Page 3 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘Winner!’ The referee raised Dex’s arm to the many cheers as a crowd favourite.

And for his efforts, his hand got slapped with a wad of cash. He tucked it into an envelope, then slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Not bad for a Thursday night’s payday.

Dex wiped the sweat from his brow, doing his best to hide the wince from the bruises already forming across his ribs.

At his black ute, he dropped the tailgate and dragged out his fighting bag. In this sport there were no fancy changing rooms, no coaches or managers, it was just a bunch of blokes meeting in a paddock for a chance to blow off steam and win some cash.

The scratchy towel was coarse against his skin as he wiped down the sweat from his torso. He gulped down a water bottle full of electrolytes, then pressed an icepack against his ribs.

‘Helluva fight, Dex.’ Charlie, the old stockman, swaggered towards him. ‘Here are your winnings. Didn’t know you can bet on yourself like that.’

‘There are no rules out here.’ Dex flicked through the thick wad of bills before sliding it into that fat envelope. Nice.

‘Charlie, can you strap this up for me?’ Dex held up a roll of white gauze, while pressing the icepack against his ribs that throbbed with fire.

‘Sure, I’ll have a crack.’ The old stockman poked back the brim of his Akubra and got to work. ‘I thought he had you on theropes at one point.’

‘Amateur.’ He gritted his teeth as Charlie wrapped the bandage around his ribs.

‘I should get Bree to do this. She’s good at it.’

‘I’m not letting that redhead near me. I’d never hear the end of her lecture.’

‘Nah. Bree doesn’t mind fight nights.’ The old man tucked in the ends and gave a nod of the job done. ‘You should see that ice hockey she’s into, it’s brutal.’

‘I haven’t watched TV in months.’ Not since his television had been claimed by his two-year-old nephew.

Dex swallowed a handful of pills for the pain, slipped on a T-shirt, and then assessed his knuckles. They were good. But one of his eyebrows throbbed, and he could feel warm blood trickling with the sweat down his cheek. Again, he used the towel to mop up the mess. ‘Did you make any money?’

‘I bet on the other bloke.’

‘Really?’ That eyebrow smarted as he arched it at the old man.

‘Gotcha.’ Charlie laughed. ‘I didn’t clean up like Bree did.’

He closed the tailgate, wincing at the sharp stabbing pain in his ribs. ‘Bree’s here?’

‘Over there. Selling her gin.’ Charlie pointed to the vast dark paddock where assorted vehicles had gathered.

‘Does Bree sell her gin often?’ This car park was more notorious than the fights for black market deals, but he hadn’t expected Bree, the woman who drank gin by the jugful, to be here.

Charlie shrugged. ‘When Bree’s got extra, she’ll sell some. I know she’s got a list of regular customers. Says it all goes to the kitty for her holiday money.’

It was easy spotting Bree’s sickly, bright lemon Kombi van, where she’d set up a boot sale, among the other vehicles selling home-grown tobacco or car parts, where you never asked questions.

It was quite the turnout tonight—which meant morewinnings for him.

It was also kind of nice that Bree and Charlie had come to see him fight. None of his brothers ever came, and he’d stopped asking them a while back. ‘Why didn’t you get a lift in with Bree?’

‘Bree’s still ticked at me for giving Policeman Porter the go-ahead to reopen the murder case. I noticed you didn’t say much about the situation.’

‘Not my business.’ Dex shrugged, only to wince again at the sharp pain in his ribs.

‘You must have an opinion, lad? I only asked coz you’ve got four brothers. I reckon you could relate.’

Dex sighed as he locked the back tray cover of his beloved sleek black ute. ‘I think if your brother is wanted for murder, he might have left his car out there in the Stoneys as a decoy.’ The recent discovery of the car, they called Pandora, had the old man searching for his brother, Harry, who’d been missing for over sixty years.

If Dex disappeared, would his brothers come searching for him?

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