Stockman’s Stormcloud (Stockmen #3)

Eleven

Eleve n

Struggling to keep up with the sprightly octogenarian carrying water coolers, food coolers, and a few shotguns, Dex dragged his dumb oxygen cart down the rock-paved path, through the many flourishing vegetable garden beds, made from old water tanks, tractor tyres, and cattle troughs, tucked away behind the caretaker’s cottage.

On the right stood the stables, where Bree and Charlie kept some beautiful stockhorses. Dex loved riding horses and had noticed Bree riding a different stockhorse every morning—most likely to keep their stockhorses active—when he’d go running as part of his training.

It was just another reminder of why he missed being outside.

Dragging off his oxygen mask, he inhaled the fresh crisp morning air that mingled with the sweet soil from the garden brimming with corn, sunflowers, melons and various other vegetables.

They pushed through another wrought-iron gate to the concrete path that led to the sheds and into the blacksmith’s shop, where a large stone chimney rose from the silent brick forge, blackened from years of fire to heat the iron.

As a man who had his own mechanical workshop, Dex recognised the blacksmith’s workshop was divided into four areas: the machining area, the forging area, the assembly, and the stock area.

Beastly sized anvils, planers, various vices, some serious grinding stones, even a large lathe, and a row of work tools were neatly hung across the wall. But resting on a bench was a serious set of blacksmith hammers that’d make even someone like Thor envious.

The assortment of tools continued through to differing types of aged blacksmithing tongs, built to last. They hung from a steel bar wrapped around an old tree stump. And yet more blackened tools hung from a long steel bar that had an enormous dragon’s head on the end. ‘That’s cool.’

‘Bree does them.’ Charlie gave a nod of approval as he led them through the shed. ‘That kid’s got plenty of people wantin’ to buy her hand-forged fire pokers. Come Christmas time she’s flat out makin’ personalised fire pokers for people who get their initials on it. We joke about it, callin’ it the city folks’ branding irons. They’re popular for country weddings, you know.’ Charlie slowed down to point at the large workbench holding assorted fire pokers, some had skull heads, others had vines twisted along the stem and various letters on the end.

But leaning against the bench was an enormous wooden spear with a metal tip. ‘What is this?’ Dex could barely pick up the end, his fractured rib wouldn’t allow it.

‘A jousting stick.’ Charlie poked up the brim of his hat. ‘Bree’s got these fellas who do cosplay. No, not that, it’s called LARPing.’

Dex snorted out a laugh as he tried to catch his breath. He’d never expected to hear someone like Charlie say that word. ‘Do you know what LARP means?’

‘Yeah. Bree told me it’s…’ Charlie scratched his white hair, then readjusted his hat. ‘It stands for live action role play.’

Dex struggled to keep a straight face. ‘Which means?’

‘A bunch of people who dress up and wear these smancy medieval costumes and play their parts like in real life. Bree’s got a huge list of customers. And she gets flooded with orders when they do Dungeon and Dragons , JRR Tolkien , or Game of Thrones events.’

‘For what? ’

‘Bree’s got us making their swords, shields, and the metal tips for their jousting sticks.’

Dex’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you ever use them?’

‘My granddaughter’s got this old dummy out back that we charge at like a couple of yahoos on horses.’ Charlie grinned, and the shine in his grey eyes was undeniable.

‘Sounds like fun.’ Dex wanted in.

‘It is. Although, I felt like a flamin’ idiot the first time Bree got me to try it out. Now we call it testing the merchandise before we send them out, to check the weight and balance is right.’ Charlie grinned while scratching at his ruddy chin. ‘Gotta hand it to the kid. She knows how to play, but she’s smart enough to tap into a business that keeps our trade alive. We’ve got orders stacked up for the next six months.’ But then Charlie pointed to the rest of the toys.

The tyres on the stupid oxygen trolley squeaked as Dex dragged it behind him, as his eyes widened at the workbench full of swords, shields, jousting sticks all in various stages of creation. There were even some fancy daggers.

‘These are great.’ His fingers ran over the cold steel blade of the large dagger. The workmanship was exceptional. He couldn’t even find the joining seams, as if it was carved from one piece of steel.

There was also a sword almost as tall as he was. What sucked was he struggled to pick the damned thing up without feeling breathless.

‘That’s the King’s sword. Used for knighting ceremonies and whatnot.’ Charlie lifted it up for Dex. The sword was straight steel, with a detailed pattern etched into the handle where jewels were being inserted at different intervals along the hilt.

‘But that’s my favourite.’ Charlie pointed to a massive steel sculpture of a bull’s skull with long horns. It commanded attention, taking up an enormous chunk of the shed wall. ‘My granddaughter made me that for my birthday. She was about twelve, I reckon.’

‘It’s incredible.’ It was something you’d expect to find in a museum, not hanging from the back wall of a blacksmith’s shed.

Bree had said nothing, letting Dex and his brothers assume the caretakers made horseshoes and cattle brands all day. Not iron sculptures and medieval swords. The cunning witch. It made him wonder what else she kept hidden in plain sight. ‘Does Bree sell sculptures, too?’

‘Some. Not as big as that one, though. She does cattle, buffalo, goats, deer, too. Calls herself an artisan blacksmith, repurposing old steel parts.’ The old man shrugged. ‘The blacksmithing trade isn’t what it used to be, but it keeps her busy in between making legacy cattle brands, while keeping an eye on me.’

Dex had never realised how busy their blacksmith business was that had Bree stoking the smithy’s forge almost daily. He’d bet his brothers weren’t aware of this operation either—especially Ryder who was all about business.

Charlie led him past rows of steel posts and sheets of steel. There were large bins with horseshoes, and even large railway spikes. It was like he’d walked into a hardware store for assorted scrap steel. ‘Did you work for the railway?’

‘My father did, with my grandfather. They had this mobile workshop they’d drag around by horse for a bit, setting up shop wherever the work was. Then we had the old truck that was home for a while, until I parked it up, out back, for good.’ Again, the old stockman pointed to the lush paddock with its view of the rocky red escarpment hiding the sunrise, as the impressive view from the shed.

It was just like Dex’s mechanic’s workshop, reminding him that he hadn’t been on the tools for a week. He missed his job, and his shed with its own view of the paddocks. It only made him more determined to ditch the dumb oxygen cart he was dragging around like a dog.

Charlie opened the shed’s side door, and led him to another large circular area, to find the beefy bull catcher: the Razorback . It was parked in the middle of the tarmacked area, where Bree was using the tractor to lower a large rectangular cage onto the back of a trailer.

Nearby, stood two other trailers, a flatbed truck, some horse floats, quads, an airboat, and a decent-size dinghy. They had all the boys’ toys, parked in an orderly fashion inside their large shed, with the yellow Kombi van right in the centre.

With all this well-ordered space, no wonder Charlie had the caretaker’s caveat in the contract of sale. They were set up better than the new owners—Dex and his brothers.

‘That yellow Kombi van is a shocker.’ That monstrosity of mechanical engineering just didn’t fit with the other toys in this shed. Its shocking bright yellow paintwork had to glow in the dark.

‘It belonged to my wife. Bree did it up. She plans to go on a long road trip when I’m gone. Then to Tahiti for a holiday to drink on some beach that’s got no crocodiles, before she goes to watch the Stanley cup.’

Which would mean the caretaker’s caveat would be over. What would happen to their blacksmithing business then?

Bree parked the tractor inside the large shed. She pushed the long door shut, then jiggled the keys in her hand as she approached, carrying her shotgun.

‘I’ve put cushions in the back for you, Dex.’ She slid her shotgun into the slot by the steering wheel. ‘No complaints about women drivers or I’ll push you out and make you walk back.’

He grinned on the inside. The woman was letting him come.

Plus, he loved the Razorback. It was like something out of a Mad Max movie, a vehicle so heavily modified it was a beast. There were no doors, no windows, mirrors, or glass windscreens. No seatbelts, and no roof. But it had a beefy engine, chunky four-wheel-drive tyres, and decent bucket seats in the front. In the back, wide bench seats ran down the walls of the beast made of steel. At the front, a large mechanical arm commanded space on the driver’s side. Along the front was a hefty bull bar, solid enough to take on anything the outback dished out, complete with a sturdy winch in case they needed it.

Yet Dex struggled to climb on board.

‘Here.’ Bree unclipped something from under the back lip of the Razorback and lowered some metal steps.

‘Did you make that for me?’

‘Pop made them for my grandmother. Here, don’t complain.’ She held out her hand, which he used to climb on board like some country lord. Normally he’d be jumping into the thing, to tap the side, shouting, let’s go . But not today.

Which sucked, especially when Bree hoisted his oxygen tank into the back, strapping them in for him, while he held the rail to catch his breath.

‘Mask on.’

He didn’t want to.

Bree arched her eyebrows at him.

‘Fine.’ He shouldn’t complain if he wanted to be included on this joy ride, so he unclipped it from the trolley and slid it over his mouth like a good boy.

‘For you, Stormcloud.’ Bree put a long cushion across the metal bench to create an outdoor lounge.

The mask hid his grin, even if he breathed like Darth Vader wearing a stockman’s hat. ‘Now, you have to say you made that cushion for me.’

‘You wish, jellyfish. Gran sewed those up. But if you want, I can tape a few of these cushions around your ribs and swap your hat for a helmet to protect that boofhead of yours?’

Damn, he adored the woman treating him like normal.

‘Have you got the bait, kid?’ Charlie lifted the lid of the spare seat opposite Dex and slid the water and food coolers inside. Every space had a purpose on this beast.

‘I almost forgot.’ Bree spun around to approach three big freezers that rested against the wall of the large shed.

‘Is that an ice machine?’ Dex pointed to the bulky machine positioned on the far corner of the blacksmithing workshed.

‘That’s Bree’s. She’s got this cattle trough she’ll drag out front of the telly to watch the ice hockey while drinking her jug of gin.’

‘Are you saying Bree takes daily ice baths?’

‘Mate, when you’re workin’ in front of a blazing furnace in the outback, how else do you cool down? So the kid makes her own ice in bulk.’

Oh, Dex was going to talk to his brothers about investing in an ice machine for his own shed, as soon as he went back to work.

‘What are you using for bait to catch a crocodile?’ That wasn’t the typical question you’d expect from a guy who’d just got out of hospital. It was so good to be home.

‘Wild pig. Don’t worry, we have none now. We used to own a coupla good pig dogs before that mongrel neighbour poisoned them…’ Charlie sniffed, clearing his throat and looking away.

After dumping the bait into the trailer, Bree tucked an extra thick cushion behind Dex’s back. ‘I have more if you need them.’

Even though his lungs were cactus, and his ribs ached, Dex wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. But he was glad the old man had made him take those painkillers earlier.

‘I’m off the couch, Bree. And you haven’t said anything.’ She’d been a hard taskmaster, always on his case, ensuring he was following doctor’s orders for pills and breathing exercises.

Even if he hated her at times, he didn’t want to be back in hospital. He was done being ill. And he knew, deep down, Bree cared for him as a friend, one of the few he had.

‘Stormcloud, we’ve just shifted you from one couch to a mobile couch that has a much better view with lots of wholesome air conditioning. Just keep your mask on for the drive. I don’t want you swallowing any dust or bugs along the way.’ She gave him a slight wink, then jumped into the driver’s seat of the old bull catcher. ‘No complaints, I’m driving, so it’s my music.’

Dex didn’t care if she played flipping nursery rhymes, he was outside again, and he gripped the rails, ready to rumble.