a farming project, as well, forage sorghum, different varieties of hay. That kind of thing. I’m no farmer.”

“Neither, apparently, was Porter Banfield.” Rosie pushed glinting wisps of hair from her temples. “Not a cattleman, either. Which might account for a lot of Chase Banfield’s problems,” she added perceptively. “From the little knowledge I gained when I was up there, Three Moons station some ten years ago was almost at the point of collapse.”

“Well, that’s far from the case now,” Marley said irritably. “I understand it’s back to full production.”

“So Chase Banfield is no slouch,” Rosie offered with admiration.

“Apparently not,” Marley responded, unsmiling. “Porter may have been a failure in some areas, but he knows his ancient history. The pyramid exists, although it’s covered with eons of vegetation, hidden away in the back country. Lonely, isolated, scary country.”

“Where you want to go trekking?” Humor sparkled in Rosie’s eyes.

“I’d go trekking in hell if I could unearth an ancient civilization,” Marley returned bluntly. “What I want to know is whether you’re prepared to help me make my discovery.”

“Porter Banfield’s discovery, surely.”

Marley didn’t so much as blink. “He’s had his cache for a while. He might be something of an Egyptologist, but he doesn’t have the expertise to excavate anything, let alone an ancient ruin. Wise man, he knows his limitations. It takes an archaeologist of my training to successfully carry out a project like that. What I’m asking of you is a pact of mutual trust. If you can get to Banfield, persuade him to sanction our plan to uncover this ancient village, it might turn out to be the greatest assignment you’ll ever have. To be part of an exploration group that would prove once and for all that there was an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia! Think of it. A fact, not just an interesting possibility.” Fire welled up in his eyes.

“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you.”

“Oh, yes.” Marley nodded. “And you will be, too, once you feel that necklace touching your skin.”

CHAPTER TWO

MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND MILES away in tropical North Queensland, Chase Banfield, prince among his fellows, sat in the surprisingly opulent cattlemen’s club, enjoying a cold beer. It was the end of a long hard day. He’d made the trek from his cattle station, Three Moons, into the small rain-forest township of Isis. Now he just wanted to sit and relax before going into the town center to the pub, where he planned to stay overnight. Like most fervent hopes, it was about to be dashed. He’d barely been at the club ten minutes when Mick Dempsey lurched onto the veranda, swirling the drink in his tumbler, making the ice cubes rattle.

Chase shook off his initial dismay and waved an acknowledging hand. Dempsey, a big man who, until the untimely death of his wife, Bridget, a few years earlier, had been one of the most popular members of the cattlemen’s club, was now much diminished, his black-Irish good looks eaten away by grief and the bottle. He was bone-thin, and his bush shirt and jeans hung on him, though to his credit his clothes were always clean. But when he was sozzled, which was pretty much all the time, he could be harrowing company. Even for Banfield, who had a lot of sympathy for the man. It was just that he had precious little free time these days to unwind. Three Moons, in his family since the mid-1880s took all his energy, and God knows he’d grown as tough as old boots. Now Mick was heading straight for him, ignoring the scatter of members at the other tables, who stepped up the intensity of their conversations as Mick hove unsteadily into sight.

For a split second, Banfield considered getting up, making an excuse and going on his way, but pity and genuine affection kept him in place. Mick knew all about the savage pain of grief. Most significantly, Mick had been a close friend of his father’s since boyhood. Both heirs to vast cattle stations. Both frontiersmen. Things like that counted.

A sad shadow of Mick’s once-famous grin crossed his face. He thrust out his huge hand, looking at Banfield with unfeigned pleasure. “Chase, m’boy! This is great! Hardly ever see you these days.”

Banfield hooked out a chair for the older man, at the same time half rising and gripping Dempsey’s outstretched hand. “How’s it going, Mick?”

Mick sank down gratefully, eyes filmed over. Such a big forlorn man with enough black mustache to stuff a sofa, Banfield thought, torn between sympathy and a desire to bawl Mick out. Mick was smiling wanly, nursing his neat whiskey, at least the fifth since he’d come in on that torrid afternoon. “Same as always, son. I continue in my fashion.”

Chase tossed off his ice-cold beer, then set the glass down on the table. “You’ve dug yourself into a pit, Mick. You have to climb out of it.”

“Easier said than done, my boy.” Mick shook his heavy dark head, still thickly thatched though the once-gleaming blue-black curls were grizzled.

“I don’t dispute that. But you can do it. There’s help at hand.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Mick intoned. “I was someone, wasn’t I, in another life? Before I lost my girl. That shattered me. Showed me for what I really am. A hollow stick.”

“Listen to me, Mick—”

“Goddammit, Chase, you know it’s true.” Mick slumped in his chair, looking much older than his years. Fifty-eight, the same age as Lew Banfield, Chase’s father, had he lived.

“You’re better than this, Mick,” Banfield said quietly. “None of us likes to see what’s happened to you.”

“I’m not a fighter like you, mate. You’re a real stayer. I know I need help. I know I’ve got friends like you I can count on, but life doesn’t mean a monkey’s without my girl. She was everything to me. My better half. No question. I tried for a while. Maybe if the kids had stuck around, but neither of them liked the life. Bridget held us all together.”

“She was a fine woman, Mick, a good woman.” Banfield understood how he felt. “Why she had to die so young, I don’t know. Don’t ask questions. There aren’t any answers.”

“You’d know, son.” Mick continued to swirl the whiskey in his glass without drinking. “Losing your mum and dad the way you did. Having that bastard of a Porter run your life for so long. I suffered that bloody Porter for your dad’s sake. Could two brothers have been less alike?” He sighed. “Bridget and I always had a big interest in you. Always knew you’d get Three Moons back to what it was.”

“Hardly that yet, Mick.” Banfield grimaced. “Porter might’ve been born into a cattle dynasty, but he didn’t know the first thing about running Three Moons.”

“Never woulda had to, I expect,” Mick said in a lugubrious tone. “Second son and all that. Who would ever have thought your mum and dad would go so early? A tragedy if ever I heard one. You’d have been a goner, too, except for old Porter. Reckon saving you was the one bloody thing he’s ever done in his life. If he did it.” Mick snorted. “Always had an idea m’self it was Moses.” Mick referred to Three Moons’ leading stockman, a full-blooded Aboriginal and the finest tracker in the Top End.

“Moses denied it unequivocally. Does to this day,” Banfield said calmly, unwilling to give Mick any encouragement. He raised a hand in greeting to a member on the veranda who, about to bound over, caught sight of Mick and abruptly veered off.

“Why the hell wouldn’t he?” Mick shot back with some of his old fire. “Porter would have kicked him off the place. Off his tribal land. What the hell did it matter if Three Moons lost a loyal employee and supreme stockman? Porter had to play the hero.”

“Don’t work yourself up,” Banfield said. He’d heard Mick rant on in this vein many times before. “The police accepted Porter’s version of events. No reason not to. He is my uncle. I was overcome by smoke inhalation. I knew nothing until they found me staggering around in the bush. Hell, I was only ten. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything,” he repeated, all these years later still caught up in the old anguish. “If only I’d been older…stronger.”

Mick screwed up his face, breathing heavily. “I know, my boy. I know the grief and the rage. But bloody Porter! The bastard spent a fortune. Your money, son. Your inheritance.”

Banfield’s face took on a somber cast, though he spoke matter-of-factly. “The west wing had to be rebuilt. Anyway, let’s not talk about Porter, Mick. He’s pretty much out of my life. He only comes to Three Moons now and again. It’s no secret we have a poor relationship, but I can’t lose sight of the fact that he saved my life.”

“I dunno, Chase. He certainly took the credit, the old vulture. How come the fire was confined to the west wing? Your mum and dad’s private wing. Why didn’t it start down at Porter’s end of the home?”

“You’re talking murder, aren’t you, Mick.” Banfield looked directly into the older man’s eyes. “Porter may be many things, but I can’t see him doing away with his own brother.”

“I guess not,” Mick said, hanging his head and taking a deep reflective breath. “But he had a compelling reason. Your dad inherited just about everything from your grandfather. The station, the investment portfolio, most of the money.”