The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way
us to meet up then. He’s an archaeologist with the Sydney Museum. Very respected. Published a lot of stuff.”
“So I believe!” Dempsey actually chortled. “He was the guy who discovered those cave paintings in the Territory. Winjarra, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know all this stuff, Mick?” Banfield asked, genuinely wanting to hear the answer. There was Mick, sozzled most of the time, yet he always knew what was going on.
“I asked Lyn at the pub, of course. Lyn knows everything. Makes it her business.”
“Like you.” Banfield chuckled, and the sound made Mick laugh. Not altogether happily.
“For a while there, after Bridget died, Lyn thought she’d latch on to me, poor deluded woman. I found the one woman to love and I lost her.”
“But you did know love, Mick, didn’t you?” Banfield murmured. “You and Bridget lived for each other. Not everyone’s so lucky. You ought to let the good memories come. It might help.”
Mick’s veined blue eyes glistened, though he gave the younger man a cagey look. “I know I make you mad. Your dad would probably have dealt with it, but I’m not ready yet, son. Not yet. If ever. Anyway, I don’t want to go upsetting you. You have a big job on your hands.”
“Tell me about it!” Banfield let out a pent-up breath. “I’d sue the pants off Porter if he had anything left, but he went through his inheritance, as well as a fair bit of mine. God knows what on. A partial rebuild can’t account for it. My mother had refurbished the whole place only a few years before….”
“Those bloody antiquities.” Mick pulled his chair closer. “The whisper is, he’s got a lot of stuff he shouldn’t have all locked away from prying eyes. Remember how he was always going on about the ancient Egyptians having some sort of village on Three Moons?”
Again Banfield’s face changed. Became full of humor. “He believes it, too.” He rolled his eyes. “I think he’d have dug up every inch of Three Moons if he’d been allowed to.”
“Well, he did find those coins and the bits of pottery.” Mick smoothed down his magnificent mustache.
“Ptolemy IV.” Banfield nodded. “A couple of hundred years before Christ. Someone could easily have brought them into the country.”
“Who?” In the old days Mick had been fascinated with the whole question of an ancient Egyptian presence in Australia. “Spanish or Portuguese explorers?”
“Why not? The station fronts onto the sea,” Banfield pointed out. “They came in ships.”
“Why not the Egyptians, then?” Mick sounded a lot more focused now. “’Struth, they’ve found amulets, scarabs, hieroglyphics on cave walls. They’re there to be seen. The Aboriginal cave paintings show characters in Egyptian-style dress. They’ve found silver and bronze jewelry, even gold figures.”
“I know, Mick.” Banfield gave the older man a lazy smile. “It’s all very fascinating, but I’m far too busy to hare off after treasure, even if you and Porter are hooked on the old stories. And maybe this Marley guy. My uncle left Three Moons in pretty bad shape. I don’t know what would’ve happened without our old faithfuls like Moses and his crew to hold the fort. I know how many times you tried to offer Porter advice.”
“Porter just hated taking advice,” Mick said with considerable disgust. “If you ask me, he became drunk on power. Bloody near certifiable. He always wanted power and money, but without the responsibilities.”
Both men fell silent for a while, lost in their reflections. Both never quite free from the past.
Mick was the first to rouse. “Let me shout you another beer, son,” he said, turning. “I won’t have another scotch, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Banfield answered quietly but with genuine feeling. “Nothing would make me happier than to have you back, Mick. And yes, I will have that beer. I’m not planning to drive home tonight. I thought I’d stay over at the pub.”
“Bonza!” Mick clapped a big friendly hand on Banfield’s arm, signaling a very unsure-looking waiter. “You can have dinner with me.”
“I didn’t know you ate anymore,” Banfield said dryly.
“I will tonight. And no more booze. Count on it.” Mick spoke earnestly. “That’s if you’ll honor your dad’s old mate.”
“Suits me fine,” Banfield said with more kindness than truth. He’d heard Mick’s promises before.
“Then we might get to meet this doctor guy.” Mick perked up. “Take a closer gander at the girlfriend. Never seen a woman as striking in me life, unless it was your mum. You’ve got your father’s rangy height and his strong cast of features, but you have your mother’s eyes. Tiger eyes, Bridget used to call them. Never saw a tiger in her life. Pure gold.” He shook his head. “The things we hand down to our children. You were the son of privilege, Chase. Heir to a great station. And wealth. But I reckon you’d give it all up to have your mum and dad back.”
Banfield leaned back in his chair, memories piercing his heart. “You’re right about that, Mick.”
“It’s the same with me.” Mick suddenly stood up and pitched the rest of his whiskey into the lush tropical garden. “Are you sure you can’t listen to what this professor has to say?” he asked. “I’ve got the funniest feeling it’s something to do with that cache old Porter dug up years ago. The coins and the pottery.”
“You and your treasure, Mick,” Banfield scoffed. “There is no treasure. There was no village. The ancient Egyptians were never on Three Moons.”
Mick plonked down again and summoned the hovering waiter. “How do you know?” he countered gleefully. “You weren’t there.”
MICK STUCK to his promise for the hour they stayed on at the club, drinking soda water with a dash of bitters, wincing with every mouthful as though it was poison. As the place filled up and the other members became aware that Mick was as close to sober as he’d been in years, a lot of the old camaraderie returned.
Banfield was a generation younger than most of the others, but as his father’s son he’d had been granted full membership as a matter of course. Being heir to a vast station was one thing. Running it when Porter Banfield had almost brought it to the brink was another. It didn’t take Chase Banfield long, three years at most, to establish that he could take his place with the best of them. From the day he returned home from university with an honors degree in economics and business administration, he had taken to calling in at the club. Not to drink, although he always had time for a quick beer, but to talk to his fellow cattlemen. Or, as he admitted openly to much friendly banter, to “pick their brains.” These were top cattlemen like his father. He had much to learn. A month later he turned twenty-one, and his uncle Porter’s guardianship was over. John Chase Banfield was in full control of his inheritance—his trust fund, his father’s business portfolio and historic Three Moons station. It was also the day he evicted his uncle. At last he was free to take over the reins and restore Three Moons to its former position as one of the great cattle stations of the world’s leading beef-producing country. He was afire to succeed. He had the brains, the strength, the determination, and he was a very fast learner.
IT WAS ONLY a short four-mile trip from the club into the town of Isis, the drive winding through towering banks of bougainvillea gone wild. A veritable jungle of the ubiquitous cerise and deep-purple flowers, with their dangerous hooked thorns. A drawback certainly but they looked magnificent, brilliant foils for the soaring palms and vivid orange-scarlet of the flame-of-the-forest that lit up the bush. In this part of the world, an enormous range of bougainvillea cultivars, the Thai golds, the pinks, the bronzes, the burnt oranges and scarlets adorned home gardens, showy and relatively easy to handle, but they never assumed the incredible height and splendor of the original bougainvillea gone wild. His mother had planted bridal white when she first came to Three Moons,