The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way

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.”

      “Porter got enough. Why dredge it up now? There was plenty of money for both of them. Porter always knew he wasn’t going to be the heir.”

      “I reckon it twisted him.” Mick was nothing if not persistent. “Anyway, it wasn’t about your bloody uncle I wanted to speak. Some doctor guy arrived in town today, askin’ after you. Him and his girlfriend. ’Struth, what a looker!” Momentarily Mick was released from the chasm of grief, kissing his fingertips. “Masses of orange hair. Eyes like a new leaf, plenty of dash to her. The sort of woman a man would fight for. He’s a distinguished-looking bloke, but they don’t seem to match up somehow.”

      “So you still notice, Mick?” Banfield sent him a sardonic glance.

      “Hard not to. A man doesn’t see exciting women all that often. Anyway, it appears they want to meet you.”

      “The hell they do.” Banfield glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for this. I’m betting we’re talking about a Dr. Graeme Marley. He rang me some time back. Wanted 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